Blood Kills

by Nanci Rathbun

  He powered the computer on and was not surprised to find it password protected. A few simple tries—Mikhail, Lebedev, Swanson, metal—produced nothing, so he inserted the flash drive containing Yevgeny’s software and let it run through millions of combinations, hoping it would find the right one quickly. Testing all of them could take hours.

  While he waited, he turned to the paper files in the metal cabinet and began to shuffle through the documents. Only business-related stuff. Chert poberi—damn it!

  He turned back to the computer. Ah—he was in! Yevgeny would escape his anger this day. He might even get a bonus.

  Settling at the desk, Artur ran a search for his name, home town, army unit, Bratva, blood, and the words cousin and Chechnya. Only 'blood' returned a hit. The file contained information about Mikhail’s health status, including blood type. Nothing there to help him.

  However, a folder named Legal, with nested folders for Will and Property, caught his interest. He downloaded them to the USB drive and secured it in his zippered pocket before logging off.

  Mick’s spiral-bound calendar lay open on the desk. He snapped pictures of each month’s entries and, on a whim, flipped through the business card holder. Ah—Attorney Rebecca Franken. She might prove helpful.

  After powering off the computer, he flipped off the overhead light and replaced the jacket on the stand. With a quick look to assure himself that all was as it had been when he entered, he left the office behind.

  The bathroom would be unlikely to contain what he wanted, but he checked the usual hiding places anyway—toilet paper holder, toilet tank, under the sink, in the garbage can, inside the light fixture, behind the mirror, behind the vent. Nothing.

  Glancing to the right, he followed the siren call of the death scene to the public area of the shop. The police outline of the body and the detritus of the technicians’ tests littered a small area of the floor.

  He circled it, careful to stay away from anything that would leave a clue to his having been there. For a moment, he envisioned where Mikhail had stood and the ensuing violence. It had not been his finest moment, he thought, but what can one do when the opponent fails to cooperate? His cousin had been ever thus.

  He shined his pinprick flashlight at the ceiling, reassuring himself that no security cameras were watching. Then he turned to circle the crime scene again on his way out.

  A light flickered from a shop at the front of the U. What was this? Surely no one was there this late at night. But… no, there was a person moving inside the shop. He held his phone up, using the camera’s zoom to get a better look.

  A woman glanced toward Mikhail’s shop and pressed her finger to the phone as she quickly stepped back into the shadows.

  Could this night get any worse? It was as if his cousin cursed him from the grave.

  Artur took the Ruger from its shoulder holster and installed the silencer. Then he grabbed a hammer from the workshop and exited from the dock door, not bothering to reengage the lock. As he ran along the street toward the stolen sedan, he hurled the heavy tool into the shop where the interfering woman hid, most likely waiting for the police. If that didn’t keep her home at night, further measures must be used.

  Within minutes, he reached the Cadillac CT6—an old man’s car that would not attract attention—and made for the on-ramp to I-94. Once on the highway, he activated his phone’s voice recorder and spoke. “A Crossing of Threads. First on the left as you look at Mikhail’s shop from the street.”

  Chapter 16

  They want what you’ve got. Don’t give it to them.

  Security slogan

  Emma woke me from sleep, her voice pitched high and her words rushed. “Mom, the Arts Galleria owners are in trouble and I said I’d ask you to help.”

  “Okay, take a breath and slow down. Of course I’ll help if I can. What’s happened?” I reached for my robe and padded into the kitchen to start the coffee maker.

  “Last night, Debby stayed late after closing to catch up on bookwork. She was in her office in the back of the shop, she told me, and the lights were off out front. She came out to get something from under the counter and saw a small light in Mick Swanson’s shop, so she called 911 and waited inside in the dark. She heard a crash out front and locked herself in the bathroom until the police arrived. Her front shop window was in pieces, and a hammer lay on the floor inside.”

  “How frightening,” I said. “What did she do?”

