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

She paused. “The only time Josif did more than greet me was right before Christmas, one year. He asked me what I wanted from Santa. I told him I didn’t believe in Santa and that my parents were too poor to buy me toys. He just patted my shoulder and went into the room. Honestly, he was a scary man. I didn’t want him to notice me.” She looked at Bart and her hand trembled. “Why would he mention me in his…last words?”

“There’s no sense speculating,” Bart told her. “We’ll know soon enough.”

In an effort to distract her a bit, I said, “I’ve been thinking about where you might stay. Bram thinks the threat to you is over, but…well, do you want to go back to your family home?”

“No.” It was an adamant refusal. “I need to get my personal belongings and clean out the place. I could never stay there overnight.”

“You’re welcome to use my guest room.”

“Thank you, Angie.” She took a deep breath and relaxed her shoulders. “Spider and Magda—his wife—invited me to stay with them for a few weeks. They have a guest suite and Magda insists it would be no trouble. I’ve been helping take care of their little boy, Joey. He’s a good boy, but very active. Magda is expecting twins and she needs to rest. So we can help each other, you know?”

The Mulcaheys would provide her with protection from the press, but, more important, she’d be with a loving family and learn from their interactions. It was a good solution.

Wukowski and Iggy entered, followed by three men whom Wukowski introduced as his Lieutenant, a U.S. Marshal and an FBI agent. Bart rose and moved to sit on Adriana’s other side. The official contingent took seats across from us.

Wukowski took out his digital recorder and quirked a brow at Bart, who nodded and set his own on the table. Both men pressed the start buttons. “Ms. Johnson,” Wukowski began, “this is not an interrogation and you are not suspected of any crime. We asked you here to view the contents of a letter found in the coat pocket of Mr. Josif Zupan after his death. You’re aware of the circumstances of his demise?”

Adriana nodded and took a ragged breath. Wukowski put on latex gloves and extracted an envelope from a glassine folder. He took a sheet of paper from the envelope, unfolded it, and placed it on the table, facing us. He spoke in a quiet voice. “Please don’t touch it. It’s evidence.” He held it open with a thumb and index finger on each side.

Adriana turned to me. “I don’t know if I want to read this.”

“I think you need to, Adriana.”

“Read it out loud for me. Please, Angie.” She closed her eyes and sat back.

Wukowski shifted the paper slightly, to rest before me. I leaned forward and began to speak Josif Zupan’s last words.

November 2 (transcribed by Dragana Zupan from a verbal statement by Josif Zupan)

Herman Petrović—

I looked up. “He uses the Serbian spelling.”

—forced me and many others to work for him in looting and robbery during the Bosnian War. I agreed because he threatened my wife, whose family was Muslim and who would be in danger from Serb fanatics if that became known. I sent him goods by way of contacts in Greece and money deposits made to various banks in Europe. In exchange, he secured U.S. visas for my wife and me, when it was too dangerous for us to stay in Serbia. He employed my wife as a legal secretary in the United States.

My wife was ignorant of this until she overheard an argument between Petrović and Jan and Ivona Jovanović, at the office. They wanted Petrović to provide financial support for their daughter, Adrijana, and threatened him with exposure for war crimes if he refused.

Adriana gasped. I gave her a moment before I continued.

When Dragana asked me, I told her the truth and begged her not to involve herself. I suspected that Petrović was responsible for the Jovanović deaths. I told Dragana that we would quietly sell all that we could and disappear.

The typewritten statement changed at that point, to cramped printing, each line of text angling downward on the page. “This part is handwritten,” I said. “I assume Zupan added this after Dragana’s death.

Dragana very angry. She tell Petrović no more work for him. Petrović kill my Dragana. I no want to live. I kill him—evil man. Then I be with her, if her God forgive me. I hurt many people. Jovanović, too. Adrijana know nothing of this. Dragana put work money into bank. This not bad money. This money for Adrijana. Is not much. I sorry.

Yesterday’s date and his signature were written in script at the bottom of the page, even smaller than the packed lines of writing, as if he wanted to be as invisible as possible.

I turned to Adriana. She sat motionless, hands in her lap, stiffly upright, with her eyes cast down. “Adriana,” I said, keeping my voice pitched low and even.

She didn’t move.

I carefully placed a hand on her upper back and gently rubbed. “Baby, it’s over now.”

She covered her face with her hands, folded herself almost double and broke into wrenching sobs. I rubbed her back and waited, knowing that my presence was all I could offer at that moment.

Bart spoke. “Gentlemen, my client is too distraught to continue. You can contact her via my office if there is a need for more discussion.” He paused. “But I certainly hope there is not. She’s been through enough.” He turned off his recorder and placed it in his briefcase, along with his papers.

They trooped out quietly, Wukowski at the end of the column. As he passed us, he said, “Angie, I’ll call you tonight.” I nodded and he left.

Bart stared at the wall while I continued to soothe Adriana. Her sobs subsided into tears and then hiccups. She sat up and wrapped