Unlike the extensive Wales property, assessed at over three million, the aerial image of his Boulder Lake plat showed a small fifth wheel, with a one-man canoe secured on top. Like his house, Mick’s campsite was surrounded by woods, with numerous roads in and out of the area. A pattern emerged.
My eyes felt gritty from staring at maps and papers, but my mind raced through all that I’d learned about Mick. A quiet man without friends or family. A man with Russian ties, if not Russian himself. Someone very aware of his surroundings and probably concerned for his safety. A man who knew how to avoid detection.
And a man who had placed the burden of his life onto Debby by naming her his heir and executor.
That last thought haunted me as I headed for a soak in a tub loaded with soothing bath salts, hoping its heat would draw the tension from my body. Debby had endured enough. I couldn’t let her be pulled into the miasma of whatever culminated in Mick’s death.
Chapter 21
This lesson I was taught by others: Might makes right.
Serial killer Carl Panzram
Artur edged along the parking garage’s perimeter walls, using an extendable baton to divert the surveillance cameras from their normal positions on the elevator and stairway, and waited behind a large pillar. He had to get access to the lawyer’s office, and that meant he needed a card for the readers.
The elevator dinged and a man in a pinstriped suit emerged, briefcase in one hand and his cell phone raised in the other as his thumb worked the screen.
No situational awareness, Artur thought, approaching with a cigarette in hand. “Any chance you have a light?” he asked.
The guy set the briefcase down and said, “One sec.” He took a lighter from his pants pocket. “Here ya go,” he said as he extended his hand.
Putting the smoke to his lips, Artur reached out. The unexpected blow to the neck sent the man to the pavement. Artur dragged the unconscious victim to the back wall and executed a chokehold until his breathing ceased. From the man’s wallet, he removed the building access card, and a business card giving the man’s name as Stephen Carmody, an accountant with offices on the nineteenth floor. Then he retrieved the briefcase and bent to place it next to Carmody. “Couldn’t have you waking up before I finished,” he whispered.
He entered the stairwell and began to climb. Just his luck that the lawyer’s office would be so high up.
Pausing on the twenty-first floor, Artur waited for his breathing to return to normal, then cracked open the door and listened. No ding of the elevator, no voices, no sounds of footsteps. He stepped into the carpeted hallway.
A small bronze plaque next to 2107 read LAW OFFICES OF REBECCA FRANKEN. Underneath was a card: Ring for Access. Dermo! He would have to fast-talk his way in. He pressed the buzzer.
To his surprise, the lock clicked to allow entry and a voice called, “DoorDash? Come on back.”
Artur removed the Ruger from his briefcase, rounded the reception area and entered the open office, arm extended. A small woman, seated behind a downsized wooden desk, started at the sight. As she reached underneath her desk, Artur pounced, dragging her from her chair. He glanced under the apron of the desk and noted a panic button. “Naughty girl,” he hissed, backhanding her. She fell to the floor, clutching her ears as blood began to drip from her nose.
***
She was a feisty little one, he had to admit, as he left the premises and walked to the stolen SUV parked half a mile away in a lot under the expressway. It took some persuasion to get Franken to provide the documents she had drafted for Mikhail. There had not been time to—how did they say it?—finesse the situation. But the lawyer was breathing and no one else had entered the office to be harmed, so the damage was not extensive. She would recover. For that, she should be grateful.
He settled into the vehicle and thought about next steps. Once the police cleared Mikhail’s home and grounds, he could conduct a thorough search.
He patted the USB drive in his pocket. The danger of Mikhail’s incriminating evidence being delivered to the authorities could not be overstated. Until he found what his cousin hid, every avenue had to be eliminated.
Chapter 22
Fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil.
Aristotle
My bedding resembled a war zone the next morning. Wrestling with angels, Aunt Terry often said. More like demons, I thought. I had reached no decision on whether to accept Mick Swanson’s posthumous charge. Maybe talking to the lawyer would bring me clarity.
