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

“Be sure that the police—” he smirked and I knew he wanted to say Wukowski—“know that this came from my office in a spirit of full cooperation, with the expectation that they would reciprocate,” he said. He also insisted that Adriana stay under his protection and not the police’s. “They’re too hampered by budgets and legalities. I can do more to keep her safe.” Since he was probably right, I agreed. “And there’s no need to bring Bobbie into the discussion,” he said. “Everything he knows is second- or third-hand.” Again, I had to agree with his assessment. Besides, while there was a delicate acceptance between Bobbie and Wukowski, I knew that homophobia ran rampant in the MPD, as in most police departments across the country. I didn’t want Bobbie to face that prejudice so soon in his PI career.

Chapter 18

Data is not information, information is not knowledge, knowledge is not understanding, understanding is not wisdom.

—Clifford Stoll

On the way to the office, I stopped at the service center where I have my mail delivered. Lobby boxes, even locked ones, are easily jimmied or broken into.

All was quiet when I arrived. Susan left a note on my desk. “Out on an audit. Back Thursday.” Today was Tuesday. A two-day audit boded well for Susan’s finances and indicated that she was taking on bigger clients. Good for you, I thought.

I shredded all the junk mail, put my personal mail into my briefcase to review when I got home, and then opened the envelopes addressed to “AB Investigations.” There were two checks from clients whose cases closed in October. I filled out a deposit slip for the bank and put the envelope into my briefcase. There was one new email in my business inbox, a request for a background check on a job applicant for a local after-school tutoring center. They’d been burned once by a felon—thankfully, not a predator—and now they came to me to vet their applicants. That would be a good training assignment for Bobbie, I decided. I responded that I’d get back to them by Monday.

My bank was on Prospect, close to the office and my condo. I never set up internet access to my accounts, preferring to make in-person deposits and withdrawals. Hackers are everywhere, and while it’s impossible to totally guarantee the security of one’s information, I wouldn’t make it easy. Besides, I liked the personal touch. The tellers knew me by now and I’d even solved the case of the missing Ragdoll—a cat—for teller Cynthia.

I headed back to the condo, where I sifted through my personal mail. There was an 8½ x 11 envelope from my daughter Emma.

Odd, I thought, I saw her on Sunday. I slit it open and retrieved a picture of a turkey, carefully drawn and painted, with “Happy Thanksgiving” in pretty cursive script at the top. It was signed by my granddaughter Angela: “I love you, Nonna.” Aww. Emma included a note: “Angela couldn’t wait for Sunday and she informed me that it’s always more fun to get mail.”

She was right. With a big smile on my face, I promptly fastened the picture to the fridge door with magnets.

The rest was junk mail, which I shredded. I checked my watch. Three o’clock. Too early to call Wukowski? I asked myself. Not for business reasons, I responded, so I dialed his desk number at the MPD. If he wasn’t there, I’d call his cell phone.

“Detective Wukowski.”

His deep baritone caught me off guard. I hadn’t expected him to answer. “Hi. It’s Angie.”

“Anielica, I’m up to my eyeballs in paperwork for the task force. Everything that no one else wanted to tackle got dumped on me.”

It was another aww moment. Anielica—pronounced ahn-yell-eet-sa—means ‘angel’ in Polish. “Caro,” I said, “I hate to put more on your plate, but there’s some information concerning the Johnson and Zupan murders that I want to share with you and Iggy.”

There was a small intake of breath. “Can you meet us at five-thirty?” he asked.

“Sure. At headquarters?” Homicide, a part of the MPD Violent Crimes Division, had its offices at police headquarters on Seventh and State. The courthouse was nearby and it was a nightmare to park.

“No.” He thought for a moment. “There’s a neighborhood tavern on 60th and Forest Home—Jacko’s. They serve a good burger and Iggy likes the onion rings. Will that work for you?”

“Are the rings thick or shredded?”

“Shredded.”

“Mmm. I’ll be there.”

He hung up without saying good-bye. Distracted, I thought, or he didn’t want anyone to know who was calling. I didn’t care. He’d called me by a pet name—while he was at work. Sigh.

It would take thirty minutes to get to the tavern in rush hour. That left slightly more than an hour to organize my notes and change clothes. It wasn’t a date, but I wanted to look good. Flirty. Okay, sexy without being skanky. I wanted Wukowski to stay with me tonight.

As I headed for the walk-in closet, Bart’s ringtones sounded on my cell. “Hello, Bart.”

“Angie, the people I wanted you to meet, they’re available tonight. I’ll send them over to your place, okay?”

It took me a moment to realize he was talking about personal protection. “Not needed tonight, Bart. I’ve made other arrangements.”

I heard him draw on his cigarette and exhale. “Other arrangements, as in official arrangements?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, far be it from me to interfere. Will you discuss the matter we talked about earlier?”

“Yes, we’re meeting for a meal, for that reason.”

Puff. Exhale. “Okay. Keep me posted. And when he leaves in the morning, call me. I want you to meet the team.”

“Will do.”

It would be a cryptic exchange to anyone who overheard it. Cell phone transmissions are quite easy to intercept, since they use public airwaves—witness the Camillagate and Squidgygate conversations that embarrassed Prince Charles and Princess Diana.

***

The tavern had a long bar, where the serious drinkers sat on stools. Bart and Iggy were at the corner table, farthest from the bar, their backs to the walls. With no other patrons