Blood Kills Page 5

  My heart did a little leap and Bobbie blurted out, “Holy crap!”

  “Nothing holy about it.” Spider’s voice was emotionless. He flipped to the next page, an enlargement of the tattoo. “Starshina. There were a lot of variants on the design. The last official use was in ninety-one, for Soviet Airborne forces, but it’s still a popular symbol in the military.”

  “Is it uncommon outside the former Soviet Union?”

  Spider nodded. “I’d say so.”

  I raised a hand, causing him to pause. “Repeat the name of the knife, please.” When he did, I nodded. “That’s the trace of an accent I used to notice when Mick Swanson said a word beginning with a K sound, that same throaty sound you used for Korshun. But it wasn’t as obvious.” I pondered for a moment. “How would you go about finding out if a person in the US came from one of the former USSR countries? Or if they were second generation?”

  “If the guy was legit, there’d be a paper trail, starting with an immigration visa. The police can determine that.”

  “Um, can you?” I knew that Spider could tap into otherwise-inaccessible databases.

  “Maybe. But what’s the need, Angie?”

  That made me pause. “If I’m being honest, there is none. It’s mainly curiosity on my part. Forget I asked.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that,” he said. “And I’d advise you to stay out of this one, for your own safety. Ever hear of Bratva?”

  “No, I can’t say I have.”

  “It’s Russian Mafia, Angie,” Bram said. “They began like the Sicilian Cosa Nostra, trying to get justice for the poor in a feudal society. But like the Mafia, they moved into illegal areas. No offense.”

  I shrugged. “None taken.”

  “They’re entrenched in places like New York, Florida, Chicago, the French Riviera, Spain.” Bram continued. “Anywhere they can make a buck out of illegal activities. Extortion, racketeering, illegal firearms and gambling, drugs, people trafficking. Real bad guys.”

  “And that’s why you need to step back,” Spider said. “Way back. They’re vicious and they’ll stop at nothing. And your old man can’t protect you from the inside, if it is Bratva.”

  My mind spun for a moment. Mick, a strong gentle man, involved with things like that? Or was he a victim? The knife and the tattoo implied that he was a participant, but… he might’ve been involved and then fled from the life. “Wukowski needs to know this,” I said, “and I don’t see a way of giving him the information without involving you.”

  Spider closed his folder. “I don’t mind talking to him off the record. He’s a straight shooter. But I’d rather not have my name on official documents.”

  “Understood.” I shuffled the papers and slipped them back into my folder. “I’ll give him this copy, and we’ll keep Bobbie’s for the office in case I need to refer to it again.”

  “Angie—”

  I interrupted. “I promise that I have no intention of getting embroiled in this. It’s only for the files. You know I’m OCD about record-keeping.”

  “That’s for sure,” Bobbie said, breaking the tension in the room and making us laugh.

  “Be extra cautious for the next few weeks,” Spider advised. “Don’t go places alone. Carry a weapon. Watch your backs.”

  “Because?” Bobbie asked.

  “Because we were there fairly soon after the murder,” Bram reminded us. “It’s possible the killer was still nearby and might have seen us.”

  For a moment Bobbie’s eyes narrowed. Then he tightened his jaw and said, “Got it.”

  As the men rose to leave, I put a hand on Spider’s arm. “Thanks for this. And for caring about us.”

  “Always,” he assured me.

  “And Spider, if you and Magdalena are ready for a night out, let me know. Aunt Terry would love to help me babysit your trio.”

  “Ready? Angie, we’re way beyond ready,” came the instant response. “I’ll talk to Magda and we’ll set a date. Bless you a thousand times.”

  I grinned at the joy in his voice. Parenting is not for wusses, I thought.

  Chapter 13

  It has long been an axion of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important.

  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  I placed a call to Homicide headquarters.

  “Wukowski. What’s up, Angie?”

  “I have information I want to share. Don’t go ballistic on me. I’m not involved in the investigation, simply satisfying my curiosity.”

  I hoped the disclaimer would disarm his natural instinct to exclude me from anything that might turn violent. His sister was the innocent victim of a gang execution while a teenager, and his former partner, Liz White, had been kidnapped and brutally killed during a drug investigation. Wukowski reacted to feelings of powerlessness to prevent their deaths by overprotectiveness toward me. He was better at keeping it under control than when we first met, but it couldn’t hurt to preemptively defuse it.

  “When I saw Mick’s body,” I continued, “I noticed the tattoo on his wrist. And the knife had a peculiar engraving. I took photos at the scene and sent them to Spider.”

  “You took pictures?” His voice was flat.

  “I know that seems cold, Wukowski, but my investigative instincts kicked in. I didn’t get close to the body, so nothing was contaminated. I used the zoom feature on my cell.”

  “Good thing,” he said, “or I might have to charge you with obstruction of justice.”

  We’d had that discussion before.

  He sighed. “Of course Matthews would get you off.”

  The local media once referred to Bartholomew Matthews as a “Mafia mouthpiece.” He threatened to sue, and an apology promptly resulted. Since my papa was a onetime consigliere—an advisor to a local boss—in the now largely defunct Milwaukee organization, I knew Bart well. We’d even worked together on the Morano and Johnson murders. Wukowski had no love for Bart, but I considered him a friend and a legal asset I could turn to in a pinch.

