Blood Kills Nanci Rathbun (ereader for textbooks .TXT) 📖

“Thank you,” she whispered, clutching the card to her chest. “I’ll contact you when the others are gone.”

I nodded and exited the shop, wondering what on earth her connection was to Mick Swanson, outside of a professional one. A boyfriend? Given Mick’s demeanor, it struck me as unlikely, but I’d known stranger pairings in my time.

Chapter 17

New beginnings are often disguised as painful endings.

Lao Tzu

I was managing the always-growing pile of paperwork when Debby rang me. “Angie, is this a good time to talk?”

Setting aside the notes for a recently completed background check, I said, “It’s a great time. I’m in the middle of the dreaded paperwork.”

“I know all about that. In fact, I was at my desk late last night, trying to get caught up, when I saw the light from Mick’s shop.”

“I’m curious, Debby. Do you think someone might’ve seen you, even with the front of your shop dark? Did you walk up to the window?”

“No, I was standing kind of in the middle of the customer area, taking a short break and checking for messages. I hadn’t realized how late it was until then. I, uh, tend to lose track of time…”

“The light from your cell phone might’ve been a giveaway.”

“Oh gosh! I never thought of that. I just scuttled back into my office and called 911.” After a pause, she said in a lowered tone, “So whoever was in Mick’s shop wanted to scare me. Do you think he’ll be back? ’Cause I really am scared now.”

“I imagine that the person intended it as a warning and nothing else. But I wouldn’t work late for a while. Can you take care of business from a home computer?”

“Maybe. I never linked my tablet to the shop computer, but I suppose I can use a USB drive to copy files back and forth. Oh, and I’ll have to load the software I use for record-keeping at home.” She sighed. “More expense, for a second license.”

“Why don’t you contact the vendor? Most of them let you use their software on up to two computers at no additional charge.”

“That would help,” she said. “I’ll take care of it this afternoon.”

Changing course, I asked, “Did Detective Wukowski give you any additional information about the break-in at Metal Works or the damage at your place?”

“Not much. He said it looked like Mick’s office was the target, that some files were disarranged. And he didn’t speculate about why someone broke my window.” With a small chuckle, she added, “He did say that you were among the best of the private investigators he’d worked with and that Spider Mulcahey was the right person to give us security advice. But he seemed, uh, put out. Do you two have a history?”

“You might say that,” I told her. “Remember the media fuss about the so-called Pipe Incident? That was me,” I admitted.

“Oh! And then the news people made a big deal about your involvement with a police officer. Wukowski?”

“Yes. So you can understand that he tends to be overprotective. I keep telling him that I’m not looking for danger when I take on a new client. Sometimes it just happens. But the big lug worries. And when he worries, he gets, shall we say, testy.”

She gave a full-out laugh. “I could certainly see that.”

Moving on to the more important topic of why she needed to speak to me privately, I asked, “Debby, what is it that you needed to tell me about you and Mick?”

Her indrawn breath preceded several seconds of silence. “My name isn’t Debby Hill. It’s Elizabeth Perrins. And I’m hiding out from an abusive ex. I’m worried that he’s found me.”

I processed that before asking, “Was it physical? Did you get a restraining order?” although I knew how ineffective that could be against a violent man.

“Physical, emotional, financial… you name it, he did it.”

The thought of gentle Debby dealing with an ape like that appalled me, but I kept my tone even, to avoid escalating her obvious discomfort. “That’s sickening, Debby. When was the last time you had any contact with him?”

“Four years ago,” came the immediate response, “on Christmas day. I lived in Tennessee then. He broke down my door and assaulted me. The cops came and he insisted that I invited him in and that I hurt myself after getting drunk. They took him into custody, but I knew he’d be out the next day, so I packed a bag and left.”

Well, hell, I thought. “What happened next?”

“One of my old college friends got out of a similar relationship a couple of years prior. She was pretty vocal about it on our year’s Facebook page. I took a chance and contacted her. God bless her, Angie, she told me to come to Wisconsin and stay with her for as long as I needed. I don’t know where I’d be without her support. Probably dead.” The words were spoken in a matter-of-fact tone, which made the impact even worse.

“Did the guy know you were friends?”

“We actually weren’t, just acquaintances and part of the same social media group. I didn’t see any way for him to connect us, so after three months at her place in Waukesha, I decided to settle here in Milwaukee. I worked a lot of odd jobs, stayed under the radar, and had an attorney deal with the sale of my home in Tennessee. Lucky for me, I bought at the low end of the market and sold at the top of the housing boom, so I made enough to buy my condo and open A Crossing of Threads.”

Her voice had steadily lowered as she told the story. I decided to lighten the tension before going further. “That’s such an interesting name,” I said. “Does it have a particular meaning, other than the obvious?”

“My mother’s people were Western Sephardic Jews who escaped Nazi persecution.” Her voice softened. “It’s from the traditional Portuguese-Jewish wedding ceremony, describing marriage as ‘a crossing