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

“We’ll take his statement and put him up in a hotel until we can verify it.”

“That doesn’t solve the problem of his living expenses, Wukowski. The guy still has to pay his rent and utilities, even if the Department’s footing the bill for his room and board for a few days. And he seems to be living hand to mouth.”

“Sorry, Angie, but if you pay him, you blow any chance of building a case based, even in part, on his testimony. And that’s the bottom line. The perp will walk.”

“There must be a way. Doesn’t the Department have any kind of special fund for things like this?”

“Nada,” he answered, forking eggs and sausage into his mouth.

I took a bite of toast and chewed, pondering the impasse. “Okay, how about this. Guy thinks he’s in danger because of serving at the RCCLU meeting and seeing Jane leave. What if the gay community would put up some money to help him out? That way, there wouldn’t be any advantage for Guy to exonerate Tony, so Bart will be happy. And there wouldn’t be any advantage for Guy to finger Jane, so the prosecution will be happy. And Guy will feel safe, so he’ll be happy.”

“You always work this hard to make everyone happy?” he asked.

“Not always, Wukowski,” I said with a wicked grin, and couldn’t resist adding, “but when I do…”

He smiled his killer smile, the one that was seldom seen. “I can only imagine,” he muttered. Somehow, as we talked, we both managed to clean our plates. The waitress cleared away and refilled our coffee cups, then set the check on the table. Wukowski grabbed it. “My treat, remember?”

I nodded. “Fine by me. Thanks.”

“So,” he said, “what else you got?”

“Nothing else at the moment. But you notice on that printout I gave you, that John has an offshore account. I’m going to ask Susan, my office mate, to check into it, see if she can find out how much is going there and how often.”

“Good.” He pulled a page from his briefcase and passed it to me. “Since we’re being so open and aboveboard with each other,” he said as I took it.

It was a rap sheet. For Jane Dunwoodie. My shock must have shown, because he told me to close my mouth and read.

At the age of seventeen, Jane was arrested and detained overnight for a knife attack on a gynecologist, on the sidewalk outside his home. He was known in the city for being willing to perform abortions. He suffered a cut tendon in his hand when he defended himself.

I looked up at Wukowski. “Why didn’t this show up when I did the legal searches on her?”

“She was seventeen. The doctor wasn’t badly hurt. Her family paid big money to the doc to forestall litigation and the DA agreed to drop the charges and seal the records because she was underage.”

“Some justice,” I commented. Then it hit me. “A knife, Wukowski, she used a knife. And Elisa was badly mutilated by stabbing.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t a knife that killed her. It was a bullet. The knife was used after.”

His matter-of-fact delivery brought me up short. I visualized the photos in the police report. Nasty, and very personal. “If Jane Dunwoodie was capable at that young age of taking matters into her own hands, what would she do now if someone offended against her personal standards? She’s twenty-two years older and life has kicked her around. She’s involved in a group that openly advocates violence against those who don’t ‘respect marriage’ or fail to ‘uphold the sanctity of human life.’” I let the sarcasm drip as I quoted from the RCCLU web site statements.

He took the paper from my grasp and put it into his briefcase. “I can’t let you keep that. And you didn’t see it from me.” I nodded. “The real question, Angie, is what did Elisa do that would set Jane off? As far as I can find out, and I dug deep, she never had a baby or an abortion. She wasn’t gay or bi. Why would Jane want to attack or kill her?”

An idea began to form. Wukowski had trusted me with the rap sheet. By now, I trusted him enough to share my surmises. “What if John and Elisa were making it? And Jane found out?”

“No go. I talked to a neighbor who’s known them for years and used to be close to Jane, until Jane objected to the neighbor’s plan to terminate life support for her mother. Seems that John has had a string of chippies over the years. Jane just looks the other way, as long as he comes home to her. It’s a classic case of dutiful wife syndrome.”

My heart did a little flip-flop. Was I undutiful when I kicked my philandering spouse out? So be it. There was no way I would deal with that nonsense year after year.

Getting back to the matter at hand, I asked, “What if Elisa wasn’t a chippie? What if John was serious about her? What if he asked for a divorce so he could marry Elisa? What if that’s what the OAPT was all about, an escape fund?”

Wukowski whistled, long and low. “That’d put the cat among the canaries, all right.” He leaned across the table, hands clasped earnestly in front of him. “But how do we find out, Angie? How do we prove it?”

My heart flip-flopped again, but this time in joyful recognition that Wukowski saw me as an equal, a partner. “No clue,” I responded. “I’ll have to think on it.”

Wukowski paid the bill and followed me to my car, where I perched myself on the front fender and called Bobbie’s place from my cell phone. Bobbie answered, sounding very chipper. “Morning, Bobbie,” I said, as Wukowski, facing me, leaned close to hear the other side of the conversation.

It took me about five seconds to realize that I hadn’t responded to Bobbie’s