Blood Kills

by Nanci Rathbun

  At night, the men and I went in search of Artur. On the fourth night, we found him, staggering drunkenly toward the officers’ quarters. They beat him senseless, but when they went to disembowel him, I asked for mercy on his behalf. They granted it, leaving him naked and bleeding onto the dirt. One of them carved a deep wound into his arm, a symbol, they said, that would guarantee his death at the hands of their people if he ever came under gypsy control again.

  I did not understand what Artur meant about my blood, but as a precaution, I decided to take samples of his blood and hair.

  The company broke camp that night. We traveled south, through Georgia to the border of Turkey, where they left me in the care of a family of Rom, whose patriarch taught me the art of the smithy. Thus I came to love metalworking.

  After years of preparing for a career as a metal artist, I gained some success in Turkey, then retrieved the money my papa had secured for me in Estonia. After that, I had enough to settle in Boulogne-sur-Mer in France, where I worked as a metal artist, and finally applied for a US visa. It was the happiest day of my life to arrive on American soil.

  I believed that I was finally safe at long last, until I saw Artur at the Saint Charles Fine Art Show in Illinois this spring. We exchanged looks, and I knew he recognized me. Then I remembered the old Romani woman and began to plan for my death.

  Those samples are my charge to you, Angie, the evidence against Artur that will prove my innocence should I die and he again accuses me of his crimes. You will find the vials in a small box in the wall behind the security alarm panel at my home in Wales.

  Take every precaution for yourself and Debby. Artur will stop at nothing to remain free of the punishment he deserves.

  Mikhail Lebedev

  Michael L. Swanson

  Chapter 44

  Precaution is better than cure.

  Sir Edward Coke

  Debby was quietly weeping into a tissue. I glanced up to see Bart, his eyes closed, arms crossed and thumbs tapping on his biceps. Clearing my throat to pry loose the lump that had formed there as I read, I laid the paper on the desk.

  “Well,” I said, my voice sounding tight, “this is unexpected.” Reflecting on my condo building’s recent mailbox break-in, I placed Mick’s letter and envelope on Bart’s desk and snapped pictures of them with my cell phone before asking him, “Would you please keep these in your safe for now? And Debby, I think it would be best if your copy stayed here too.”

  “Okay,” she said, adding hers on top of mine. With a sniffle, she dabbed at her eyes and put the used tissue in a nearby wastebasket. “I’m sorry to be so blubbery,” she said, “but I feel even more awful about Mick’s death now, knowing what his cousin did. That… that…” She struggled to find the right word.

  “Stronzo,” Bart interjected.

  Asshole. I raised an eyebrow and declined to translate for Debby.

  “Melinda,” Bart said, “please draw up a letter of agreement for Ms. Hill, for my representation in all matters related to her assumption of the business and personal affairs of Mr. Michael L. Swanson. And Ms. Hill, my normal rate for matters of this type is two hundred and fifty dollars an hour. Because of the risk, you see.” When she reached for her purse, he added, “Ten dollars will suffice for now. The rest is billable monthly. And Melinda, you’ll find a contract for Ms. Bonaparte in the file labeled MARCY WAGNER. Use it as a template for this matter. “

  Melinda nodded and left for her desk in the anteroom, returning in under three minutes by the clock on Bart’s wall.

  “Very efficient,” I told her.

  A one-sided dimple appeared in her left cheek.

  As we rose to leave, Bart gave an “ahem”—he was the only person I knew who used that old-fashioned signal for attention—and asked us, “What are your next steps?”

  “I’ll ask Wukowski—it’s his case—to retrieve and test the contents of the vials,” I said. “I have no idea how they might clear Mick of the Illinois murder, but given what he wrote, it seems only right.”

  “Very good,” Bart said. “Please keep me informed. And please, Angelina, take all necessary precautions and even some you may think unnecessary.”

  His use of my full first name signified the level of concern he felt. I assured him that Debby’s personal protection detail awaited us and that I would, indeed, be extremely cautious.

  Artur Hunter was a predator in more than name. If Mick were to be believed—and I certainly did—his cousin was a cold-blooded, ruthless killer, a man who took what he wanted without a thought to how his actions affected others. I did not want to be in his crosshairs.