  “The police called for a board-up service, and Debby stayed until the shop was secured. She’s freaking out and wants someone to take a look at things. I guess she’s been nominated to represent the other owners. Can you help them? Please?”

  “Give me her number and I’ll call now. And don’t worry too much, Emma. It might be a simple case of vandalism.” Although I doubt it. My inner Angie whispered that this had to be connected to Mick’s murder.

  I arranged with Debby to meet in an hour at A Crossing of Threads and left a message for Bobbie to that effect so he wouldn’t worry about me. Then I dressed in skinny black jeans, a dressy white tee, fuchsia blazer, and black ankle boots, and headed out.

  I pulled into the lot to see a black-and-white parked in front of Mick’s shop, with an unmarked car beside it. The large spotlight mounted in front of the sedan’s side mirror identified it as a police vehicle. Wukowski and Iggy? I wondered.

  The front window of A Crossing of Threads was covered in plywood. Debby rushed me as I entered. “Oh, Angie, thanks so much for coming. I didn’t know who else to contact.” She gestured at the glass-strewn area in the front of the shop. “Just look at this mess. I’ll have to discard all the yarn in the first set of bins. I can’t take a chance on a customer being cut while working on a project. Of course my insurance will cover it, but it’ll be several weeks before I can restock the imported wool.” She wrung her hands and then abruptly stopped. “And the window! My shop will be boarded up until the replacement glass arrives and gets installed. Two days! I can only imagine what customers will think of that.”

  I took a good look around, waiting to speak until Debby calmed down. “Here’s a thought,” I said. “First put a big sign on the plywood. Something funny, like “Clumsiness Sale.” Tell your clients that you lost control of a dolly full of boxes and crashed into the window. I’ll leave it to you to decide what the boxes held. Obviously not yarn.”

  “What a good idea! At least potential customers and class participants won’t be scared away by the thought of violence.”

  “Exactly. But I’m sure that’s not why you contacted Emma.”

  “Oh. Well, no.” She began to twist her fingers together once more and, again, abruptly stopped. “The other owners and I want to know about security measures for the Galleria. You know, like motion detectors and outside lights. I already have a burglar alarm.”

  “No video cameras outside?”

  She shook her head.

  “I know just the guy for the job,” I said, thinking of Spider, “very thorough and knowledgeable, but not cheap.”

  “Once you called me, I scheduled an emergency meeting.”

  At that, the shop door opened and the other three shop owners entered, each pausing to bemoan the damage to A Crossing of Threads. Debby reintroduced me as a private detective and not simply a faithful customer, then shooed us all to the classroom area.

  “We need improved security.” She looked into the eyes of each of her fellow owners. “Otherwise, our businesses are going to suffer. People won’t come to a place with a reputation for crime. So I asked Angie, and she has a contact who can help us. His name’s, uh…”

  “Len Mulcahey,” I said, “but his nickname’s Spider. He’ll assess what you need and give you an estimate.”

  “Outside security can cost a lot of money,” Margaret Kowalski chimed in. “The Jewel Box profits are pretty thin until the holiday season.”

  There were nods around the table.

  “I get that, Margaret,” I said, “and I’m sure th
at Spider will respect your budgets. But look at it this way, you might get a break on your insurance costs if you beef things up. Even if it isn’t due to crime, a frivolous lawsuit can wipe you out. I’m surprised that your insurance company hasn’t insisted on cameras facing the parking lot before this.”

  Roy Ballard spoke up. “Mick opposed any kind of surveillance and he had the final say.” His face screwed up in thought. “He owned the property, you know. I wonder who it passes to, now that he’s hammering on metal in hell.”

  “Roy!” Debby’s intake of breath and shocked whisper penetrated through the quiet.

  “Admit it, Debby, the man could be a jerk,” said Lucas Medina. “He was moody and secretive.”

  “Which goes back to Roy’s observation,” said Margaret. “We need to know if we can legally install things like cameras outside and whether the new owner will pay.” She glanced at Debby. “If there will be a new owner, that is. Maybe Mick’s heir will sell out. We might all have to relocate.” Her voice quivered on that last bit.

