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

the bag of fuses to Doris. I used the kitchen sink to wash and scrub my hands. Frank told her that he’d be back with the car title and shouldered the duffel bag.

Once at his office, he settled at his computer and searched for ‘S-Mail.’ “This is one very secure provider, Angie. They don’t even store emails in their servers. Once it’s opened, it’s deleted. That’s one way to be sure the NSA doesn’t track you.” He looked at me. “Of course, you’d either have to be a conspiracy freak or doing something illegal to need that level of security.”

“What the heck was he hiding?”

Frank shook his head. “No way to know, but he knew what he was doing. If he hadn’t come to me for the obit, I doubt anyone would ever connect Henry Wagner to Jim Beltran. The man certainly had layers.”

“Too true.” Spider Mulcahey could get access, if anyone could. “But I know someone top notch who might be able to peel the onion. I’ll call him when I get home and ask him about S-Mail. If there’s a way in, he’ll know. For now, let me check with Marcy about the clothes and the car.” I went to the closet, took out my purse and entered Marcy’s number on my phone.

After four rings, she answered, sounding breathless. “Angie?”

“Hi, Marcy. I’m still in the Point.” How should I explain Hank’s unbalanced insistence on secrecy? Better to skirt the issue, for now. “I interviewed one of the residents at the shelter where Hank was staying. He left a few personal effects. Do you care if they keep Hank’s clothes? They’re nothing fancy, just flannel shirts, jeans, boxers and socks.”

“No, of course I don’t mind.”

“Great. They’ll go to good use. Second thing. Hank drove a rusted-out 1979 Honda Civic that he signed over to them, so they could help get people to work and back. It’s got more than three hundred thousand miles on it.”

“No objections there, either. Let them have it.”

“I’m bringing back a duffel bag that held his stuff. I assume you won’t want his personal toiletries.”

“No.” She sounded deflated.

“Uh, one odd thing. He had a pretty expensive razor. I thought it was strange that he’d spend money on that when he lived at the shelter and drove a beater.”

“Hank had very sensitive skin. His face would break out in little bumps if he didn’t use the right razor.” I heard a little catch in her voice. “He even used Nivea shave cream. I teased him that he was a softie, and he said ‘only when it comes to my face.’”

Huh. There was no Nivea in the bag. “Okay. I wish there was more I could tell you. I’m heading home now, Marcy. I’ll call you. Be patient. I’m not giving up.”

Frank gestured at the tab. “Mind if I make a copy? It might be better to have one in a remote location.”

“Good idea. But don’t scan it to your computer. Print it instead. Computer files can be recovered, even after they’ve been deleted.”

His eyebrows went up. “Okay, I’ll just use the copy function and put it in my safe.” He lifted the printer lid and turned back to me. “I have to say, this is the most excitement I’ve had in ages. Your job is pretty interesting.”

“Most times, it’s just sitting at a computer running traces or in a car keeping someone under observation. There’s a lot of boredom, interspersed with flashes of excitement. It appeals to me because I love to solve puzzles.”

“I have to think it appeals on a deeper level, Angie, or you wouldn’t be such a bulldog about a runaway husband.” He cocked his head to one side. “You’re a crusader.”

I felt a blush rising. “Somewhat. I hate lies. The truth is always preferable, no matter how painful.”

We parted with promises to keep in touch. Outside, I slung the duffel bag into the back seat of the Mazda, retrieved my personal luggage from the B&B and headed for Milwaukee, Wukowski and, hopefully, smokin’ hot sex.

Chapter 5

Make love when you can. It's good for you. — Kurt Vonnegut

It was almost seven when I got back to my east side condo. Leaving my overnight bag in the entry hall, I kicked off my shoes and settled on the couch with a glass of wine, wondering when Wukowski would arrive. The Lake Michigan shore was outlined by lights along Lake Drive, with the spectacular Burke Brise Soleil of the Milwaukee Art Museum in full sail. Some say it resembles a bird in flight. I see a submerging whale's tail.

My mind began to mull over the puzzling behavior of Hank Wagner in his last days. I sent a short text to Spider Mulcahey. He now ran a security business, but still did some work for the government. His Delafield farmhouse boasted a very high-tech and well-protected home office. Spider, why would an average guy use S-Mail and how can I read one of his emails?

The landline in the kitchen rang and, when I picked it up, Spider said, "Only conspiracy freaks and people with something to hide use S-Mail, Angie. And guys like me, on general principles. So who's the client and why do you need to access his S-Mail?"

I explained the background of the case and told him about the S-Mail address we found stuck in the fuse box of Hank’s junker. “It will mean a lot to Marcy if he left a message for her.”

“If he wanted her to know something, there are more straightforward ways to communicate.”

“True. That’s why I’d like to see it before she does.”

“The thing about S-Mail is that once a message is read, it’s deleted from their server, with no way to retrieve it. So you only get one shot at reading it.”

“It can be printed, right?”

“Sure. But ask yourself, why was he hiding? It wasn’t simply to avoid his responsibilities as a husband and father. This guy went to some lengths not to be found. And