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

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Ninety minutes later, Wukowski returned. I saw at once that he had his homicide detective face on. Sitting across from me, he placed a small recording device on the table. “This is killing me, Ange, but we have to do it by the book. Okay?”

“Of course,” I said. “But later? At my place? Can we improvise then?”

He scraped his hand over his face. “Not sure. You know how the first few hours go.”

I nodded and gestured for him to proceed.

He recorded the usual preamble and asked the usual questions—what time did we arrive, why were we there, how did we find the body? Then he said, “Do you know of anyone with reason to wish Mr. Swanson harm?”

“I barely knew Mick, Detective. He seemed like a good guy though. Very helpful when I worked with him on the… on a project.”

“What kind of project?”

“Oh, just some metalwork I commissioned for the condo.”

With that, he terminated the recording and leaned back. “It’s real good to see you, Angie. Real good. I like the hair.” His brown eyes held a hint of sexual awareness. “What’s under the casual clothes, moja droga?”

My dear. How could two little words cause such a delicious sensation to prickle up and down my spine? And how nice that he still enjoyed the game of ‘what set of sexy lingerie is she wearing today?’ I certainly wanted to play along! “I could tell you, caro, but that would spoil the fun of unwrapping the package.”

His lopsided Han Solo smile flashed for a second. Then he stood. “Wish I could hug you goodbye, but that might reactivate old concerns in the department. I’ll call you later.”

“Make sure you do.”

Chapter 8

There is nothing as deceptive as an obvious fact.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Bobbie and Bram stood at the end of the hallway, waiting for me. “Ange,” Bobbie asked, “everything okay? I mean, with you and Wukowski?” He gave me a cheeky grin.

“It seems like it,” I said. “Although I doubt that he’ll have a free moment in the near future. You know what they say about the first forty-eight hours. If you don’t get a clue then, the odds of solving the case are cut in half.”

“Too bad,” Bobbie said as we sauntered to the elevator. “I was hoping to see that satisfied-woman smile on your face tomorrow.”

Bram turned a stern face to the younger man. “Out of line,” he said.

Time to intervene. “I’m starving,” I told the men. “Let’s head to Ma Fischer’s for that breakfast I promised you.” The eastside eatery and after-hours institution began life as a tiny two-booths-and-a-counter joint but evolved into a thriving Greek family restaurant with a parking lot—a big plus for any business in the crowded older part of town.

Since Bram’s truck still sat at the crime scene, Bobbie called for an Uber ride, and we hit the midmorning lull at Ma’s. George, who used to man the grill in the little start-up, approached with menus. He focused on me. “So, still no policeman?”

Did the entire city know about my enforced absence from Wukowski? “Not yet, George, but soon.”

“Is good.” He escorted us to an isolated table, grabbed a carafe of coffee from a nearby station, and filled our cups. I felt particularly honored by his attention, given that he was now a prosperous owner who normally delegated such tasks to staff.

A server took our orders and left our quiet corner.

“Bobbie,” I said, “I got your photo of the desk calendar while I was waiting for Wukowski to conduct his interview with me. Anything else you noticed in the office or shop?”

He shook his head.

“Any thoughts on the tattoo?” I asked. “Is it a star?”

“Starshina, with the revolutionary symbol of a hammer and sickle in the middle,” Bram pronounced. “A Russian military insignia that was used in the old days for a rank equivalent to a US sergeant major.”

Bobbie angled toward me. “Mick didn’t sound like a Russian to me.”

“From his name and his looks and that little hint of an accent, I always assumed he had Irish roots,” I told the men.

“There’s somethin’ else you should know,” Bram said. “I ran a quick recon on the premises. No security surveillance of any kind, but very high-tech locks. Almost impossible to pick or force. And the windows… not sure, but they struck me as being bullet-resistant. Spider would know.”

“So Mick was expecting some sort of attack,” I mused.

“Too bad his precautions didn’t help him survive,” Bobbie said.

Our food arrived and we tucked in, hungry despite the circumstances of the morning. Bram finished his stack of pancakes and extra sausage and leaned back with a satisfied look on his face.

“My natural curiosity is begging me to start digging,” I told the men, “but I don’t see any real reason to get involved in this. Do you, Bobbie?”

“Well, since you ask, no. Not until there’s a client. I say we should tell Wukowski about the starshina and its military connection, though, once we hear from Spider.”

Bram hummed under his breath. “I agree. We’ll turn it over to Wukowski by tomorrow morning at the latest.” He lifted his coffee mug and sipped. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

I hated holding out on Wukowksi, but Bram’s instincts were sound. “Agreed,” I said. “I’ll call for another Uber to get us all to my condo. Bobbie’s car is on the street there. Bram, do you still have the PT Cruiser?”

“I do,” he said, “but I don’t use it much, now that my knee’s healed. It was a temporary accommodation, but the Cruiser'll do me fine for now.”

Bram’s injury was service-related, but he never shared the details. “Okay if you drop Bram off at his place, Bobbie? I need a shower and a change of clothes before I head into the office.”

“No problem,” he said. “I’ll leave from Bram’s for surveillance on that security issue. I’m dressed just fine to blend in at the plant.”

Chapter 9

In family life, love is the oil that