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

the downloaded pictures from my phone. They were much easier to see on the larger display. “Here’s the first one. Just scroll through. There are two uniforms and two sets of footwear.”

He took his time, gazing intently at each photo, holding the tablet upright and then laying it flat on his desk to change visual perspective. There were six pictures, two of each uniform—front and back—and one each of the boots and dress shoes.

I forced myself to sit still while he studied them. There would be no fidgeting in the colonel’s office!

He swiped one time too many and the lovely deep red of the embroidered dress appeared on the screen. “These are all part of the same investigation?”

“Yes. I found the clothing, the jewelry and book in an attic, along with the uniforms. Scroll through the rest. Maybe there’s something there that you’ll be able to help with.”

He studied all the photos in the folder. Then he set the tablet down and held my gaze. “I need to hear the story,” he said.

I cautioned him about confidentiality before explaining about the murders and my subsequent work for the victims’ daughter. When I told him that the family emigrated from Bosnia in the late nineties, his already erect posture straightened just a fraction more, but his face remained impassive. “Colonel, the family was Serbian. Their attorney also claims Serbian roots. That’s why I wanted you to see the uniforms.”

He nodded, then leaned forward, eyes down, and rested his forearms on the desk, hands clasped. After an intake of breath, he spoke. “I can’t be absolutely sure about the uniforms because there’s no insignia on them, not even a belt for the dress uniform. The hangers obscure the inside necks, where size and issue tags would be sewn. A lot of the uniforms in that area are alike in design, especially the camos. They could be Serbian, though.”

Then he picked up the tablet and scrolled back to the photo of the red dress. “This is a Bosniak woman’s wedding dress. I’d bet my retirement on it. I was invited to a family wedding during my tour there and I’ll never forget the elaborate bridal gown, the little hat, the embroidered shoes.” He handed the tablet back to me. “Can I see these things in person?”

“I’ll need to contact my client, but I’m positive she’ll say yes.”

He said nothing.

“Uh, you mean now?” I asked.

“Yes. It’s important.”

It was obvious that he knew something, but would not share it until he was certain. I called Adriana’s cell and got voicemail. Crap! She was supposed to be lying low. I left a message that I was taking an expert to see the items in the attic and asked her to call me within the next fifteen minutes if she objected. Then I put my tablet and phone in my briefcase. “Before we leave, Colonel, I have to call my personal protection guy. I don’t want him to think I’m leaving here under duress. And I want to know if my client, who didn’t answer her phone, is okay. He can contact her guy.”

His right eyebrow rose slightly. “You have a bodyguard?”

“Yes.”

“Glad to hear it. We’ll take my vehicle. I’m rated for counter-terrorist driving. I’ll call my wife and tell her I’ll be later than planned.”

Counter-terrorist? I swallowed hard. “While you make your call, I’ll let Spider—my bodyguard—know.”

“Spider Mulcahey?”

I nodded.

A small smile, barely more than a twitch of the lips, lightened his sober features. “Tell that…tell him I’m waiting for an invite to his farm.”

Spider texted Bram and reassured me that Adriana was fine, so I breathed a bit easier. I explained our mission—I felt like a secret agent at this point—and he chuckled when I conveyed the colonel’s message. “Well, old whiskey tenor’ll have to sing for his supper.” A red blush crept up the colonel’s neck when I told him.

Rank has its privileges. Lewis’s Chevy Suburban was parked in a reserved space outside the building. I directed him to the Johnsons’ south side home, noting that his eyes were in constant motion as he drove. Right mirror, left mirror, windshield, rear view mirror. He made several unexpected turns and parked in a supermarket lot, engine idling, watching for anyone who mimicked our route. When we arrived at the residence, he motioned for me to stay in the SUV and walked once around the property.

I used the time to look up the alarm code on my tablet, feeling spooked and expecting an attack at any moment.

Lewis returned to the Suburban and motioned for me to join him. “Nothing odd on the property,” he said. Some of my tension must have communicated itself to the colonel—he gently placed his hand under my elbow to walk me up to the home’s front door. “I’ll go in first.”

Had anyone been in there since my initial visit? Were the attic’s contents still intact? I extracted the 9mm from my briefcase and held it in my left hand, pointing down. Feeling like an insubordinate lieutenant, I said, “No, sir. I need to disarm the alarm panel.”

His eyebrows rose. “I assume you’re rated for that.” His chin dipped at the gun.

I nodded and opened the door with Adriana’s keys, then dropped them into my briefcase and transferred the Beretta to my right hand. Inside, I stood for a moment—waiting, listening, smelling. It was musty, like before. I didn’t think anyone had been there to introduce fresh air into the house. I quickly handled the alarm system and allowed Lewis in.

We walked the entire first floor and basement. Nothing had changed since my initial visit, five days ago. It seemed like a lifetime, with all that happened since then. When we reached the master bedroom, Colonel Lewis stood in the door, then entered to examine the bedding and the furniture. He paid special attention to the corner where the religious objects were displayed, but said nothing.

We proceeded to the attic, where I stopped on the top step and bent to peer at eye