Blood Kills

by Nanci Rathbun

  “Ye-es?” Her voice quavered, stretching the word out to two syllables.

  “I’ll pick you up for lunch, and we’ll make a list. There’s nothing like a good prioritized list to restore your sense of control. And I have an idea or two about Mick’s property. Then we’ll head over to Bart Matthews’ office.”

  “That sounds great,” she said, “but, um, you know about Tim? Tiny Tim, he says they call him, but I find that offensive.”

  “Sure, I’ve worked with him before. Is he there?”

  “He told me that Spider insisted on providing a protection detail for me. Crazy, right? I mean, it’s like the Secret Service covering the president.”

  “Spider’s very cautious about matters like that. If it’s the money, Rebecca Franken assures me that the estate has more than enough to cover the costs.”

  “If I even see any of it. But that’s not the immediate problem. Tim will be with us at lunch. He told me that he’ll lurk in the background.”

  I laughed, picturing the diminutive redhead with the Texas twang, trying to be inconspicuous. “No problem. I’ll buy his meal.”

  “I doubt that he’ll let you, but you can offer. He’s always on duty, you see.”

  “Good man,” I said.

  ***

  I drove Debby to Tre Rivali, a highly rated restaurant near Bart’s office in the historic Third Ward. After checking the area outside, Tim came in through the kitchen, examined the restrooms, and took up a position in the entryway area, letting the host know that he would wait there in case his “boss” needed him during the course of a private lunch meeting. The courtly gentleman sniffed and muttered under his breath about “inconsiderate workaholics.”

  Keeping to her commitment to cut back on calories, Debby ordered grilled asparagus and a Caprese salad. I chose the Mediterranean roasted half chicken with raisin-apricot couscous, and we both happily tucked in when the plates arrived.

  As we chatted, I casually suggested ways that Debby could manage her workload. “I bet my daughter Emma would be glad to help you sort and display the recent yarn order. If it’s not too complex a task, that is. She’s been concerned about you.”

  Her eyes lit up. “That’s a wonderful idea,” she said. “The bins are all clean and labeled, so it should be easy for her to manage. And I’ll offer her a free class or a supply of yarn for the help.”

  “Perfect solution. Now taxes are something I don’t even do for myself, but I have a great accountant if you need one.” I thought of my former officemate, Susan.

  “Wait, let me get something to write on so I don’t lose track.” From her purse, she extracted a small spiral notepad and pencil. “Okay, first contact Emma about the yarn.” She wrote the number two underneath that item. “I think I’ll stick with the person who’s taken care of my accounts and taxes since I opened, Angie. She knows the business inside and out, so I don’t have to explain much to her.” She noted, “Call Jen re: taxes,” then added a three below that line. With a sigh, she said, “But Mick is another story. I don’t even know who handled his business affairs.”

  “Why not get back in touch with the Wales treasurer’s office and ask for an extension? That will give you some breathing space.”

  She made the note and her eyes met mine in a long look. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. It’s so obvious.”

  I shook my head and reached over to gently pat the back of her hand. “Nothing’s obvious when you’re under a lot of stress.”

  “That’s for sure,” she agreed. “So, we’ve sorted out the yarn order and Mick’s business and personal taxes. I feel much better.”

  “Good,” I told her, pushing my plate back. “The rest of this is going home with me. They certainly don’t stint on serving sizes.” I leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile. “But they make a delicious dark chocolate torte with rum sabayon sauce. Want to split one?”

  She grinned. “You temptress! I’ll have two bites, one for each hip. Stab me with your fork if you see me go for a third.”

  “The host already thinks I’m a meanie, thanks to Tim refusing to join us. He’ll call the cops on me!”

  Sated, I set my dessert fork down and said, “Bart can help you make the transition to a permanent legal representative. For my part, I want him to hire me to work on your case, which affords me attorney-client privilege. It means I can’t be forced to disclose anything I know about matters relating to Mick, as far as they involve you.”

