“Right. It’s Mick Swanson’s brainchild, and he’s worked hard to make it a reality. It’s unique in the city.” Of course, there were other concentrations of art shops, but no other dedicated art malls in Milwaukee. Mick’s shop, Metal Works, held pride of place at the street-facing center of the U-shaped galleria.
Bram rounded the corner into the alley behind the shops. “Guess that’s the place,” he said, pointing to an open oversized roll-up door. “But why’s it dark?”
No lights were on outside or in the workroom. “Mick told me he’d be on the dock, waiting for us. I don’t like the look of this,” I said.
Chapter 2
The blood will follow where the knife is driven.
Edward Young
The little hairs at the back of my neck prickled. I’d learned the hard way not to ignore signals like that. Cursing myself for not having my 9mm Beretta with me, I whispered to Bobbie, “You armed?”
He shook his head.
Bram put the truck into Park in the middle of the alley. “Think I’ll get my weapon from the lockbox,” he told us. He reached into the space behind the front bench seat, retrieved his pistol, and loaded a magazine. “Y’all wait here with the engine runnin’,” he whispered.
“No way,” Bobbie countered. “You need backup. I can at least make a 911 call if things aren’t right inside.”
They turned to me. “I’m coming in too,” I said. “Mick doesn’t know either of you. What if he thinks you’re intruders?”
With a sigh, Bram edged the truck next to the wall of the building, out of sight of the dock, and cut the engine. “Follow my lead.”
The men stepped down and I clambered after them, making good use of the running board and glad to be wearing casual clothes and walking shoes instead of my usual business suit and heels.
We climbed the short outside stairs and entered the workshop and storage area. At the doorway that led into the back of the shop, Bram stopped, blocking us from entering. “Should be a light on,” he said in an undertone. He nodded to signal me.
“Mick,” I called out, “it’s Angie. I’m here for the panels.”
When silence ensued, Bram motioned Bobbie and me to positions along the dock wall, to the right of the door opening. I peeked around the jamb to see Bram flip a light switch inside the shop and enter, gun at the high ready and moving in an arc. He glided out of sight.
After a brief pause, he called, “Angie, Bobbie, come through.”
We complied.
With a grim look, he tipped his craggy face to the left. “Don’t walk in the blood,” he told us.
Taking a centering breath, I proceeded farther into the room, with Bobbie behind me. In front of a large shelving unit that held tools for sale, a man lay at one end of a trail of blood. A bullet hole punched through the middle of his forehead. There would be bone and brain matter on the floor underneath, and I was momentarily glad that he was on his back. Blood spread out over his shirt front, and a slice along his forearm gave evidence of a struggle. His right hand clutched a blood-tipped knife. His left pant leg was hiked up to expose a leather sheath. So he was prepared for combat, I thought.
“It’s the owner, Mick Swanson.” My voice squeaked and I took a moment to steady myself. “Did you check for a pulse, Bram?”
Bram gave a solemn nod. “Nothin’. Let’s call 911 from the truck.”
A quick look told me that there were no observable cameras in the sales area. I turned back to the corpse to snap a photo of the body in situ and the area he was moved from, along with a close-up of his face, chest, leg, arm, and the hand that held the knife. Cold? Maybe, but being careful about potential evidence was part of my working code.
Even so, I couldn’t walk away without acknowledging the atrocity that lay before me—a human life and all its potential erased. Not knowing what else to do, I closed my eyes and murmured the words I learned as a Catholic schoolgirl.
Eternal rest grant unto Mick, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May his soul and all the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.
Behind me, Bram and Bobbie each echoed a solemn “Amen.” Then Bram took my elbow and said, “We need to leave, Angie.”
We backed out through the loading dock, where Bram flipped a light switch to illuminate Mick’s storage area and workroom. He kept his weapon at his sternum, pointing slightly down, in what the guys at the shooting range termed “relaxed high ready.” It would take a tenth of a second for a marksman like him to acquire a target and fire from that position. The warrior in him had emerged, which both alarmed and reassured me.
