Blood Kills Page 9

  She smiled up at him. “It’s not that hard, Ted. Just let your kind heart show through.”

  His eyes widened, but he didn’t contradict her, although I could tell he struggled with any public assertion of kindness on his part. He liked to maintain a tough-guy persona, but Aunt Terry and I knew better.

  Chapter 25

  I am fearless because I’ve been afraid.

  Unknown

  Officer Opansky stood guard outside Franken’s room. “Detective Wukowski,” she intoned.

  “Officer Opansky,” he responded just as solemnly. “Anything to report?”

  “No, sir. Just the usual hospital personnel.” She opened a pocket notebook and handed it to him. “I’ve recorded everyone who’s gone in or out. All legit.”

  “Very thorough,” he said. “The guy who did this is a nasty piece of work. Watch yourself.”

  “Will do,” she replied.

  “You might as well take a break while we’re here, Opansky. Be back in thirty.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She nodded to me. “Ms. Bonaparte. Looking good,” she said as she ran her hands down her hips. “Too bad I can’t say the same about my uniform. I figure the designer was a guy who just got taken to the cleaners by his ex-wife. There’s one benefit though. It usually deters the idiots who think I’ll give them a pass if they come on to me.”

  “Good point,” I acknowledged. “Let me introduce you to my aunt, who is a patient liaison at several hospitals, including Saint Mary’s. Teresa Bonaparte, Officer Opansky.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Opansky said as she wrote in her notebook. “Back in thirty.”

  Inside Franken’s room, Aunt Terry approached the bed. “Ms. Franken, I’m Teresa Bonaparte, a patient advocate here at Saint Mary’s. This gentleman is police detective Ted Wukowski, and the lady with us is helping with his investigation. She happens to be my niece, Angelina Bonaparte, a highly-respected private investigator.”

  I positioned myself slightly behind Aunt Terry and Wukowski, assessing Franken. She sat propped up against several pillows, a tiny woman even by my standards. I doubted she would be five feet tall when upright, but the bedclothes swallowed her lower body. Her chin-length bob with sideswept bangs covered a great deal of her face but couldn’t disguise the bruises that stood out on her cheekbones or her swollen-shut left eye. I guessed her age at mid-to-late forties.

  “Please tell me if you feel unable to talk with us, Ms. Franken,” Aunt Terry said, “but the police really need your help to find your assailant. Do you think you’re able to tell us what happened?”

  As Franken gingerly reached for a cup of water, I noted her pudgy, short-fingered hand. She took a sip and spoke in a hoarse voice. “Best if we do it now, because I plan to remove myself from Milwaukee as soon as I can travel, and I won’t be back until the bastard is behind bars.”

  Spunky, I thought, and not afraid to speak her mind. That would make this discussion easier.

  She gestured to chairs and the ubiquitous hospital recliner. “Sit. I hate looking up at people.”

  “Me too,” I told her.

  She assessed me in turn. “You’ve got several inches on me, Ms. Bonaparte.”

  “Please call me Angie.”

  “Rebecca,” she countered. “Now, sit.”

  Like well-trained puppies, we sat.

  Wukowski opened the conversation. “I’d like to record this, Ms. Franken.” He removed a small device from his suit coat pocket. “Okay with you?”

  “Yes, but I reserve the right to ask you to turn it off.”

  “Understood.” He pressed a button and gave the usual lead-in, with names, dates, and times. Placing the recorder on the rolling table next to the bed, he asked Franken to recount the events of the prior night.

  “I was working late and called for a food delivery.” Her face scrunched and she gritted her teeth in evident pain. “When the office doorbell rang, I figured it was them and I hit the buzzer. A guy came strolling in like he belonged there, but instead of my supper, he held a gun in his hand. I reached for the panic button under my desk, but I was too slow. He hauled me up and backhanded me hard, and I landed on the floor, bleeding. He told me he was after information about one of my clients.” She gave a slight shake of her head. “I got on my legal high horse about confidentiality, another damn foolish move, and he picked me up and shook me several times and tossed me back into my chair. I remember wondering, as small as I am, could I end up with shaken-baby syndrome? Funny what the mind does.”