I went through my lockstep morning routine—coffee, shower, makeup, clothes, Beretta secured in my briefcase holster—before placing a call on the landline.
“Law offices of Rebecca Franken,” said a shaky tenor voice. “May I help you?”
“I hope so. Ms. Franken drew up a will that benefits a client of mine. We’d like to engage her to help my client understand her duties as an executor and heir.”
“I’m sorry. She will be out of the office for an… indefinite period.”
“I see. Is there another attorney in the practice who might be available for a consultation?”
“No. I’m sorry, but no. I’m just cleaning up the mess and then the office will be closed until… further notice.”
“The mess?” I made my voice soothing and nonconfrontational.
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Mr.?”
“Andrew. Just Andrew.”
“Andrew, my name is Angelina Bonaparte. Call me Angie. I’m a private investigator. It sounds like you’re upset and I don’t want to pressure you. Is there any way to get a short phone call with Ms. Franken?”
“She’s in the hospital.” He sucked in a breath. “She was attacked yesterday here in the office. I’m shutting everything down and leaving as soon as I can.” The sound of a drawer slamming closed reinforced the urgency in his voice. “I’m not putting my life on the line. If that makes me a coward, well…”
“Your reaction is absolutely understandable. Of course you shouldn’t be there if you think it’s unsafe,” I reassured him while my thoughts centered with dread on the undoubted connection to Mick and therefore to Debby.
He took in a ragged breath. “Thanks for that. It really shook me, I can tell you.”
“I’m sure. And how is Ms. Franken?”
“Concussion. Bruising. They kept her overnight and plan to release her later today. That is, if there’s someone who can stay with her. She never talks about family or close friends. Kind of an abrasive person, to be honest.”
“I see.” After a moment’s thought, I said, “My aunt is a patient liaison at several hospitals in the area. I bet she could make arrangements for Ms. Franken. That is, if you trust me enough to tell me which hospital she’s at.”
“Give me your name again,” he said.
I spelled it out for him.
“Okay, I’ll look you up and make a call to your office. If you answer, I’ll give you the information. She sure needs the help.”
“I’m not in the office right now, but leave a voice mail with a code of some sort and I’ll call you back.”
“Got it.”
I waited a minute and accessed the message: dillydally drew.
When I called Franken’s office and repeated the nonsensical words, Andrew said, “My mom used to call me that. You must be legit. Rebecca’s at Saint Mary’s. Uh, would you mind leaving a message on my cell once the plans are made? I, uh, I’ll need to let her know that I’m… resigning.” He gave me his number.
“Andrew,” I said, “I’m assuming the police were there.”
“Yeah, but that was after I left yesterday. She was alone when the guy got in.”
“I’ll get in touch with them. I think the attack on Ms. Franken might be part of an investigation that I’m pursuing. If she agrees, I really want my security guy to check your office computer. Maybe he can tell if anything was accessed. I might need to call you to get keys, but that can wait until your boss is well e
nough to agree.”
The poor guy was breathing hard now.
I gave him my cell number. “Please call me if you think of anything that might give me a clue as to who did this or why. And you can also call me if you continue to feel unsafe or need help. I don’t want to scare you, but if this is the same person, he’s dangerous. Be aware of your surroundings and don’t go places alone. You may want to have someone stay with you.”
“Omigod!” he exclaimed. “I’m outta here. The mess can wait.”
“That’s a good plan,” I semi-crooned. “I doubt the attacker will be interested in you, Andrew, since he probably got what he wanted last night. But be careful nonetheless. And call me if you feel threatened. I know people who can help.”
With more reassurances by me and thanks on his part, we disconnected.
Chapter 23
The only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for good [women] to do nothing.
Edward Burke
Wukowski would race into overprotective mode when I informed him about the attack on Mick’s lawyer and my possible involvement in the case, but I could see no alternative—he needed to know. I decided to ease into it with a text.