  Her eyes widened. “And you think that’s necessary?”

  “I honestly don’t know. But I do think it’s advisable. Plus Bart led me to believe that he has information about Mick. Maybe… well, maybe from organized crime connections. Bart does a fair amount of work for the Milwaukee mob, but that may be an asset, given Mick’s supposed connections to Bratva.”

  “You know, I still can’t believe that. I mean, I know it’s true, but it’s just too hard to imagine. Still, the DNA evidence doesn’t leave room for doubt, right?”

  “Afraid not,” I said. “So, shall we head over there and find out what Bart knows about Mick Swanson?”

  Chapter 41

  If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself.

  George Orwell

  As we entered the lobby of Bart’s building, I said to Debby, “Bart smokes like the proverbial chimney, even in the office. He had a special extractor installed to vent the smoke outside, but the smell… It’s so bad that in the winter I leave my coat in the hallway. Saves me from a cleaning bill.”

  “Ew.” She wrinkled her nose. “That’s gross.”

  “Especially considering his weight. Ever see the Nero Wolfe TV series? That’s Bart. Over three hundred. A heart attack or stroke waiting to happen.”

  We approached the lobby desk, where an unknown guard sat. “Angelina Bonaparte and Deborah Hill to see Bartholomew Matthews,” I told him.

  He checked the computer and waved us onward.

  “Three stories,” I told Debby, “but these historic iron work buildings are a nightmare to retrofit. No elevators in this one.”

  “Poor Bart,” she said as we made for the concave marble steps, worn down by over a hundred years of feet.

  When we entered the anteroom, a petite, perky brunette rose and came around to greet us. “Ms. Bonaparte, I’m Melinda. It’s so lovely to meet you.”

  I took her outstretched hand, noticing as I did so that at least this area of the law offices wasn’t polluted by the smell of stale cigarette smoke, as it had been when Bertha Conti filled the position of office administrator. “Let me introduce Debby Hill,” I told her. “She’s involved in the matter at hand.”

  “Please go in. He’s waiting for you.”

  I took a last breath of clean air and opened the door.

  My eyebrows lifted into my hairline when a redesigned Bart Matthews, resplendent in a suit that didn’t come from the big-and-tall-man’s department, approached to greet me. He put his hands on my shoulders, said, “Angie, my dear, it’s been too long,” and pressed his cheek to mine. No belly intervened.

  “B-Bart,” I said, “you look fabulous.” I sniffed. “And no smoke odor. Have I crossed into an alternate universe?”

  His rarely heard guffaw, still deep and from the stomach, burst forth. “Remember my old motto? ‘Eat healthy, exercise, die anyway.’ Well, about a year ago, it almost came to pass.” He patted his now-flat abdomen and added, “I decided I liked living a little longer more than I liked fatty food and cigarettes. You see before you the new, slimmer version of my old self. I now have a personal trainer and a chef who prepares my meals for a week.”

  “I’m so very happy you made it through that crisis and are taking the right steps to stay healthy,” I told him, and I meant every word of it. Bart had helped me out of some bad situations, but I didn’t simply appreciate his legal skills. Over the years, we’d developed a friendship, despite my uneasiness about his mob affiliation. Unless my interests conflicted with those of his
primary clients, he had my back, and he frequently offered me the kind of advice that a big brother would.

  “Well, enough of that.” He turned to Debby. “Ms. Hill, I take it?”

  “That’s right,” she said, “but call me Debby.”

  “Then you must call me Bart.” He gestured at the client chairs as he turned back to his mahogany desk. “Please, ladies, take a seat.” A new, sleek executive chair now held pride of place where the old one, specially designed to hold Bart’s former bulk, once resided.

  My mind reeled at the transformation, but we were at Bart’s office to learn what he knew about Mick, so I forced myself into professional mode. “Bart, Debby and I are here because she needs legal representation as the heir and executor of Mick Swanson’s estate. The attorney who drafted Mick’s will is planning to retire and is unwilling to take on any new clients.”

