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

“Wait,” I told him. “Can you print a summary of that for me, and any transactions in the last year?”

“Sure thing.” He pressed a few more keys and the printer started to hum. “We’ll have to wait, though. The memory on this box isn’t adequate to manage more than one thing at a time.”

It seemed as if enough time passed for a medieval monk to manually copy the information using a quill pen, but in reality it probably only took three minutes for the pages to print. I scooped them up and looked around for an envelope.

Bobbie pulled a folder from the desktop and handed it to me. “It’s an empty,” he said. “She reuses them. What next?” he asked.

“Did Elisa have life insurance?”

He moved the mouse, clicked, and the screen altered. “No such account,” it read. “Guess not,” Bobbie told me.

“Not even a closed account?”

“No. That’s odd.” He half turned to look at me as I gazed over his shoulder. “Even a closed or inactive account should show up, Angie. It looks like Elisa never had coverage through Dunwoodie.”

“Print the screen for me, Bobbie.” He obliged and we waited as the printer hummed again. “Why would the Dunwoodies pay Mrs. Morano for a non-existent policy?”

“Hush money,” he answered. “Payola to keep her quiet.”

“I don’t think so. She seemed genuine when she told me about it being an insurance policy payout. I think she believed it. But they were lying to her.”

“One of them was lying,” he corrected me. “Who paid her?”

“Jane.” Goose bumps rose on my bare arms, even though the office was stuffy. “Any other accounts for Elisa?”

“No. Just the 401K.”

“Okay, let’s log off, wipe down and leave.” I pulled a single-use packet of Shout laundry treatment from my purse. “Works great on fingerprints and skin oil,” I told Bobbie. He logged out, I wiped off the keyboard, mouse and power button on the monitor. For good measure, I addressed the printer control panel, although I didn’t think I’d touched it. Then I followed Bobbie down the hall. After he retrieved his money clip, I cleaned the desk drawer, where he’d pulled it open. “It won’t matter if they find your prints inside the drawer. Those could be old. We just want to be sure you didn’t superimpose them on something that the new secretary touched after you left.”

“You’re one smart lady, Angie,” he told me. “I would never have thought of that. But why wait till now to wipe down? We could’ve done it as we went.”

“That wouldn’t mesh with the story of the money clip. It would make us look guilty if we got caught in the act.”

“Ahh.” He tapped his head with one finger.

We retraced our steps down the hallway, me using the Shout towelette on each doorknob as we went. We were at the mailroom / copy room when I heard the clicking at the back door. “Someone’s pressing the door keys,” I told Bobbie. “We’re busted. Remember the plan.”

I lifted my shift dress up over my hips, folded the papers in half and shoved them into the back of my underpants, tossing the empty folder into the mailroom mess and cursing the day I’d given up briefs for thongs. Bobbie’s eyes grew big, but he said nothing as I yanked the dress down. “Okay?” I asked him. He glanced behind me and shook his head. “Cover my butt,” I told him.

It would have been bad enough to be confronted by police or private security, but we had some hope of convincing them that we were, if not innocent, at least not malicious. When the door slammed open and Jane Dunwoodie stood there, pointing a 9MM Beretta at us, I felt my heart plummet to my knees. No way was she going to buy the money clip story. But we had to try.

“Jane, sweetie,” Bobbie sprang into action. “I hope you don’t mind that I came back for my money clip.” He pulled it from his pants pocket, acting nonchalant, as if staring down the barrel of a pistol was an everyday occurrence for him. “I forgot it in the desk drawer. It was a gift.”

“Really.” She bit the word off, disdain dripping from each syllable. “And the computer access—were you trying to find the money clip by asking the computer?”

“I don’t understand,” Bobbie answered, turning to me as if confused. He slipped the money clip back into his pocket and put an arm around my shoulders. “Angie and I were just down the block having a drink. I offered to buy, but then I realized that I had no cash. That’s when it dawned on me where I’d left the clip. I asked her to walk over with me to get it.”

“You lying faggot.” Jane spit venom with each word. “I was working at home, by coincidence doing a remote access for the Morano account, when I got a message that it was in use. John was watching a ball game in the den, so it couldn’t be him. That leaves you and your snooping friend. You were in here, looking at the account.” It was a statement, not a question.

The “Access Denied” message that we got when Bobbie first tried to open the page flashed in front of me. Jane must have closed down at home and rushed right over. She might be mean, but she wasn’t dumb.

Bobbie opened his mouth to protest, but quickly shut it when Jane yelled “Enough! Get into the mail room,” and motioned with the gun. We backed in, Bobbie in front of me, his hand still in his pants pocket as he nervously fingered the money clip.

“Mrs. Dunwoodie,” he said, his voice nervously loud, “what good will it do to shoot us here, at the agency office? It won’t change what happened to Elisa Morano. And the police are sure to find us.”

“Right. But it’ll be self-defense, won’t it? I came in to clear up some work and caught you rifling my desk. Before