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

night. See, Adriana’s always felt like the ugly duckling. But I can see there’s a swan under that Plain Jane exterior. So I took her over to Kevin’s salon for a makeover.” He raised his right hand, palm facing me. “Now, don’t fuss, Angie. I told them to keep her out of the front of the salon and that the makeover needed to be subtle. She’s as safe there as she would be at my place. After all, if a guy comes at her with a gun, all I can do is call 9-1-1, and they can do that at the salon, too.”

“I suppose,” I conceded. “And I would love to see her a bit more stylish, like a modern young woman and not someone who recently emigrated from the old country with two dresses to her name.”

“So, Angie, what’s on your list that I can help with?”

Bobbie, like Lily, is fascinated by the idea of private investigation. He has no idea how routine it can be. I checked the list. Observation on the Zupan residence jumped out.

“What time will Adriana’s appointment end?” I asked.

He checked his watch. “It’s four thirty-five. I’d say she’ll be there until six.”

“Okay. Here’s what I need.” After telling him I would pick up Adriana, I gave him the Zupan address and instructed him to park on the main street that intersected the cul-de-sac the Zupans lived on and log every vehicle that entered or left—license plates, make, model, color, distinguishing characteristics—and to also log any occupants. I ran a quick query on Herman Petrovitch’s car, a year old Mercedes-Benz E-class, and printed the particulars for Bobbie. If he saw the vehicle, I wanted a call ASAP. If he simply spotted a gray-haired man, I told him to unobtrusively get a picture with his cell phone.

“Wow! I get to do surveillance!”

I hated to deflate his enthusiasm. “Take a book or something to do. It can get boring. And be sure to pee before you get there. Don’t drink anything while you’re in the car, unless you’re willing to use the container as a waste receptacle later. If you do, be discreet. A guy I know was arrested for indecent exposure when he had to urinate in his car. And if anyone seems to be watching you, drive away. Your safety is worth more than the information. Got it?”

“Got it, Angie. I won’t let you down.” He jumped up from the chair and softly kissed my cheek. “And you be careful, too. Don’t overdo, okay?”

“I promise. I’m going to pick Susan’s brain about the Johnsons’ bank accounts, get Adriana, take her to my condo, and call for some Chinese.”

“Chinese food,” Susan corrected me. “Unless you plan to have an orgy with some Chinese men.”

“Nope,” I said, laughing. “My body’s not up to it tonight. Not to mention that Adriana is most likely a virgin.”

Bobbie gave me the naughty-naughty finger shake that Aunt Terry perfected during my childhood, and left.

I turned to Susan, who sat at her own desk across from mine. “Have you uncovered anything about the Johnsons’ finances? How the heck they got all that money? By the way, exactly how much is there?”

She handed me a one-page printout. The spreadsheet showed fifteen accounts, five local, in New York, Chicago, LA, Miami and Milwaukee; the rest offshore in Toronto, Switzerland, London, the Caymans, Singapore and Sydney. I closed my eyes and visualized a map. “Someone wanted the money to be geographically available in all areas of the globe. And at points of entry, like ports or major airports.” I perused the sheet again. The bottom line was impressive—close to six-hundred million dollars. Good grief, I thought. How could they sit on that all those years and live the way they did? “Which is the account Adriana can draw on?”

Susan indicated a local Milwaukee bank, with an account balance of two hundred and sixty-six thousand. The spreadsheet showed it as 0.0044% of the current total balance. I had to reach back to my grade school math to interpret it. Forty-four ten-thousandths of one percent.

“Let’s take this in the conference room,” I said. Susan locked the office door and we sat, side by side, with the spreadsheet on the table in front of us. “Susan, how much can you disclose to me? Were you hired by Petrovitch?”

“Not exactly,” she said. “He sent Adriana to me for financial advice, with this overview of her assets. But before he could ask me to work for him, he disappeared. Adriana’s the one who authorized me to act for her. She’s my client and I want to protect her interests, so I’m willing to disclose what I know, since you’re working for her attorney.”

“Fair enough.” I gestured at the printout. “Where did the funds originate? Are more funds coming into the accounts? Are there disbursements? Who has control?”

“All the accounts except for the one Adriana can draw on—let’s call it her account, for simplicity—were set up in 1999, with the Johnsons as the principals and Serbian Society LLC as cosigners.”

I went back to my desk and grabbed my tablet, where I found the initial interview with Adriana. “That was the year the Johnsons became citizens. It was also the year the Serbian Society was formed.” I glanced at Susan. “There’s got to be a connection. Especially since Petrovitch was named as their registered agent.”

“I agree,” she said, “but unless we can prove fraud or crime, the banks aren’t going to open up to me about how the money was deposited or what activity the accounts have. Adriana will have to approach them.”

“Or her attorney. Bart can sic Bertha on them.” A little sense of glee lit up my sore head. Better them than me.

“True.” She paused. “Adriana’s account is different. It was opened in 2010, the year Adriana turned twenty-one. She and her parents were signatories. I wonder if her parents wanted to be sure she’d have something to fall back on, in case they…” Her voice trailed off.

“In case they