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

her arms around herself. I took some tissues from my purse and put them on her lap. She wiped her eyes and face, blew her nose loudly and resumed the self-hug.

“Better?” I asked.

She nodded. After a long silence, she said, “I always thought my parents didn’t love me. Now I think they just wanted to protect me, to shield me from the ugliness of their lives. And Josif, living with that secret all those years.” She looked up at me, her eyes blazing. “He was right. Petrovitch was an evil man.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Wukowski through the half window in the door. He knocked softly and eased it open. “The reporters are downstairs. We can arrange for you to exit another way.”

“Much appreciated,” Bart said as he rose. “Adriana, do you still plan to stay with the Mulcaheys?” She nodded. “Good. Let’s get Spider. You two can probably leave without incident. There’s nothing public to tie you to the case at present.” He looked at me. “You and I, on the other hand, are chum for the sharks.”

I grimaced and took Adriana’s hands. “You’ll be fine, Adriana. I know you’ll come out of this okay. I’ll call you tomorrow, but if you need to talk before then, call me. Any time.” We hugged and she and Spider left.

Bart and I walked over to Bram and Bobbie. “The Miata’s still on the street at UWM,” I said, “undoubtedly with a parking ticket affixed to the windshield. Bram, can you give us a ride there?” Bram left to move his truck to the secure lot.

Bobbie, Bart and I ambled to the elevators, reluctant to leave the police cocoon that, however disturbing, was safe. As we waited, Bart muttered, “Craziest thing I’ve ever been part of.”

“You’ve got that right,” I said. “Instructions, Counselor?”

“You and Bobbie need to lie low. Recuperate. Stay out of the public eye. I’ll make a statement when the time is right.”

“It’s okay for me to go back to my place?” Bobbie asked.

“Should be fine,” Bart said. “They’ll have to trespass to get to you at the back of the property. Screen your calls, though. There’ll be a boatload, until the press tires of leaving messages.”

We parted downstairs, Bart exiting the front of the building as a sacrificial offering to the gods of journalism. I blessed him for that.

In the lot where the cops parked, we climbed into Bram’s truck and ducked down behind the dash until we were several blocks away. “I’ll take Bobbie home first. It’s unlikely that the press is there yet. They’re probably lying in wait for you, Angie.” There was no activity at the manor that fronted Bobbie’s carriage house. We hugged good-bye and promised to be in touch the next day.

As anticipated, the Miata sported a parking ticket. I plucked it from under the wiper blade and waved it at Bram. He followed me back to my condo, where about a dozen reporters waited at the garage entrance. The rest must still be at headquarters, I thought. The hellhounds blocked access to the card reader and thrust their mics and recorders at me, shouting questions and blinding me with videocam lights.

Bram, close on my tail, got out of his truck and stalked toward them. “Back off,” he said. “Let the lady in. She’s not the only person who lives here. I wanna get home to my wife and supper.” He moved forward, body puffed up and threatening, and those closest to the reader stepped back. I slapped my card up, the garage door opened and I drove in. Bram followed me and waited until the big door closed behind him, assuring that no one snuck inside behind us.

He pulled up beside me. “I’ll head out now.”

“You told them you were coming home. You can’t leave right away. They’ll suspect something and try to find out who you are.”

“Nah, I’ll just shout at them to get out of my way, that I forgot to pick up milk on the way home.” He waved and headed back to the overhead door.

No one waited at the elevator. I gave thanks for small favors as I rode up. I was in no frame of mind to exchange small talk with neighbors. Inside my condo, I kicked off my shoes, hung up my coat and put my briefcase in the hall closet. Sagging in relief, I headed for the kitchen and a glass of wine. On the way into the living room, I passed the shelves that held books and family photos.

Home and family. Sometimes a source of joy, sometimes a wellspring of sorrow. I settled on the couch and looked out over the darkness, punctuated by the city lights. I sipped the wine and thought of Josif. My Catholic upbringing taught me the prayer for the “faithful departed.” What does one pray for a nonbeliever?

“Because I could not stop for death,” wrote Emily Dickinson, “he kindly stopped for me. The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality.” I liked to think that Josif was riding in Death’s carriage, heading for the eternity that Emily imagined in her poem. God, I prayed, grant him the forgiveness he asked for. Reunite him with his Dragana. I raised my glass. “Josif,” I said aloud, and took a sip.

Chapter 31

The only gift is a portion of thyself.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

I roused myself around seven, turned on lights in the living room and kitchen, and looked in the fridge. It was still full of food from the “Pipe Incident” offerings, but nothing appealed, so I heated a can of soup. How can something be too salty and too blah at the same time? I finished half a bowl anyway. The rest went down the disposal.

There were no messages on my landline or cell phone, no texts, no emails. Wukowski, where are you? I stewed, despite knowing that it was unreasonable to expect him to call me in the midst of what was undoubtedly turmoil at Homicide.

After brewing a