Authors: Camille Minichino
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths
The Carbon Murder (21 page)
Dr. Schofield leaned back and folded his arms.
Uh-oh
. “I’ve never met him, but I’ve seen his name.”
Uh-oh
. “I’ve never met him, but I’ve seen his name.”
“Here’s another question I have, Scho.”
Now that you’re squirming
. “What exactly are you doing for the buckyball program at the Charger Street lab?”
Now that you’re squirming
. “What exactly are you doing for the buckyball program at the Charger Street lab?”
Dr. Schofield rotated his expensive-looking pen around an axis perpendicular to its length. First one end hit his desk, then the other.
“Let’s say we’re an investment in the future.”
I didn’t budge.
Try the Matt Gennaro technique,
I told myself,
and wait him out.
Dr. Schofield came through.
Try the Matt Gennaro technique,
I told myself,
and wait him out.
Dr. Schofield came through.
“As you know, Lorna’s nanotechnology program is geared to smart medicines, and eventually will develop a small molecule drug that will need to be tested.”
I nodded but said nothing, maintaining an interested if noncommittal look.
“On animals,” Dr. Schofield said. “Now, they’re not ready for that quite yet—even that phase has to have FDA approval, of course. But eventually—”
Now I was starting to feel sorry for Scho and thought I’d help him out.
“Let me see if I have this right—you and Dr. Evans are on the nanotechnology payroll now, just for putting in EID chips, so you’ll be on board when the animal testing starts at some unspecified time in the future? Even though the chips really have nothing to do with any of the nanotechnology projects in Lorna’s program?”
He nodded—a flushed, embarrassed nod.
I sat back. Could this be it? Did Lorna kill Nina Martin in order not to expose this? I’d already ruled out Scho as the killer. I believed he didn’t know that Spartan Q was dead. In fact, even I didn’t know for sure that Jake’s horse was dead; we had assumed it from Jacqueline Peters’s statement. As far as I knew Spartan Q’s body hadn’t been found.
I wondered where and how horses died. Did they all turn violent
like Ms. Trumble’s horse at the end? And how did you bury an animal that probably weighed more than half a ton?
like Ms. Trumble’s horse at the end? And how did you bury an animal that probably weighed more than half a ton?
I blinked my eyes, returning to Dr. Schofield’s office. I noticed increasing perspiration on his wide brow, a film that extended over his bald head to the back of his neck.
“You may think this is out of the ordinary, Gloria.”
Fraud
is what I was thinking. “But what we’re doing is not uncommon. It’s not as if we’re—”
Fraud
is what I was thinking. “But what we’re doing is not uncommon. It’s not as if we’re—”
“One more question, Scho.” I interrupted, not about to let a scientist, medical or otherwise, off the hook for even the slightest misconduct. If indeed that’s all this was. “Are you familiar with bute?”
Dr. Schofield relaxed considerably, as if this were his physics doctoral oral examination and he’d finally been asked an easy question, like “What are Newton’s Laws?” after a round of quizzing on Einstein’s Unified Field Theory.
“Bute—our shorthand for phenylbutazone. A nonsteroidal antiinflammatory drug and cyclooxygenase inhibitor. We give it typically for lameness, which might be the result of soft tissue injury, or muscle soreness, or bone and joint problems. Bute can be administered intravenously or orally and—”
“Thank you, Scho. That will be all for now.”
I stood and gathered my purse and briefcase. I picked up a copy of the microchip printout on my way out.
I didn’t even care what cyclooxygenase was.
I
hated impure scientists. But was Dr. Schofield a killer? Over a few dollars garnered to establish a relationship between himself and a laboratory? It didn’t fit.
hated impure scientists. But was Dr. Schofield a killer? Over a few dollars garnered to establish a relationship between himself and a laboratory? It didn’t fit.
The streets between Dr. Schofield’s office on Squire Road and the mortuary on Tuttle Street hadn’t changed much since I’d lived in Revere during the first years of my life. Squire Road was dominated by a large outdoor strip mall and the unimposing entrance to the Charger Street lab. As I passed the road to the research facility, I thought of the scientists, engineers, and other staff I’d met since I returned to my hometown. Of all of them, Andrea Cabrini was the only one I’d maintained contact with. Of course, some of them were now in prison. Others were dead.
I passed Tomasso’s Restaurant and Coffee Annex and hoped our Tuesday Girls’ Night Out would be resurrected soon.
I tried to concentrate on what I’d learned from this interview. Dr. Schofield’s attitude and confession confused me. His connection to Lorna Frederick hadn’t posed any problems initially—he’d even joked about Lorna’s phone call and about being a murder suspect. He must have learned from her that I’d found his name on her payroll. My guess was that they’d discussed me extensively and decided what to let me in on, that he’d confess to getting paid for implanting chips for which his clients also paid him.
