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

office mate went down the hall to the ladies’ room and left her purse in the unlocked office. It wouldn’t be that hard to slip in, grab the office key from her ring, and use it to access the office after hours.”

“Not good.”

Bart and his network of attorney friends send a lot of business my way. I needed to reassure him of my security measures. “I talked to Susan about it, Bart. She’s properly sorry and I know it won’t happen again. I’m getting new locks installed and I’ll be looking into motion detectors, too. Believe me, the security of my clients’ information is my number one priority.”

“You know, Ange, there’s an office available next door to me.”

“My lungs could never stand the strain, Bart.” He started to laugh, but it degenerated into a hacking cough. “You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, just my normal routine.”

“Bart…”

“Don’t start with me, Angie. I’m fine. Now listen, I prefer to sit on this until we know more. I don’t see what the cops can do that you haven’t done already, and I don’t want them in the middle of this until we know the source. If the perp is someone in the Family who had it in for Elisa because of Tony, I don’t want the cops digging into it. I’d rather handle it internally. Are you okay with that?”

“Under one condition. I want your assurance that Marco will be made aware of this and that he’ll take steps to keep it from going any further if it is an inside threat.” Marco Alberici was the titular head of the Milwaukee branch of the Family. My skin prickled at the thought of getting involved in a possible feud, but I didn’t think I had a choice.

“You have my word on it. Messenger the evidence over, would you? I want to keep it in my safe.” He took a drag and exhaled. “Another thing. One of us will have to call your dad. Once I go to Marco about this, Pasquale will find out anyway. I’d rather it came from you or me.”

Crap. I hadn’t thought about Papa. This would just reinforce the lecture he gave me yesterday. There was no way to keep it a secret, but I wasn’t in the mood for a replay of his Sunday talk. “You call him, Bart. And try to convince him that it’s probably harmless. He’s already on my case about this not being a woman’s job.”

“Hah. I bet that went over big. Listen, I want you to call Bertha’s number and let her know where you are and who you’re with, day and night, until we close this case. Got it?”

“Damn it, Bart, I don’t need a babysitter, especially not Bertha. She hates me.”

“She hates everyone. Probably me, included. So don’t take it personally. Besides, I hired you and I’m responsible for your safety. The least you can do is let me know where to start looking for your body if you fail to show up. It’s so much easier that way.” His sarcastic tone couldn’t completely hide the tension behind his words.

“Okay, Bart. But you tell Bertha what to expect. I don’t have time to listen to her carefully ordered and numbered set of rules.”

It was nine forty-five. My voice mail had a message from Ben Sobczak, Elisa’s former landlord. “Marsha didn’t answer her phone, but I left her a message to call you. Marsha ain’t been doing so good. Go easy on her.” Mrs. Lembke had already provided the address and phone, so I planned to interview Marsha today. I just hoped that Sobczak’s forewarning wouldn’t put her on her guard too much.

I donned gloves to place the threatening note in a courier bag, threw the gloves in for good measure in case Bart didn’t have any at his office, called the company and arranged a pickup. Susan promised to check the courier’s ID before handing over the bag. She was relieved that I didn’t plan to call the police. She didn’t seem to realize it meant that there was no real evidence as to the perpetrator. Grabbing my purse and briefcase, I headed out to talk to Marsha.

The temperature this morning was in the eighties, with humidity over ninety percent. I folded the jacket of my peacock blue suit and laid it carefully on the passenger seat of the Miata. My tan camisole, decorated at the neckline with small blue crystal beads, let the sun warm my arms and chest, but the airflow kept me cool as I motored west along National Avenue with the top down, back toward the village of West Milwaukee.

Marsha was living only a few blocks from the flat that she’d shared with Elisa. This didn’t surprise me. Most people are creatures of habit who find it hard to break out of their familiar ruts, even when change would do them good. I didn’t know if Marsha would be home, but I decided not to call first. Both Mrs. Lembke and Ben Sobczak mentioned her fragility. A phone call might be enough to send her running, if she had anything to hide.

I pulled up in front of the address, a four-family cinderblock with lawn chairs, kids’ bikes, tricycles and big wheels scattered in front. A buzzer system was located at the entry door. The small card next to Marsha’s address read “Alan McGuire/Marsha Cantwell.” Was it possible that she’d moved in with Al, the creep who’d slept with her roommate? I pulled out the slip of paper that Mabel Lembke had given me, walked to the side of the building and called her on my cell phone.

“Mrs. Lembke,” I asked, after she answered and I identified myself, “do you remember Marsha’s boyfriend Al’s last name?”

“Sure. Irish kid. McGuire. Don’t get a lot of them on the sout’ side. Why you askin’?”

“Well, I think I located Marsha and it looks like they might be living together. I just wanted to be sure that Alan McGuire was the same Al you mentioned.”

“No