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

Spider’s response to the news was to shift into planning mode, just as Bram had. If I ever needed someone to get me out of a bad situation—worse than the one I’d been in for the last week—it would be them. “I don’t want the police on my property,” Spider said. I’ll call Wukowski and tell him I’ll escort her to Homicide. You call Bart and we’ll meet up there. And Angie, don’t worry—I won’t let them talk to her until you arrive.” He sighed. “She’s still in a bit of shock over Petrovitch’s betrayal. This’ll hit her hard.”

As I called Bart, I wondered out loud why Spider didn’t want the police at his house. “Too much high-tech security,” Bram said. “They might start wondering why a door-and-window guy would have that.”

Bart answered my call. “Angie, I just got the news about Petrovitch. Helluva situation. But maybe it’ll work better for Adriana. She won’t have to testify against him.”

How cold, I thought, but then I reminded myself that Bart was charged with protecting his client’s best interests. “The police haven’t revealed the shooter’s identity yet, but Bram found out via Du Pont, that it was Josif Zupan.” Bart inhaled. “He left a letter, partly for Adriana. Spider’s taking her to headquarters. Can you meet us there? She’ll need someone with her whom she can lean on, not just a couple of police detectives watching her for a reaction.” Wukowski and Iggy weren’t cold-hearted men, but they had their jobs to do. “Bart, I need to be with her when they show her the letter and you’re my only hope to make that happen.”

“I’m on it. See you there.”

Chapter 30

It is impossible to suffer without making someone pay for it; every complaint already contains revenge.

—Friedrich Nietzsche

The Homicide bullpen was chock-a-block with officers when we arrived—MPD, U.S. Marshals, courthouse security. Testosterone—or maybe it was just adrenaline—laced the air. Wukowski strode over to us. “You know?” was all he said.

I nodded. “Bart Matthews is on his way. Adriana needs someone besides police with her.” I stuck my chin up, ready to do battle.

He ran a hand through his hair and motioned for our little group to follow him to his Lieutenant’s empty office, where he closed the door and spoke softly. “The U.S. Marshals are shouting for jurisdiction, the FBI is doing the same. MPD is hanging on by the skin of our teeth. We hadn’t completed the transfer when Petrovitch was shot, so we’re claiming Zupan as our case. At least, for now.”

Bart Matthews knocked lightly and opened the door. “Detective Wukowski,” he said, offering his hand, “I’m here on behalf of my client, Adriana Johnson. She’s asking for legal representation in the proceedings.”

Wukowski said, “We’re not charging her with anything, Matthews. The contents of Zupan’s suicide note pertain to her future, not to her involvement in the Petrovitch case.”

“Nevertheless, she wants representation. Her legal team—Ms. Bonaparte and I—are entitled to be present.”

Wukowski’s eyes shifted to me. I shrugged and he turned back to Bart. “I think that will be acceptable.” A low buzz reached us through the glass of the office door. Spider and Adriana had arrived. “I’ll set up a private room,” Wukowski said. He opened the door and marched over to the cluster of uniforms and suits that congregated at the opposite corner of the open space. There, he waited on the fringes, as fingers pointed and fists slapped on palms. To my surprise, Colonel Lewis was in the thick of it, standing at what I believe is called “parade rest,” feet apart, elbows out and hands behind his back.

Adriana saw me and rushed over. I turned from the tableau to envelop her in a hug, ignoring the pain from her hold on my bruised body. She didn’t cry, but little tremors rippled through her. I patted her back and comforted her with a mother’s stock phrases: there, there; it’s okay; it’ll be all right; shh. When the shaking stopped, she stepped back and grabbed my hands. “Please, Angie, stay with me.”

“I’ll do all I can, Adriana. Bart’s working on getting me access.”

Iggy walked over and stood, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. “Uh, Adriana, we’re gonna put you and your legal team”—he looked at me and Bart—“in an interrogation room. We’re still trying to work out the logistics.” He ran a hand across his mouth, clearly unsure of how to proceed. “For now, we just want you to wait.”

Bart turned to Bobbie, Bram and Spider. “I don’t think we can push the boundaries enough to get you in, too.”

“No problem for me,” Bobbie said. “I’ll just observe. This is better than ‘NYPD Blue.’” He took a small notebook and pen from his coat and sat in a row of chairs along the wall. Spider and Bram joined him.

In the interrogation room, Bart said, “Detective Ignowski, I want your assurance of no surveillance, visual or audio, in this room.”

“Course not, Counselor.”

When Iggy left, we sat, Bart facing the door and Adriana next to me on the other side of the table, our backs to the glass upper wall. Bart opened his briefcase and extracted a legal pad and pen. “Adriana,” he said, leaning forward, “I understand that the police found a note on Mr. Zupan’s body that mentions you. Were you acquainted with him?”

“Not really. I knew his wife, Dragana. My parents would sometimes take me with them to the law office, when I was younger. She often had homemade cookies, and would give me paper and crayons and look after me while they were in Petrovitch’s office. She was very kind, very gentle.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. I took her hand and held it.

“I did meet Josif Zupan, once or twice, when my parents went to Serbian Society meetings and couldn’t find a babysitter. Again, I was much younger. I would sit in the hallway outside the meeting room at the church and do homework or read