“I was working late and called for a food delivery.” Her face scrunched and she gritted her teeth in evident pain. “When the office doorbell rang, I figured it was them and I hit the buzzer. A guy came strolling in like he belonged there, but instead of my supper, he held a gun in his hand. I reached for the panic button under my desk, but I was too slow. He hauled me up and backhanded me hard, and I landed on the floor, bleeding. He told me he was after information about one of my clients.” She gave a slight shake of her head. “I got on my legal high horse about confidentiality, another damn foolish move, and he picked me up and shook me several times and tossed me back into my chair. I remember wondering, as small as I am, could I end up with shaken-baby syndrome? Funny what the mind does.”
With a slight grimace, she repositioned herself in the bed. “Well, then he told me to give him what he wanted, or I’d end up dead like Michael Swanson. I’d read about Mick’s murder, and I can tell you, it scared me something fierce to be facing his killer.” She reached again for the water, and I saw her hand shake. But after a sip, she continued. “So I showed him the file folders on the computer, referencing Mick’s will and property information.”
“That was smart,” said Wukowski in a gentle voice. “You could’ve been the next victim if you tried to thwart him.”
She shrugged. “By then my vision was blurry and I was having trouble hearing him. I guess he got impatient, because he used his closed fist on me and I fell out of my chair. That’s the last thing I recall. When I came to, he was gone. I crawled to my desk and called 911.”
Franken’s breath began to come in ragged gulps, and Aunt Terry touched her arm. “I think we should let you rest. We can return later.”
“No, please. I prefer to get this done now.”
“Would you like a nice cup of herbal tea? I know where the nurses keep their stash.” She said it with mischief in her eyes, as if she were preparing to rob a jewelry store.
Franken’s shoulders descended from her earlobes. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”
Wukowski turned off the recorder, and while we waited, Franken looked at me. “Not your typical woman’s job, private investigation. Same with me. Oh, there are plenty of female lawyers but not many with disabilities. Hypopituitary dwarfism, in my case. Like Linda Hunt, the actress. Got the Oscar for The Year of Living Dangerously. Didn’t stop her, and I refuse to let it stop me. Doesn’t look like you let much stop you either.”
I smiled. “I like to say that I may be short, but I’m mighty.”
“And that’s the truth,” Wukowski affirmed.
Aunt Terry returned with the tea. As she sipped, Franken made a rolling motion with her hand to indicate we should proceed.
With the recorder back on, Wukowski asked, “Can you tell us what he looked like?”
“Average height, probably five-eight or nine. Wore a ski mask when he got inside but not while he waited for me to buzz him in. I can’t recall his eye color, but his eyes had a cold, mean look through that mask. No mercy there. No compassion.” Holding up her hand, she closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she said, “His hair. From outside the office door, it looked dark and… it was combed back and oily. Like those old Brylcreem commercials.”
“Excellent,” Wukowski told her. “Anything unusual about his clothes or shoes? Did he wear gloves?”
“I didn’t see gloves. I know he hit me with his bare hands. He wore a black suit, I think. I’m not sure. But there’s one thing that stood out,” Franken said in a tentative voice. “He had an accent. Eastern European or maybe Russian. I caught it when he pronounced Mick’s name. Mick-eye-el. I just remembered that. A lot of it is still fuzzy. I think he was mumbling to himself in a foreign language while I lay on the floor. I peeked up and saw him at my computer, and then there was a sound like the printer running pages. But I couldn’t testify to that.” Closing her eyes for a minute, she repeated, “No, I can’t be sure.”
“That’s normal after a concussion,” Aunt Terry told her. “It may come back later. Don’t strain to remember.”
“You’re doing great,” I added. “That’s very helpful.”
“Ms. Franken,” Wukowski said, “our crime-scene team went over the office last night, but we didn’t know about the connection to Mr. Swanson then. When you prepared his will”—he checked a page in his ever-present notebook—“last July, did you sense anything unusual, any kind of tension?”
“Only thing odd was the bequest to the orphanage in Chechnya. That’s why I remember Mick so well. Not your everyday bequest. I asked if he had a personal connection, but he just shrugged, so I dropped it. Same with his heir and executor. He didn’t want to talk about her. Clients don’t pay me to pry into their personal business, so I let that go, too. As for tension, nobody likes to get a will drawn up. Reminds them of their mortality. Something most of us avoid thinking about. You have a will, Detective? In your line of work, you should.”
“That’s taken care of, Ms. Franken. Now, about the attack on you. In light of Mr. Swanson’s murder, I want the crime-scene techs to take a closer look. I need your permission to check your office again, especially the computer, to see what the assailant accessed. Given the laws regarding attorney-client privilege, I’ll instruct the computer expert to only look at files that were opened or modified last night.”
“Do it,” she said. “Ignore the folder labeled PLATT though. That’s what I was working