  “If Mick filed a will,” I said, “I can interview his lawyer on your behalf. And I’ll search property records too.” Then a thought occurred and I scrambled in my purse for the bill of sale for my metal panels. “Ha!” I proclaimed. “Metal Works LLC. A limited liability corporation. I’ll track that down online and see who’s named on the articles of incorporation. How about a hundred dollars for the research? At least you’ll know where you stand. Meanwhile, should I contact Spider about a free assessment?”

  Debby nodded. “I, for one, would appreciate that, Angie.” No one objected.

  When the door buzzer indicated an arrival, I rose to leave. “By the way, does anyone have Mick’s home address?”

  “Yeah,” Wukowski growled as he stalked toward me. “I do. And you’re not involved, Angie. Wasn’t that our agreement?”

  The shop owners stared as I ambled toward Wukowski and tilted my head up to meet his gaze. “That was before I had a client, Detective. And it doesn’t involve your homicide case. The other Galleria owners want to find out the status of Mick’s business and property after last night’s vandalism. It impacts them directly, after all.”

  He stuck out his chin and put his hands on his hips.

  I did the same.

  “Aw, hell,” he muttered and turned away.

  With a nod to the group, I headed for the door.

  Debby called, “Angie, please wait,” and followed me to the front of the shop, where she placed a hand gently on my arm. “There’s something you need to know about Mick and me,” she said in an undertone.

  I looked past her to see Wukowski watching. “Oh, no need to give me a check now,” I said in a slightly raised voice. “I’ll invoice you later.” I extracted a business card from my briefcase, scribbled my cell phone number on it, and handed it to her. “And if you have any other concerns in the meantime, just call me. I’m glad to help a friend of Emma’s.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, clutching the card to her chest. “I’ll contact you when the others are gone.”

  I nodded and exited the shop, wondering what on earth her connection was to Mick Swanson, outside of a professional one. A boyfriend? Given Mick’s demeanor, it struck me as unlikely, but I’d known stranger pairings in my time.

  Chapter 17

  New beginnings are often disguised as painful endings.

  Lao Tzu

  I was managing the always-growing pile of paperwork when Debby rang me. “Angie, is this a good time to talk?”

  Setting aside the notes for a recently completed background check, I said, “It’s a great time. I’m in the middle of the dreaded paperwork.”

  “I know all about that. In fact, I was at my desk late last night, trying to get caught up, when I saw the light from Mick’s shop.”

  “I’m curious, Debby. Do you think someone might’ve seen you, even with the front of your shop dark? Did you walk up to the window?”

  “No, I was standing kind of in the middle of the customer area, taking a short break and checking for messages. I hadn’t realized how late it was until then. I, uh, tend to lose track of time…”

  “The light from your cell phone might’ve been a giveaway.”

  “Oh gosh! I never thought of that. I just scuttled back into my office and called 911.” After a pause, she said in a lowered tone, “So whoever was in Mick’s shop wanted to scare me. Do you think he’ll be back? ’Cause I really am scared now.”

  “I imagine that the person intended it as a warning and nothing else. But I wouldn’t work late for a while. Can you take care of business from a home computer?”

  “Maybe. I never linked my tablet to the shop computer, but I suppose I can use a USB drive to copy files back and forth. Oh, and I’ll have to load the software I use for record-keeping at home.” She sighed. “More expense, for a second license.”

  “Why don’t you contact the vendor? Most of them let you use their software on up to two computers at no additional charge.”

  “That would help,” she said. “I’ll take care of it this afternoon.”

  Changing course, I asked, “Did Detective Wukowski give you any additional information about the break-in at Metal Works or the damage at your place?”

  “Not much. He said it looked like Mick’s office was the target, that some files were disarranged. And he didn’t speculate about why someone broke my window.” With a small chuckle, she added, “He did say that you were among the best of the private investigators he’d worked with and that Spider Mulcahey was the right person to give us security advice. But he seemed, uh, put out. Do you two have a history?”

