Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set by Nanci Rathbun (reading books for 4 year olds txt) 📕

clients scheduled and didn’t plan to interview anyone, so I dressed simply in French blue wool slacks, a stone-colored turtleneck and a navy wool blazer with a small herringbone check in fuchsia. Black ankle boots were the final touch. I left a message for Bertha and headed out, briefcase in a garbage bag under my arm.

My office building was quiet. When Susan and I decided to start up our separate but conjoined enterprises, I deliberately selected a building with no security guard or cameras. There are people who don’t want the fact that they’re doing business with a private investigator on film or even noted in a guard’s log.

However, during the Belloni investigation, a threatening letter was delivered to my desk when the office was supposedly locked. That’s when Susan and I had intruder-resistant doors and an upgraded alarm system installed. If someone really wants to break in, it’s possible, but it’s a lot of trouble and the police don’t respond like they do to a 9-1-1 call. False intruder alarms are so common that they don’t get a high priority.

The office door was locked, so I assumed that Susan was either with a client or in the ladies’ room. We were careful to keep the door locked when neither one of us was there. No signs of someone trying to jimmy it, so I unlocked it and stepped inside, where I reset the alarm and relocked the door behind me.

I settled at my desk and plugged in my laptop. There were invoices to be sent for work completed—a runaway teen found in Rhinelander, where her boyfriend attended UW, and some background checks for a local landlord who’d been burned once too often by deadbeats or felons. Lastly, I updated my Quicken books.

I pay Susan to do my taxes. She would have my hide if the books didn’t balance when I forwarded them to her in early January. I got a reduced rate because I did the initial data entry myself. Folks who show up with a shoebox full of receipts were both the bane of her accountant’s heart and money in the bank—cha-ching for every hour spent on their disorderly little financial lives.

With the routine work out of the way, I took the bagged briefcase and my small fingerprint detection kit into the conference room. Donning latex gloves, I removed the briefcase from the garbage bag and set it on the table, atop the spread-out bag.

Since reading about the nasty germs that linger on the bottom of women’s purses, I developed the habit of wiping down my briefcase and purse once a week. Any prints on either should be mine or the assailant’s. Since I always carry the briefcase by its handles, I thought it doubtful that my prints would be on the sides, so I started there, dusting powder from the kit over the leather surfaces. As I suspected, no latent prints appeared. Next, I dusted the handles, which were rolled leather. I’d chosen the briefcase partially for the comfort of the handles. However, this style meant prints were unlikely. As I suspected, there were some blurry palm prints, but nothing more.

I checked the zipper tab, removed the contents and dusted the inside surfaces. Smudged prints were all that appeared. That wasn’t surprising, since one doesn’t need to put one’s fingers or palm against the inner surfaces when placing or removing items. The gun holster did show prints on the flap, where one would unsnap it, but they were mine.

The next job was to dust the contents. Fortunately, I’d only had my gun, my concealed carry permit, a steno pad and my tablet PC with me. I no longer hauled a lot of paper around, thanks to my nifty new toy, the tablet. I didn’t want to contaminate it with the dusty powder and I didn’t have chemical reagents in the office. I thought it was probably a moot point, anyway, since I believed Lily’s assessment. Furthermore, the assailant only had seconds to search before Lily appeared.

So much for technology.

After cleaning off the case and contents, I carefully turned the garbage bag inside out, to keep the fingerprint dust from settling everywhere. Then I tied it, exited the conference room and tossed it into the garbage can beside my desk. Placing the briefcase next to me, I extracted the steno pad and sat down to make a list of my next steps:

Find out if Susan or Bart uncovered anything about the Johnson finances

Call Colonel Lewis at Marquette University

Find out about Dragana’s funeral

Observe the Zupan residence

Talk to Aunt Terry about what I should bring to the Thanksgiving meal

It seemed like I was forgetting something, but darned if I knew what. I rubbed my temples. The back of my head ached, but I couldn’t rub there. The goose egg was too tender.

As I stared at the list, I heard Susan’s voice coming down the hallway. Was that Bobbie’s voice, too? The door opened and Susan stepped in, disarming the alarm.

“Angie’s here, Bobbie,” she spoke into the hallway.

He marched in. “I expected you to stay home today, Angie.” Hands on his hips, he glared at me.

“Time and tide wait for no woman.”

“Don’t give me your librarian quotes, girlfriend. What are you doing here?”

“There were things I needed to get done today, if I want to be paid by the end of the month. And I also dusted the briefcase and contents for prints.”

He sat in my side chair and leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “Anything?” he asked.

“Nope. I’m afraid Lily was right. The perp wore gloves.”

He sighed. “Too bad.” He saw the notes on my desk. “Making a list?”

“You know me too well.”

“There must be something there I can do. Please.”

“You’re already helping by watching over Adriana.” I straightened up abruptly and regretted it when a small wave of pain moved down my neck and up my skull. A breath later and it was gone. “Where is she?” I asked.

“Well, we had a little talk after we put you to bed last