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

My mind reeled at the transformation, but we were at Bart’s office to learn what he knew about Mick, so I forced myself into professional mode. “Bart, Debby and I are here because she needs legal representation as the heir and executor of Mick Swanson’s estate. The attorney who drafted Mick’s will is planning to retire and is unwilling to take on any new clients.”

Turning to her, he said, “I don’t handle estate planning or management, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, well”—she stilled her nervous hands and straightened—“the problem is that Mick’s other attorney was attacked by someone looking for evidence that Mick claimed would prove the supposed killer was the one who committed crimes years ago. But then Mick’s DNA was connected to a murder in Illinois and the man who was killed was against this Russian mob, Bratva, and the police are freezing Mick’s assets, which include the whole Arts Galleria and… oh, it’s just a mess. I don’t know what to do.” She ran out of breath and collapsed against the chair back.

Bart tapped his steepled hands against his chin, glancing from me to Debby and back again to me. “Angie, can you clarify?”

I went through the sequence of events that brought us to his office, ending with, “If you represent Debby and hire me to investigate on her behalf, I can claim attorney-client privilege, should the police or the district attorney want to question me.”

“And you feel this is necessary because…”

“Because I don’t know what else will come to light when Mick’s estate is probated. The evidence he claimed to have about older crimes may link to the death of the Illinois representative. Wukowski thinks that, having placed Mick at the scene of that crime, the matter is settled and the person who’s pursuing the evidence will simply fade away. I’m not so sure.”

Leaning forward, Bart clasped his hands on his desk and said, “Let me tell you a story. One that could come straight from the writings of Dashiell Hammett or Raymond Chandler.” He opened the leather-bound office diary, wet his fingertip, and paged back until he found the entry he wanted. “On July twentieth of this year, Michael L. Swanson visited my office to hire me to execute a most unusual request on his behalf.”

He closed the book and set it aside, moving a file folder from the edge of his desk in its place. Opening it, he said, “I kept a written record of our conversation, for reasons you’ll understand shortly. Mr. Swanson expressed concern that a violent man from his past, his cousin, was pursuing him and would kill him. Somehow this cousin would use Mr. Swanson’s death to forestall murder charges in another state. Mr. Swanson did not provide particulars.”

Debby gasped and turned to me. “That’s exactly what happened!”

“It would seem so, from what you’ve told me,” Bart continued, referring to the paper in front of him. “Mr. Swanson believed that, short of his going off-grid, his cousin would inevitably catch up with him. He refused to uproot himself ‘yet again’—his words—but he quite adamantly refused to take the blame—yet again, he repeated—for something he hadn’t done. He wanted the truth to be revealed.”

At that, Bart rose and walked to the outsized freestanding safe in one corner of his office. He twirled the combination wheel, depressed the large handle with a thunk, and swung open the door. When he turned back to us, he held a legal-sized envelope in his right hand. Approaching me, he extended the envelope. “For you, Angie. From Mr. Swanson. His charge to me is now fulfilled.”

“What… what is it, Bart?” I asked, unnerved at the thought of the secrets the envelope might contain. “And why did Mick come to you with this?”

Chapter 42

There are no secrets that time does not reveal.

Jean Racine

Bart gave me a long, considering look. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s probably the strangest request I’ve ever had. Mr. Swanson handed me the envelope with your name on it. He told me that he trusted you to be fair and not to rush to judgment. He asked that I keep it in my safe until two weeks after his death and then deliver it to you in person and explain all that we’d discussed.”

He resumed his chair and read from the notes of his meeting with Mick. “When I questioned why he selected me for this task, he said that he knew you and I had a previous legal relationship. Then he grinned—a malicious grin, almost a sneer—and said, ‘And I believe that your association with certain factions of society will be useful.’ I can only assume he meant”—with a sideways glance at Debby, Bart continued—“my representation of persons involved in alleged criminal activity.”

With a small exhalation, he closed the folder and said, “I decided to deliver the letter to you before two weeks had passed. It seemed prudent to make you aware of Mr. Swanson’s concerns and his implication that an organized crime faction might be involved in his death.” Gesturing at the envelope, he told me, “It’s in your hands now, Angie. Literally and figuratively. Do you wish to open the envelope here in case I may be of assistance?”

“You bet I do,” I exclaimed. “But first I want to know that you’re acting on behalf of Debby and that you’ve hired me to assist you in that regard.”

“Mmm… that may represent a conflict of interest for me. Perhaps you should read the contents before we reach that agreement.” Turning to Debby, he said, “Ms. Hill, do you agree?”

Her eyes wide with excitement but tinged with apprehension, Debby nodded.

Bart handed me his letter opener, and I slit the envelope, hesitating a moment before extracting a single sheet of paper from within. I read it silently before deciding that nothing it contained would conflict with Bart’s position as the local Mafia consigliere .

“Here,” I said, reaching across his desk to give him the letter. “I see