  Turning to her, he said, “I don’t handle estate planning or management, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, well”—she stilled her nervous hands and straightened—“the problem is that Mick’s other attorney was attacked by someone looking for evidence that Mick claimed would prove the supposed killer was the one who committed crimes years ago. But then Mick’s DNA was connected to a murder in Illinois and the man who was killed was against this Russian mob, Bratva, and the police are freezing Mick’s assets, which include the whole Arts Galleria and… oh, it’s just a mess. I don’t know what to do.” She ran out of breath and collapsed against the chair back.

  Bart tapped his steepled hands against his chin, glancing from me to Debby and back again to me. “Angie, can you clarify?”

  I went through the sequence of events that brought us to his office, ending with, “If you represent Debby and hire me to investigate on her behalf, I can claim attorney-client privilege, should the police or the district attorney want to question me.”

  “And you feel this is necessary because…”

  “Because I don’t know what else will come to light when Mick’s estate is probated. The evidence he claimed to have about older crimes may link to the death of the Illinois representative. Wukowski thinks that, having placed Mick at the scene of that crime, the matter is settled and the person who’s pursuing the evidence will simply fade away. I’m not so sure.”

  Leaning forward, Bart clasped his hands on his desk and said, “Let me tell you a story. One that could come straight from the writings of Dashiell Hammett or Raymond Chandler.” He opened the leather-bound office diary, wet his fingertip, and paged back until he found the entry he wanted. “On July twentieth of this year, Michael L. Swanson visited my office to hire me to execute a most unusual request on his behalf.”

  He closed the book and set it aside, moving a file folder from the edge of his desk in its place. Opening it, he said, “I kept a written record of our conversation, for reasons you’ll understand shortly. Mr. Swanson expressed concern that a violent man from his past, his cousin, was pursuing him and would kill him. Somehow this cousin would use Mr. Swanson’s death to forestall murder charges in another state. Mr. Swanson did not provide particulars.”

  Debby gasped and turned to me. “That’s exactly what happened!”

  “It would seem so, from what you’ve told me,” Bart continued, referring to the paper in front of him. “Mr. Swanson believed that, short of his going off-grid, his cousin would inevitably catch up with him. He refused to uproot himself ‘yet again’—his words—but he quite adamantly refused to take the blame—yet again, he repeated—for something he hadn’t done. He wanted the truth to be revealed.”

  At that, Bart rose and walked to the outsized freestanding safe in one corner of his office. He twirled the combination wheel, depressed the large handle with a thunk, and swung open the door. When he turned back to us, he held a legal-sized envelope in his right hand. Approaching me, he extended the envelope. “For you, Angie. From Mr. Swanson. His charge to me is now fulfilled.”

  “What… what is it, Bart?” I asked, unnerved at the thought of the secrets the envelope might contain. “And why did Mick come to you with this?”

  Chapter 42

  There are no secrets that time does not reveal.

  Jean Racine

  Bart gave me a long, considering look. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s probably the strangest request I’ve ever had. Mr. Swanson handed me the envelope with your name on it. He told me that he trusted you to be fair and not to rush to judgment. He asked that I keep it in my safe until two weeks after his death and then deliver it to you in person and explain all that we’d discussed.”

  He resumed his chair and read from the notes of his meeting with Mick. “When I questioned why he selected me for this task, he said that he knew you and I had a previous legal relationship. Then he grinned—a malicious grin, almost a sneer—and said, ‘And I believe that your association with certain factions of society will be useful.’ I can only assume he meant”—with a sideways glance at Debby, Bart continued—“my representation of persons involved in alleged criminal activity.”

  With a small exhalation, he closed the folder and said, “I decided to deliver the letter to you before two weeks had passed. It seemed prudent to make you aware of Mr. Swanson’s concerns and his implication that an organized crime faction might be involved in his death.” Gesturing at the envelope, he told me, “It’s in your hands now, Angie. Literally and figuratively. Do you wish to open the envelope here in case I may be of assistance?”

