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

I located the record books on a shelf below the register. Flipping through, the last day of entries was from the day before the murders. The Johnsons did a good job of bookkeeping, even if they sucked at storekeeping. But everything was paper-and-pen, not a computer in sight.

Something moved outside. I dropped and duck-walked to the end of the counter, and edged around the corner, both hands on the pistol grip.

“Don’t move, lady. Set the weapon down on the floor. Slowly.”

The voice behind me was deep and male. I remained in my squat and slowly turned my head. A police officer, his revolver drawn and aimed at me, stood in the hallway.

“Okay, Officer,” I said, “I’m setting my gun down now.” I carefully placed the 9mm on the floor. “There’s no need to panic. I work for the owner.”

“The owners are dead. Murdered a week ago. Right here.”

“I work for their daughter. For her attorney, that is. I’m checking on the place for her. Adriana Johnson.” I hoped he would recognize her name and relax a bit. His revolver remained steady.

My thighs were starting to ache and my left calf muscle felt like it would seize up at any moment. My coatdress gaped open, exposing my legs, up to the lacy tops of my thigh-high stockings. “Is it okay if I stand up, Officer?”

“Real slow,” he responded. “Up against the wall, ma’am. You know the drill.”

I nodded and walked to the wall, where I leaned forward and placed my hands, spreading my legs fairly wide so that I would be off balance if I tried to move. The dress gaped open a bit. I waited for him to approach, but instead I heard him yell, “It’s okay, come in the back.” A few seconds later, there were more footsteps and murmured voices.

A woman spoke from close behind me. “I’m Officer Opansky. I’m going to check you for weapons.” She efficiently patted me down and told me I could turn around.

The man was short, probably only five-six. His dark hair, eyes and complexion, coupled with a slight distinction in his vowels, made me think he might be Mexican-American.

“I’m a private investigator, Officer …?”

“Rodriguez.”

“Officer Rodriguez. My name is Angelina Bonaparte. I work for Attorney Bartholomew Matthews, who’s been hired by Ms. Johnson to investigate matters related to her parents’ deaths and their finances.” I nodded toward my purse, lying on the floor. “My PI license and license to carry concealed are in the tan wallet, in the zipper section.”

Officer Opansky’s head flipped back and forth as she compared my face to the pictures. “Fits,” she told Rodriguez. After studying the wallet for a second, she said, “Prada.”

“Mother’s Day present,” I told her.

“You got good kids.”

I nodded. “The best.”

Rodriguez cleared his throat. “Let’s focus, ladies.”

“Get over yourself, Julio,” Opansky said, as she replaced the wallet in my purse.

“Are you the patrol officers for this area?” I asked. They nodded. “So you got the initial call on the night of the murders?”

“Yes.” Rodriguez stopped. There was no hand or head signal, but somehow Opansky let him know he could continue. “A neighbor called in, saying the store lights were still on at two in the morning. We figured it would turn out to be nothing. You know, someone being careless. Or maybe one of the owners working late. I saw them in here at midnight once or twice, for inventory, they said.” He took a deep breath. “So when we pulled up, we weren’t expecting …” He gestured to the chalk outlines. “Malo. I mean, bad. Very bad.”

“Yeah,” Opansky affirmed. “I’ve been a cop for thirteen years, but I never saw a murder. It’s not that common. You ever work on a murder case, Julio?”

“No. But I saw a few knife fights, growing up. A couple of guys I knew in high school bought it back then.” He paused.

“There wasn’t much blood, right, Julio?” She closed her eyes, remembering. “The coroner told me their hearts probably stopped beating real quick, being shot in the head that way. The brain shuts down and the whole system stops, like that.” She snapped her fingers. “I guess there are worse ways to go.”

“I guess,” I said. If Opansky wanted to talk, I would happily try to open her up. “Did you notice the front of the counter, there? It’s splattered with blood and brain matter.”

“Bullets will do that,” Opansky responded.

“What I mean is, it seems odd that it would be so low. Wouldn’t you think the Johnsons would be standing when they got shot, and the mess would be on the walls or shelves?”

Seconds ticked by while they stared at each other. “Maldito,” Rodriguez murmured. “They were sitting on the floor? Or kneeling?”

Opansky turned to me. “What else did you notice, Ms. Bonaparte?”

“Call me Angie. Well, I opened the door to the storage room, across from the bathroom. I didn’t go in. There’s a fairly deep layer of undisturbed dust on the floor, like the CSI team didn’t check that room at all.”

“Dammit.” Opansky’s pale complexion started to redden. “Julio, who got the case in homicide?”

“One of your people. Hard-nose guy, name of Wukowski.”

This will make for some interesting pillow talk, I thought.

Chapter 7

The great gift of family life is to be intimately acquainted with people you might never even introduce yourself to, had life not done it for you.

—Kendall Hailey

I gave both Opansky and Rodriguez one of my business cards and asked them to call me with any new developments. It was almost nine o’clock. There was a voicemail from Wukowski, saying that he would be at my place tonight and that I shouldn’t worry about supper. It was only a month ago that I gave him a key to my condo, a first since I resumed dating after the divorce. I appreciated his courtesy. We weren’t at the stage yet where I wanted him to drop in unannounced.

There were two urgent matters to discuss with Wukowski, and neither could wait. The more pressing