Me: Morning, caro. Got a minute?
Him: Maybe even five.
Me: I have info on the Swanson murder.
Him: Spill it.
Me: Look into an attack last night on Attorney Rebecca Franken. Then call me at home.
The landline rang ten minutes later. “Angie, what’s this got to do with Mick Swanson?”
Despite his less than romantic tone, his smooth baritone voice brought back memories of our dancing to “Sexual Healing” in my living room, which ratcheted up my heat level. I had little doubt that the confrontational tension would return when Wukowski learned about the will and codicil. “And a lovely day to you,” I said.
He sighed. “Sorry for barking at you.”
“Much better. Now, let me give you the short version. Mick named Debby Hill to inherit his assets and act as his executor,” I told him. “She gave me copies of his legal documents yesterday, but I didn’t start to look them over until last night. Franken drew up the will.” I held back on telling him about the codicil until he had a moment to absorb this revelation.
“Well… damn. Why didn’t she tell me they were involved when I questioned her?”
“They weren’t. According to Debby, Mick asked her to take on the role because he had no close friends or family, and he considered her the best person to manage the Arts Galleria and keep his dream of an artists’ coalition alive. He gave her the documents a few months ago, but she just filed them away without opening them. I can attest to that, because they were in a paperboard envelope, closed with the usual adhesive strip and then sealed again with wax imprinted with a swan. For Swanson.”
“Medieval,” he said.
“But effective,” I replied. “The seal was intact until I removed it last night to take a look at the contents before talking with the attorney. Debby wanted moral support. You’ve noticed that she’s fairly unsure of herself?”
“Yeah, I got that. The hand wringing.”
“Right. So I called the lawyer this morning for an appointment. The office assistant told me about the assault.” I tapped a finger on the counter. “It can’t be a coincidence, Wukowski. It must be related to the murder.”
He said, “That’s my initial take on it. I’ll have to get the crime-scene team to reexamine the premises. They did the usual for a break-in and assault, but because of Franken’s dealings with Swanson, we need to take a more thorough look.”
“There’s something else you should know. Hear me out before you go ballistic.”
“Me? Ballistic?”
I snorted at his sarcastic rejoinder.
“Okay. I’m listening.” His voice dripped resignation.
Sure of an explosive reaction, I read the note and the codicil to him and mentally counted. One thousand one, one thousand two…
The response came at the three-second mark. “You can’t be planning to follow through on this! Swanson’s dead, Hill was threatened, and now Franken’s been attacked. Not to mention the Russian connection. This is way outside the scope of your business and your expertise, Angie.”
“I can’t argue the point, Wukowski. My website certainly doesn’t list ‘uncovering perpetrators in a criminal cabal’ as a service I offer. But what about Debby? The police can’t give her coverage twenty-four seven. And if there’s even a grain of truth to Mick’s claim that the police have betrayed him before, then who will you and Iggy trust within the department?”
His voice dropped a level. “Every criminal asserts his innocence, and ninety percent of them claim that the authorities meddled with evidence. That doesn’t make it so.” He sighed and I could picture him running his hands through his hair in exasperation. “Think about what we know, Angie. Swanson’s the victim of a double tap—a professional killing—and his own legal papers claim he’s in hiding for crimes that he was convicted of. I’m sure you asked Mulcahey to check things out after the murder. With his extralegal access, why didn’t he find data about Swanson’s contentions? This smacks of a large-scale conspiracy, especially given the Russian connections. I can’t stop you from getting further involved, Angie, but I’m asking you to back off, for your own sake, and let me do my job.”
I pondered his request for a minute, acknowledging the truth of many of his statements—although I still saw Mick as the victim and not the mastermind. I listened to his breathing while he awaited my response. “Okay,” I said, “I can understand your concerns. Let’s compromise. I want to help Debby navigate her role as executor, and to do that I need to talk to the lawyer. According to the office guy, Franken will be released from the hospital today if there’s someone to stay with her, but he isn’t sure about that working out. Apparently, she has no family or close friends.”