  “You bet he would, tesoro.” I hoped calling him my sweetheart would soothe his ruffled feathers.

  “Okay, what did Spider have to say?”

  I filled him in on the tattoo and the knife, ending with, “Bram says it’s used in close fighting and it appeals to a lot of ex-military.”

  “He’s right about that,” Wukowski responded. “But Swanson has no US military record. The starshina though… We may have to spread a broader net on this one. You mentioned a slight accent yesterday. Russian?”

  “It was barely noticeable, so I can’t be sure.” I pondered my memories of our discussions about the panels. “When Spider pronounced ‘kor-shun,’ it reminded me of the way Mick said ‘black,’ like a Scottish pronunciation of ‘loch.’ You know, with that hint of a choking sound. I’ll text Lily March to see if she can recommend a linguistics expert.”

  Lily’s library research and contacts at UW-Milwaukee’s campus led to uncovering a sadistic killer during the Johnson case. She would be thrilled to be called on again.

  “I’d like to rule it in or out,” Wukowski said, “but don’t think this means you’re part of the investigation, Angie.”

  “Of course not,” I countered. “I’m a professional. Unless I have a paying client, I’m strictly hands-off.”

  “Good. Let me know what you find out. And thanks for the info. I appreciate it. I’ll give Mulcahey a call to see what other ideas he might have.”

  “Anything to get this wrapped up. Then I can wrap you up, amore mio.” I ended the call with a grin on my face, sure that my comment had raised the heat level between us. And that was all to the good.

  Chapter 14

  The only thing that you absolutely have to know is the location of the library.

  Albert Einstein

  Lily liked working second shift at the library. The students who made time for study or research between five and midnight created less disruption in her orderly world than daytime scholars, who tended to socialize and misuse t
he property. More than once, she’d walked in on a couple having sex in a study room—and this despite the fact that they featured walls of glass, open to both the neighborhood and the inner areas. I texted her to see if she was working tonight and asked if I could pop in.

  Barely a second passed before she replied: Yes and Yes. I hope it’s for a case. I need some mental stimulation.

  Me: I want advice from a linguistics prof about a possible connection between a dead man and the former Soviet Union. Don’t mention that to the prof. I don’t want to prejudice him or her.

  Lily: I have just the person—a grad student. She’s almost always here around five. I’ll arrange it. Can I sit in?

  Me: Of course. Same rules of confidentiality. Many thanks.

  I understood Lily’s comment about stimulation quite well. The job consisted of a lot of routine work. When I had figured out that research was what I really loved about librarianship—uncovering hidden facts and making connections to solve a riddle—I decided to pursue my current career. Of course, it has its own level of routine.

  I dressed and headed for the office, determined to power through the billing statements and other bookwork necessary to keep a small business in operation.

  ***

  After circling the UWM library for fifteen minutes—street parking there is fierce, and I don’t use parking structures for safety reasons—I finally found a one-hour spot and hiked six blocks, grateful that I’d chosen flats that morning.

  From her desk near the first-floor entry, Lily grinned and rose. All six feet-plus of her. “Angie,” she loud-whispered as she sped toward me and enveloped me in a hug, “good to see you.”

  “And you,” I said into her wool cardigan. Lily was a knitter, and the soft yarn felt soothing against my cheek. “Now let me out for air.”

  She snorted. “Sorry, I forget about your being height challenged.”

  “No need to be PC about it. I’m short and I’m proud.”

  We ambled over to her desk, where she put up a sign: THE LIBRARIAN WILL RETURN ASAP. “Who can say how long ASAP is?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye. “Let’s go up to the second floor. I reserved a study room for us.”

  I followed her gangly body up the stairs, noting that, since learning to knit, her sleeves no longer ended above her wrist bones.

  Lily knocked and we entered the small enclosure. A young woman rose to greet us, dressed in a black T-shirt with white lettering that read: I'M A LINGUIST. WHAT'S YOUR SUPERPOWER? With an extended hand, she said, “Sophia Pallis.”

  “Angelina Bonaparte,” I responded. “Angie. I’m a private investigator. My superpower is making it in a so-called man’s profession.”

  “Tough for you,” she said. “Linguistics is a field where women predominate, although not at the top.” Once we settled at the table, Sophia gave me an expectant look.

  “The reason I want your input,” I told her, “is that I happened to have found a dead body two days ago.”

  She gave a small gasp. “How awful!”

  With a nod, I said, “It was indeed. I’m trying to get a handle on something, but before we go further, I need to ask for your confidentiality. It might hinder the police investigation if information got out, and it could even lead to a killer being set free because of procedural issues. Can you keep this strictly to yourself? No harm, no foul, if you can’t.”

  She gave me a sober look. “My dad taught me to not make promises I couldn’t keep. I promise not to reveal anything said in this room. And I keep my word, Ms. Bonaparte. Does that suffice?”

