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

I sedately pulled away. “Go ahead and take it out, Bobbie,” I said over my shoulder, “but use gloves. We don’t want prints on the battery, in case we have to ditch it.”

“Will do.”

His terse responses fed my own tension, and I was keyed up already! Breaking and entering was well outside the scope of my usual work. I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, then did it again. All these years later, Lamaze breathing still calmed me.

From a side street, we surveilled the apartment building. It was now after two a.m. and only a single light shone, from a third floor flat. I pulled into one of three empty visitor spots and cut the engine. Looking back, I asked, “Ready?”

Bobbie’s high baritone was steady. “Ready.” He slipped the neodymium disk into the pocket of his black parka, set the steel box inside the shopping bag and placed it on the rear floor. With a nod, he lifted his parka hood over his head and opened the door. No interior lights shone. We disabled them before leaving Milwaukee.

I pulled a too-large knit hat over my distinctive white, spiky hair, opened my own door and stepped out. Bobbie rounded the car and, arm in arm, like a couple returning home from a late night party, we ambled to the building and slipped into the darkness at the back.

A single bulb illuminated the steel door leading to the dumpster behind the building. The units on this side lay asleep in shadow. I nudged Bobbie’s arm and he followed me to the unlit corner, where the apartment building grounds abutted the nursing home.

Padua Manor’s parking area held a beat-up Chevy Silverado. I pointed and whispered, “One person on duty.” Bobbie acknowledged with a nod.

The Manor’s windows were black, save for one. The bluish-white flickering of a fluorescent tube escaped from between the slats of its partially closed blinds, casting alternating stripes on the patio. I spotted movement inside.

I sat back on my heels, glad that the slats angled slightly downward, allowing me to see into the room. A man wearing scrubs filled a coffee cup and walked over to a brown vinyl sofa. I tugged on Bobbie’s arm and he joined me near the ground.

“We’ll have to wait until he leaves the room.” I spoke in low tones.

Bobbie’s only response was “Crap” as he settled on the cold concrete.

The next ninety minutes were an eternity in the bitter January cold. The aide refilled his cup, he took a sandwich from the small fridge and ate it, he plugged coins into a vending machine and devoured a Snickers bar, he flung a magazine to the floor and settled on the couch again, covering his upper body with a coat. He tossed, he turned, he adjusted himself, but he never left the blasted room!

My mind wandered to Wukowski. How did he stand up under frigid surveillance conditions? Or did he have someone less senior take care of the routine work? I doubted it. He valued control far too much.

That led me to consider how Wukowski would view this venture. Of course, what we were about to do was illegal—if we ever got inside, that is. But was it wrong? By my standards, we were searching for the truth in a situation filled with lies. I saw no conflict with my own ethical code, as long as we did nothing to harm an innocent person.

Bobbie tapped my hand and motioned for me to follow him. Staying in the shadows, we slipped to the other side of the apartment building. I started when Bobbie wrapped me in an embrace, but he leaned down and whispered, “We’re lovers, remember?”

“We’re going to be frozen popsicles if that guy doesn’t move. When in blazes does he check the residents?”

“My guess,” Bobbie said, “is right before the morning shift is due. We can’t wait that long, Angie. Our only hope of getting inside is if he leaves the room. We need Augusta.”

The finality of his tone penetrated my cold-induced stupor. “You’re right,” I told him. “Even if one of us creates a diversion, he might not hear it from the breakroom. It’ll have to be Augusta.” Within the shelter of Bobbie’s parka, I pulled up her number in my Contacts list and placed the call.

She answered after three rings. “Terry?” Her voice wavered.

“That’s right,” I said, happy that she remembered to use my pseudonym. “Are you all right? It’s awfully late for you to pick up so quickly.”

“It’s Myrna. She’s having a bad night. I’m in her room. It calms her.”

“Augusta, I need your help for a minute or two. No longer, I promise.”

“I wouldn’t want to leave the Manor. I’m in my nightclothes. Perhaps we can meet tomorrow.”

“It isn’t a meeting that I need tonight. Can you rouse the aide on duty and get him out of the break room? Maybe make him come down the hall to see if Myrna needs medication.”

“She probably does, poor thing, but the doctor refuses to prescribe. Benadryl is all they give her, to make her sleepy. I can ask for that.”

“Would you, please?”

“Of course. Can you tell me why?”

“Not now, but I will, I promise. As soon as I can. Meanwhile, the less you know, the less involved you’ll be.”

“You just leave it to me. I’ll keep him down here for at least five minutes, more if I can.”

“You’re a dear. I’ll call you tomorrow.” If I’m not in jail.

We returned to our observation corner. Within seconds, Augusta steamed into the room, clad in an ankle-length, deep purple, quilted robe and matching quilted slippers. We watched as she stood, hands on hips, then finger pointing out the door, then hand tugging the man’s sleeve as she bent down to chastise him.

Afraid for her safety—she was petite and fragile, one push would send her to the floor—I held my breath until he levered himself up and slowly moved to follow her. As they disappeared from view, Bobbie and I sprinted