Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set Nanci Rathbun (i love reading books txt) 📖

called to ask you about Herman Petrovitch. I caught the department’s APB announcement on the TV news. Any results?”

“Couple of false trails. The usual attention grabbers. Nothing real.”

“Was his office rifled?”

“No. The files were in order. The computers didn’t appear to be tampered with.”

“Did he clean out any bank accounts?”

“He withdrew five grand from his savings. Petty cash for a guy like him. And there didn’t seem to be anything missing at his home. Clothes, shaving gear, even medications were all where the housekeeper expected them to be. If it weren’t for the money, I’d think someone snatched him, or iced him and hid the body. Listen, we’re running down every possibility. I can’t say much more. Capisce?”

“You turning Sicilian on me, Ignowski?”

“I’ll be an honorary Sicilian, Angie, any time you invite us for your papa’s spaghetti Bolognese.” He smacked his lips.

I laughed. “I’ll call Marianne to set up a date. And Iggy—thanks for the information.”

“It works both ways. Call me if you turn anything up.”

By then, it was too late to call Josif Zupan. I decided to catch him in the morning. At least I didn’t have to worry about interrupting his Sunday church time.

Chapter 11

With lies you may get ahead in the world—but you can never go back.

—Russian proverb

Sunday morning. I tossed on some sweats and headed for the lakefront to run. It was seven o’clock and the sun was rising above the Lake Michigan horizon. The water was grey, with even swells and no whitecaps showing until the shoreline.

I took off on an easy jog for the first quarter mile, before breaking into my stride. I run about a ten-minute mile—pretty average for a woman, but good for a woman in my age group and size. I concentrated on breath and pace, willing myself to ignore professional and personal issues. Two miles out, I turned and headed for home. Four miles total. Forty-two minutes, including warm-up and cool down. Not bad.

After a shower and attendant body maintenance, I selected a beige bra and panty set and then slid into a smoky blue cashmere dress. The flesh-colored hosiery and dark brown pumps and bag reinforced my professional look. It was eight-thirty by the time I finished a cup of coffee and a small bagel.

I called Josif Zupan’s number.

He answered on the third ring. “Yes?”

“Mr. Zupan, my name is Angelina Bonaparte. I was hired by Attorney Herman Petrovitch to assist a client. I was the one who found your wife’s body, when I went to his office. Please accept my condolences.”

“Why you call me?”

I pondered the possible answers, simultaneously wondering why he didn’t ask me about the crime scene. Surely it would be natural to ask what I saw, to want to know if your wife died quickly or slowly, if she suffered or not.

As much as I hate lies in personal affairs, there are times in my work when lies are the best way to get to the truth. Today, the truth seemed best. “I’d like to meet with you. I need to understand why Attorney Petrovitch went missing and what it might mean to my client.”

“That no matter to me, Ms.…uh.” His voice was gravelly, but toneless, the sound of a man without hope or a future.

“Please call me Angie. Mr. Zupan, I don’t want to intrude in your time of grief. But my client’s parents were murdered last week and she may be in danger, too. She’s only twenty-four years old. I think you knew her father, John Johnson. Please, Josif, meet with me and talk. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Johnson? Jan Jovanović, you mean. Adrijana in trouble?” He sighed. “All right. I meet.”

“I can be at your home in thirty minutes. Forty-five if I stop to pick up breakfast. Are you an egg McMuffin kind of guy or do you prefer bagels and cream cheese?” I kept my tone light.

“My doctor say it kill me, but I like the bacon, egg and cheese biscuit. I make coffee.”

“Perfect. See you soon.” I wanted to foster a sense of comradeship with Josif, so I bought a sausage biscuit with egg for myself. I swore that I would only eat half.

The home was a modest two-story with a detached garage visible at the end of the driveway. There were trees and shrubs, but no flowers. A screened-in porch fronted the residence. I parked in the driveway, juggling the McDonalds bag and my briefcase, with its holstered gun.

Before I got to the front steps, a wiry man with salt-and-pepper hair appeared and held the screen door open. “Ms. Bonaparte?” he asked.

“Yes.” I nodded toward my package and briefcase. “Sorry I can’t shake your hand.”

“No problem. Please to enter my home.” He stood about five-seven and probably weighed one-sixty. The tee-shirt he wore showed muscular arms and torso. His baggy sweatpants hid the rest of his build, but I suspected he had strong legs, too. He was a man who did regular physical work.

As we passed through the living room, I noted old-fashioned furniture, heavy and overstuffed, with dark wood trim and matching tables. The dining room was much the same—heavy, dark wood, ornately carved hutch displaying highly decorated china, chairs upholstered with tapestry seats. In all, it was an early twentieth century home, except for the discordant note of a large flat-screen TV.

I smelled coffee as I entered and the aroma improved as we marched through to the kitchen. Aunt Terry calls the kitchen the heart of the home. In the Zupans’ case, it was so. The kitchen was the only room that displayed warmth or individuality. In the other rooms, nothing was out of place and there were few personal items on display. Here, it was the opposite, with bright blue and yellow dishtowels, a solid oak round table with captains chairs, a Thomas Kinkade calendar in a wooden frame, and cream and blue gingham curtains, drawn back at the bow window to display the rear lawn and vegetable garden.

Josif motioned to the table and I sat,