Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set by Nanci Rathbun (surface ebook reader TXT) 📗

but practicality should never be dull! A lightweight woolen houndstooth blazer in deep raspberry and black, paired with stretch-infused Italian wool black pants and a creamy shell, completed the look. I would tote my heels along, since the snowy landscape necessitated boots.

Thankful for a reserved parking space in an area of town where parking is ferociously contested, I arrived at the office and emptied the mailbox in the vestibule. It was the usual junk. My personal and professional mail goes to a rented box at a private service center, for the sake of both security and convenience. Jimmying a lobby box requires very little effort, and the service center can sign for items which might otherwise be left in the lobby.

I unlocked the door and disabled the alarm that Spider installed when we worked together on the Johnson case last year. After stripping off my winter outer garments and boots, I powered up the desktop computer and slipped into my heels.

How could I contact Karl Jorgensen without setting off his alarms? I had his presumed email address and phone number. I considered how Gmail automatically sent most unsolicited stuff to my Spam folder, where it accumulated until it aged enough to be deleted. I could set up a fake email ID and use it to send a message that looked like it was junk mail, which Karl would ignore or delete. If I didn’t get an undeliverable response, I would assume it went through and that Karl’s email account was still active.

Spider’s warnings caused me to wonder if Hank/Karl might be savvy enough to trace an email to the server that sent it. Not wanting to risk it, I decided to use the downtown Marriott’s business center. After printing an obnoxious email from my Spam folder, I suited up to go outside, and headed for the hotel. Prior to setting up my own shop, when I still worked for Jake Waterman, I caught a thieving hotel employee in the act and saved the manager’s job. Glen was happy to grant me access.

First, I set up a Hotmail account for user RussianWomenOnline and created an email with the subject Date_ Russian _Women. The body of the email invited Karl to click a link and guarantee his dating happiness. In case he tried it, I included the link from my printed spam. With a press of the Send button, off it went into the ether.

I waited at the computer for ten minutes. No undeliverable message came back. Odds were that Karl’s email was still in service.

After that, Glen and I shared a cup of coffee and some laughs over my undercover stint as a hotel maid. Someone was stealing from guest rooms and he suspected either room service or meal service. Once I understood the cleaning routine, I came in after midnight, attached small video cameras to the underside of each laundry cart and collected the data on a hidden laptop. It’s amazing what an enterprising thief can hide under a bundle of dirty sheets and towels!

It occurred to me that Glen might also be able to assist me by making a phone call to Karl. If the hotel’s number appeared on Karl’s display, there was nothing to link to me. We went to the manager’s office, where I coached Glen in what I needed him to say. He put his office phone on speaker and punched in the number, while I stood by with my cellphone’s recording feature activated.

“Yes?” a male voice spoke.

“Hello,” Glen said. “This is the manager of the downtown Milwaukee Marriott. I believe I may have a personal item of yours, a planner. I’m sorry to say it went through the laundry, so the phone number is not too clear, nor is the name. Is this Mr., uh, Jefferson?”

“No. I haven’t been near Milwaukee or stayed at a Marriott, and my name isn’t Jefferson.” The voice was clear and clipped, with a no-nonsense tone.

“Well, please excuse the call. I’m sorry to have bothered you, Mr. …”

He let it hang there, while I hoped against hope that the person on the other end would answer ‘Jorgensen.’ Instead, we heard a click and the call disconnected. I stopped the recording.

“Does that help any, Angie?” Glen asked.

“I’m not sure. At least I have the voice. I’ll play it for someone who knows Jorgensen.” I extended my hand. “Thanks so much. I owe you one.”

“Glad to help.” He pumped my hand a couple of times. “Let me know the outcome, would you? I’m dying of curiosity.”

As I headed to the parking ramp, Bobbie texted me that he was on the road to Stevens Point with the fingerprint device. Ordinarily, I would be concerned about his interrupting Spider’s much-needed rest to pick it up, but Spider labeled himself as someone who needed little sleep.

The mundane realities of life needed attention. I returned to my condo to run the vacuum and do a load or two of laundry. As I worked, I pondered what seemed to be the frayed ends of this case.

A memory of Sister Mary Iranaeus, my sixth grade teacher, rose before me as I pushed the vacuum. Sister—or S’ter, as we would say—brought a beautiful tapestry to class one day and placed it on an easel. “What do you see?” she asked, and we detailed the lovely colors and images. Then she flipped it over. The back was a mass of threads and knots, the picture hard to discern. “Never forget that in this earthly life, we see the back, but the Master is weaving an exquisite world, which we will only view from heaven.”

The Wagner case was like that, almost unrecognizable—but I had to believe there was a pattern that would emerge, that the picture would resolve and Marcy would, after five long years, finally get resolution.

My cleaner and friend, Lela (don’t ever call her a cleaning lady!) had finally begun to get regular acting work, and regretfully resigned her weekly gig for me. I needed to find a replacement, but