Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set, Nanci Rathbun [shoe dog free ebook txt] 📗

Spider muttered, “I really gotta check her house out, though.” Then he turned to the computer and attempted to login to S-Mail as Hank. That User ID and/or password doesn't match our records. Please try again. “Looks like Hank closed his S-Mail account. No way to draw him out there.”

“All is not lost,” I said. “The phone number and Hotmail for Jorgensen are still in use.” I filled him in on my Saturday Marriott activity. “Before I try to get in touch with him, I need to consult with a legal advisor. A Family legal advisor.”

“Matthews?” Spider asked. He met Bart on the Johnson case.

“Right. I want to present a hypothetical to him, see if he thinks the Philly Mob is still after Tommaso, without using his name. See if it’s safe for Hank to break cover.”

“Angie,” Bobbie interjected, “that could land you in hot water. The Milwaukee mob is nothing compared to Philly! How do you know Bart won’t take it to someone who’ll insist on the whole story in a, uh, unpalatable way?”

“I can be devious, Bobbie. Bart won’t catch on.” Probably. If he did, I would go to Papa.

That thought was slightly sickening. We hadn’t talked about his role in the Family since I was a small girl.

My mind trailed back to little Angie, asking Papa why the kids at school teased her about her father being in a mob. Papa took her on his lap and asked her if she knew what that meant. When the child shook her head, he explained that the Mafia was an organization, like a union, that began in Sicily to protect those for whom there was no justice. With the odor of pipe tobacco wafting around her, he said that he joined when his papa took him to a meeting. He assured the little girl that there were both good and bad men in the union, that he tried to be a good man, and that he had sworn to a code of silence—omerta—on all their doings, so he would never discuss it with her again. Little Angie loved and trusted her Papa.

Grown-up Angie did, too. Papa wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me.

“Spider, Bobbie,” I said, “let me think this over.” I pointed at Spider. “Meanwhile, you need to get going. Time to bring the babies home.”

We hugged and headed out, Spider to his family, Bobbie to a shooting lesson with Bram, and me to put this new information into perspective and develop a plan of action. You don’t go unprepared to a negotiation with a Mafia mouthpiece!

Chapter 18

Every question is a hypothetical question for everyone but the person who asks it. — Dan Savage

I drove back to the office and placed a call to Bart’s office Gorgon, Bertha Conti. She answered the phone in her no-nonsense tone. “Law offices of Bartholomew Matthews.”

“Good afternoon, Bertha. This is Angie Bonaparte. It’s been a while. How have you been?”

“Fine, Mizzz Bonaparte.” The honorific sounded like a curse word.

I once corrected her when she called me ‘Mrs.’ You didn’t correct Bertha. She neither forgave nor forgot. Move on, Angie. “Good to hear that you’re well. I’m calling to see if you can squeeze an hour out of Bart’s schedule this week. I need to engage him as a consultant on an issue that requires his particular expertise. At his standard fee, of course.” Paying Bart ensured that he would be constrained under the rules of attorney-client privilege to hold the matter confidential.

“Regarding?” she asked.

This would be tricky. I didn’t want to tell Bertha much, but unless I made it sound worthwhile to Bart, she would stonewall me. “In the course of an investigation, I’ve come across some information that might benefit Bart’s major client. I’m not free to discuss it, except with him, but I’m sure he will want to hear what I have to say.”

After a moment’s silence, she said, “Hold please.” Frank Sinatra crooned If I Didn’t Care while I waited. Then Bertha’s raspy voice returned. “His calendar is very full, but I can slot you in at one this afternoon.”

Was she playing me to see if I’d decline to rush? “I’ll be there,” I told her in my most cheerful voice, knowing it aggravated her. Then I gathered what I would need and headed into the cold.

Milwaukee’s Third Ward, once the Little Italy of the city, has undergone gentrification since its early days. Art galleries, cafes, upscale restaurants, and clubs now dot the area that was populated in the 1880s by Italian immigrants, after the Irish moved up and out. Bart’s offices were in one of the old original ironwork buildings on Plankinton Avenue. I parked and entered the building.

A Family consortium owned the property and assured that it had the best in both electronic and 24/7 human security. I entered the lobby, surprised to see Mighty Mary working days. Mary juggled engineering classes, weekend nights as a bouncer and her job here. She dwarfed the security desk and its bank of monitors. “Mary,” I smiled, “how are things? You graduate this spring, right?”

“Yeah, and I can’t wait to get a real job with normal hours, Angie. What with school during the day and working nights, along with studying and trying to keep a relationship afloat, I’m dying. I want a life! It’s actually restful to staff the daytime desk during winter break.”

“Hang in,” I said. “A degree from MSOE will open a lot of doors.”

“That’s what I’m counting on. And they better be doors that lead to an office and buckets of money. Student loan repayment is looming.” She shook her head before asking, “You going up to see Bart Matthews?” When I nodded, she stepped away from the desk and gave a Vanna White gesture. “My shelf is yours.”

I folded and placed my outerwear there, to protect them from the fug that permeated the law offices. Both Bart and Bertha smoked several packs a day, despite laws prohibiting the practice indoors. He did pay