My pulse pounded in my ears, but I walked to the truck without faltering and placed the call.
“Nine one one. What is your emergency?”
I related what we had found inside the shop and assured the dispatcher that we’d wait for the police to arrive.
“Best if I put my weapon away before the police get here,” Bram said as he climbed into the truck.
I turned to look back into the loading dock. Dark copper and blue blotches reflected off the bubble-wrapped panels I’d commissioned from Mick. I doubted they would be coming home with me today.
Chapter 3
A man without conscience is but a poor creature.
james Fennimore Cooper
From his hiding place, Artur watched the big man enter Metal Works, gun at the ready. A professional then. When Big Man beckoned a woman and another man in, Artur was surprised to note that the white-haired woman was also a pro, taking pictures of the body but not disturbing evidence. The young guy disappeared into the back for a moment, before returning to her side.
While White Hair worked, Big Man examined ceilings and walls. For surveillance equipment? Probably. But he would have no joy.
Artur used the zoom feature on his phone to take pictures of the trio. Then he ran to the alley and got a shot of the license plate of the truck parked close by Mikhail’s dock. I may need to deal with them later, he thought as he turned to leave. The police would be here soon, and he needed to be back to his SUV and driving south to Chicago before they arrived.
Chapter 4
What if the one that got away came back?
Unknown
One black-and-white, sirens sounding, approached from the west end of the alley. Another blocked the east. A patrol officer exited the squad car and slowly walked toward us, hand hovering over her gun holster. “Keep your hands in plain sight. Which of you reported a body?”
I stepped forward. “I made the call, Officer, but the three of us were together when we found the shop owner inside.”
“You sure the victim’s dead?”
“No pulse,” Bram confirmed. “A bullet to the head and another to the heart.”
She pulled a notebook from her shirt pocket. “That’ll do it,” she said grimly. “I’ll just take your personal information and we’ll wait for Homicide and the crime-scene team.” The policewoman’s two-way radio crackled and she gestured to us to stay put. “Opansky,” she said into the device.
That name rang a bell. The year I first met Homicide Detective Ted Wukowski, we worked on two different murder cases, from opposite sides. I ran into an Officer Opansky in the dead of night at a hardware store where my client’s parents were executed. I don’t use that term lightly. Has to be the same person, I thought. How many females named Opansky are on the MPD? And it looks like they promoted her from beat cop. Good for her.
“Okay,” Opansky said. “I’ll need your names and contact info.” She turned to me. “Ladies first.”
“Angelina Bonaparte, Officer. I remember you from the Johnson case almost three years ago.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Yeah, in the store. I frisked you. You had the nice wallet. Prada, right?” Before I could nod, she gave me a once-over. “New hair. I like it.” Then her face assumed a business-only look and she asked, “Address and phone number?”
Opansky took Bram’s information and was
finishing with Bobbie when an SUV and a black sedan rolled slowly into the front parking area and stopped. From the sedan, two men emerged.
I sucked in a sharp breath.
Opansky muttered, “This is gonna be awkward,” and then approached Wukowski and his partner, Joe Ignowski.
Bobbie sidled closer to me. “Breathe, girlfriend,” he said, his voice low and soothing.
Nine hundred and forty-eight days had passed since the MPD issued an ultimatum to Homicide Detective Ted Wukowski to cease all contact with me, his “Mafia-tainted” girlfriend, or face reassignment to a precinct house and constant oversight. I had slogged through those days like someone sinking in quicksand. In twelve days, Wukowski would be eligible for retirement. Then we could talk. Touch. Enjoy a meal together. Wake up in each other’s arms. In twelve days. If he still wanted me.
I’d planned our reunion in my head so many times. This was not how it was supposed to go. Not at a crime scene, where I looked scruffy and felt shell-shocked. Fate was certainly thumbing her nose at us.
