The office was empty and quiet when I arrived. Bobbie’s partner, fashion buyer Steve Marshall, had referred a local designer to us to determine how his current collection was being leaked, piece by piece, to a knock-off company overseas. From beer to designer clothing, I thought. Ridiculous, Sublime. With the Swanson case wrapped up, I felt at loose ends and wished Bobbie were here to engage in a postmortem.
While the computer booted up, I sorted through the mail that I’d retrieved from my rented box at a private service center. It afforded me a level of security that the building’s boxes could not, and the service accepts packages twenty-four seven, so it’s also more convenient. The junk mail went into a bin for shredding. Call me paranoid, but a dedicated snoop can learn a lot about a person from junk mail. I should know.
A small business like mine has to pay attention to cash flow or go under. I prepared the invoice related to Bobbie’s successful discovery of the thief at the brewery, happy to see that he’d practiced all the rules concerning proper documentation. Two requests for background checks—the bread and butter of my business—awaited my attention. The first, from a private school asking me to vet a potential teacher, required extra time and effort. I refused to rush when it involved a child’s welfare. The other, from the microbrewery that Bobbie recently helped, could be pumped out more quickly since they only wanted verification of a candidate’s resume.
I prepared a cup of coffee and settled in to work but found my mind repeatedly being drawn back to the case over the course of the afternoon. What drove a man like Artur to commit multiple murders?
A Google search quickly schooled me on the difference between a serial killer, driven by overwhelming emotion, and a contract killer, in it for the money and without compulsion to kill. But which was Artur? I doubted I could ever get into the head of a man like him, and I didn't truly want to. With a sigh, I returned to the business at hand.
At the close of day, I’d completed the two background checks, prepared invoices, and compiled my notes on the Swanson case. Bundling up the envelopes, I headed for the post office drop box.
My family would gather at Papa’s table tomorrow for our traditional Sunday meal. On the way home, I stopped to purchase Italian bread from Sciortino’s Bakery, the best in the city, bar none. My other offering, a bottle of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo, nicely complemented Papa’s red sauce.
Once at home and comfortable in sleep pants and a cotton T-shirt, I settled on the couch, lights off, and looked out over Lake Michigan. There was no escaping the reality of death. Not even galaxies, planets and stars survived forever. Nor did people. Melancholy pressed on my chest. Before it could overtake me, I closed my eyes and laid my head back on the cushion, focusing on my breath for several minutes. Buddha’s wise words floated into my consciousness: Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.
Straightening my shoulders, I pushed the mood away with determination and raised my cup of herbal tea to Mick. I pictured the hard-working man with a big heart and heard his plea for me to bring his murderer to justice. “I’ll do my best, Mick,” I told him.
Chapter 32
You have not lived today until you have done something for someone who can never repay you.
John Bunyan
After my usual breakfast of yogurt, fruit, and coffee, I placed a call to Spider Mulcahey.
“Angie,” he said in his clipped cadence, “what’s up?”
“Nothing good, I’m afraid.” I told him of the murder of Stephen Carmody for a building access card.
Following a low whistle, Spider said, “That certainly confirms that we're dealing with a stone-cold killer.” After a pause punctuated by the sound of keyboard clicks, he added, “Y’know, the International Criminal Court only prosecuted two people for atrocities committed during the Second Chechen War. Most Russian military was shielded by the government. If there was evidence against Swanson or Hunter, it’s been disappeared, as they say. Still, I can do some digging.”
“Yes,” I told him, “please do. I’m particularly interested in how Mick came to the US and whether there any crimes tied to him here.”
“How about we have a meeting at the farmhouse this afternoon? You, me, Bram, Bobbie. I’ll have data by then. Say two o’clock?”
“It’s the weekly Sunday meal at Papa’s, so I can’t be there until six or so. Will that work?”
“Sure thing. Can’t come between you and the family… not to mention the meal. Text me when you’re leaving.”
“Thanks for that. And please keep track of your hours and submit an invoice. Mick’s attorney assures me there’s plenty of money to cover any investigative expenses.”
“Got it. One question—has the lawyer retained you?”
“No, I’m working for Debby Hill, Mick’s heir and executor.”
“Well”—he drew the word out—“we might uncover something that Ms. Hill wants to keep quiet. I won’t withhold evidence of criminal activity, mind you, but what if the funds have a shady background? If you’re working for an attorney—”
“—I’d be covered under attorney-client privilege. Let me talk to Franken, Spider. If she’s unwilling, I can always approach Bart Matthews.” The second irony, of asking a Mafia lawyer to represent a client in a Bratva-related matter, wasn’t lost on me, but I doubted it would bother Bart. His allegiance wouldn’t be with a competing criminal organization. “I’ll see you this evening.”
***
Rebecca was firm but polite in her refusal to take Debby on as a client. “To be honest, Angie, I’m exploring retirement. I have enough to live comfortably, and this incident has forced me to look at what’s really important. And it isn’t work.”
Her voice sounded strong, which reassured me that she was making a good recovery. “That’s completely understandable,” I told her.
“There’s another issue,” she said. “A court would likely rule that Debby
