The card reader mounted on the wall was a decoy. Although pressing the card to the reader produced a click, it didn’t unlock the door. If someone wanted to maliciously enter the office, either by stealing the card or forcing me to use it, that someone would be disappointed. I could always feign shock at the reader’s malfunction.
The real entry was controlled via a radio-frequency set, installed on the inside wall. When I held down the Unlock button on my car’s key fob, a signal activated the set, which unlocked the office door.
Once inside, there was the ubiquitous security panel hidden in a spring-loaded drawer under my desk. Of course, I had to hustle to get to it before it transmitted a silent alarm to Bram and Spider, but it hadn’t been a problem yet. I refused to agree to a biometric system, afraid of having my finger or eyeball forcibly separated from my body.
Spider insisted on my current level of security, following the Johnson case. Maybe it was overkill, but as Joseph Heller wrote, “Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t after you.”
The office phone interrupted my plans to clear pending paperwork from my desk. I turned from an invoice in progress and responded. “AB Investigations. This is Angelina Bonaparte.” I pronounced my surname as a proper Sicilian would: boe-nah-par-tay. You won’t catch me using the Gallicized version that Napoleon adopted in order to impress the French court.
“Angie, Wukowski. I, uh, wanted to let you know that, uh, if you wanted to get together for maybe a meal or a drink, uh…”
The hesitation was completely unlike Wukowski. Was he working up to dumping me? Better to know up front. I took a breath to still my thumping heart and purred, “I can think of better things to get together for, caro.”
After a slight pause, he said, “Yeah, well, me too. But the thing is, with this case still open… ah, hell, Angie, I’m dying to see you, in private, but I think it would be better to wait. Less chance of departmental crapola hitting the fan again.”
Damn! My visions of a night of passion evaporated like a drop of water sizzling on a sunbaked rock in Death Valley. With a sigh, I said, “I understand. But if the investigation goes longer than twelve days, we’re already past your retirement date, right? Because that’s as long as I plan to wait, Wukowski. You don’t want me pulling you into a broom closet at headquarters, do you?”
His deep baritone chuckle gave me goose bumps. “That’d be an interesting write-up by Internal Affairs”—emphasis on Affairs—“for sure. And I have no clue how long this case might take, but I promise you that I’m not waiting either. There’s no reason we can’t have a meal or a drink tonight though, maybe talk about the case. I understand you know some of the other owners at the Galleria. I’d sure like your take on the situation and anything you can tell me about them.”
What a turnaround from the Wukowski I met on the Morano murder case, who questioned my ability to handle an investigation and deliberately kept valuable information from me. With two subsequent homicides involving my PI work behind us, he’d finally accepted my expertise.
Our long-delayed reunion beckoned, but at least I knew that he felt as frustrated as I did. “That would be lovely, caro. When and where?”
“Tonight, eight, the Five O’Clock? I’ll be tied up until then. You, me, and Iggy. Strictly business… this time.”
The Five O’Clock Steakhouse rated very high on Wukowski’s list of favorite restaurants, and its location near MPD headquarters meant that officers working a long shift didn’t have far to go for a meal. But the menu was on the high side.
“Kind of pricey,” I said.
“Department’s picking up the check. I okayed it with the captain. Be sure to use the valet parking, moja droga. The neighborhood’s not the best.”
How I’d missed his Polish endearments, especially when whispered into my ear at special moments. “I will,” I promised.
After we rang off, I began to plan what to wear that evening. Something that might bring back fond memories but not scandalize Iggy. The silk emerald-green wrap dress with an overlapping neckline that revealed a bit of cleavage and fabric that clung to my curves. That’s the one, I thought, remembering how Wukowski’s eyes lit up when he’d first seen me in it during the course of the Johnson case. We’d been collaborating in an interview that night too. Perfect!
Chapter 11
Retrouvaille (n.), the joy of meeting or finding someone again after a long separation.
Merriam-Webster.com Dictionary
The dimly lit interior of the Five O’Clock Steakhouse evoked a romantic setting, but both Wukowski and Iggy looked grim as I approached the table. I greeted them with a smile and a warm hi, forgoing a kiss with Wukowski, who didn’t step forward after he rose. After all, he’d warned me that this would be a working meeting.
Coffee cups sat at their places, but I ordered a glass of white zin and turned to Iggy. “How are Marianne and the kids?” I asked.
He rolled his eyes. “Hard to know. I barely see them these days. Retirement’s looking mighty good right now.”
Iggy could’ve pulled the plug earlier but chose to stick around because of Wukowski’s eligibility date. At the time of the MPD separation decree, Iggy confided that he held concerns about Wukowski’s ability to adapt to a new partner while dealing with the enforced loss of our relationship, so he’d hung on. I loved him for that and for his commitment to his family.
We ordered our meals, and Wukowski opened the conversation. “Forensics found very little. A nine-millimeter shell in the brain box. One dark hair that didn’t match Swanson’s microscopically, but it had no root, so no opportunity for DNA there. We might send it to the