  Chapter 45

  It is not righteousness to outrage a brave man dead, not even though you hate him.

  Sophocles

  I slammed the landline set into its cradle and cursed. Wukowski had flat-out refused to retrieve the hidden material from Mick’s home, asserting that the dead man’s claims made no sense in light of the DNA evidence and that he had more pressing cases awaiting his attention.

  Stomping into the bedroom closet, I grabbed workout clothes, dressed, and headed for the gym in the building’s basement. Nothing but exhaustion would help to calm the terrible sense of injustice that raged within me.

  I rained sweat onto the treadmill and the Gold home gym before cleaning the equipment and returning upstairs for a calming yoga DVD. A hot-as-sin steam shower took the rest of the fight out of me. I sank onto the couch, glass of wine in hand, feeling wrung out and discouraged.

  As I watched, the sun set on Lake Michigan, its last rays shooting across the mirror-calm waters in a straight line, aimed like a laser beam right at my little corner of the city. I gazed at the personification of truth, right there in front of me—light breaking through the coming darkness.

  “In the middle of every difficulty lies opportunity,” wrote Albert Einstein. What was the opportunity before me?

  I went into the kitchen, accessed the internet on my laptop, and ran a Google search: Can two people who aren’t twins have identical DNA? The results supported Wukowski’s skepticism: “The odds of someone having the same DNA by chance is like having a deck of twenty million cards, all different, and then drawing the same hand of three million cards twice!”

  Well, hell! I thought.

  But… the internet is full of fallacy and outright untruth, I told myself, refusing to allow Aunt Terry’s voice to influence me. Don’t be so stiff-necked, she would admonish my teenaged self. I’m not stiff-necked, I would retort. I’m persistent.

  And persistent I would be now. What I needed was an independent expert, someone outside of law enforcement.

  I found fifteen top names and settled on a professor of biology who’d helped create an open-source platform for persons interested in DNA sequencing. Her website led me to believe that she would not summarily dismiss my question. Using my work email address, I carefully described the conundrum and ended with the sentence, “Is it possible for two people who are not identical twins to have identical DNA?” After reading and rereading the material, I hit Send. If she responded in the negative, I would set Mick’s plea aside, albeit reluctantly. Until then, the evidence he collected could not be ignored.

  To bring them up to speed, I sent Bobbie and Bram images of Mick’s letter. Bobbie’s response was an emoji of Munch’s The Scream, Bram’s a single word: Lordy.

  Then I texted them and Debby: Meet at the farmhouse tomorrow, 1:00 p.m., to retrieve it?

  Debby understood the reference and immediately responded: Yes!

  Bobbie’s answer followed closely: I’ll be there.

  Bram’s text didn’t arrive until ten minutes later: I’ll scout the area first and meet you there.

  Lastly, I updated Spider and assured him that we had it under control.

  Having done all I could think of, I finished my glass of wine and made for my bedroom, settling into the pillow-top mattress to continue reading Tara Westover’s eye-opening memoir, Educated. Glancing up from her moving
account of overcoming the restrictions her isolating Mormon survivalist upbringing placed on her, I eyed the blank wall across from me. The wall where Mick’s metal panels would hang. The panels that I commissioned to celebrate Wukowski’s return to my life.

  The man could be so infuriating! But that didn’t stop me from loving him and longing for his big warm body next to mine in bed. I made a mental note to find out when the police would release Mick’s finished works to their owners.

  Chapter 46

  When things are investigated, then true knowledge is achieved.

  Confucius

  The next morning, I texted Wukowski. Going to Mick’s home 1:00. Will you notify Waukesha Co Sheriff that we’re legit?

  His reply: Yes. Be careful.

  I couldn’t resist a bit of snark. No need, right?

  At the turnoff for Mick’s property, Bram waited. He walked up to the driver-side window and leaned down. “Angie, Debby,” he said. “I checked the grounds and buildings. All clear.”

  I noticed a gun disturbing the lay of his untucked shirt, and a sense of reassurance settled over me. “Bobbie’s right behind us,” I told Bram. “Okay if I pull up to the house?”

