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

reprimanded for bad table manners. Iggy opened his mouth to intervene, but I spoke first. “I’m well aware of the meaning of murder, Wukowski. I’m not an idiot. I take sensible precautions.”

“Sensible precautions,” he repeated. “Like what?”

“Are you honestly asking me if I know how to conduct my business?” I stared at him, anger boiling up at his tone and his words. I’ve faced prejudice against woman investigators before, usually in the form of ‘what’s a nice little thing like you doing in such a bad business?’ Wukowski was more blunt and confrontational than most. I wasn’t about to swallow it.

“I’m trying to tell you that whoever offed Elisa was a very angry person. I want you to understand that they won’t take kindly to any investigator, male or female, police or private, trying to unmask them.” He stopped for a moment, took a sip of coffee and swallowed. “I’ve asked around and you’re not exactly known for criminal work. So I’m just trying to find out if you can handle yourself.” He stared straight at me, the green of his eyes almost obliterated by the dark black circles of his pupils.

The intensity of his words and his look slammed into me and pushed me into the back of the booth seat. I paused. To his credit, he didn’t base his observations about the killer’s intentions on females or private investigators. I also had to concede that his observations about me were accurate. Most of my work involves divorce or corporate background checks, with an occasional missing person case thrown in. Those kinds of cases have the potential for violence, but they don’t start out that way. I cooled down.

“You’re right, Wukowski, I don’t do a lot of criminal work. I only took this case because Gracie Belloni begged me to, and Bart Matthews has thrown a lot of other work my way.” I took a sip of cola and continued. “I guess nobody knows how they’ll react to an attack until it happens. All I can say is that I’m licensed and I can handle a gun. I know enough self-defense to get me out of a jam, but I’m not stupid enough to think I can take a man in a real fight. I have a lot of common sense. I keep good records and I let someone know where I’m going and when I can be expected back.” He didn’t need to know that I’d only started to check in with Bertha this morning. I paused, unwilling to play the final card, but needing to acknowledge the truth. “Anybody who knows my old man knows it would be unhealthy to hurt me.” It was my turn to stare at him and I did. He blinked first.

“All that’s on one side,” he said softly. “On the other is someone who would kill a young woman in her own home and repeatedly, viciously stab her, even after death.”

I nodded, wishing that Bart hadn’t instructed me to keep quiet about the letter. “You’re right. I’ll be extra careful.”

“Food’s up,” Paul called. We all breathed a sigh of relief. Wukowski and I were seated on the outside of the booth, so we rose and brought the plates to the table. Before I sat, I took off my silk jacket and hung it on the hook at one end of the booth. Chili dogs are too darned messy to eat while wearing anything that has to be dry-cleaned. I then grabbed a handful of paper napkins and tucked them into my sleeveless camisole and across my lap. It didn’t escape me that, with the jacket off, Wukowski was surreptitiously eyeing the small amount of cleavage that the cami displayed. Good, I thought, let his hormones rage. I attacked my food with gusto.

We didn’t even try to maintain a conversation, we just ate like three people who haven’t had a meal in a while. By the time we finished, there was a small mountain of chili-smeared napkins on the table next to me, but not a spot on my clothing. I balled up the napkins, stacked our empty plates and carried them to the counter. Then I reseated myself, propped my elbows on the table, leaned forward and asked, “Okay, what is it you want to know? And what can you give me in exchange?”

“We’re not here to trade information with you, Ms. Bonaparte.” Wukowski stressed every syllable of my surname. “If you have information that can lead to the successful apprehension of the perpetrator, it’s your duty as a citizen to tell us. It’s also your legal responsibility as a licensed investigator.”

Iggy rolled his eyes. “Wukowski, I swear you’re the biggest A-hole I ever had for a partner.” I suspected he was too polite to say the entire word in the presence of a woman. “If Angie’s willing to work with us, what’s the harm?”

They glared at each other for a moment, then Wukowski said, “It’s police business, Iggy. And it’s murder. She sticks her pretty little nose into this, it might just end up getting chopped off. Or worse.”

My brain flashed the picture of Wukowski saluting at Liz White’s funeral. I felt a tiny twinge of compassion, but not enough to stop me from doing my job. “Hey, you two,” I interjected, “I’m sitting right here. How about you stop talking about me like I’m in another room and we start talking to each other?”

Wukowski gave the smallest of nods, and Iggy spoke. “Whatcha got?”

“Not enough to hang a dog,” I responded. “But more than enough to cast doubt on Tony being the killer. Elisa Morano left a trail of pain everywhere she went. She was a user, plain and simple. One of those beautiful women who thinks she’s entitled, and doesn’t care how she gets what she wants, as long as she gets it.”

They waited. Then Wukowski spoke, quietly, incredulously. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? Some pop psychology that wouldn’t convince my granny?”

“No, Wukowski, that’s not all I’ve got.