I got no insight into the murder of either Nina Martin or Jake Powers. Either those were entirely separate issues, or Dr. Schofield
was holding back, perhaps under Lorna Frederick’s orders.
Or I’m grasping at straws,
I thought.
was holding back, perhaps under Lorna Frederick’s orders.
Or I’m grasping at straws,
I thought.
I reached for the notebook and pen I kept in my front seat console and scribbled at red lights. No law against that, I hoped, considering the growing number of states legislating against cell phone use while driving. With the pad balanced on the cup holder, I wrote in my personal shorthand.
EIDs con’ction to bucky?
Scho and Owens—Vet scam?
Bute?
My lists were starting to replicate each other. The same questions, and no answers.
I knocked on the door of my old apartment. I knew MC was home. Martha, Rose’s very observant assistant, had told me she’d seen MC looking out her bedroom window as Martha pulled into the driveway.
“I wanted to tell her how sorry I am about her friend’s death, but she’s not answering her door or her phone,” Martha had said, waving the can of air freshener that was as much a part of her look as her trendy jewelry. Martha typically wore a necklace, bracelets, and earrings—a matched set, as if they’d come as prizes in successive cereal boxes.
“She needs a little time, I guess,” I’d said.
“Oh, for sure. And, oh, I’m real sorry about Detective Gennaro’s …” Martha leaned closer to me. “ … illness.”
A non-cancerspeaker,
I thought. “But he’s lucky to have you to cover for him on these terrible Rumney Marsh cases.”
A non-cancerspeaker,
I thought. “But he’s lucky to have you to cover for him on these terrible Rumney Marsh cases.”
I smiled a thank-you, having long ago stopped correcting Martha’s notion that I was a “real policewoman,” as she’d introduced me to her second-grader twin boys.
“I’m on it,” I’d said, and climbed the last flight to MC’s door,
barely ducking a spray of cedar-smelling freshener. I wondered if Martha would be so obsessive about odors if she worked in a bank or a bookstore instead of a funeral home. Yes, I decided.
barely ducking a spray of cedar-smelling freshener. I wondered if Martha would be so obsessive about odors if she worked in a bank or a bookstore instead of a funeral home. Yes, I decided.
I stood on the maroon-carpeted landing, my eyes passing fondly over the familiar setting—the polished mahogany railing and baseboard, the subtle swirling pattern in the wallpaper, the pair of shell-shaped sconces that gave out a pinkish light. I knocked again, and called MC’s name. I chose not to use the irritating door buzzer, in case she was asleep. But if she was awake anywhere in the apartment, she’d hear me and she’d know I’d keep at it.
I put my eye to the peephole—I remembered the unhappy circumstances that had precipitated its installation—and made a silly face.
I heard the dead bolt click. It worked.
MC fell against me and sobbed. I patted her back and made soothing sounds. Nothing articulate seemed appropriate until MC was ready. Her own words were scattered, but I understood that she felt guilty.
“I should have told Jake about how crazy Wayne’s been lately. What if I could have prevented Wayne from killing him?”
“We don’t know for sure that Wayne killed him, MC, and we can’t be sure it would have made a difference anyway, whether you’d said something or not.”
MC was in dark blue sweats that looked like she’d slept—or not slept—in them. We sat on a small couch Rose had bought for the apartment, in purples and blues that were of a different color family than my blue rockers. I suspected the old rockers would become a charitable donation the next time MC took a close look at her décor.
MC brought her breathing under control. “You probably haven’t heard this. The police have witnesses that say they saw Jake and Wayne fighting outside that bar by the marsh. They were threatening each other.”
I’d gone from Dr. Schofield’s office to the mortuary, with only
one quick stop at the grocery store to pick up a treat for MC. It had been about two hours since I’d checked my phone messages. It didn’t take long for me to fall behind in this case, I noted.
one quick stop at the grocery store to pick up a treat for MC. It had been about two hours since I’d checked my phone messages. It didn’t take long for me to fall behind in this case, I noted.
“Is Wayne MIA again?”
She nodded. “He seems to just disappear.” She snapped her fingers. “Like that. You’d think he’d stand out in Revere with those filthy cowboy clothes and that mustache.”
“Missing or not, it doesn’t make Wayne guilty.”
“I suppose.”
“Do you know anyone else Jake might have had a run-in with? Anyone from his work, or from his horse interests?”
She shook her head. “Not really. He managed hydrocarbon conversion technology—so we’d all have enough fuel for our SUVs, you might say. He rode horses.” She shrugged her shoulders. “It’s not like he was connected, or anything.”
