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

Why don’t I call her and ask her to go over for a visit with Marianne? She can talk to the nurses and the administrator, get Marianne out of the room for a meal, do the small things that help. She’s great at that.”

“God, Angie, that would be wonderful. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Give me ten minutes to talk to Terry and twenty minutes to shower and dress. Then I’ll call you back.”

“Wait,” he said, then paused for a count of ten. “I suddenly realized I’m starving. Why don’t we get some breakfast? My treat. You can tell me your news about Jane Dunwoodie.”

We made arrangements to meet at Ma’s in an hour. Wukowski insisted, said we had to mend fences with George and prove we could act like civilized people. I snorted, but agreed, and at eight-forty I was sliding into the booth that Wukowski had already claimed. He looked tired, but his shirt was unwrinkled and his face was shaven. I commented, as I signaled for coffee, “You look pretty put-together for a guy who’s been up half the night.”

“I learned a long time ago to keep a clean shirt and an electric razor in my desk drawer. I’ve pulled so many all-nighters that I’ve lost track.” He took a long swallow of coffee. “It’s one reason why my wife walked out. She told me once that a woman needs a lot more security than I could ever offer. She was sick of worrying about me, waiting for a call to rush to the hospital or the captain at the door in the middle of the night.” He shook his head. “Can’t say I blame her.”

That was a lot more inner Wukowski than I ever thought I’d hear. Coming face to face with mortality, especially the mortality of a friend your own age, can trigger a lot of angst. I just nodded and sipped, waiting to see if he wanted to dump any more baggage. But he sat back, grabbed the menu, and said, “Let’s order,” in a no-nonsense voice, so I figured the moment had passed.

After we gave the waitress our identical orders—eggs, hash browns, sausage, toast—Wukowski took a notebook and pen from his inner suit coat pocket. “So, what did you call Iggy about?”

I already decided that, with Iggy laid up, I’d have to confide in Wukowski and hope for the best. I filled him in on the web searches and gave him a copy of my notes on the Dunwoodies. Then I dropped my little bomb. “Bobbie Russell, from the Dunwoodie agency, looked at their calendars for the night in question. They both had supper meetings at the Italian Community Center—Jane in one room, John in another.”

“Yeah, I had that in my notes.” He peered at me. “Sometimes the cops get it right, you know.”

“A lot of the time,” I assured him. He looked me over pretty sharply, to see if I was razzing him or not, but seemed to accept my sincerity.

“Here’s the thing, Wukowski. Bobbie and I had lunch at the Italian Community Center yesterday and we talked to a waiter who was working the banquet rooms that night. Guy by the name of Guy, if you can believe it.” He smiled slightly. “So Guy told us that on the night Elisa was killed, when Jane was at her RCCLU meeting, he saw her leave the building.”

“No shit! He saw her go outside, get in her car?”

“Well, no. He saw her sneak down a hallway and she didn’t return to the meeting for about twenty minutes. It was toward the end of the meal.”

“Twenty minutes. Tight, but just enough time to do the deed, if she was extremely lucky and efficient.”

“That’s what I thought, too.”

“I need to talk to this … to Guy.”

“Okay. I can arrange that. But I’d like to be there.”

“No can do, Angie. It might taint his testimony.”

“You might not get any testimony without me.” He raised one eyebrow as I explained about John’s behavior at the restaurant yesterday and how skittish Guy seemed. “He wasn’t happy when we told him he’d need to talk to the police. Bobbie and I kind of promised him that we’d set up an interview with Iggy.”

“Hey,” he protested, “I can play the good cop if I want to.”

“Sure you can, Wukowski. But I still think you need me there, just to reassure Guy. I don’t think he’ll talk to you otherwise.” I didn’t tell Wukowski that Guy had been reluctant to talk to me without Bobbie being present. I wanted to be in on this discussion and I thought I could manage Guy, whether Bobbie was there or not. “He’s scared, Wukowski. Apparently he’s been the victim of gay bashing in the past.”

Wukowski’s head snapped back slightly and the right-hand corner of his mouth raised. “Gay Guy?”

“I know. Awful, isn’t it?”

“Just awful,” he responded, in a lisping parody of the male homosexual stereotype. But he didn’t say it in a way that seemed mean, just sadly funny.

“Stop it,” I told him, grinning, but trying not to.

“You’re right,” he said. But we were both smiling. “So, how do I get in touch with Guy?”

“He’s staying at Bobbie’s place for now. We thought it would be better, given John’s interest, if Guy didn’t go back to his apartment. Bobbie offered to put him up until the case is resolved.”

“He working today?”

“Well, that’s another thing. He’s scared and he wants to lie low, but he can’t afford to take time off without pay. So I thought I’d call Bart and see if there might be funds available to allow Guy to take some vacation time.”

“Are you nuts?” His voice was a whispered shout. “You do that and the prosecution can claim that you bought the witness. And so can the Dunwoodie defense, should it come to that. No way, Angie. No freakin’ way.”

I was angry that he called me nuts, but I kept my own voice low and even, concerned that George would kick us out if we