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

clients and we’ve worked together for at least ten years. Why this sudden lack of confidence?”

“That does seem odd, Susan. Maybe it’s time for me to get back together with Bobbie and find out if there’s anything shaking in the Dunwoodie office.”

“Bobbie, the gorgeous gay guy?”

“The very one.”

“Why are all the really great-looking guys gay and all the really nice guys married?” she asked. It was the single woman’s lament, and it led into a deep discussion of her father’s latest attempt to set her up with a nice Japanese fellow, and my Kevin fiasco. I even told her about my run-ins with Wukowksi and the attraction I’d felt at the gym. Hormones are scary.

It was one-thirty when we got back to the office. I checked my email and voice mail. One message—from Wukowski. I put it on speaker so Susan could hear.

“Ms. Bonaparte,” he rumbled, “Elisa Morano’s body has been released to the funeral home. Mrs. Morano informs me that she’ll be cremated. The memorial service is set for tomorrow.” We heard a hesitation, then, “I’d like to talk with you about attending, maybe get your take on some of the…people involved.” I knew he wanted to say ‘suspects.’ “Give me a call this afternoon. Please.” The ‘please’ hadn’t come easy.

Susan raised one delicate eyebrow. “Are you going to call him?”

“Guess I’ll have to. He is the police, after all.”

“‘Me thinks the lady dost protest too much,’” she quoted with a smile.

“Stuff Shakespeare,” I said, as I headed for our small conference/interview room and closed the door behind me.

Chapter 19

Each man’s private conscience ought to be a nice little self-registering thermometer: he ought to carry his moral code incorruptibly and explicitly within himself, and not care what the world thinks.

—Katherine Fullerton Gerould

“Detective Wukowski.” He answered on the second ring, in his brusque baritone.

“Angelina Bonaparte, returning your call.”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks for getting back to me.”

Holy crap, was Wukowski being polite to me? Or was he maneuvering for a favor? I was betting on the latter. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

“I thought you’d want to know that there were no prints on the envelope or letter that we picked up at your apartment last night.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” I answered.

“Me, either. You have to live in the Amazon basin to not know about wearing gloves.” We chuckled a little, slightly uncomfortable, as usual.

“Hope I didn’t disturb your friend, Mr. Schroeder.” This time, he gave it the long-A pronunciation. Making nice, my Polish friends would call it. “We checked out his story and didn’t find any holes.”

“Again, it doesn’t surprise me. He’s not involved with my professional life.”

“And your personal life?”

“Why do you ask, Detective?” I made my voice silky. I wanted him to squirm.

“No reason.” He cleared his throat. “The contents of both letters were identical, so it’s not likely to be a personal vendetta. I mean, I don’t think Schroeder’s a likely suspect. I mean…”

“I get it, Wukowski. You no longer think it’s a ‘love thing.’” His silence was deafening. Had I gone too far?

Suddenly, sound exploded from the phone. Laughter—from Wukowski! “I deserved that. Sorry, Angie.”

Hmm. First he was polite to me, then he laughed when I busted him, now he was apologizing and calling me by my first name. Was this really Wukowski, or an imposter? Or were they spiking the water at police headquarters with happy juice? I decided to push it a little further. “What’s your first name?”

“Ted,” he mumbled.

“Your badge says ‘W.T. Wukowski.’”

“Yeah. Well, I go by my middle name.”

“Oh.” His first name must be pretty awful. Walter? Wilson? Wotan? I made a mental note to do some research.

The silence hung there for a minute, then he continued. “Any chance we can meet for a coffee or maybe a drink after work? Iggy and I have some ideas to run by you.”

“Sure. Okay. Six o’clock?” I named a little corner bar not far from my condo. Milwaukee has more bars and more churches per capita than almost any other city in North America. I’m not sure if there’s a relationship in that. Does too much prayer cause you to drink? Or vice versa?

I told Susan what had happened, and she immediately started to wag her finger at me. “Be careful, Angie. This isn’t some boy. He won’t be easy to manipulate.”

“Are any of them?”

Simultaneously, we sighed.

***

I put in a little time on the Marcy Wagner case that afternoon. There had to be a way to locate Hank Wagner through his love of all things Trekkie. A web search for “Star Trek” produced almost seventy million hits. Refining the search to “Star Trek rare collectibles” produced a manageable listing, from which I selected one item—the Mego Star Trek Phaser Battle Game. It was listed on many web pages, but no one seemed to have it for sale. One of the references cited it as being worth a cool thousand dollars—for a table-top electronic game!

Serious fanatics don’t change their habits just because they change their name and residence. It was possible that I could draw Hank out of hiding with bait like this. But I needed a strategy that would force him to make human contact, not just bid on a web site. I scanned the Yellow Pages for auctions and called the first one in the book—AAAA Auctioneers.

“Quad-A. This is Larry.” His voice was brusque and he sounded busy. But a multiple A business name usually indicates someone who’s hungry and wants to be the first listing in the Pages.

What the heck, I thought, I’ll try the truth. The worst he can do is tell me to get lost. If he does that I’ll just go to the next auctioneer in line. “My name is Angelina Bonaparte. I’m a private investigator. I have a client who’s trying to track down her missing husband and recover her portion of their joint assets. I’m hoping you can help me with some pointers on the auction business.” I waited.

A few seconds passed, then he spoke. “I