I will not cry, I told myself. I will not cry. I clutched the picture and impulsively decided to hide it in the bottom of the duffle. I wanted him to remember. I wanted him to wait.
***
When the lobby intercom rang, I buzzed Iggy in and met him at my entrance door.
“Hey,” he said as he hugged me. “You doing okay?”
“The patient is in critical, but stable, condition,” I answered into his winter jacket. Breaking away, I said, “Come in, please. Tell me what’s happening at headquarters.” I stopped. “Unless you can’t, I mean.”
“Nah, s’okay,” Iggy said, handing me his coat and toeing off his shoes. “Reporters are outside the building, along the edge of the driveway to the garage. They didn’t pay any attention to me, though.”
“Let’s hope it stays that way.”
He grimaced. “There were some questions at the press conference about your involvement with Wukowski and whether he was assigned to the case.”
I was well over my quota of swearing today, so I held back. “What was the answer?”
“A simple ‘no.’ It’ll be on the six o’clock news.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“So I have to tell you, Ange, I’m worried about my partner. I don’t want to see him back where he was after Liz’s death.”
“Me, either. But I don’t think this is the same thing. I’ll still be here when he decides to retire.” I paused. “He did tell you about that?”
“Oh, yeah. Truth be told, I’m eligible two months before Ted, but I figure I’ll wait and we’ll go out together. No sense in his breaking in a new partner, right?”
I could hear the undercurrent of worry and commitment in Iggy’s voice. He would hang on for Wukowski’s sake. “You’re the best,” I told him.
“He’d do the same for me, if I was a miserable single guy who just lost the best woman he ever had.” He grinned and then sobered. “Not entirely kidding there, Angie. And you can expect weekly calls from Marianne, to console and strengthen you.”
I could see the invisible air quotes.
“And,” he continued, “if a little information passes back and forth, who’s to know except the NSA?”
That lifted my spirits. “Right.”
Iggy slapped his hands on his thighs. “So, on to the hard part. Where’s the stuff for Ted?”
“In the bag near the hall closet.”
At the door, he geared up to go outside and I handed him the duffle and suit bag. He gave me a one-arm hug and said, “Call me if you need anything, hear me? I’m serious. I wouldn’t mind a little peace and quiet at a precinct.”
We parted with a smile, he to take most of the belongings of my caro and me to keep busy and avoid maudlin thoughts.
***
The five o’clock news broadcast led with “Organized Crime Killing at Holy Hill.” Pictures of the first Station, with a close-up of rusty stains on the path and footprints leading into the grotto, flashed on the screen as the announcer intoned the story of a Mafia-related murder at the shrine. I listened closely for any mention of Henry Wagner or ties to Marcy, but breathed a sigh of relief when I realized that they hadn’t made the connection yet. Then came the moment of dread. My face appeared, punctuated with the pronouncement that “Private Investigator Angelina Bonaparte, who was instrumental in uncovering the conspiracy killings of Serbian immigrants John and Yvonne Johnson last year, was on the scene when the victim, Tommaso Severson, was gunned down by a sniper.” He looked up with a slight smirk. “You may recall video of Ms. Bonaparte and her associate, Bobbie Russell, escaping the Johnsons’ murderer by jumping into a moving load of very large pipes at an Illinois truck stop.”
We’ll never live that down, I thought.
“The MPD had this to say at a press conference earlier today.” He cut to film of the event, including the station’s reporter shouting out a question about whether “Ms. Bonaparte’s current romantic partner, Homicide Detective Ted Wukowski,” was involved in the case. With a simple “No,” the MPD spokeswoman turned to another reporter.
Obviously, it wasn’t dropped, since the news crews camped outside, waiting for me to emerge. I called the building super and left a message that he should remind the reporters to stay off the property and on the sidewalk, and to call the local precinct it they impeded progress into the building.
Time to take care of business.
Chapter 31
Helping others is like helping yourself. — Henry Flagler
When the news crews surrounded me after the Johnson case broke, I discovered a way to sneak into my office building via the dry cleaners that backed onto it. But first, I would have to exit the condo complex. I knew from experience that all it took was nerves of steel and a determination to ignore the press. Running the gauntlet was a breeze in the Escape. With the windows up and the radio blasting, I pulled out onto Lake Drive, thankful for the one-way street and an opening in traffic.
Tony Belloni owned a small outdoor lot eight blocks from my destination. I pulled in, rolled down my window and prepared to beg and bribe. The attendant, a man in his mid-thirties, limped toward me. His nametag read “Hi, I’m Rodney.” He had good cheekbones, a strong jawline and a full head of dark brown hair, but a scar that ran from his temple to his chin marred his face. A Family soldier, I surmised.
“Ma’am, we only park subscribers here.”
The clear voice and educated speech surprised me. I expected something on the lines of, “Lady, ya can’t park here.” That’ll teach me to assume! “I’m
