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

this wouldn’t turn out like the Johnson case with its complicated international finances.

All corporations, companies, and partnerships who do business in the state must register with the Wisconsin Department of Financial Institutions. I located Metal Works LLC and was not surprised to learn that Michael L. Swanson was shown as the person forming the entity and as the registered agent. There were no other members. Ditto for the Arts Galleria.

To be sure that I didn’t miss any other real estate owned by Mick, I ran a search on a paid site, rather than relying solely on the county and city government options. “Michael L. Swanson Wisconsin” produced hundreds of hits, but only one was Mick’s age. Michael Lebedev Swanson.

Easing back against the padded seat of my counter stool, I pondered Mick’s possible Russian connections. The knife, the middle name, the starshina, the slight accent, the bequest to the orphanage in Chechnya, even Bleki, the Russian name Mick proposed for Debby’s dog. Would there be more? And how did that intersect with his murder?

Using Google Maps, I pored over both aerial and street views of Mick’s Waukesha County property in Wales and ran a search to determine the town’s stats—thirty-two square miles with a population of just over seven thousand and almost an hour’s drive from the Galleria. Our snowy winters would double that commute on some days.

Why live so far out? I wondered. My own constant attention to security and Mick’s understandable paranoia led me to consider sinister reasons. The map showed at least four major routes and dozens of minor ones from Milwaukee to his home. Good for spotting and shaking off a tail. And the two-acre lot, set in woods and surrounded by other equally large parcels, allowed for escape on foot. Overall, it was a setup for a person concerned about privacy and safety.

Was that why Mick was killed in the shop? Because the assailant couldn’t get close to him elsewhere? If so, Mick was a careful planner. I’d put money on a snowmobile and an all-terrain vehicle in one of those outbuildings. And if all else failed and he had to walk out, getting to a local highway would be well within the capabilities of a man as fit as Mick.

Unlike the extensive Wales property, assessed at over three million, the aerial image of his Boulder Lake plat showed a small fifth wheel, with a one-man canoe secured on top. Like his house, Mick’s campsite was surrounded by woods, with numerous roads in and out of the area. A pattern emerged.

My eyes felt gritty from staring at maps and papers, but my mind raced through all that I’d learned about Mick. A quiet man without friends or family. A man with Russian ties, if not Russian himself. Someone very aware of his surroundings and probably concerned for his safety. A man who knew how to avoid detection.

And a man who had placed the burden of his life onto Debby by naming her his heir and executor.

That last thought haunted me as I headed for a soak in a tub loaded with soothing bath salts, hoping its heat would draw the tension from my body. Debby had endured enough. I couldn’t let her be pulled into the miasma of whatever culminated in Mick’s death.

Chapter 21

This lesson I was taught by others: Might makes right.

Serial killer Carl Panzram

Artur edged along the parking garage’s perimeter walls, using an extendable baton to divert the surveillance cameras from their normal positions on the elevator and stairway, and waited behind a large pillar. He had to get access to the lawyer’s office, and that meant he needed a card for the readers.

The elevator dinged and a man in a pinstriped suit emerged, briefcase in one hand and his cell phone raised in the other as his thumb worked the screen.

No situational awareness, Artur thought, approaching with a cigarette in hand. “Any chance you have a light?” he asked.

The guy set the briefcase down and said, “One sec.” He took a lighter from his pants pocket. “Here ya go,” he said as he extended his hand.

Putting the smoke to his lips, Artur reached out. The unexpected blow to the neck sent the man to the pavement. Artur dragged the unconscious victim to the back wall and executed a chokehold until his breathing ceased. From the man’s wallet, he removed the building access card, and a business card giving the man’s name as Stephen Carmody, an accountant with offices on the nineteenth floor. Then he retrieved the briefcase and bent to place it next to Carmody. “Couldn’t have you waking up before I finished,” he whispered.

He entered the stairwell and began to climb. Just his luck that the lawyer’s office would be so high up.

Pausing on the twenty-first floor, Artur waited for his breathing to return to normal, then cracked open the door and listened. No ding of the elevator, no voices, no sounds of footsteps. He stepped into the carpeted hallway.

A small bronze plaque next to 2107 read LAW OFFICES OF REBECCA FRANKEN. Underneath was a card: Ring for Access. Dermo! He would have to fast-talk his way in. He pressed the buzzer.

To his surprise, the lock clicked to allow entry and a voice called, “DoorDash? Come on back.”

Artur removed the Ruger from his briefcase, rounded the reception area and entered the open office, arm extended. A small woman, seated behind a downsized wooden desk, started at the sight. As she reached underneath her desk, Artur pounced, dragging her from her chair. He glanced under the apron of the desk and noted a panic button. “Naughty girl,” he hissed, backhanding her. She fell to the floor, clutching her ears as blood began to drip from her nose.

***

She was a feisty little one, he had to admit, as he left the premises and walked to the stolen SUV parked half a mile away in a lot under the expressway. It took some persuasion to get Franken to provide the documents she had