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

release the second time, when they shipped him off to Chechnya in what was termed a composite regiment. Basically, untrained men who’d never served together.”

“That fits,” I told the team. “He left a bequest in his will to continue supporting an orphanage in Chechnya after his death. He must have served there. The Russians made a lot of children orphans, from what I’ve read.”

Spider shuffled papers and faced me. “Here’s what makes no sense. His two convictions were ironclad—DNA blood evidence. I mean, there’d be a family connection, but even identical twins don’t have identical DNA as adults. Has something to do with how environment changes the genetic structure. Requires extra testing to figure out which twin committed a crime, but cousins are nowhere near that close. First cousins, on average, only share twelve percent of their DNA. The blood at those two crime scenes couldn’t be Artur’s. So why did Mick assert that it would exonerate him?”

I had no response.

“Okay,” Spider continued, “next we see him, he’s surfaced in 2009, in Erzurum in northeast Turkey, where there’s a write-up in an art catalog about the blacksmith—slash—metal artist.”

Puzzled, I asked, “Any idea of how he made his way there?”

“None I could find,” Spider told me.

Bram commented. “Smithing would be a prosperous profession, especially in a rural area. Was he following in his father’s footsteps?”

”No again,” said Spider. “His father was a peasant farmer.”

“So how’d he get to the States?” Bobbie asked.

Spider looked over the papers. “Took a little work to figure that out. He tried to cover his tracks, but his minor success in the art world made it easy to follow his movements. From Turkey, he lived in Boulogne-sur-Mer in northern France for a couple years. Thriving art community there. Then he applied for a US visa in 2013. No black marks against him, other than lack of background on his early life. That wasn’t too odd, given he claimed to be a gypsy. They often avoid registering births. So he got a visa and came here via Florida. Not your usual point of entry from France.”

With a quiet knock, Magda eased the door open and peeked in. “Refreshments are outside the door. The twins are sleeping down the hall.”

Spider went to her and gave her cheek a smooch, as Aunt Terry calls a sweet kiss. “Thanks, querida. We won’t wake the sleeping dragons, I promise.” He lifted a tray from the floor and placed it on a worktable in the office. “Goodies,” he whispered as he closed the door. Then in a normal voice, he added, “Help yourselves.”

Spotting the cookies on the table, Bram murmured, “Homemade,” in a reverent tone and placed three on a small plate. The rest of us followed suit, and we munched and drank coffee in contentment for several minutes.

“You guys keep on,” Spider told us when his plate was clean. “There’s not much more to Mick’s story, sorry to say. He bounced around the US for several years, supposedly supporting himself from a family inheritance. No links to the Chicago area. In ‘15, he settled in Milwaukee and bought the arts gallery. Opened his shop that year. From bank accounts that I’ve been able to access, the business has been self-sustaining since the first year. His personal life is a cipher. No known friends. No family.”

“The inheritance?” I asked. “Is there any evidence of wrongdoing to account for the money?”

“Nope,” Spider said. “But his earnings in Turkey and France weren’t that substantial.”

Looking around the room, I asked, “What about Artur Hunter? Did you find anything on him, Spider?”

He quirked one twitchy eyebrow. “Guess the name of the wealthy side of the family.”

“Hunter,” I blurted out as sudden realization overtook me.

“Got it in one,” Spider said. “Mick’s cousin—Arthur Hunter, in English— was the only son of Mick’s wealthy uncle and his wife.”

My mind rushed to connect the dots. “And what happened to Artur?”

“Again, it gets fuzzy,” Spider said. “My contact confirmed that he served in the Second Chechen War. Held the rank of what we’d call a captain. There’s no record of him after Russia withdrew. Nothing to place him back in the homeland at least.”

I looked from Spider to Bram and Bobbie. “Mick didn’t make up the story about Artur,” I stated emphatically.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Bram agreed, “but what we know still doesn’t prove that Artur is the killer.”

I turned to Spider. “I don’t suppose your source provided any actual confirming documents I could take to Wukowski.”

“Nah, that’s not how these things work,” Spider told me.

“I was afraid of that,” I said. “Still, with your permission, I want to share what you learned.”

“Fine by me,” Spider said, “as long as I never need to testify about it. Could put a decent man’s life in jeopardy.”

“I understand.” Knowing Bobbie’s uncanny ability to view things from another angle, I turned to him and asked, “What’s your take on all this?”

He hesitated before saying,“Nothing new is turning up, Ange. I know you want to see Mick avenged, his killer brought to justice, but I have to agree with Wukowski. Even if the story about Artur and Mick is true, Mick’s not necessarily innocent. Maybe it’s time for us bow out of this one.”

Spider’s eyebrows twitched furiously. “You, Debbie and Franken are still in the killer’s sights, Angie, far as we know. Before we wash our hands of this case, I want to dig online into the Chicago branch of Bratva. And I’ll give Mad Man a call later. Find out who’s running the show there and what they’ve been up to.”

Mad Man Malone did not fit his nickname. He was so very average—in height and weight and in his nondescript features and bland expression. But he wore his pants loose to accommodate very muscular thighs, and his knit shirts did nothing to conceal impressive biceps.

“Agreed,” said Bram. “I’ll set up a detail once Debby’s ready to leave the police safe house.” He looked at me. “I think you need personal protection too.”

“I can’t imagine why,”