  With a slight grimace, she repositioned herself in the bed. “Well, then he told me to give him what he wanted, or I’d end up dead like Michael Swanson. I’d read about Mick’s murder, and I can tell you, it scared me something fierce to be facing his killer.” She reached again for the water, and I saw her hand shake. But after a sip, she continued. “So I showed him the file folders on the computer, referencing Mick’s will and property information.”

  “That was smart,” said Wukowski in a gentle voice. “You could’ve been the next victim if you tried to thwart him.”

  She shrugged. “By then my vision was blurry and I was having trouble hearing him. I guess he got impatient, because he used his closed fist on me and I fell out of my chair. That’s the last thing I recall. When I came to, he was gone. I crawled to my desk and called 911.”

  Franken’s breath began to come in ragged gulps, and Aunt Terry touched her arm. “I think we should let you rest. We can return later.”

  “No, please. I prefer to get this done now.”

  “Would you like a nice cup of herbal tea? I know where the nurses keep their stash.” She said it with mischief in her eyes, as if she were preparing to rob a jewelry store.

  Franken’s shoulders descended from her earlobes. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

  Wukowski turned off the recorder, and while we waited, Franken looked at me. “Not your typical woman’s job, private investigation. Same with me. Oh, there are plenty of female lawyers but not many with disabilities. Hypopituitary dwarfism, in my case. Like Linda Hunt, the actress. Got the Oscar for The Year of Living Dangerously. Didn’t stop her, and I refuse to let it stop me. Doesn’t look like you let much stop you either.”

  I smiled. “I like to say that I may be short, but I’m mighty.”

  “And that’s the truth,” Wukowski affirmed.

  Aunt Terry returned with the tea. As she sipped, Franken made a rolling motion with her hand to indicate we should proceed.

  With the recorder back on, Wukowski asked, “Can you tell us what he looked like?”

  “Average height, probably five-eight or nine. Wore a ski mask when he got inside but not while he waited for me to buzz him in. I can’t recall his eye color, but his eyes had a cold, mean look through that mask. No mercy there. No compassion.” Holding up her hand, she closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she said, “His hair. From outside the office door, it looked dark and… it was combed back and oily. Like those old Brylcreem commercials.”

  “Excellent,” Wukowski told her. “Anything unusual about his clothes or shoes? Did he wear gloves?”

  “I didn’t see gloves. I know he hit me with his bare hands. He wore a black suit, I think. I’m not sure. But there’s one thing that stood out,” Franken said in a tentative voice. “He had an accent. Eastern European or maybe Russian. I caught it when he pronounced Mick’s name. Mick-eye-el. I just remembered that. A lot of it is still fuzzy. I think he was mumbling to himself in a foreign language while I lay on the floor. I peeked up and saw him at my computer, and then there was a sound like the printer running pages. But I couldn’t testify to that.” Closing her eyes for a minute, she repeated, “No, I can’t be sure.”

  “That’s normal after a concussion,” Aunt Terry told her. “It may come back later. Don’t strain to remember.”

  “You’re doing great,” I added. “That’s very helpful.”

  “Ms. Franken,” Wukowski said, “our crime-scene team went over the of
fice last night, but we didn’t know about the connection to Mr. Swanson then. When you prepared his will”—he checked a page in his ever-present notebook—“last July, did you sense anything unusual, any kind of tension?”

  “Only thing odd was the bequest to the orphanage in Chechnya. That’s why I remember Mick so well. Not your everyday bequest. I asked if he had a personal connection, but he just shrugged, so I dropped it. Same with his heir and executor. He didn’t want to talk about her. Clients don’t pay me to pry into their personal business, so I let that go, too. As for tension, nobody likes to get a will drawn up. Reminds them of their mortality. Something most of us avoid thinking about. You have a will, Detective? In your line of work, you should.”

