“You took pictures?” His voice was flat.
“I know that seems cold, Wukowski, but my investigative instincts kicked in. I didn’t get close to the body, so nothing was contaminated. I used the zoom feature on my cell.”
“Good thing,” he said, “or I might have to charge you with obstruction of justice.”
We’d had that discussion before.
He sighed. “Of course Matthews would get you off.”
The local media once referred to Bartholomew Matthews as a “Mafia mouthpiece.” He threatened to sue, and an apology promptly resulted. Since my papa was a onetime consigliere—an advisor to a local boss—in the now largely defunct Milwaukee organization, I knew Bart well. We’d even worked together on the Morano and Johnson murders. Wukowski had no love for Bart, but I considered him a friend and a legal asset I could turn to in a pinch.
“You bet he would, tesoro.” I hoped calling him my sweetheart would soothe his ruffled feathers.
“Okay, what did Spider have to say?”
I filled him in on the tattoo and the knife, ending with, “Bram says it’s used in close fighting and it appeals to a lot of ex-military.”
“He’s right about that,” Wukowski responded. “But Swanson has no US military record. The starshina though… We may have to spread a broader net on this one. You mentioned a slight accent yesterday. Russian?”
“It was barely noticeable, so I can’t be sure.” I pondered my memories of our discussions about the panels. “When Spider pronounced ‘kor-shun,’ it reminded me of the way Mick said ‘black,’ like a Scottish pronunciation of ‘loch.’ You know, with that hint of a choking sound. I’ll text Lily March to see if she can recommend a linguistics expert.”
Lily’s library research and contacts at UW-Milwaukee’s campus led to uncovering a sadistic killer during the Johnson case. She would be thrilled to be called on again.
“I’d like to rule it in or out,” Wukowski said, “but don’t think this means you’re part of the investigation, Angie.”
“Of course not,” I countered. “I’m a professional. Unless I have a paying client, I’m strictly hands-off.”
“Good. Let me know what you find out. And thanks for the info. I appreciate it. I’ll give Mulcahey a call to see what other ideas he might have.”
“Anything to get this wrapped up. Then I can wrap you up, amore mio.” I ended the call with a grin on my face, sure that my comment had raised the heat level between us. And that was all to the good.
Chapter 14
The only thing that you absolutely have to know is the location of the library.
Albert Einstein
Lily liked working second shift at the library. The students who made time for study or research between five and midnight created less disruption in her orderly world than daytime scholars, who tended to socialize and misuse the property. More than once, she’d walked in on a couple having sex in a study room—and this despite the fact that they featured walls of glass, open to both the neighborhood and the inner areas. I texted her to see if she was working tonight and asked if I could pop in.
Barely a second passed before she replied: Yes and Yes. I hope it’s for a case. I need some mental stimulation.
Me: I want advice from a linguistics prof about a possible connection between a dead man and the former Soviet Union. Don’t mention that to the prof. I don’t want to prejudice him or her.
Lily: I have just the person—a grad student. She’s almost always here around five. I’ll arrange it. Can I sit in?
Me: Of course. Same rules of confidentiality. Many thanks.
I understood Lily’s comment about stimulation quite well. The job consisted of a lot of routine work. When I had figured out that research was what I really loved about librarianship—uncovering hidden facts and making connections to solve a riddle—I decided to pursue my current career. Of course, it has its own level of routine.
I dressed and headed for the office, determined to power through the billing statements and other bookwork necessary to keep a small business in operation.
***
After circling the UWM library for fifteen minutes—street parking there is fierce, and I don’t use parking structures for safety reasons—I finally found a one-hour spot and hiked six blocks, grateful that I’d chosen flats that morning.
From her desk near the first-floor entry, Lily grinned and rose. All six feet-plus of her. “Angie,” she loud-whispered as she sped toward me and enveloped me in a hug, “good to see you.”
“And you,” I said into her wool cardigan. Lily was a knitter, and the soft yarn felt soothing against my cheek. “Now let me out for air.”
She snorted. “Sorry, I forget about your being height challenged.”
“No need to be PC about it. I’m short and I’m proud.”
We ambled over to her desk, where she put up a sign: THE LIBRARIAN WILL RETURN ASAP. “Who can say how long ASAP is?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye. “Let’s go up to the second floor. I reserved a study room for us.”
I followed her gangly body up the stairs, noting that, since learning to knit, her sleeves no longer ended above her wrist bones.
Lily knocked and we entered the small enclosure. A young woman rose to greet us, dressed in a black T-shirt with white lettering that read: I'M A LINGUIST. WHAT'S YOUR SUPERPOWER? With an extended hand, she said, “Sophia Pallis.”
“Angelina Bonaparte,” I responded. “Angie. I’m a private investigator. My superpower is making it in a so-called man’s profession.”
“Tough for you,” she said. “Linguistics is a field where women predominate, although not at the top.” Once we settled at the table, Sophia gave me an expectant look.
“The reason I want your input,” I told her, “is that I happened to have found a dead body two days ago.”
She gave a small gasp. “How awful!”
With a nod, I said, “It was indeed. I’m trying to get a handle on something, but before we go further, I need to ask for your confidentiality. It might hinder
