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

mile to the post office. Don’t be careless about those little expenses. They add up.”

I printed the invoice, read it and the report, and put both into an envelope. Then I weighed the envelope and affixed postage.

“I’m just trying to make you see the necessity of careful record-keeping. Same goes for car mileage. Keep a steno pad in your glove box. Don’t use it for anything else. Write down the odometer reading before you start the ignition and when you switch it off. Then enter every detail of the ride: client; date, time, purpose and address at start; date, time and address at end. No shortcuts. The IRS likes to audit those who deduct mileage and they’ll eat us up and spit us out if the records are bad.”

“Okay. I’ll get right on that, as soon as I can drive myself again.”

I set the envelope on top of my briefcase and turned back to Bobbie. “Not too thrilling, right?”

“Well, I guess if you do it a lot, it would seem routine. But isn’t it interesting to find out about people? I mean, the tutoring center’s applicant—it’s fascinating that she spent time as a church missionary in Cambodia. Especially since her DMV photo is for a pretty blonde woman. I bet she stuck out there like a sore thumb. Not just the hair, either. Cambodia’s population is short and she’s five-ten.”

That impressed me. He retained information, he was interested in the person under investigation and he made inferences about her. “You’re going to do well, Bobbie.”

His cheeky smile reappeared. “I will. Thanks for giving me the chance.”

Bobbie left, brimming with enthusiasm. Even though he was a friend, I would have to terminate the agreement if he didn’t work out, so I was happy that he was a good fit.

Spider swung by the post office and I shot the envelope into the curbside box. Then we headed for condo, sweet condo. At the door of my place, he gave me a business card. “The Feeb’s cell phone number, for tonight.”

The name on the card was Andrew du Pont. “If I call him Feeb, I’m blaming it on you, Spider.”

“Take the heat for me, Angie. He won’t kill you.” He kissed my cheek—a first—and headed down the hallway to the stairs. It was more than twenty floors to the garage.

Good grief! I really had to get to the building’s gym.

Inside the condo, I hung up my outerwear, slipped off my pumps and put the tea kettle on. I settled in the living room with a cuppa and the Sarajevo pamphlet—seventy pages of images and text, from a journalist who was in the city during the shelling and saw the terror and loss of human dignity. I read it and set it down, shocked by the photos of the children, in particular. Many were missing limbs. Their faces were blank, unfocused, emotionless. I sipped my tea and sat quietly, returning to the account several times. I didn’t want to, but I had to. Because of the change to daylight savings time, the sun set about four-thirty. I sat in the gloom for a while.

Wukowski’s call startled me out of my reverie. “Angie, I’m leaving the office early. Okay if I come over now?”

“Yes. Please. Come now.”

“You okay?”

“I’m not hurt or in danger, but, no, I’m not okay. I’ll explain when you get here.”

“I’m on my way.”

I called Du Pont and let him know to expect Wukowski and his red Jeep Wrangler. Then I changed into a tank top and sweatpants, washed the makeup off my face (except for lipstick and mascara), turned on lights in the living room and waited.

Wukowski rapped at the door around five-thirty and let himself in. After hanging up his coat, he came to the couch, scooped me up in his arms and sat down with me on his lap.

I snuggled my face into the crook of his neck and wrapped myself around him.

“Tell me,” he said.

I couldn’t. The words were stuck somewhere deep in my chest. I pointed to the pamphlet, still on the coffee table, and he picked it up and began to read. Neither of us spoke. I had no idea how much time passed, but eventually, he set it down. He kissed my cheek and ran his hand up and down my back. “Pretty awful,” he whispered.

“I met a survivor today,” I whispered back, my voice low and mournful. Then the dam of words broke and I told him about Rua, about her husband and little boy, about the pain. He listened without saying anything, but continued moving his hand along my back and keeping me close. I was glad for the solace of his body, glad that he didn’t try to redirect me, glad that he just let me tell the story. I didn’t cry. It was too deep a hurt for tears.

Once it was out, I felt a renewed strength. Edmund Burke said that the only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for good men—and women—to do nothing. I would not allow this evil to triumph. I sat up and caressed Wukowski’s cheek. “Thanks for being here, caro. You know what I need now?”

He shook his head.

“A workout. I’ve been a lazy pig too long.”

He changed into sweats and asked me for a gym bag, into which he tucked his cell phone and police-issue revolver. That would normally unnerve me, but today, it was reassuring. I placed a quick call to update Du Pont on our whereabouts and we headed for the basement gym.

An hour later, after punishing myself on the treadmill, elliptical and various resistance machines, I was ready to call it quits. I cleaned the equipment with an antibacterial wipe. Wukowski did the same. Then we headed upstairs, using the elevator. I didn’t think even Spider would climb up that many flights.

We enjoyed the multiple heads in my steam shower. I needed to know that I was still able to savor life. Wukowski certainly didn’t mind that I used him to