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

that the confrontational tension would return when Wukowski learned about the will and codicil. “And a lovely day to you,” I said.

He sighed. “Sorry for barking at you.”

“Much better. Now, let me give you the short version. Mick named Debby Hill to inherit his assets and act as his executor,” I told him. “She gave me copies of his legal documents yesterday, but I didn’t start to look them over until last night. Franken drew up the will.” I held back on telling him about the codicil until he had a moment to absorb this revelation.

“Well… damn. Why didn’t she tell me they were involved when I questioned her?”

“They weren’t. According to Debby, Mick asked her to take on the role because he had no close friends or family, and he considered her the best person to manage the Arts Galleria and keep his dream of an artists’ coalition alive. He gave her the documents a few months ago, but she just filed them away without opening them. I can attest to that, because they were in a paperboard envelope, closed with the usual adhesive strip and then sealed again with wax imprinted with a swan. For Swanson.”

“Medieval,” he said.

“But effective,” I replied. “The seal was intact until I removed it last night to take a look at the contents before talking with the attorney. Debby wanted moral support. You’ve noticed that she’s fairly unsure of herself?”

“Yeah, I got that. The hand wringing.”

“Right. So I called the lawyer this morning for an appointment. The office assistant told me about the assault.” I tapped a finger on the counter. “It can’t be a coincidence, Wukowski. It must be related to the murder.”

He said, “That’s my initial take on it. I’ll have to get the crime-scene team to reexamine the premises. They did the usual for a break-in and assault, but because of Franken’s dealings with Swanson, we need to take a more thorough look.”

“There’s something else you should know. Hear me out before you go ballistic.”

“Me? Ballistic?”

I snorted at his sarcastic rejoinder.

“Okay. I’m listening.” His voice dripped resignation.

Sure of an explosive reaction, I read the note and the codicil to him and mentally counted. One thousand one, one thousand two…

The response came at the three-second mark. “You can’t be planning to follow through on this! Swanson’s dead, Hill was threatened, and now Franken’s been attacked. Not to mention the Russian connection. This is way outside the scope of your business and your expertise, Angie.”

“I can’t argue the point, Wukowski. My website certainly doesn’t list ‘uncovering perpetrators in a criminal cabal’ as a service I offer. But what about Debby? The police can’t give her coverage twenty-four seven. And if there’s even a grain of truth to Mick’s claim that the police have betrayed him before, then who will you and Iggy trust within the department?”

His voice dropped a level. “Every criminal asserts his innocence, and ninety percent of them claim that the authorities meddled with evidence. That doesn’t make it so.” He sighed and I could picture him running his hands through his hair in exasperation. “Think about what we know, Angie. Swanson’s the victim of a double tap—a professional killing—and his own legal papers claim he’s in hiding for crimes that he was convicted of. I’m sure you asked Mulcahey to check things out after the murder. With his extralegal access, why didn’t he find data about Swanson’s contentions? This smacks of a large-scale conspiracy, especially given the Russian connections. I can’t stop you from getting further involved, Angie, but I’m asking you to back off, for your own sake, and let me do my job.”

I pondered his request for a minute, acknowledging the truth of many of his statements—although I still saw Mick as the victim and not the mastermind. I listened to his breathing while he awaited my response. “Okay,” I said, “I can understand your concerns. Let’s compromise. I want to help Debby navigate her role as executor, and to do that I need to talk to the lawyer. According to the office guy, Franken will be released from the hospital today if there’s someone to stay with her, but he isn’t sure about that working out. Apparently, she has no family or close friends.”

“And?” he challenged me.

“Aaand”—I let exasperation creep into my voice—“I’m going to ask Aunt Terry to meet me at the hospital, help me talk to Franken, and set her up with a temporary caregiver. After that, I’ll see. Debby needs help, Wukowski, and the police aren’t in a position to advise her.”

“Fair enough”—his own exasperation came across the line—“but I want to be present for your interview. Maybe Terry can help me get some facts straight too, without overly alarming Franken. No sense making the woman repeat everything.”

I agreed, thankful he was willing to work with me despite his natural desire to keep me out of danger. But I insisted that Aunt Terry lead the conversation. Her gentle manner and helpful contacts would go a long way toward easing Franken’s undoubted anxiety and getting her released.

Chapter 24

Only an aunt can give hugs like a mother, keep secrets like a sister and share love like a friend.

Unknown

Wukowski bridged Aunt Terry onto our call, and we agreed to meet in the hospital lobby in an hour. “There’ll be a patrol officer outside her door within ten minutes,” Wukowski assured us, “and I’ve contacted Saint Mary’s security to be sure they don’t give out Franken’s room number or even acknowledge that she’s a patient.”

I’d dressed for a meeting with an attorney this morning—business suit, subtle makeup, discreet earrings, hosiery, and heels. Far too cold for a hospital visit, I told myself.

Minutes later, a business-casual Angie faced me in the bathroom mirror: plum-colored blouse, gray travel blazer with pushed-up sleeves, black dress pants, and black kitten heels. Much more approachable.

I decided to take the scenic route to the hospital, along Lincoln Memorial Drive and the lakefront. In the winter, accessing Saint Mary’s this way could