  “You might say that,” I told her. “Remember the media fuss about the so-called Pipe Incident? That was me,” I admitted.

  “Oh! And then the news people made a big deal about your involvement with a police officer. Wukowski?”

  “Yes. So you can understand that he tends to be overprotective. I keep telling him that I’m not looking for danger when I take on a new client. Sometimes it just happens. But the big lug worries. And when he worries, he gets, shall we say, testy.”

  She gave a full-out laugh. “I could certainly see that.”

  Moving on to the more important topic of why she needed to speak to me privately, I asked, “Debby, what is it that you needed to tell me about you and Mick?”

  Her indrawn breath preceded several seconds of silence. “My name isn’t Debby Hill. It’s Elizabeth Perrins. And I’m hiding out from an abusive ex. I’m worried that he’s found me.”

  I processed that before asking, “Was it physical? Did you get a restraining order?” although I knew how ineffective that could be against a violent man.

  “Physical, emotional, financial… you name it, he did it.”

  The thought of gentle Debby dealing with an ape like that appalled me, but I kept my tone even, to avoid escalating her obvious discomfort. “That’s sickening, Debby. When was the last time you had any contact with him?”

  “Four years ago,” came the immediate response, “on Christmas day. I lived in Tennessee then. He broke down my door and assaulted me. The cops came and he insisted that I invited him in and that I hurt myself after getting drunk. They took him into custody, but I knew he’d be out the next day, so I packed a bag and left.”

  Well, hell, I thought. “What happened next?”

  “One of my old college friends got out of a similar relationship a couple of years prior. She was pretty vocal about it on our year’s Facebook page. I took a chance and contacted her. God bless her, Angie, she told me to come to Wisconsin and stay with her for as long as I needed. I don’t know where I’d be without her support. Probably dead.” The words were spoken in a matter-of-fact tone, which made the impact even worse.

  “Did the guy know you were friends?”

  “We actually weren’t, just acquaintances and part of the same social media group. I didn’t see any way for him to connect us, so after three months at her place in Waukesha,
I decided to settle here in Milwaukee. I worked a lot of odd jobs, stayed under the radar, and had an attorney deal with the sale of my home in Tennessee. Lucky for me, I bought at the low end of the market and sold at the top of the housing boom, so I made enough to buy my condo and open A Crossing of Threads.”

  Her voice had steadily lowered as she told the story. I decided to lighten the tension before going further. “That’s such an interesting name,” I said. “Does it have a particular meaning, other than the obvious?”

  “My mother’s people were Western Sephardic Jews who escaped Nazi persecution.” Her voice softened. “It’s from the traditional Portuguese-Jewish wedding ceremony, describing marriage as ‘a crossing of threads in the fabric of fate.’ As soon as I saw this shop, I knew I was fated to be in this place.”

  “That’s lovely.” I could hear the joy in her tone and decided I could get back to the issue at hand. “Besides the vandalism, what’s concerning you? If it’s your ex, I can easily track him down and find out where he is.”

  “I’ll gladly pay you to do that, Angie, but there’s more.” With a sharp intake of breath, she said, “Mick named me his sole beneficiary and executor. I knew you’d find that out when you started checking into things for the Galleria. That probably makes me a suspect, doesn’t it?”

  The news shocked me. This wasn’t something to confer on over a phone call. I needed to see her face, to assess her body language when we talked. “Debby, I haven’t had a thing to eat since breakfast, and it’s after one now. Why don’t you join me for lunch? And bring whatever documents you have regarding Mick’s estate and the Galleria. That way, we can figure out next steps.”

  “That would be great. I put a CLOSED DUE TO CLUMSINESS sign on the window, like you suggested.”

  “Then come over to my condo. There’s no chance of anyone overhearing us and you can see the wall hanging you made for me, in its place of honor. Well, unless you keep kosher. I’m afraid my cupboard isn’t stocked for that.”