During the investigation that led to the conviction of the Bike Trail killer—so dubbed by the media for the person who assaulted and killed women on trails and in parks—the deciding factor in bringing the man to justice was a hair follicle with no root. Mitochondrial DNA, inherited only from the mother and available in the hair itself, and innovative use of publicly open family ancestry websites by the FBI, finally ended the murder spree.
“What about the knife in Mick’s hand?” I asked. “Surely it wasn’t his blood on it.”
“Preliminary tests say it was.” Iggy’s voice held more than a trace of frustration. “Could be that, during the struggle, the killer grabbed his hand and cut him with his own weapon. That’s where we found the hair.”
“We’re tracing Mick’s background,” Wukowski said. “No luck locating family so far. He’s almost a cipher, there’s so little history attached to the man.”
“And the blood trail on the floor?” I asked them. “Any reason the killer should have dragged Mick while he was still bleeding?”
Wukowski shook his head. “None we can come up with based on forensics or even supposition, for that matter.” He leaned forward and gave me an intense look, his eyes drifting down for a brief moment. “You’re looking really good, Angie. I remember the… dress.”
Ah. Does he also remember how easily it comes off, thanks to the wrap style? I flushed.
Iggy broke in. “I’m not that easy to embarrass, but you two are about to make me blush.” He pulled a notepad from his suit pocket. “How ’bout we stick to business.”
Wukowski grinned and looked away. “Good idea,” he said. “So, Angie, tell us about the Galleria. Let’s start with Swanson.”
“A quiet man,” I said. “Almost curt, but I don’t think he intended to be. Very intense about his work. I got the impression that he invested a lot into the shop and had little time for a private life. He was truly gifted when it came to metal art and designed the panels for me after just a brief conversation. Despite his fairly taciturn exterior, we hit it off. I like… liked him.”
“Did you get any background on him during your dealings?”
“No, he never shared anything personal. He had the tiniest trace of an accent, and I once asked if he was Irish. Based on his name, not on his speech. He just shook his head and moved on, so I dropped it. Maybe the other owners know more, given that they worked together.”
Iggy looked up. “Debby Hill. Know much about her?”
“She owns the fabric arts shop, A Crossing of Threads. In fact, I bought the piece that hangs in my living room from her. She’s very talented and a truly nice woman. My daughter Emma is a close friend of hers.” I paused. “Debby strikes me as a kind, comforting presence and a woman who truly loves her art. If you’ll take some advice, Debby is fragile. Emma tells me she got out of an abusive situation before relocating to Milwaukee. Go easy on her. If you press too hard, she might fall apart or simply shut down.”
“Good to know,” Iggy said. “That’s helpful. Ted and I don’t read people like you do.”
“There are metal grommets embedded in that piece, aren’t there?” Wukowski asked.
“Yes. Decorative ones, made from copper and brass. She told me that Mick fabricated them. That’s one reason I commissioned the panels from him. I loved the elegant design of the grommets.”
“So they worked together,” Iggy said. “Amicably?”
“As far as I know,” I said. “At least Debby never brought up any issues with him.” I paused before adding, “Mick owned the anchor shop. His decisions held sway over all the others.”
“He also owned the entire galleria,” Wukowski said.
“That reminds me. At the Christmas open house, I overheard snippets of conversation about lighting and advertising. It seemed as if the other owners disagreed with some of the decisions in that regard, but no one mentioned Mick by name. Certainly not Debby.”
“What about the other owners?” Iggy asked. “Know much about them?”
“Well, since I like buying local and the shops feature one-of-a-kind items, I’ve patronized them.” I ticked off names. “Roy Ballard owns Wood Matters. Back in the day, we would’ve called him a hippie. Young, talented. Quite the punster.” A second finger came up. “Margaret Kowalski owns The Jewel Box. Her work is exquisite, featuring Wisconsin woods, leaves, and stones in the jewelry. Don’t be fooled by her matronly appearance. She takes no nonsense and she, as well as Debby, hates to be termed a crafter or craftsperson. They’re artists.”
Iggy scribbled furiously as I spoke. “Got it,” he said.
Raising another digit, I continued. “Pottery and Arts of Mexico is Lucas Medina’s place. He imports genuine Mexican crafts from villages in the area where he grew up and sends a good chunk of the profits back to support schools and microbusinesses there. I admire him.” I lowered my hand. “That’s the whole lot at the Galleria. And none of them strikes me as a killer.”
“Killers seldom do,” Wukowski said. “That’s the problem.”
Our meals arrived, and we tucked in with gusto. The men’s rib eyes dwarfed my petite filet, but we all managed to clean our plates. Wukowski settled the check and I watched, waiting for a signal that we would get some time alone. At the door, he waved the valet away and I retrieved my keys and wished Iggy a good night.
The valet parking lot was a short block away. Once out of sight of the restaurant, Wukowski pulled me into a doorway and into his arms. “I’ve been waiting to do this all day. Hell, all year,” he softly growled. The kiss turned explosive within seconds, but a couple walking past forced us to pull apart.
“My place?” I asked as I caressed his neck, breathing in the woodsy-citrusy scent he favored. God,
