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

like a young woman’s waistline before flaring out again to meet the seat. From the glass wall of the living room, Lake Michigan mirrored my contentment, its dark aqua water barely disturbed by tiny whitecaps. I sipped my tea and sighed in pleasure, savoring these minutes of quiet renewal.

Later, after an excellent Middle Eastern meal, I phoned Wukowski.

“Angie,” he said, “am I in the doghouse over Swanson?”

His pleasantly low baritone rumbled smoothly up my spine. “No, caro. I decided—with a gentle push from my other guys—to woman up and gracefully accept the reality.”

“Other guys? How many other guys do you have on the string?”

With a laugh, I said, “Bobbie, Spider, Bram, sometimes Mad Man Malone and Tiny Tim. Oh, and Joey, but he’s too young to alarm you.”

“Humph. Okay, since we’re being so aboveboard, let me tell you about the other women in my life.”

“Go on.” I waited, grinning.

“Let’s see. There’s Mama, your Aunt Terry, Iggy’s wife Marianne. Oh, and Angela. But like Joey, she’s a nonstarter.”

“So we’re still exclusive,” I said, needing to hear him affirm it.

“Always, moja droga.”

“Seven more days until the MPD embargo is officially lifted,” I said, my voice suddenly husky.

“Yeah, I’ve got it circled on my calendar,” he assured me. “My counting skills aren’t as impressive as yours. And it was too damn depressing at first, keeping track of the time we were apart.”

“Wait,” I said, “it’s on your calendar? Your work calendar?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So the whole homicide bullpen knows?”

“Angie, they’re counting down too. I’ve, uh, apparently been hard to get along with for the past, what, nine hundred days or so. Somebody left an anonymous note on my blotter. ‘You can’t be an angry young man after the age of fifty. So stop acting like a grumpy old fart.’”

I choked back a laugh. “Oh, caro, we have so much time to make up for. Shall we plan for next Monday or just let events unfold?” I gave the phrase a sultry emphasis.

“Angie, I’m a little, uh, tied up here. But I vote for the latter. Monday night. Even if they find the mayor’s dead body on the steps of city hall.”

The call ended and I relaxed back in my chair, laughing out loud at the absurdity of middle-aged lovers.

Chapter 40

No amount of anxiety can change the future.

Gautama Buddha

I called Debby on Thursday morning to arrange to pick her up for our meeting with Bart.

She answered on the first ring. “Hello?”

The tone of that one word told me she was stressed. “It’s Angie, Debby. Are you okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine. It’s just… well, I’m feeling overwhelmed. I went into the office this morning after all. Roy took in a huge shipment for me while I was at the safe house. Replacement yarn for what got damaged by the broken window. And my quarterly IRS payment is due. To top it off, Mick got a letter from the city of Wales. He hasn’t paid his property taxes, so they’re after him, uh, I mean me.” She took in a ragged breath. “I want to run away and hide. Do you think Wukowski will let me rent the safe house for a month or so?”

I considered postponing the meeting with Bart, but his references to Mick made me reluctant to take that step. Debby needed help though, and I could offer that. “I’m pretty sure that only victims and potential informers can take up residence there, Debby. But I have an idea.”

“Ye-es?” Her voice quavered, stretching the word out to two syllables.

“I’ll pick you up for lunch, and we’ll make a list. There’s nothing like a good prioritized list to restore your sense of control. And I have an idea or two about Mick’s property. Then we’ll head over to Bart Matthews’ office.”

“That sounds great,” she said, “but, um, you know about Tim? Tiny Tim, he says they call him, but I find that offensive.”

“Sure, I’ve worked with him before. Is he there?”

“He told me that Spider insisted on providing a protection detail for me. Crazy, right? I mean, it’s like the Secret Service covering the president.”

“Spider’s very cautious about matters like that. If it’s the money, Rebecca Franken assures me that the estate has more than enough to cover the costs.”

“If I even see any of it. But that’s not the immediate problem. Tim will be with us at lunch. He told me that he’ll lurk in the background.”

I laughed, picturing the diminutive redhead with the Texas twang, trying to be inconspicuous. “No problem. I’ll buy his meal.”

“I doubt that he’ll let you, but you can offer. He’s always on duty, you see.”

“Good man,” I said.

***

I drove Debby to Tre Rivali, a highly rated restaurant near Bart’s office in the historic Third Ward. After checking the area outside, Tim came in through the kitchen, examined the restrooms, and took up a position in the entryway area, letting the host know that he would wait there in case his “boss” needed him during the course of a private lunch meeting. The courtly gentleman sniffed and muttered under his breath about “inconsiderate workaholics.”

Keeping to her commitment to cut back on calories, Debby ordered grilled asparagus and a Caprese salad. I chose the Mediterranean roasted half chicken with raisin-apricot couscous, and we both happily tucked in when the plates arrived.

As we chatted, I casually suggested ways that Debby could manage her workload. “I bet my daughter Emma would be glad to help you sort and display the recent yarn order. If it’s not too complex a task, that is. She’s been concerned about you.”

Her eyes lit up. “That’s a wonderful idea,” she said. “The bins are all clean and labeled, so it should be easy for her to manage. And I’ll offer her a free class or a supply of yarn for the help.”

“Perfect solution. Now taxes are something I don’t even do for myself, but I have a great accountant if you need one.” I thought of my former officemate, Susan.

“Wait, let me get something to write on so