“And?” he challenged me.
“Aaand”—I let exasperation creep into my voice—“I’m going to ask Aunt Terry to meet me at the hospital, help me talk to Franken, and set her up with a temporary caregiver. After that, I’ll see. Debby needs help, Wukowski, and the police aren’t in a position to advise her.”
“Fair enough”—his own exasperation came across the line—“but I want to be present for your interview. Maybe Terry can help me get some facts straight too, without overly alarming Franken. No sense making the woman repeat everything.”
I agreed, thankful he was willing to work with me despite his natural desire to keep me out of danger. But I insisted that Aunt Terry lead the conversation. Her gentle manner and helpful contacts would go a long way toward easing Franken’s undoubted anxiety and getting her released.
Chapter 24
Only an aunt can give hugs like a mother, keep secrets like a sister and share love like a friend.
Unknown
Wukowski bridged Aunt Terry onto our call, and we agreed to meet in the hospital lobby in an hour. “There’ll be a patrol officer outside her door within ten minutes,” Wukowski assured us, “and I’ve contacted Saint Mary’s security to be sure they don’t give out Franken’s room number or even acknowledge that she’s a patient.”
I’d dressed for a meeting with an attorney this morning—business suit, subtle makeup, discreet earrings, hosiery, and heels. Far too cold for a hospital visit, I told myself.
Minutes later, a business-casual Angie faced me in the bathroom mirror: plum-colored blouse, gray travel blazer with pushed-up sleeves, black dress pants, and black kitten heels. Much more approachable.
I decided to take the scenic route to the hospital, along Lincoln Memorial Drive and the lakefront. In the winter, accessing Saint Mary’s this way could be dangerous, with its steep climb up Water Tower Road.
Wukowski took a while to reveal his real name to me. It came about as his father made the trip up this hill in mid-December while his mom labored and the radio played Good King Wenceslas. And just like that, Lena insisted th
at the baby boy—of course it had to be a boy because she was carrying low, feeling cold all the time, and had no morning sickness—be named Wenceslas. His father conceded as long as he could choose the baby’s middle name. And so the poor little thing’s birth certificate read Wenceslas Tadeusz Wukowski. Imagine if the song had been “We Three Kings”—he might’ve ended up being Balthazar, Melchior, or Gaspar. Horrors! As it was, he reverted to his middle name in everyday situations and went by Ted. But before he and I got, er, friendly, I’d learned to refer to him by his last name and it persisted. He’d always be Wukowski to me.
Aunt Terry waited for me at the lobby information desk, smiling and talking with the clerk on duty. She’d left the convent as a novice, sacrificing her dream of religious life to help my papa raise me after my mother died very young from the flu. Even after decades, Aunt Terry lived as if still aspiring to full status as a nun—sharing an apartment near Alverno College with two teaching sisters, wearing frumpy dark clothes and thick-soled shoes, styling her hair into a basic bowl cut, and avoiding even lipstick.
But almost years ago, she’d met a man—Fausto Pirelli—and had taken tiny teenager steps toward upgrading her look and even dating. And I dared anyone to come up with a more strained role reversal than ours when I’d had “the talk” with her about the possibility of sexual activity. I wasn’t sure if she took my advice, and I didn’t want to know. Her obvious happiness brought joy to my heart.
Aunt Terry introduced me to the woman at the desk, beaming as if I were a precious jewel.
“Oh, your aunt has told me so much about you, how strong and brave and intelligent you are,” she said. “And how proud she is of you.”
“As I am of her,” I responded, thinking how Aunt Terry’s inherent goodness made everyone better versions of themselves.
From the entry, Wukowski called hello and joined us at the desk. “Good to see you, Terry,” he said, bending to kiss her cheek. “Thanks for being here. You’ll put Ms. Franken at ease much better than I could.”
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