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

to her parents’ home to pick up whatever clothing and other belongings would fit in my Miata convertible. I didn’t want Adriana to drive her own car, in case anyone had her under surveillance. My mind ticked over on ways to get from her home to Tony’s apartment building with less chance of being followed. Paranoid? Maybe, but as the saying goes, just because you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean there’s nobody after you.

Chapter 2

Sex is emotion in motion.

—Mae West

It was four o’clock by the time I got Adriana settled in her temporary apartment, purchased a pre-paid cell phone for her, gave her a cautionary talk about not contacting anyone she knew until I gave her the green light, and arranged for her car to be delivered from my office to a friend of my papa’s who owned several downtown parking lots. I called Attorney Petrovitch, but his secretary informed me that he would be away for the remainder of the day. She made an appointment for us to meet at his office the next morning at nine. I still had an hour before I planned to meet my guy at the gym, so I called Bart Matthews, a Family attorney—and I mean Family as in The Sopranos. Bart was the one who hired me to investigate on Tony Baloney’s behalf. I figured that Bart owed me, considering the flesh wound to my waist that the real murderer inflicted. First, though, I had to get past Bart’s secretary, Bertha Conti.

Bertha was an inveterate chain smoker, like Bart. “Law offices of Bartholomew Matthews,” she rasped.

“Bertha, it’s Angie Bonaparte. Any chance I can get ten minutes of Bart’s time? I know how busy he is, but I figured you would find a way to squeeze me into his schedule if anyone could.” It always helped to schmooze Bertha, who ran the office with an iron hand—and it wasn’t enclosed in a velvet glove.

“Ms. Bonaparte, it’s rather late in the day for favors like that.” She paused. I remained silent. Eventually, her minuscule better side kicked in. “But considering your recent injuries on behalf of our client, I’ll see what I can do. Hold, please.”

In a few seconds, Bart was on the line. “Angie, what’s up?” I heard the click and flash of his lighter, followed by the intake of breath as he lit up yet another cigarette. In addition to smoking, Bart’s got to weigh three-fifty. A walking heart attack or stroke. His motto: Eat right, exercise, live healthy, die anyway.

“Bart, I need some legal advice.”

“You in trouble?”

“Nope. I’m doing some digging for a client. She’s the beneficiary of her parents’ estate. The attorney is named as the executor. They left a lot of assets she didn’t expect. He doesn’t want to tell her how they accumulated so much. Claims attorney-client privilege. Is he entitled to withhold the information?”

“Hmm. Offhand, I’d say no, not if she wants to protest the terms of the will.”

“Right now, she seems more worried that the assets are tainted. It’s not that she wants more. She’s not sure she wants it at all.”

“Geez, Ange, tell her to take the money and run. Regardless of how the parents got it, it’s hers now. She can be a do-gooder with it, if she wants to. But if she turns it down, where will it go? Maybe to someone who won’t want to do good with it?”

Why didn’t it occur to me to ask Adriana who would be next in line if she refused the bequest? It was so basic. I felt pretty embarrassed. “I’m not sure, Bart. I’m meeting with the attorney in the morning. I’ll ask. For now, I’m more interested in whether my client has the right to insist on knowing how her parents built such a large estate in secrecy.”

“I don’t do much complex estate planning, Angie. Mostly simple wills for Family. I’d say she has grounds to dispute the terms, if she wants. But that’s off the cuff. You may want to consult a specialist. I can give you a couple of names.”

I took the information, even though I’d already decided to approach Petrovitch as if the assumption was a fact and see how he responded. Bart sent greetings to my papa and we rang off. Time to hit the gym.

You won’t see sex kittens in thongs at Rick’s Gym. There were mats on the floor, a boxing ring, treadmills, and bags and weights. His regular clientele was mainly firefighters, police officers and private security personnel. I like it there, despite the lingering odor of sweat socks. It’s real.

It’s also the place where I first noticed how attractive my guy was. I met W. T. “Ted” Wukowski while working on the Belloni case. He was investigating for the prosecution, I for the defense. I thought him an uptight, humorless chauvinist, until the day I ran into him and his partner, Iggy, at Rick’s. The day I noticed Wukowski’s fine body encased in workout sweats. The day I thought, tough-guy detective Dana Andrews in the film noir classic, Laura. The day he smiled and made all my assumptions about him start to burn up in the fire of my—okay, I’ll admit it—lust.

It took us a while to get past our individual hang-ups: my trust issues, his fear about a woman’s vulnerability in a dangerous profession. After my near miss with the real Morano killer, there were a few bad days when I thought Rick’s was the only place I’d ever see Wukowski. But he came around. Thank God, because I was a sniveling basket case, the kind of woman I detest, when I thought he’d written me off.

I shook off the memories and pulled into Rick’s parking lot, where Wukowski waited, leaning against the front fender of his Jeep Wrangler, arms and ankles crossed. “What?” I glanced at my watch. “I’m not late.”

“Nope, you’re not, Angie. I’m early. I already worked out and cleaned up, so I could make a last-minute meeting tonight.” As