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

But, like you, I have a professional responsibility to uphold.” I wanted to make it clear that the police were not the lone guardians of justice. “You’d be the first ones I’d tell, if I knew who committed the crime. But I don’t. And unless it’s in my client’s interests, I can’t say a lot more. So maybe you want to make it in my client’s interests?”

Ignowski leaned forward and shouldered Wukowski slightly, pushing him into the back of the banquette. “Angie, I’m gonna be square with you. We ain’t got shit. Not for proof, anyway. Obviously, Tony’s prints and hair and DNA are all over the apartment, but any good lawyer can talk his way out of that. After all, they were…cohabiting, right?”

I nodded, amused that Iggy thought he needed to clean up his language for me.

“But,” he continued, “we got nothing to place him at the scene that night. And you’re saying that there are plenty others who would want to see her dead?” I nodded. “So seems to me, we got a problem—one very dead woman, multiple suspects, no evidence strong enough to convict. How ‘bout you help us out? Tell us about the others. The ones who maybe hated her enough to kill her.”

Sipping my diet soda, I thought about what Iggy just said. They didn’t know about Tony sitting outside her apartment that night. They didn’t seem aware of the undercurrents surrounding Marsha or Alan or Richard Llewellyn. Obviously, they hadn’t interviewed Mrs. Lembke or Bobbie Russell. They didn’t know about the letter. I couldn’t hold them accountable for that, but Wukowski’s ‘just the facts’ approach to interrogation wasn’t working too well. I wanted to shove my female, non-professional, pop psychology methods in his face. But I just smiled sweetly and responded with a shake of the head.

We paid the check and they drove me back to the gym. No one spoke. When we got there, Wukowski dove into a red Jeep Wrangler, slammed the door and peeled away. Iggy waited while I started the Miata. I waggled my fingers in acknowledgement and drove home.

Chapter 16

What’s of significance is sweet, however mistaken; one could make up one’s mind to what’s insignificant even. But pettiness, pettiness, that’s what’s insufferable.

—Ivan Turgenev

My satisfaction was short-lived. I mentally chastised myself for being mean-spirited and wondered if I’d forfeited all chance to exchange information with Iggy and Wukowski. Damn it, I thought, I let Wukowski get the better of me. I hate that feeling.

I parked the Miata in its underground space, grabbed my gym bag, purse and briefcase and took the stairs to the lobby, reminding myself as I climbed to call Bertha and let her know I was safely home. The last thing I wanted tonight was a couple of goons pounding down my door.

At least, I thought it was the last thing I wanted. Until I opened the stairway door and saw Kevin sitting on a lobby couch, reading a magazine. He tossed it down and came toward me, hands outstretched. “Angie, I owe you an apology.”

My right eyebrow rose, involuntarily. My kids always referred to it as the Mean Mommy look. “Really? What for?” Showing up at my home unannounced? I thought. Invading my privacy? Catching me unprepared?

Kevin didn’t know me well enough to be alarmed. “I was concerned that maybe I came on a little strong on Saturday.” The elevator doors opened and a couple whom I didn’t know exited. “Can I come up?” he asked. “Just for a moment. I’d like to talk.”

The couple stood at the mailboxes, listening. “Okay. Sure.” As the elevator doors closed on us, I turned to Kevin. “Look, it’s been a long day and I’m not sure I’m really up to it. Maybe this isn’t a good idea right now.”

“Ten minutes, Angie. I’ll even throw in a foot rub.”

Confident bastard, aren’t you? I thought. Then I stopped myself. Where was this hostility coming from? Kevin isn’t Wukowski. Give him a chance.

He took the gym bag so that I could unlock the door. There, on the threshold, lay a white envelope, lettered in black magic marker—Angelina Bonaparte. Kevin bent down to retrieve it.

I body-blocked him with my shoulder and said, “No. Leave it. Don’t touch it. Just come inside.” As I put my purse and briefcase in the coat closet, I explained about the threatening letter at the office and gave him orders to go before I called Bart and the police.

“No way, Angie. I’m staying until the police get here. Maybe I should search the place?”

“That’s sweet, Kevin. But if the letter-writer could get inside, I don’t think he’d be stupid enough to leave the letter as a warning.”

“Oh, yeah, guess you’re right.” He looked a little deflated and I realized that I’d just called him stupid and taken away his opportunity to act the macho man for me. He recovered, though. “I’ll put some water on for tea while you make those calls.”

The phone was ringing as I headed for the bedroom. “Angie, it’s Bertha. Why didn’t you call me? I was just about ready to notify Bart.”

“Calm down, Bertha. I just got home. And you’ll need to call Bart anyway. There was another note under my door when I got here. The envelope looks just like the one from my office. This time, I think I have to let the police know.”

“I agree. I’ll talk some sense into Bart. This can’t go on.”

Three minutes later, Bart called. “Angie, I talked to Marco this afternoon. As far as he knows, there’s no Family involvement. Bertha tells me that you want to talk to the police?”

“I think I have to, Bart. They might be able to swallow my silence on the first note, but if they find out there was a second and I didn’t tell them, they could bring me up on charges for impeding an official investigation.”

“Okay. Go ahead.” He took a drag on his cigarette. “I’ll drive over to the office and wait for them