Well, hell. “I didn’t know,” I told Penske. “Wukowski never mentioned it.” And he damned well should have.
“Don’t surprise me none. Everybody knows he’s sweet on ya. Never saw him like that, even when he was married.” He placed a small device on the table. “Okay if I tape this?”
“Yes, but I reserve the right to have it turned off.”
“Gotcha.” After the usual statement of date, time, location and persons, Art said, “Ms. Bonaparte, please tell me what happened this morning at Holy Hill, to the best of your recollection. Don’t leave out any details, even if they seem irrelevant.”
I raised a brow at his unexpectedly formal speech.
He gave me a go ahead motion of his hand.
“The deceased was a man I’d been trying to locate for almost six years, after he disappeared from work one day. His wife hired me when the Greenfield police gave up on the search. It wasn’t an active locate at this point, but I thought it would be good training for my intern, Bobbie Russell. In January, we were pretty shocked when Bobbie found an online obituary for Henry James Wagner in the Stevens Point Journal.”
“Mr. Wagner’s obituary was posted before his death?”
“That’s right.” I paused. “Detective Penske, this may be irregular, but why don’t I tell you what I know and you can take it from there?”
“Yeah. I mean, right. That’s sounds like a good way to proceed.”
I laid out the events prior to today, omitting any mention of the shelter or the nursing home. “So I drove to Holy Hill to meet with Hank and get a decision from him about whether he wanted to reconcile with his wife and kids or have her file for divorce. That’s when he told me about his connections to the South Philly Mob.” I stopped and decided it would do no harm to get this on the record. “My father is entirely outside the scope of that organization.” It came out a little strident.
Penske nodded. “I see. So when Mr. Wagner told you he was actually Tommaso Severson, a former accountant for that branch of organized crime, you were surprised.” His look dared me to lie.
“I was very surprised,” I said with a direct stare.
The door to the interview room banged against the back wall and Wukowski’s superior, Captain Charles-don’t-call-me-Chuck Horton, stormed in. He had a reputation as a man more interested in making assistant chief than in supporting his officers and detectives. “That’s bull and you know it,” he shouted at me. “You’ve been withholding information about a wanted criminal, Ms. Bonaparte.” He deliberately slurred my surname.
So the good captain had been supervising the interview through the one-way glass that dominated the end wall of the room. “Was Mr. Severson wanted, Captain Horton?” I asked with a deliberate look of wide-eyed innocence.
“Turn off the recorder, Penske,” he said.
“Yes, that’s a good idea,” I said. “I’m willing to give you a statement, but I’m not a criminal and I won’t allow you to subject me to intimidation tactics.” I rose. “My attorney will contact you, Detective Penske, and let you know when he and I are available to finish this.”
“You’re not leaving,” Horton growled.
“I believe that as a witness to a crime, I am entitled to certain rights under Wisconsin chapter 950. Are you arresting me?” When he didn’t answer, I said, “My attorney will be in touch,” and walked out. Wukowski sat at his desk, within earshot of the interrogation room and Horton’s antics. He raised a brow as I passed by. I surreptitiously waggled the fingers of my left hand at him and exited.
Bram waited on a bench in the outer hallway. “Let’s go,” he said, and put his hand under my elbow to guide me to the elevator.
“I’m okay, Bram,” I told him. “Not shaken, barely stirred.”
He smiled. “I heard most of it. That little prick needed to be taken down a notch or eight. Good for you, Angie.” The elevator arrived and we stepped in. “The desk sergeant says your vehicle will be in the police garage for a couple of days, so you’ll need a rental. Don’t even think about driving the Miata in this weather.” His tone was quiet, but firm.
Alpha men can be such a pain, I thought. “I’ll call a rental agency. But I need my purse. It’s got my keys, the card for the condo garage, my ID and credit cards, and my favorite lipstick.” I saw his lips tighten as he suppressed a smile. “Laugh if you want, but I don’t know the code on the tube, so I can’t even be sure I’m getting the same color at the store.”
“I wouldn’t dream of laughing,” he said. “Even an inveterate bachelor like me knows better.” With a ding, the elevator doors slid open and we exited. “Let’s check at the desk.”
I asked to see the police record of my impounded property from the murder site. “I understand it’s a matter of public record,” I added when the sergeant hesitated.
Bram and I retreated to a corner and looked over the items on the list. It all seemed innocuous. “I’m going to call Penske and see if he can get some of this released to me now.” Bram raised a brow. “Yes,” I said, “including my lipstick.”
In ten minutes, Penske met us in the lobby of police headquarters, a plastic bag and papers in hand. “Hey, Angie, sorry about the ruckus upstairs. Horton can be a real a-hole.” He extended the bag to me. “We can release the keys, ’cept for the car keys. The credit cards an’ your ID are in the bag, too. No lipstick. The techs say it could be concealing somethin’. But I copied the number on the bottom of the tube for ya, like ya asked. An’ I brought your sunglasses. If you’ll just sign for the stuff, it’s all yours.”
I checked the bag against the list and signed. “Art, is Wukowski in