  With a wave, he stepped back and I motored slowly up the driveway. “What an amazing place,” I said, enjoying the stands of old trees and the two-story Victorian building.

  Debby clapped her hands and her voice came out breathy. “Oh, turrets! I’ve always wanted a home with turrets. And gingerbread! Of course the colors aren’t right, but I don’t suppose Mick cared about that.”

  We exited the car as Bobbie’s Jetta rolled up and parked. He and Bram stepped out.

  “I’m planning to keep an eye on things out here,” Bram told us. “Don’t want any nasty surprises. Y’all call or text if you need me.”

  Bobbie pulled his man-bag out from the trunk and, with one eyebrow slightly raised, casually lifted the flap. His pistol was nestled inside. As Debby blithely approached the front door, I moved my sweatshirt aside to reveal my 9mm Beretta 92FS in its hip holster.

  Once inside, Bobbie and I did a quick reconnaissance before the three of us converged on the alarm panel in the mudroom, its display showing SYSTEM ARMED. “We should’ve triggered that when we entered,” I said. “I bet it’s a decoy, like the one at our office door. If not, the security company will be calling the sheriff’s office pretty soon. I asked Wukowski to let them know we have the legal right to be here.”

  “Good thinking,” Bobbie said. Then he removed a magnifying glass from his bag. “No marks on it,” he told us as he examined the panel, “but… does the manufacturer usually engrave these? Give me some light, Angie.”

  I activated my cell phone’s flashlight and aimed it at the panel.

  “There’s something etched on the side. A crisscross of lines.” He handed me the magnifying glass and took my phone.

  I angled my head to get a better look at the small image. “It’s… a starshina. Like Mick’s tattoo.”

  “Ha!” Bobbie exclaimed. “Let’s pry this off the wall and see what’s back there.” He returned the phone to me and put on a pair of surgical gloves, then went to work with a small chisel and hammer. He’d barely tapped on the pane before its front cover swung down on hinges, revealing an LED device that provided the SYSTEM ARMED display.

  Behind the cover, the drywall had been sawed open and a two-by-four fastened to the studs. A metal box perched on the ledge formed there, with an envelope taped to it and the words ANGELINA BONAPARTE block-printed on the outside. Using my cell phone, I snapped a picture of the box in situ.

  Bobbie retrieved it from its hiding place and we trooped into the kitchen. When he placed it on the table, we could see an engraving on the lid—another starshina. Again, I documented it with my phone camera, getting the best image of the starshina that I could.

  “Mick wanted me to do this,” I told Bobbie and Debby. “Gloves?” I asked him. “In case it’s empty, we can test for fingerprints. If they’re not Mick’s, we can probably assume they belong to Artur and he beat us to the punch.” Please, let it be there… whatever it is.

  The lid squeaked as I lifted it. Inside the metal container lay two small glass vials, cushioned in cotton wool and sealed with wax. ARTUR-HAIR 2008 read the label on the first vial and ARTUR-BLOOD 2008 on the second. I took a snapshot of the entire interior, then focused in on each vial and its label. My efforts wouldn’t establish a legal chain of custody, but I’d done the best I could.

  “Damn,” whispered Bobbie. “Mick didn’t lie. He had the goods on his cousin. But what do the samples prove?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. Turning to Debby, I said, “Yesterday, I put out a feeler to a big name in the world of DNA analysis, asking if there’s any way the Illinois evidence could be from someone else. If her response comes back negative, we should drop this. Agreed?”

  Debby’s shoulders drooped, and she said, “I need to think,” before leaving the room.

  Bobbie turned to me, one eyebrow quirked. “Maybe they were more than colleagues?”

  “I doubt it,” I told him. “My guess is that old feelings of helplessness are surfacing in her. I can’t say much more without violating her confidence.”

  “Gotcha.” Bobbie looked around the kitchen. “I’m parched.” He opened the fridge door. “Oh man, Mexican Coca-Cola with real cane sugar,” he moaned. “I like Mick’s style.”

