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

had one of those digital keypad locks installed on the back door. I used to open up for them, so I had to have the code.” He raised one eyebrow. “You game?”

I set the wine glass on the bar and faced him. “What’s the worst that can happen? We get caught and charged with breaking and entering. I lose my license and my business. I have to get a job in a library, or live on my investments like the rich ladies do.”

“Sounds good to me, girlfriend.”

I nodded. “Let’s go.”

As we drove, I thought about a cover story, just in case we were found inside the agency. “Any legitimate reason why we might be in there, Bobbie?”

“Well, it just happens that I left my gold money clip in my desk. I was sooo upset when Jane booted me out the door.” He pulled the clip out of his pocket, put all but ten dollars in the glove compartment, and waved it at me. “It has sentimental value. See there, it’s engraved—To Bobbie, Love Stan. Of course, I haven’t seen or heard from Stan in years, but a fella’s got to have his gold money clip, right?”

“Right.”

“And little Miss Jane was so mean to me, I didn’t want to call and ask her for it. So I simply decided to walk in and take it. It may not be the best story the cops have ever heard, but I don’t think they’ll prosecute, do you?”

“Doubtful. But first thing we do when we get inside, if we get inside, is shove that clip in the back of your former desk drawer, under some papers. That way, you can claim that you overlooked it in the trauma of being fired.”

It was six o’clock when I parked a block from the agency, in an unsecured lot. We took up places in a building across from Dunwoodie’s, one that housed a lot of independent businesses. From the lobby doors, we watched and waited. No one came in or left across the street. One light burned in the reception area. It seemed to be deserted.

At seven o’clock, as we walked down the alleyway to the back door, Bobbie grabbed my hand. “Was that a stakeout, Angie?”

“Kind of. Usually they take a lot longer and are a lot more boring.”

“Wow. I find that hard to believe. My heart’s pumping.” He fanned his face with one hand.

“Calm down, Dick Tracy. We need cool heads.”

“Right.” He took a deep breath, then another. “I’m okay now.”

“Good.” We stood outside the back door to the agency. It was a steel door with a digital lock, the kind where you depress the little black buttons for each number. “Now or never,” I told him, and gestured toward the lock. “It’s not too late to back out.”

He cast a scornful glance at me and punched in six numbers on the keypad. A little green light lit up, he turned the doorknob, and we were in.

I grasped Bobbie’s arm and motioned for quiet. We stood, silent, waiting. “Where’s the alarm panel?” I whispered to him.

He opened an access door and punched in the same combination of numbers that he used on the back door. The panel flashed “Alarm Disabled.” We both breathed a deep sigh.

“Stay here while I check out the offices,” I whispered in his ear. “If you hear anything, run like crazy.” I handed him the car keys.

“No way, Angie. We’re in this together.” He followed me down the hallway. The bathroom on the left was empty, as was the mail / copy room directly across from it. Bobbie tsk’d under his breath at the piles of boxes in there. “Either they haven’t hired a secretary, or she’s not up to the job,” he whispered.

John’s office was next. I slowly eased the door open and looked. It was absolutely pristine. No sign of work anywhere. “He’s never here during working hours, why would he be here after?” Bobbie whispered. I moved on, to the door to Jane’s office. Here, the scene was entirely different. Stacks of files littered the credenza and desk top. “Jane’s never been this messy,” Bobbie told me. “She’s losing it!”

The reception area faced the street. Its big plate glass windows were barred with steel grates that retracted during the day. Now, they were firmly in place and locked. “Looks like we’re alone,” I told Bobbie.

He pulled the desk drawer open. It was squeaky clean, except for one pen and a memo pad.

“Slip the money clip in the back,” I said, “and let’s nose around in Jane’s office.”

We stood in the organized mess. “Where do we start?” I asked Bobbie.

“It might take us hours to find paper. Let’s check the computer.” He sat down at Jane’s desk, flipped a switch on her monitor and started to type. “She never powers off,” he told me. “She just locks it. Let’s see if my old login still works.” Some keying, then he shook his head. “I’ve been disabled. But maybe there’s still a way. I’ve seen Jane do this a million times. Her login’s ‘JaneD.’ Original, huh? And her password is four letters, all typed using the right hand, that much I know.”

“Try ‘John’.”

He keyed it in. “Nope.”

“Can’t be ‘Jane,’ that uses the left hand, too.” I remembered my conversation with Susan about Jane’s children. “Try ‘Lily.’ L-I-L-Y.”

“Bingo. We’re in.” I scooted around the desk and stood behind Bobbie, looking over his shoulder. He started an unfamiliar program. “It’s agency software,” he told me. “Helps us manage clients and accounts.” I watched as he typed ‘Morano’ into a box and pressed Enter. Suddenly, the screen flashed and a message appeared—‘Access Denied.’

“Shit. This program is always burping, and it’s slower than slow. Let’s try again.” Again he entered ‘Morano,’ but this time, the screen flashed and a page appeared. “I was always telling Jane to update the software, but of course she didn’t listen. At least we’re in. It’ll save us searching through all those boxes. Here’s Elisa’s 401K. Let’s see what