  I could sense her commitment, not only from her words but also from her reverting to my surname and honorific. “Absolutely. And thank you.” I paused to check that she was not offended and could see only interest in her face. “The man was a local metal artist. I’d arranged to meet him to pick up panels he designed and fabricated for me. I found his body in his shop. So far, the police don’t have any suspects and very few clues.”

  “So you’re investigating?” Lily asked.

  “Not really.” I turned to Sophia. “I was seeing a homicide detective a couple of years ago, but we involuntarily separated for a time.”

  “Oh!” Her eyes rounded and I thought how impossibly young and fresh she looked. “You do look familiar. It was something about the MPD and, uh, Mafia connections?”

  “It was ostensibly about that, but I can assure you that, despite allegations to the contrary, neither Detective Wukowski nor I are involved in that organization.” Except tangentially, through Papa, but I didn’t want to sidetrack the conversation. “I’m not officially on the case, but I knew the victim and noticed a slight oddity in his speech that made me think he wasn’t a native English speaker, so I want to get an opinion on where his speech pattern might have originated.”

  “I see.” She turned to Lily. “Ms. March, you were right, it is exciting to be in on this.”

  Great, I thought, another PI groupie. But I couldn’t complain since she and Lily were willing to offer expertise and assistance. “Mick—that was his name, Mick Swanson—pronounced the word black like the Scottish word loch, but it was barely noticeable.”

  “Other than that, he sounded like a typical American?”

  “Yes, like a Midwesterner. Although I noticed a slight lilt to the cadence of his speech. I asked him once if he was Irish, considering his name, but he brushed it off.”

  “Hmm. So he was a very good, but likely non-native, speaker.” She quickly pronounced black, sock, and kitten. “Like that?” she asked me.

  “Too broad,” I said.

  “So probably not Scottish. How about this?” She repeated the set of three words.

  I bounced slightly in my chair from excitement. “Exactly like that!”

  “It’s called a voiced velar fricative, sort of like clearing your throat. We don’t have it in American or British English, but the Scots do, as well as the Germans. Russian, Ukrainian, Belarussian, Kazakh, or Tajik are also possibilities. Or it could be Serbian, Bulgarian, or Macedonian. Hebrew is a remote option.” She eyed me. “Any of those help you with the case?”

  “There might be a Russian connection,” I confirmed. “It’s very tentative.” I glanced down to the papers spread across the workroom table. “I’ve taken enough of your time, Sophia, but let me give you a business card. If anything else comes to mind, would you call me?”

  She flipped the card back and forth in her fingers, staring at it. “A real PI. Like Kinsey Millhone.”

  “Well, I’ve got a few years on Kinsey and I own more than one black dress. But she is a favorite of mine, and I think we share a certain gutsy outlook. Sue Grafton’s death hit me hard, and I’d never even met her.”

  “I know,” she said. “But we have twenty-five novels to reread and enjoy.”

  “Agreed,” I said.

  “I will definitely call you if I can think of anything else. And I’ll keep my lips zipped.”

  “Good woman,” I told her.

  Lily and I went downstairs, where a student stood waiting at her desk. “Guess I need to attend to business, Angie. Thanks for letting me in on the case, and please let me know if I can help—with research, that is. You know I’m too faint-hearted to face real danger.”

  “I will certainly turn to you, Lily, if anything comes up that you can help with. Let’s get together for a meal soon.”

  With that, I exited the library. Remembering an attack on me in the large commons area between the building and the street, I carefully scanned my immediate environs. Although I tended to be hyperalert as a general practice, walking through a place where someone had knocked me out notched my senses into high gear. With a little sigh of relief, I reached the Audi, settled in, and motored home.

  Once inside the condo, I left Wukowski a voice mail with the information that Sophia provided. “Lots of possibilities and no definites,” I said, “but Russia wasn’t ruled out. Hope you’re getting close.”

  Benjamin Franklin wrote that “he who can
have patience can have what he will.” Mine was stretching mighty thin. I did a quick mental calculation, suddenly aware that I’d stopped counting the days with my morning coffee. Nine hundred and forty-six days since we’d been together, outside of the official meetings yesterday. Way, way too long. I hoped Ben was right.

  Chapter 15

  To fight, you must be brutal and ruthless.

  Woodrow Wilson

  Two days had passed since the killing. Artur parked the stolen car a block away for fast access in case someone spotted him inside Metal Works. After more than an hour cruising the area of the Arts Galleria to assess potential police presence and the possibility of other observers, he felt convinced that no one would interrupt him this time. The cops were gone, and at one in the morning, there was no street or foot traffic.

  Once again, he made his way to the loading dock, reflecting that this time his task was simpler. No violent confrontation, simply a search of his cousin’s files and computer. To ensure his own freedom, he must find what Mick had stolen from him all those years ago.

  The electronic lockpick took several tries before it released the high-security lock on the small side door. Artur drew his Ruger and entered, waiting quietly for any signs of life inside the shop. The air smelled of old blood, fingerprint powder, and other chemicals typically used by law enforcement at a crime scene. He wrinkled his nose and moved into the small office.

  After closing the door, he activated his pinpoint flashlight and scanned the room. No window. He took a man’s lightweight jacket from a nearby coat tree and shoved it into the small opening at the bottom of the door. Then he flipped the light switch.