Wukowski’s slow, deliberate approach gave me time to examine him. Sure, I’d seen his picture in the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel after he arrested the Bike Trail Killer and on several other occasions in the course of his duty, but this was real life. He looked gaunt.
I could almost read his thoughts. Then I didn’t have to.
“Angie, what the hell is going on?” he barked in an undertone.
His deep baritone voice, the voice I’d craved to hear all through the past days, was a low rumble. I once thought of him as the modern-day equivalent of Joe Friday from Dragnet, with his just-the-facts approach. But now I knew better. Wukowski breathed his work and agonized over every unsolved case. Not that he had many.
“So this isn’t going to be a slow-motion run toward each other across a field of wildflowers?” I responded.
Behind him, Iggy snorted. “Hey, Ange, this big lug can’t hug ya yet, but I can.” Wukowski’s low-key partner opened his arms and I gratefully let him pull me in. “Kind of a shock for him,” Iggy whispered into my hair. “Take it easy, okay?”
I nodded into his suit coat, stepped back, and turned to Wukowski. “Maybe you want to have someone else take this one,” I said, “unless the department is willing to release you twelve days early.”
With a shake of the head, he said, “I knew from dispatch that you’d be here. But with two detectives on vacation, one on maternity leave, and Minton getting shot last week”—he gestured to Iggy and himself—“we’re it.” He took a deep breath and added, “But that doesn’t change anything as far as the department is concerned. I wish it did, but no.” He grinned slightly, the lopsided Han Solo smile that I loved. “The lieutenant will have fits.” Then turning to Opansky, he asked, “What’s happened since you arrived on the scene?”
“I secured the persons on site and directed a couple of uniforms to secure the building.”
“What else?”
“I got the contact information for the, uh, witnesses.”
“Great. Email that to me and keep an eye on things out here. Detective Ignowski and I will take a look inside and then let the techs in. Meanwhile, escort York, Russell, and Bonaparte downtown.” With a look at us, he added, “We’ll interview each of you there, but for now, why were you here this morning?”
I thought of the panels, of the newly redecorated bedroom at my lakeside condo, of my plans for a sweet and sexy reunion with Wukowski. Ah, well. My aunt would quote Robert Burns—the best-laid plans of mice and men… and women, in my case. “I commissioned Mick Swanson, the owner of the shop, to create a series of metal wall panels.” I pointed to the carpeted hand truck, where the bubble-wrapped metal art awaited me. “Bram and Bobbie were going to help transport them. Looks like they might not be installed by my deadline.”
Iggy shrugged. “Too soon to know,” he said.
“How far did you go into the shop?” Wukowski asked. “So the techs will know for elimination purposes. There’s no need to fingerprint you three. You’re all on file already.”
Yes, we were. The Johnson and Wagner cases saw to that.
“We entered through the dock,” Bobbie said. “Everything was dark. Bram flipped a light switch and we cleared the office area and bathroom. When we found the owner inside the front of the shop, Bram checked for a pulse. No luck, so Angie called 911. We were careful not to step in the blood on the floor or touch anything.”
It didn’t escape me that no one mentioned Bram’s retrieving his weapon before we entered. Least said, soonest mended. Aunt Terry was a fount of aphorisms, but I doubted she’d be happy about applying one to this situation.
“Detective,” Bram said, “I’d like to move my truck away from the loading dock area. It’ll give you some room and I’ll feel better about it not blocking the alley when your people get here.”
“Sorry, York,” Wukowski said. “The crime-scene team will have to release it. Give me the keys. They’ll park it in the quadrangle out front when they’re done going over it. Unless they impound it, that is.”
With a resigned shrug, Bram handed over the keys. “There’s a lockbox with my weapon in it. I’m licensed to carry.”
“Has it been discharged?” Iggy asked.
“Nope,” Bram drawled, his Southern roots coming through. “But a bullet did penetrate the vic’s heart and head, far as I can tell. I figure that’s what y’all call the proximate cause of death.” He paused. “You in the service, Detective?”