  “That’s taken care of, Ms. Franken. Now, about the attack on you. In light of Mr. Swanson’s murder, I want the crime-scene techs to take a closer look. I need your permission to check your office again, especially the computer, to see what the assailant accessed. Given the laws regarding attorney-client privilege, I’ll instruct the computer expert to only look at files that were opened or modified last night.”

  “Do it,” she said. “Ignore the folder labeled PLATT though. That’s what I was working on. Unrelated to Mick.”

  “I’m afraid this will alarm you,” Wukowski continued, “but I have to say it. The man we believe assaulted you is extremely dangerous. I caution you against returning home or going to the office until he’s in custody.” Wukowski tucked the recorder away. “Do you have somewhere else you can stay?”

  “No.”

  The response was brusque. I thought of Andrew’s assessment of her as a woman without friends or family, someone who was abrasive and pushed people away.

  But Aunt Terry, bless her, had a solution. “Pasquale—my brother and Angie’s papa—has several spare bedrooms. I’ll stay at my brother’s home with you until you’re able to be on your own.”

  “What will he think of that, Terry?” Franken asked.

  “Don’t be concerned about the arrangements. Pasquale–the Italian form of Patrick—will be happy to host us. He has no use for men who abuse women or children. We’ll be safe as can be with him.”

  Wukowski interrupted her. “Let’s keep your brother’s… connections out of this, Terry. No need to raise the department’s hackles.”

  Absolutely no need, I thought. “I’d prefer Spider’s men for your personal protection,” I said.

  “Spider?” Franken asked.

  “It’s a nickname. He’s the best man for this job, Rebecca. Trust me.” I gave Wukowski a long look. “Agreed?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “agreed.”

  That was too easy, I thought as Aunt Terry resumed her plan. “Now, Ted, I know you’re worrying that someone might be watching to see when Rebecca leaves Saint Mary’s. I have the perfect solution.”

  “I’m waiting,” he said, his shoulders set in an attitude of opposition.

  “I’m here very regularly, so there’s no reason to associate me with Rebecca. When it’s time for her to leave, I’ll pull my van around to the dock and the staff can help me settle her in back, out of sight.” She turned to Franken. “You’ll need clothes and other things from home.”

  “I’ll send a couple of uniforms to the house,” Wukowski cut in, “in case the perp’s waiting there for any reason. Unlikely, since he got the information he was after, but we won’t take chances.”

  “Do you want anything in particular, beside clothes and toiletries? What about medications?” I asked. “Laptop? Cell phone? Books? Knitting or other things you enjoy?”

  The paramedics had transported her purse, with her phone, the prior night. While I input her needs to my notes app, Aunt Terry rose.

  “That’s settled then. Let me go talk to the doctor about your discharge, Rebecca.” She bustled out.

  “My,” Franken said, “she’s a force of nature, isn’t she?”

  “Always has been. It’s probably a survival mechanism from helping raise me.”

  The sides of Franken’s mouth rose slightly. I imagined that a real smile caused pain.

  “I can’t thank you two enough,” she said.

  “We’re glad to help,” I assured her.

  Rebecca Franken was a woman alone in the world, without even a close friend who cared that danger had touched her life. I said a silent thank-you for all the people who loved and wanted to protect me—even Mr. Grumpy Wukowski.

  Chapter 26

  Distrust and caution are the parents of security.

  Benjamin Franklin

  Opansky had resumed her place outside Franken’s room. “No one except medical personnel goes in,” Wukowski told her. “And don’t take hospital gear for granted. Check every ID. If they discharge her today, let me know. You’ll be relieved at three.”

  “Yessir,” she said.

  I almost expected a salute. Wukowski can have that effect on people.

  As we strolled to the elevators, he asked, “Got time for lunch? We need to talk, but I’m tired and hungry, and you know that’s a collision waiting to happen.”

  “Sounds great. But first, let me text Spider and have him set up protection details for Rebecca and Debby.”

  “I called him after I read the police report on Franken,” he said. “Figured he could handle the job a lot more, shall we say, efficiently than we could.”

  Did that mean he thought this needed—I sought for the term he used about Spider’s database access—extralegal action? “Ma’s?” I asked him, mentally picturing a big brunch of eggs, crisp sausage, home fries, and sourdough toast with apple butter. And coffee. Lots of coffee.

