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

level across the wooden floor. There was a slight layer of undisturbed dust. It appeared that no one had been there after me. Behind me, Lewis made a slight hum. I took it as a sign of approval for my caution. “The uniforms are in the wheeled clothes rack,” I told him.

He removed each one, turned the sleeves and pants legs inside out, and examined the collars and cuffs. Then he unlaced the boots and found the river rock inside one. Setting it aside, he carefully probed each boot with a keychain flashlight and his hands, repeating the process for the dress shoes. After he placed everything back into the protective cover of the rack, he turned to me. “Someone did an excellent job of removing tags, buttons, markings—anything that would provide a conclusive identification.” Placing his hands on his hips, he said, “What’s with the rock?”

“It’s a safe, of sorts,” I told him. “I found the trunk key inside.” I twisted the outer part of the rock open and showed him the little keypad.

“You know the code?”

“Same as the door code.”

“Clever of you.”

At his praise, I felt like a prize cadet. “However,” I said, “I kept the key, on the off chance that the house might be searched.” After slipping the rock back into the boot’s toe, I located the key on my key ring and opened the trunk. Taking out two pairs of the cotton gloves that were inside the trunk, I handed one set to him. When we were both ready, I started from the top shelf and showed him the contents—gold jewelry, books, women’s garments.

The whisper of silk broke our almost breathless silence when he removed the deep red dress from the bottom box and held it up. “Yes,” he said, “I’ve seen this type of clothes before. And the jewelry.” He carefully refolded the dress and replaced it in the trunk, then turned to me. There was a moment of silence, in which I feared he would not share what he knew.

“Ms. Bonaparte, do you know what a Bosniak is?”

“A citizen of Bosnia?”

“A Muslim citizen.” He gestured toward the trunk. “Why does a Serbian Christian have personal items from a Bosnian Muslim?” He waited, expecting me to answer.

“Although I didn’t know exactly what they were, I’ve been speculating all along that these things were stolen.”

“Stolen!” He barked it at me. “More like plundered.” He paced a few steps away, then turned back. “Armed conflict is not pretty. I’ve seen terrible things in my lifetime, Ms. Bonaparte. But I’ve never seen anything like the atrocities that were visited on the Bosnians by the Serbs. Muslim women captured and put in holding cells, raped over and over, for days and weeks and months. When they fell pregnant, the Serbs kept them until the pregnancy was too advanced to be terminated, then sent them back in disgrace to their families and villages. And Sarajevo! That was a killing field. The longest siege of a country’s capital in modern warfare. Systemized slaughter. There is no limit to the depths humans will sink.” He ran his hands through his short hair. “I’m sorry. I get angry all over again, every time I remember.”

“There’s no need to apologize. I’ve never been where you have, Colonel, or seen the things you’ve seen. But just hearing what you’ve told me about it makes me feel sick.” I promised myself that, tonight, I would read the pamphlet from the UWM library. “Do you think the items in the trunk were looted by whoever wore those uniforms?”

“Yes, I do. Of course, there’s nothing conclusive here. But that’s what I think.” He pressed his lips together, then spoke. “I need pictures of your client’s parents, the attorney and the woman who worked for the attorney. Also the husband. I want to run a search of the Bosnian War Criminals database. There are facial recognition programs that use biometrics to match persons to known terrorist or war criminal groups.”

War criminals. That caused a lurch in my gut, as I pictured the courtroom scenes from Judgment at Nuremburg. If her parents were indeed war criminals, how would Adriana, sweet and gentle as she was, get over it? Still, the truth had to come out. The sick game of execution and threat had to end. Even if innocents were hurt.

“There are Johnson family pictures downstairs. As for Petrovitch, I may be able to find something from the Journal-Sentinel or the Wisconsin Law Review. There might even be one from his law school days at Marquette.” I flipped through my tablet notes. “He graduated in ’94. As a last resort, I’ll ask the police if there’s a picture from his home we can copy. Getting one of the Zupans will be more problematic. Josif Zupan is not cooperative. But maybe we can take a clandestine shot at his wife’s funeral this Saturday. I feel bad about using such circumstances—”

“Don’t.” His voice was clipped, the mellow tenor harsh. “We have to know. Use any means necessary to get me the pictures.” He stopped. “Of course, I mean any legal means, Ms. Bonaparte.”

“Of course.” I knew he was willing to go outside the law for the pictures. At this point, so was I. The less said about this to Wukowski, the better.

I secured the trunk and we made our way downstairs, where I took a framed family photo down from the wall, snapped a picture of it with my phone, and gave the original to the colonel. Then I alarmed the house and holstered my gun.

Spider Mulcahey waited on the Johnsons’ small front stoop. “Colonel Lewis,” he said, as he turned from surveying the yard.

“Mulcahey,” Lewis responded, “I thought we got past rank the night I passed out on your couch.”

“Guess so, sir,” Spider said. “That was a real fine lullaby you sang Joey to sleep with before the drinking got too far along.”

Whiskey tenor indeed, I thought.

Lewis checked his watch and grimaced. “I’m later than I thought. Deb will chew my…tail.”