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

because they loved my company. Iggy’d already paved the way by mentioning the case. There had to be a reason why they were willing to engage in an exchange of information. Maybe the DA thought the case against Tony wasn’t strong enough, or maybe the police investigation uncovered some evidence that pointed in another direction. Whatever their reasons, I was willing to cooperate if it would help Bart’s defense. I’d have to be cautious, though, and not reveal anything that might jeopardize Bart’s case. Even the truth can be damaging, if it’s revealed too soon or too late or to the wrong parties.

How to approach Wukowski? As I toweled off and applied lotion to my arms and legs, I thought about my reaction to his physical presence. I enjoy men, don’t misunderstand, but I don’t usually react that way to a guy who disrespects me, no matter how good looking or manly he is. When he and Iggy showed up at my home on the morning of the murder, Wukowski went out of his way to try to intimidate me physically. Then he tried to tell me how to conduct my business. And at the jail, he simply dismissed me as being beneath his notice. It might be the old good cop/bad cop ploy, it might be his issues with women after his partner was killed, but I didn’t think that was the entire explanation. Something about the way he acted made it personal, as if he disliked me and not just the idea of a woman investigator infringing on police affairs.

Other than separate locker rooms, Rick’s only concession to his female clientele was a small vanity area for doing one’s hair and makeup. I worked styling paste through my wet hair and combed it into spikes, then left it to dry as I applied moisturizer, mascara, lipstick and blush. I didn’t want to look like a slob who just finished working out, but neither did I want it to appear that I was trying too hard to look good. I didn’t understand why I cared, but I decided that I’d analyze it later. Somehow it was important that I strike the right balance. This man/woman stuff is tricky.

Iggy and Wukowski stood at the exit door as I came out of the locker room. We walked into the parking lot together, and Iggy suggested that we take one car. I dumped my workout bag into the Miata and turned to get into the back seat of Iggy’s Impala, but stopped short when I saw that Wukowski was already seated there. Odd, I thought, that he’d cede the front seat to me, but I climbed in and buckled up. “Where we going?”

“You eat supper yet?” Iggy asked. I shook my head. “How about Paul’s?” he suggested.

Paul’s is a little greasy spoon diner that sits on a triangular lot where Kinnickinnic meets Lincoln. They serve the greatest chili dogs you’ll ever eat—Chicago red hots, roasted, not boiled, plumped in a chewy bun and smothered in homemade chili, chopped onions, mustard and relish. I started to salivate before Iggy turned the key in the ignition.

As we pulled out of the parking lot, Wukowski leaned forward. Casually placing a forearm along each seat back, he rested his chin in the middle of his clasped hands and started to talk. I didn’t hear a word he said. All I could think of was his spicy aftershave and his breath on my ear. I felt the heat start to rise and my chest start to tighten, and I cursed myself for a fool. Damn it, Angie, get a grip. This is business. I slid as far right as I could, pushing myself into the car door, and turned toward Wukowski. As I hoped, he backed up. Thank God, breathing space.

When Iggy parked on the street in front of the diner, I bolted out of the car. The men exited at a normal pace. They both stared at me, confused looks on their faces. Time for a little misdirection, I told myself. “C’mon,” I said, “I’m starving.” I led the way and slipped into a booth, staying on the outside of the bench so that they’d have to sit together on the other side. The place was empty, not unusual for eight-thirty at night. We all perused the menu, although I knew exactly what I wanted.

Paul, the owner, cook and all-round maintenance guy, leaned across the nearby counter and yelled at us. “I’m on my own today, Lottie called in sick. What’ll it be?”

Iggy and Wukowksi deferred to me, so I shouted back at Paul, “Two chili dogs, the works, an order of cheese fries and a diet cola.”

Wukowski started to laugh. “A diet cola?” Emphasis on diet.

I grinned at him. “A woman’s got to save a few calories wherever she can. Besides, I just worked out. I’m entitled.”

He shook his head and called out an order for coffee and the breakfast skillet—fried eggs on top of fried potatoes with diced ham, cheese, green peppers and onions. “Not exactly a cardiologist’s delight yourself,” I teased him. Iggy yelled over for a coffee, cheeseburger with raw onions, and fries. Paul slammed the drinks on the counter and turned back to the grill. Wukowski stood up and stacked the two cups of coffee in their saucers, then carried the beverages over to the booth. We settled back to wait for our food.

“So, Angie, what’s happening on your side of the Belloni case?” Iggy asked.

“Not a lot. I’ve been interviewing her former coworkers and friends.”

Wukowski leaned forward, suddenly grim. “You licensed to carry?”

I looked at him for a moment. He was asking if I had a legally-licensed gun. “Why do you ask?”

“This is a murder investigation. Somebody killed somebody. That makes it dangerous.”

The threatening letter flashed into my mind. I could see the pasted cut-outs on the paper. I felt the fear that the logical, cold threats evoked when I first read them. I also felt like a three-year-old being