  “Sounds great.” He placed a careful kiss on my cheek. “Let’s drive separately. We’ve both got too much going on to ferry each other back and forth.”

  ***

  Ma Fischer’s owner, George, greeted us at the desk with a huge smile. “Angie, Detective, you are together again. I begin to worry.”

  “All’s well, George,” Wukowski told him.

  “Is good, is very good.” He directed us to a table in a quiet corner. “No need to worry about a fight, eh?” he teased us, referring to the Morano case and our rather heated discussion over Wukowski’s attitude toward my qualifications as a PI.

  “No fights today,” I said, “but keep an eye on this guy, would you? We’re not in total agreement on the current case.” I gave Wukowski a sly grin, daring him to start something.

  We sat and George handed us menus. With a finger waggle, he said, “You must be patient, Detective. You are the man and must control yourself when the woman provokes, no?”

  Wukowski nodded. “Too true, George. About the provocation, that is.”

  After a server arrived to take our orders, Wukowski said, “Angie, this case is turning into a nightmare. I worry about your safety”—he raised a finger—“even more than usual, moja droga. If Artur, or whoever the perp is, got a copy of the will from Franken’s computer, you and Hill are in his crosshairs. Spider will see to Debby. I think I should stay with you until this is over.”

  “I’d be more than thrilled with a sleepover, caro, but I’d prefer you weren’t on duty when that happens.” He started to protest, but I added, “I’ll call Spider. He can keep me safe and keep the MPD off your back for the next few days. After all, Franken staying at Papa’s means there’s Family involvement.”

  “Yeah, the brass won’t like that one bit.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, text Spider and let him know. I'll be uneasy leaving you unless you’re under close protection.”

  I did as he wanted, asking Spider to set up the detail and then join us at Ma Fischer’s so we could fill him in on what precipitated the need for heightened security.

  In thirty, came his response.

  We’d finished our meals by the time Spider arrived. He slid next to me in the booth and looked from me to Wukowski, his busy eyebrows moving in a salsa pattern. “What’s up?” he asked.

  After learning of the will, the note, and the
attack on Rebecca Franken, he let out a low whistle. “Bratva. Gotta be. Damnation! This is gonna be messy, Wukowski.”

  “I’m well aware of that, Mulcahey, but I don’t want you getting involved with the murders. That’s my job. Yours is to protect Angie and Debby Hill.”

  “No problem,” Spider said. “Between Bram, Tiny Tim, Mad Man Malone, and me, we can manage.”

  How did Bram get into this team without a crazy nickname? I wondered.

  Spider continued. “If it goes longer than four days, I’ll call in operatives I know from… from back in the day. But we’ll want any cops off the assignment. Would hate to incur friendly fire. And yeah, Wukowski, we’ll stay out of your hair, short of allowing our protectees to be harmed.”

  “Great,” I said, jumping in to change the topic before Wukowski could assert police control. “There’s another matter we need to discuss. Wukowski, I’d like Spider to check out Franken’s computer and the building security tapes. He understands the workings of foreign agents better than the local police. Of course, he’ll share all his findings with you. No holding back, I promise.” I turned to Spider. “Right?”

  “If you say so, it’s jake with me.”

  Wukowski stared over his coffee cup at us, then gave us The Glare, a more intense version of The Mom Look. “If I find out you failed to communicate anything, even a typo in one of those files, I’ll slam your butts in jail for obstruction of justice. And they don’t have steam showers or a drawer full of pricey cosmetics inside, Angie.”

  “No need to threaten, man,” Spider intoned in a low growl. “You’re the team leader. We’ll follow your orders.”

  George approached with the coffee carafe. “You frighten my waitress,” he said as he poured. “Even I, across the room, can see the disagreement. Remain calm, my friends.” An unspoken “or else” floated in the air.

  Wukowski sighed. “I apologize for the manner of my communication, but I meant every word.” His mental gears shifted, and he asked Spider, “How soon can you take a look at Franken’s office?”