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

Bram’s text didn’t arrive until ten minutes later: I’ll scout the area first and meet you there.

Lastly, I updated Spider and assured him that we had it under control.

Having done all I could think of, I finished my glass of wine and made for my bedroom, settling into the pillow-top mattress to continue reading Tara Westover’s eye-opening memoir, Educated. Glancing up from her moving account of overcoming the restrictions her isolating Mormon survivalist upbringing placed on her, I eyed the blank wall across from me. The wall where Mick’s metal panels would hang. The panels that I commissioned to celebrate Wukowski’s return to my life.

The man could be so infuriating! But that didn’t stop me from loving him and longing for his big warm body next to mine in bed. I made a mental note to find out when the police would release Mick’s finished works to their owners.

Chapter 46

When things are investigated, then true knowledge is achieved.

Confucius

The next morning, I texted Wukowski. Going to Mick’s home 1:00. Will you notify Waukesha Co Sheriff that we’re legit?

His reply: Yes. Be careful.

I couldn’t resist a bit of snark. No need, right?

At the turnoff for Mick’s property, Bram waited. He walked up to the driver-side window and leaned down. “Angie, Debby,” he said. “I checked the grounds and buildings. All clear.”

I noticed a gun disturbing the lay of his untucked shirt, and a sense of reassurance settled over me. “Bobbie’s right behind us,” I told Bram. “Okay if I pull up to the house?”

With a wave, he stepped back and I motored slowly up the driveway. “What an amazing place,” I said, enjoying the stands of old trees and the two-story Victorian building.

Debby clapped her hands and her voice came out breathy. “Oh, turrets! I’ve always wanted a home with turrets. And gingerbread! Of course the colors aren’t right, but I don’t suppose Mick cared about that.”

We exited the car as Bobbie’s Jetta rolled up and parked. He and Bram stepped out.

“I’m planning to keep an eye on things out here,” Bram told us. “Don’t want any nasty surprises. Y’all call or text if you need me.”

Bobbie pulled his man-bag out from the trunk and, with one eyebrow slightly raised, casually lifted the flap. His pistol was nestled inside. As Debby blithely approached the front door, I moved my sweatshirt aside to reveal my 9mm Beretta 92FS in its hip holster.

Once inside, Bobbie and I did a quick reconnaissance before the three of us converged on the alarm panel in the mudroom, its display showing SYSTEM ARMED. “We should’ve triggered that when we entered,” I said. “I bet it’s a decoy, like the one at our office door. If not, the security company will be calling the sheriff’s office pretty soon. I asked Wukowski to let them know we have the legal right to be here.”

“Good thinking,” Bobbie said. Then he removed a magnifying glass from his bag. “No marks on it,” he told us as he examined the panel, “but… does the manufacturer usually engrave these? Give me some light, Angie.”

I activated my cell phone’s flashlight and aimed it at the panel.

“There’s something etched on the side. A crisscross of lines.” He handed me the magnifying glass and took my phone.

I angled my head to get a better look at the small image. “It’s… a starshina. Like Mick’s tattoo.”

“Ha!” Bobbie exclaimed. “Let’s pry this off the wall and see what’s back there.” He returned the phone to me and put on a pair of surgical gloves, then went to work with a small chisel and hammer. He’d barely tapped on the pane before its front cover swung down on hinges, revealing an LED device that provided the SYSTEM ARMED display.

Behind the cover, the drywall had been sawed open and a two-by-four fastened to the studs. A metal box perched on the ledge formed there, with an envelope taped to it and the words ANGELINA BONAPARTE block-printed on the outside. Using my cell phone, I snapped a picture of the box in situ.

Bobbie retrieved it from its hiding place and we trooped into the kitchen. When he placed it on the table, we could see an engraving on the lid—another starshina. Again, I documented it with my phone camera, getting the best image of the starshina that I could.

“Mick wanted me to do this,” I told Bobbie and Debby. “Gloves?” I asked him. “In case it’s empty, we can test for fingerprints. If they’re not Mick’s, we can probably assume they belong to Artur and he beat us to the punch.” Please, let it be there… whatever it is.

The lid squeaked as I lifted it. Inside the metal container lay two small glass vials, cushioned in cotton wool and sealed with wax. ARTUR-HAIR 2008 read the label on the first vial and ARTUR-BLOOD 2008 on the second. I took a snapshot of the entire interior, then focused in on each vial and its label. My efforts wouldn’t establish a legal chain of custody, but I’d done the best I could.

“Damn,” whispered Bobbie. “Mick didn’t lie. He had the goods on his cousin. But what do the samples prove?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. Turning to Debby, I said, “Yesterday, I put out a feeler to a big name in the world of DNA analysis, asking if there’s any way the Illinois evidence could be from someone else. If her response comes back negative, we should drop this. Agreed?”

Debby’s shoulders drooped, and she said, “I need to think,” before leaving the room.

Bobbie turned to me, one eyebrow quirked. “Maybe they were more than colleagues?”

“I doubt it,” I told him. “My guess is that old feelings of helplessness are surfacing in her. I can’t say much more without violating her confidence.”

“Gotcha.” Bobbie looked around the kitchen. “I’m parched.” He opened the fridge door. “Oh man, Mexican Coca-Cola with real cane sugar,” he moaned. “I like Mick’s style.”

I thought of the outwardly tough and taciturn man who supported Chechen orphans. “Me too.” With