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

“I wasn’t in the office on Friday. Were there times when you were here alone?”

“Well, sure. I had one new client and a couple of audits, but I didn’t have someone here every minute of the day.”

“Is it possible that you went down the hall to the bathroom and left your purse in your desk and the door unlocked?”

She flushed slightly and her voice took on a defensive tone. “It’s possible. I can’t remember. And I’m not a hostile witness, Angie.”

Uh-oh, I thought. My investigator mode kicked in too soon, probably the result of my earlier scare. I needed to back off a little. “Sorry, Susan, don’t take this personally. I just need to understand what might have happened so that I know how to proceed. It’s one thing if someone used your momentary absence to filch the keys, it’s another if they were professional enough to pick the lock. I already checked the door and I didn’t see any evidence of tampering, but it isn’t always obvious. That’s all I’m trying to determine.”

“I see,” she said, unbending slightly. “Well, unless the key is on the floor of my car, someone took it. I can’t figure any other way that it would be missing. The ring is either in my hand, in my purse or in the car ignition. Let me go check the car.”

As the sound of her heels clacked down the hallway, I examined her filing cabinets and mine with a magnifying lens. There were no scratches on hers, but I found slight traces on the lock of the cabinet that contained my A-B-C-D files. I decided to leave it for the police. I felt I’d have to call them, since theft and illegal entry were involved.

Susan returned, glum. “No luck, there’s no key in the car and I’m positive I didn’t leave it anywhere else. I’m really sorry about this, Angie. You’re always drilling security into me. I should have known better.”

“Listen, kiddo,” I said as I put an arm around her shoulders, “it’s not the end of the world. As far as I can tell, the only other thing that’s disturbed is one of my filing cabinet locks. Why don’t you take a look through your things, then we’ll know what to tell the police.”

“Police,” she squeaked. “Mr. Fong will be here at ten o’clock. He’s so old-style conservative! He’ll drop me if he thinks I’m involved with the police. Please, Angie, can we wait to report the break-in until after he leaves?”

“Probably. I’ll need to talk to Bart Matthews first, anyway. I’m going to call a locksmith and get new locks installed this afternoon. Will you be here to let them in?”

“Sure. And I want to pay for it.”

“Don’t worry, Bart will bill the client. After all, it’s a direct result of the Morano-Belloni investigation.”

As Susan tidied her purse and prepared for Mr. Fong, I retreated to the conference room and called Bart’s office. His seventy-something secretary, assistant and all-around aide, Bertha Conti, answered the phone in her no-nonsense tone, “Law offices of Bartholomew Matthews.”

“Bertha, it’s Angie Bonaparte. How are you?”

“Fine. What can I do for you, Ms. Bonaparte?”

Great, I thought, Bertha’s in her usual poker-up-the-butt mood. Papa told me her story, how she’d been hired as the young widow of a Family soldier who’d been shot and killed in an inter-Family feud while they were still newlyweds. Bertha herself was German, but you’d never know she hadn’t been raised with the code of omerta—silence about anything related to the Family. She applied merciless control and order to Bart’s otherwise chaotic life.

“I hate to bother Bart, but there was a nasty surprise waiting for me when I got to work this morning. A threatening letter, regarding the Belloni case. I need to talk to him before I go to the police, get his take on it.”

“Hold on.” Her voice was low and raspy. You can’t work for Bart and not smoke. “I’ll get him on the line right away.”

In a few seconds, I heard clicking and Bart picked up the line.

“Angie, what the hell’s going on? You’re getting threats?”

“Typical letter, Bart. Cut-outs glued on stock paper.” I read it to him. “But here’s what’s bothering me about it—the letter isn’t emotional, it’s logical; there were no prints on the envelope or the paper; the perp used keys to get into my office over the weekend and leave it on my desk; he also tried to pick the lock on my filing cabinet.”

“Did he succeed?”

“Doesn’t matter. He went for the Bs, so, worst case, he got my notes on Gracie’s original case. I filed everything else under M, for Matthews-Belloni. After all, you’re the real client now. Bottom line, if he got into the A-B-C-D files, he didn’t find anything related to the murder investigation.”

“Well, your filing may be unorthodox, but I’m glad of it.”

“Bart, I should notify the police about this.”

I heard him light up and take a drag. I waited.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Angie. This is Family business. We need to do some damage control. Why don’t you bring it over here so I can look at it?”

“Once it leaves my office, Bart, I can’t call the police. They won’t take it seriously, you know that as well as I do.”

“Is there anything their lab can do that you didn’t already do?”

“Maybe check the envelope flap for saliva, run a DNA test on it. Hang on.” I retrieved the baggie from my desk, donned the gloves again, and lifted one corner of the envelope. “Damn, it’s one of those self-stick types that you don’t have to lick.”

“Not likely that they’d spend the time and money on it, anyway, Ange. How about the building security? Any cameras?”

“No, that’s one reason I rent here. Some of my clients don’t want to be taped by surveillance cameras. And I already checked with the security company. No unusual activity this weekend.”

“So how do you figure it happened?”

“Sometime Friday, my