Blood Kills by Nanci Rathbun (book club reads .TXT) 📗

information related to Mick’s murder, I dialed his desk in Homicide.

“Detective Wukowski.”

Little tingles ran up my arms, creating a much pleasanter tension than what I experienced between us at A Crossing of Threads that morning. “It’s Angie. Do you have a minute? It’s about Mick Swanson.”

“Yep.”

Gonna go all Joe Friday on me? I refused to play that game. “Debby Hill tells me that Mick was a leftie. If he was fighting an attacker who had a gun and Mick somehow sliced himself, wouldn’t it be on the right arm? And I didn’t notice any bruising or other signs of a fight.”

“Yeah, that is odd.” After a moment of silence and some paper riffling, he said, “The preliminary ME report doesn’t state that his left arm was disabled. There was a cut, but that wouldn’t stop an experienced fighter. And based on the knife, I have to assume he knew how to handle himself. Doesn’t make sense. Even a switch-hitter generally holds a weapon in the dominant hand.”

“That’s what I thought, but I’m not sure what it means.”

“Maybe nothing,” Wukowski said. “But I appreciate the call.”

“Of course. We’re on the same side, you know.”

“Side?”

“The side of the truth, ya big dumb cluck. Love you.” I hung up before he could respond.

Chapter 20

If we knew what it was we were doing, it would not be called research, would it?

Albert Einstein

I settled at my kitchen counter, reeled out the Ethernet cable from its hiding place, and plugged it into my tablet. For esthetic reasons, the router resided inside the end cupboard. Wireless is notoriously easy to hack into, so I never use it for business.

While I waited for my laptop to power up, I picked up the paperboard mailer from the envelope that Debby gave me. It was closed with both a traditional adhesive strip and what looked like red wax, stamped with a swan’s image. Clearly, Mick wanted it to be apparent if the package was opened.

Deciding to try to keep the seal intact, I heated a butter knife and ran it along the edges, gently prying the seal off before placing it on waxed paper.

Inside were three documents: a bundle labeled PROPERTY, an envelope labeled LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT, and a folded paper. Might as well start with the shortest of the stack. I unfolded the note.

Ms. Angelina Bonaparte

I write this in my own hand so no one can dispute that it is my wish. If I should die from violence or accident, I beg you to investigate. I cannot trust the police. They have misjudged me in the past. I also beg that you will assist Debby Hill, who will inherit all I own. I regret that my legacy includes the ill will of my cousin, Artur Hunter. I cannot commit any details to paper in case he might find these documents and learn where I have hidden a box with material that will reveal that he is the person who committed crimes that were blamed on me during my service in Chechnya. Please, Angie, do this for the sake of Debby and for justice. You are the only one I can trust with this mission. My will stipulates that you shall receive $25,000 for this work, regardless of the outcome, plus expenses. I implore you to reveal the truth.

Michael (Mick) Lebedev Swanson

I sucked in a breath. What in heaven’s name! A slight tremor in my hand convinced me to take a break before reading the will. I placed the note on the counter and prepared a cup of peppermint tea. Settling on the couch, I sipped the soothing brew and watched the waves roll onto the Lake Michigan shoreline. Twilight cast soft indigo light on the scene. I cleared my thoughts and let the rhythm of the water calm me.

When the cup was empty, I turned away from the big picture window. Mick’s wish was for me to investigate a criminal conspiracy involving his cousin and his own murder. More than that, he believed the police could not be trusted.

I did not share his reservations, though. Many times over, Wukowski had proved his dedication to uncovering the truth and seeing justice served. Of course, I could go to him with this revelation. But could I leave it all in his hands? Or did I need to act, as Mick pleaded, to protect Debby? And was I capable of handling such a complicated and violent case?

Not on my own, I acknowledged to myself, but with the help of Bobbie, Spider, and Bram, I could. It would be no more dangerous or difficult than the Johnson case, which involved international money laundering and war crimes. So the real question was, should I become enmeshed in this?

Before I reached a conclusion, I decided to take a look at the will and the property documents.

The one personal bequest in Mick’s will, to the Republican Residential School for Orphans in Grozny City, Chechnya, directed the executor to continue to pay a monthly stipend of one thousand US dollars to the institution until the funds ran out or the orphanage closed its doors. That meant that either Mick was Chechen or he was part of the Russian forces that had decimated a large part of that country.

The rest confirmed Mick’s statement to Debby concerning her inheritance and the acceptance of her legal duties as an executor. Lastly, a codicil directed that twenty-five thousand be paid to me upon my acceptance of the terms of Mick’s note, as well as reimbursement for any expenses incurred in the course of my duties.

Tomorrow morning, I would call the attorney. For now, I set the will, codicil, and note aside and turned to the other papers.

Michael L. Swanson owned three properties: The Arts Galleria, a home in Waukesha County, and a lot near  Boulder Lake—about a three-hour drive ‘up nort’ dere, hey,’ as the locals liked to joke. He had a personal bank account in Milwaukee, as well as a business account. And—good lord!—a numbered Swiss account. I hoped