  I thought of the outwardly tough and taciturn man who supported Chechen orphans. “Me too.” With a satisfying pop, the metal caps flew off and we guzzled the cold, sweet contents.

  Debby returned, looking more her usual self. Spotting the cola, she said, “I hope you saved one for me.”

  Bobbie wordlessly opened a cold bottle and handed it to her. “Oh… need a glass?”

  “Nah,” she said, already downing hers.

  “Let’s make ourselves comfortable in the living room,” I said, “and you can tell us what you’ve decided, Debby.”

  “No need to settle. I confess that I’ve been holding on to thoughts of clearing Mick’s name because he… well, he trusted me. That means a lot. And so I want to trust him. But if the expert says that the DNA is conclusively Mick’s and no one else can match it, we’ll call it quits.” With a wistful look, she added, “I’m thinking about keeping this property, though. I love the house. And I could have a horse. That’s been a dream of mine since I first left home.” With a sigh, she said, “Of course, it would depend on whether it’s seized.”

  “My aunt would say, ‘Don’t borrow trouble.’ Wait and see,” I said to encourage her. “At the very least, get an inspection and appraisal. The worst that can happen is you’ll be ready to haggle over reimbursement. The best outcome is that it’s yours and you’re ready to decide to keep it or sell it.”

  “It’s a mistake to defer your dreams,” Bobbie chimed in with a solemn look.

  Debby’s face lit up. “I’ll do it. I’ll ask Spider to give me a name, someone who can tell me if I’m loony for wanting to make this old lady mine.”

  Bobbie collected our now-empty bottles and set them in the recycle bin. “Onward, ladies.”

  “First,” I said, “let me call Bart Matthews and see if he’ll store the, uh, evidence.” The call went to voice mail, stating that the office was closed until Monday unless there was a legal emergency. “No luck there,” I told them. “Maybe Spider will hold them in his office safe.”

  After I explained our find, Spider asked, “Want to bring the vials here today, Angie, or wait until you come over to babysit tomorrow night?”

  “Today, please. I feel somehow apprehensive about keeping them with me.”

  “See you at the madhouse then.”

  I texted Bram that we were headed out, and he replied that he’d take one last look around before leaving too.

  Bobbie suggested that he ferry Debby back to her condo and Bleki so that I could head over to the Mulcahey residence with the vials.

  It might be crazy,
I thought, but I gloved up before carrying the box to my car, still feeling that prickly sense of unease.

  Chapter 47

  To be prepared is half the victory.

  Miguel de Cervantes

  From the tree hide, Artur observed the comings and goings of the small team, pleased with the competence of the men he’d assigned to surveillance of Mikhail’s home. He waited patiently, keeping a wary watch on York as he moved about the property. The man had skills, Artur had to admit.

  An hour later, the others arrived. Bonaparte, her partner Russell, and the woman who inherited from Mick, Deborah Hill. They emerged with White Hair—that was easier than her Sicilian surname on his tongue—carefully holding a metal box in gloved hands. “What is so precious that you cannot touch it?” he murmured, focusing the high-end zoom lens of his camera on the box. Derma! he cursed when he saw the starshina on the cover. Then he froze. Have they found the samples?

  Thirty minutes after they disappeared down the access road, he descended from his hide and approached the house with extreme caution, quickly locating the security panel, with its door hanging open.

  “Damn you, Mikhail! Let their blood be on your hands,” he cursed.

  He made his way back through the woods to his Jeep, where he placed a call to his second-in-command. “Put two teams of men on her. No contact, just follow her. Trade off so she doesn’t notice the cars. Have them text me every time she leaves the building and at each destination. There will be no mercy if they lose her.”

  Chapter 48

  All things come round to him who will but wait.

  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  There was a message from Wukowski on my landline. “Angie, find anything?”

  Deciding it would be petty to stonewall him, I returned his call and told Ms. Voicemail that we’d located the samples Mick mentioned and I’d left them with Spider Mulcahey. “Bart Matthews is representing Debby Hill in matters related to Mick Swanson, but his office is closed for the weekend, so Spider’s holding Mick’s evidence. I’m afraid that’s all I can say. Of course, you’re free to contact Bart on Monday morning.”