Wukowski nodded. “Right out of high school.”
“Then you’re familiar with the term ‘double tap.’” He noticed the blank look on my face and elucidated. “A bullet to the heart and another to the head. For insurance.”
“A pro move,” Wukowski added. “Military, assassin, organized crime.”
“Exactly,” Bram agreed.
Professionals? Dear God, please don’t let it involve the Family. Not again. I couldn’t stand another separation, not when we were so close to ending this one.
Chapter 5
Crime is common. Logic is rare.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
The Homicide bullpen was indeed sparsely populated when we arrived. One lone uniform occupied a desk in the back. The captain’s office was dark.
“Detective Wukowski asked that the three of you wait in separate rooms,” the uniform told us. “But we only have two here.” She looked around. “Mr. York, you can take the captain’s office until she arrives.”
She. Interesting. So Captain Charles-don’t-call-me-Chuck Horton no longer ran Homicide. Guess his remark about Wukowski “boning a Mafia princess” during the fiasco that led to our separation didn’t go down so well with Internal Affairs.
Bobbie wrinkled his nose and made for the interrogation room and its persistent odor of anxiety-induced flop sweat, while Bram turned for the office. I headed into the slightly more comfortable conference room. As I waited, I texted Attorney Bartholomew Matthews with the news that I was entangled in yet another murder, this time as a witness. It was slightly after seven o’clock, so I expected Bart wouldn’t see the message for a couple of hours, but his response popped right up.
Need legal help?
Not now, I responded. Just informing you. In case.
I then switched to my phone’s photo app.
Mick’s image was as grisly as I remembered. I forced my brain into analysis mode. The knife was made of a dark matte material and about a foot long, based on comparison with his forearm. Something was stamped into the blade, but even the zoom feature didn’t resolve it. Spider Mulcahey, another former special-ops guy and Bram’s boss in the private security business, might manage it using his ultra-high-tech equipment.
As I swiped the enlarged image to reposition it, I saw the small tattoo on Mick’s wrist. A five-pointed star with a blurry circular center. I would need Spider’s help with this too.
With a deep breath and a reminder to myself to put up an emotional barrier, I took another look at
the pictures of Mick’s chest and head. My expertise did not extend to bullet wounds, so I could make no determination from them, except that they were sickening. Next, I viewed the blood trail on the floor, about fifteen feet long. Mick’s body was dragged from one place to another. The puddle of blood where he lay in death was bigger than the one where he started. I couldn’t come up with a rationale for that. Nor could I imagine the quiet artist being equipped with a combat knife sheathed to his leg.
I put the phone into sleep mode and sat back, trying to form a picture of what might have happened in that room. An assailant entered from the unlighted back of the shop. Mick was in front, presumably working on something near where he was killed. Mick had a knife. The assailant had a gun. No contest.
But why? Why kill Mick Swanson, a low-key metal artist? In our dealings about the panels, he’d struck me as the loner type but able to deal with the public without causing problems. He cracked a joke once about the panels being taller than me. I liked him, I suddenly realized.
Before I could descend into maudlin remembrance, my phone pinged with an image and a message from Bobbie: Mick’s desk calendar
Uh-oh. Bobbie told Wukowski that we hadn’t entered the office. I hope he didn’t leave any traces, I thought. Then my mind registered the contents of the text. I wasn’t the only one who took a photo at the shop.
The entry read: 6:30—Bonaparte panels.
I texted the images of Mick’s body and the close-up of the knife to Spider, including Bram and Bobbie on the message. Found a dead man this morning. Mick Swanson, owner of Metal Works. See what you can find out about him, the tattoo, and the knife.
How are you involved? came Spider’s reply.
Just a witness. I hoped it would stay that way.
The clock read seven fifty-eight. This could be a long wait. I exited the conference room and told the uniformed officer at the back of the bullpen that I needed to use the facilities. She waved me on while speaking into a phone handset.
Blood Kills Page 2