  “You bet I do,” I exclaimed. “But first I want to know that you’re acting on behalf of Debby and that you’ve hired me to assist you in that regard.”

  “Mmm… that may represent a conflict of interest for me. Perhaps you should read the contents before we reach that agreement.” Turning to Debby, he said, “Ms. Hill, do you agree?”

  Her eyes wide with excitement but tinged with apprehension, Debby nodded.

  Bart handed me his letter opener, and I slit the envelope, hesitating a moment before extracting a single sheet of paper from within. I read it silently before deciding that nothing it contained would conflict with Bart’s position as the local Mafia consigliere .

  “Here,” I said, reaching across his desk to give him the letter. “I see no problem with your representing Debby, but I’ll let you decide.”

  While he read, I let the contents swirl in my head. What Mick wrote seemed… impossible, or at least highly unlikely.

  Debby placed her hand on my arm and broke my reverie. “Angie?” Her quiet, quavering voice called out for reassurance.

  I patted her hand and said, “I think it will be fine.” Then we both turned to Bart, like two lost children in search of their mother, or in our case, in search of answers.

  He shook his head, as if seeking to clear the cobwebs from his brain. “I accept Ms. Hill’s case,” Bart said, buzzing Melinda, who came in carrying a steno pad. He directed her to copy the letter and envelope. “This is certainly unprecedented in my long career,” he told us as she returned and handed Bart and Debby duplicates, passing the original to me.

  Chapter 43

  Death never takes a wise man by surprise; he is always ready to go.

  Jean de la Fontaine

  Letter from Michael Swanson to Angelina Bonaparte, dated July 18, 20__

  Angie, I have been accused many times of crimes I did not commit, crimes which my cousin Artur is responsible for. We were children, growing up in the same village, until his father became rich from oil. They moved away, and my family remained poor.

  Then when I was ten, my mother’s brother, Artur’s father, came to us. His son was ill and needed a bone marrow transplant. They tested me and I was a match. My uncle offered my parents what seemed like a small fortune if I would be his donor. My father agreed. The process was painful for me, and I ached and had headaches for weeks, but eventually I recovered and Artur was cured of the leukemia. After that, he was always in trouble, but his father paid my family for me to take the blame.

  I was only sixtee
n when my parents died of influenza during a terrible outbreak in our village. As he lay burning up with fever, my father pressed a bank book into my hands and confided that he made a boat trip to Tallinn in Estonia to put the money from the marrow donation and other payments there, where it would be safe. “You will not have to stay here, Misha. Go out and make your way.” I hid that book on my person as I struggled to keep myself alive.

  Then, at eighteen, I was conscripted into the army and Artur’s reign over me continued. He killed two men and accused me. I was astonished that my blood matched what was left at the crime scenes, and I was convicted and served short sentences because there were circumstances that indicated the dead men were not totally without blame. Once I was released from military prison, I thought myself finally free of Artur’s grasp.

  While in service in Chechnya, where I witnessed atrocities too awful to describe, I came upon my cousin, now far above me in rank, him being a captain to my lowly sergeant major. He was beating a young woman almost to death. I pulled him off her, and he shouted that I would be the one arrested for the crime, that it was my blood that mingled with hers, before he stormed away.

  The girl’s little brother crept out of the shadows of the alleyway and tugged me with him to a Ruska Roma campsite. You call them gypsies. The men retrieved the girl while the boy explained what had happened to a wise old woman of the company. She questioned me closely and decided that I was their friend—and when you are the friend of the Romani, it is for life.

  While the girl Vadoma recovered, the old woman, who I discovered had a genuine psychic talent, hid me in her wagon during the day. She stained my skin dark with the husks of walnuts and dressed me in Romani clothes. I became Vano, a mute imbecile, because I could not speak their language if questioned. The soothsayer read my palm and the tea leaves and warned me to have no contact with my family, who sought to betray and kill me.