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

for what they did or what they might do.” Bart’s voice was firm and steady. I’d seen him work a scared witness or defendant that way, preventing panic or retreat. He glanced at each of us in turn. “Our charge is to mitigate risks while we pursue the bastards. Right?”

Of course, we all agreed. The only other option was to live our lives in hiding.

I thought I’d escaped his planning session, but now his gaze was intently on me. “Angelina,” he said.

Uh-oh. Use of full first name. Definitely a Papa moment.

“It is my duty to let Pasquale know about the possible threat to you.” He held up a hand to stop my impending disagreement. “Your papa may be retired, but he is still a powerful force in our organization. I cannot keep him in the dark. But I will assure him that you have matters well in hand, and that I am providing personal protection for you, also.”

He had me between a rock and a hard place, and he knew it. I didn’t want to raise Papa’s hackles. Besides, there was some logic to the idea. I’d been attacked, after all, and the surveillance last night made me wary. What had they planned to do this morning if they’d caught me unawares? It might be time to go on the offensive. Scared people and worried people make mistakes.

“Okay, Bart, I’ll accept personal protection, but under one condition. Nobody obvious. No Jimmy the Arms.” Jimmy was one of Tony’s guys. His biceps measured larger than his IQ. I didn’t want to be with goons all day, and I also had to be sure that my bodyguards would be discreet and confidential. PIs have a code much like priests. We don’t reveal a client’s business.

Bart arranged for a car and personal protection to take Adriana and Bobbie back to the cottage, with the expectation that anyone who followed us to Bart’s office would see Adriana leave Bobbie’s with her stuff and realize that she was no longer in residence. He told Bobbie to pack a bag and arranged a temporary residence in Brookfield, an upscale western suburb of Milwaukee. “It’s closer to Bram York and easier access to the shooting range he uses.”

After they left, I filled Bart in on the information we’d gathered on Herman Petrovitch.

“Is this bigger than a single person, Angie? Is there an organization behind this? Or is it the work of Petrovitch alone? We need to get to the heart of this, ASAP.”

“I agree,” I told him, “but every corner I turn leads me right back to that same dead end—the Serbian Society and Herman Petrovitch. I can’t find the man behind the organization or the organization behind the man.”

“Maybe that’s because they’re one and the same. He could be hiding behind a dummy non-profit.”

“Then why name the Johnsons on the bank accounts? Why not use the Serbian Society?”

“That much money in the hands of a non-profit would raise a big red flag to the IRS.”

“So you got the banks to send the info on the accounts?”

“Only the U.S. banks, so far. International banking isn’t very interested in local murders. We’d have to prove something illegal about the deposits to get them to open up. That’s another good reason for individuals to own the accounts. If the Society is shady, setting the accounts up with the Johnsons as the signatories makes sense.” Bart retrieved a folder from his desk and handed it to me. “Here are the account statements.”

Except for the small (by comparison) Milwaukee account, all the other U.S. accounts were opened in 1999 with identical deposits of eighty million dollars. The Chicago account showed no activity other than interest accruals. Monthly withdrawals from the New York, Chicago, LA and Miami accounts varied from 100K to 300K. The withdrawals were made almost daily.

“What does this tell you?” I asked.

He began to count on his fingers. “One: the deposits are well over the FDIC insurable limit of 250K for an individual. With the Johnsons as the owners, only half a million was insured. So there was no interest in having the government insure the accounts. Two: the daily withdrawals never reach 10K, so there’s no requirement to file a Currency Transaction Report with the IRS under the Bank Secrecy Act of 1970. They’re skating under the limit. Three: U.S. citizens must file an FBAR Report of Foreign Bank and Financial Accounts—with the IRS if they have interest in or authority over foreign accounts.” He stopped. “I wonder if the Johnsons filed or not. And how did they explain those transactions? It isn’t like any money laundering scheme I ever heard of, with no money coming in other than the initial deposits. Any ideas?”

“Hmm, a one-time windfall and then lots of relatively small payments. Did any of it go to Petrovitch personally?”

“No way to know. I got the statements from the U.S. banks because Adriana signed papers for my access and she now owns the accounts. But the payments were all made via check to Cash. I have no legal standing to get at Petrovitch’s accounts.”

“Bart, we need police help. They have probable cause for a warrant, right?”

“I believe so,” he said.

“And we need to give them our information.” Bart’s eyes narrowed. It was against his principles to get in bed with the cops. They were natural adversaries. Persuasion was called for. “The way I see it, we each have information that the other doesn’t. But if the police get a warrant for the accounts, that leaves us on the outside. If we want Petrovitch’s finances, we need the cops.”

Bart’s Cheshire cat grin was wide and insincere. “Angie, we got the account totals directly from Petrovitch via Susan Neh. What are the odds that information is still in his office? Or that the cops know to talk to your office mate?”

He was probably right. I doubted that Petrovitch left any information behind about the Serbian Society or the money. I did tell Wukowski how I got involved in