Blood Kills, Nanci Rathbun [best books to read for self improvement TXT] 📗

told Wukowski about the fatherly insistence that I must be coddled.

“Pat’s right. I already called in for a day of vacation and let Iggy know.”

With a nod, I told Papa about Wukowski’s plans. “I promise to do nothing but relax and enjoy the day,” I said.

***

We did just that, ignoring the TV and setting aside the Sunday Journal Sentinel for another day.

Wukowski caught me up on news about his mother, Lena, who continued to recover slowly from agoraphobia. “And you’ll never believe what happened on Iggy’s family vacation in Door County. He was out on a morning run and spotted a porch pirate snatching a package from a doormat. When Iggy yelled at the guy, he stuffed this two-foot-long box into his pants, but he fell on his face, shouting about police brutality. Thank goodness the homeowner had one of those doorbell cameras.” He shook his head and said, “Nothing like a dumb-as-rocks criminal.”

I told him about Papa’s heart scare and the guilt-tripping he liked to evoke to get his way with me. “I swear, he’s as bad as the guy on that old TV show." I put my hand on my chest and pretended to stagger back a little. “‘It’s the big one, Elizabeth.’”

In the early evening, I picked a not-too-mushy rom-com movie and he a not-too-violent action film, both of which we enjoyed while nestled on the couch with a delivery order from my favorite local pizzeria.

Later, the special negligee finally emerged from the closet. After we took it for a spin, I again fell asleep in his arms, postponing the topic of our future as a couple.

Chapter 60

It is right that we should stand by and act on our principles; but not right to hold them in obstinate blindness, or retain them when proved to be erroneous.

Michael Faraday

After breakfast on Monday morning, I got a text from Bobbie. All okay?

Me: Fine. With Wukowski.

Bobbie: Make up for lost time, girlfriend!

Wukowski ambled past me on the way to the coffee maker. “Plans for today?”

“Not really. I’m just checking work email and calls. Unless something new comes in, I’m taking today off.” I turned from the laptop and said, “But there is something I’d like to know.”

“Shoot.”

“Spider told me he would contact the FBI. Are they looking into Mick Swanson’s death and the samples he stashed?”

Setting his cup on the other side of the counter, he leaned forward. “Don’t know. I’ll check in with Iggy on that.”

Slightly frustrated that things weren’t moving fast enough to suit me, I changed into running clothes. “I’ll be back in thirty,” I told Wukowski as I headed to the front door.

“Want company?”

I appreciated that he asked, rather than harangue me about personal safety. Even big tough guys can learn, I thought, remembering the early days of our relationship. I told him I needed time alone and stepped out. Careful not to push his boundaries, I set my cell phone to remind me to turn back after fifteen minutes.

The breeze off the lake raised goose bumps on my arms as I took a slow pace along the path. Being a Monday morning, it wasn’t crowded with the weekend crew of bikers, runners, joggers, bladers, or boarders. Waves broke gently on the shoreline in undulating patterns that soothed my keyed-up nerves. When the alarm sounded, I stopped for a moment to release any lingering vexation about waiting for news and made for home.

As I entered the condo, my cell phone played a line from the Hall & Oates song, “Private Eyes.” A work call. I shucked off my running shoes and answered, “AB Investigations, Angelina Bonaparte speaking.”

“Yes, um, hello, Ms. Bonaparte. This is Dr. Frederica Lang from the Institute for DNA Studies. You contacted me via email on Saturday. I hope you don’t mind that I’m calling you. I got this number from your website.”

“I don’t mind at all, Dr. Lang. In fact, it may simplify things to speak like this, rather than engaging in a series of emails.” I filled a glass with cold water from the refrigerator dispenser and walked into the living room, where Wukowski sat perusing the day-old Sunday paper.

“I agree,” she said. “Less chance for misunderstanding.” With an intake of breath, she continued. “Your question about identical DNA intrigued me. Before I answer, I’d like to know the specific circumstances that prompted you to contact me. Given that you’re a private investigator, I wonder if this involves a paternity or maternity case.”

“Well, no. It involves a criminal matter.” I glanced at Wukowski and told the doctor that a police officer was with me and I’d like to activate my speaker.

“You must understand, Ms. Bonaparte, that I’m not an expert witness and will not agree to testify in court regarding DNA evidence. I am, however, willing to have an informal discussion and perhaps direct you to someone who may be able to assist you.”

I agreed and asked for her patience while I explained the call to Wukowski. One eyebrow rose, and he shook his head at my apparent refusal to face the fact of Mick’s guilt by DNA.

Once I’d put the call on speaker and made introductions, I explained Mick’s death, the letter concerning his life in Russia, his accusations against his cousin, and the DNA evidence that led to the police’s firm stance on Mick as the assassin.

“So he was a bone marrow donor. How very interesting,” Dr. Lang said, her tone even. “Are you familiar with the Greek myth of the chimera?”

“Nope,” said Wukowski.

“It was a fire-breathing creature composed of the body parts of several animals—lion, goat, and snake.”

I ran a quick Google search and shared the bizarre image with Wukowski. “I’m online, looking at one now. Does this relate to the case?”

“It might,” Dr. Lang said. “There are known instances of what is called human chimeric DNA, essentially a situation where a person’s organs or tissue contain cells with different genes than the rest of their body. It’s quite well accepted, for example, that after a transfusion,