“‘Connected’? You sound like your mother.” I meant it as endearment, but my comment did nothing to help MC relax.
Time to bring out the treat. “Why don’t I fix you our special comfort drink?”
MC smiled. She knew what I meant. “I don’t have any—”
“I do.”
I dug into my oversized purse, and made a dramatic showing of a can of Ghirardelli chocolate, a San Francisco staple that had happily made its way to East Coast groceries.
MC clapped, as if acknowledging the performance. “Remember going to that factory every year? Having humungous ice cream sundaes and planning how we’d wait until no one was looking and then vault ourselves into that big vat of melted chocolate?”
“I certainly do. And there’s more.” I pulled out a quart of milk. “The real thing. I figured you’d have only low-fat.”
She smiled and nodded. “I drink two percent. But not today. Let’s go for the butterfat.”
The hot drink did wonders to calm MC, making me question the myth that there was caffeine in chocolate. We sipped quietly for a
few minutes, but the parade of expressions on MC’s face told me we were far from finished with our conversation.
few minutes, but the parade of expressions on MC’s face told me we were far from finished with our conversation.
“Aunt G, do you ever think you just don’t know how to live?”
“All the time.”
“No, really. I meant like you don’t even know the basics of living? Like maybe all these years you’ve been brushing your teeth the wrong way … and that every single choice you’ve ever made was the wrong one.”
It wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway. “We all feel that way sometimes, MC, especially when something as horrible as this happens.”
“I have no idea right now how I’m supposed to feel, where I want to live, what I want to do with my life. No idea at all.”
“Probably because you have an overabundance of choices. You can do anything. You’re intelligent, healthy; nothing’s closed to you, except you’re perilously close to the cutoff age for military service.” I welcomed MC’s smile at that observation. “Too many choices can be as bad as none. No wonder you have a headache.”
Her eyes were red and puffy and her hair not as fresh and bouncy as it should have been, but I thought I saw signs of recovery in her smooth breathing and relaxed shoulders.
“Have you always known what you want, Aunt G?”
I laughed. “You mean you haven’t noticed my erratic migration patterns? Anyway, times are different now. When I got out of college, the options were few. Women became either teachers or nurses, until they got married. I didn’t really want to do that—be a housewife—mostly because my own mother didn’t make that life look very good. But I was ready to follow the rules, until … well, you know about Al.”
MC nodded and gave me a wide-eyed look. “How could I have forgotten? How hard that must have been. Here I am whining about Jake, and you lost your fiancé right before your wedding.”
I didn’t believe in that kind of comparison, but I let MC think about it, hoping it would give her perspective.
“You probably don’t want to handle the loss the way I did,” I said. “Move away, hole up, in many ways avoid the problem.”
“If Al hadn’t died, you might have stayed in Revere all your life, had three kids, like my mother. I’m sure she’s never looked back.”
Poor MC,
I thought,
if she’s trying to reproduce her parents’ relationship
. I couldn’t contradict her notion that Rose and Frank Galigani had the perfect marriage and every intention of keeping it that way.
I thought,
if she’s trying to reproduce her parents’ relationship
. I couldn’t contradict her notion that Rose and Frank Galigani had the perfect marriage and every intention of keeping it that way.
“And nothing would have been wrong with my remaining in Revere with a husband and three children, either. It’s not what you do, it’s whether you have the sense of contributing to life in some way … well, now I really am going off, aren’t I?”
“I hear you though. It’s just that I did so many things wrong with Jake. I let him get away with so much when we lived together. Then, just as we were finally starting to get it right … he’s gone.”
I didn’t want to tell her what I’d learned from Matt about DVR—domestic violence recidivism. An abuser seldom gets converted, he’d told me. If he stops, it’s usually because he’s gotten beat up himself and is no longer strong enough to batter someone else.
I noticed for the first time a photo of Jake Powers in a frame on MC’s end table. He was astride a spotted gray horse, the deceased Spartan Q, I presumed. Jake sat erect, a high white collar that could have been a scarf or a turtleneck jersey keeping his head straight and his neck rigid. I wondered if Jake had as many horse-related tchotchkes as Lorna, or if collecting symbols of your interest—like my large assortment of science-related pins—was a female thing. I fingered the pin I wore today, a square representation of an integrated circuit, bought from an on-line computer club.
MC had followed my gaze to Jake’s photo. She put down her mug and picked up the photo, holding it in both hands. “I found this in a box I hadn’t unpacked. Jake was so happy when he was riding. And competing—he loved winning. He loved Spartan Q, his jumper, and Werner, his dressage horse. He gave them only
the best treats, home-baked cookies he bought from a friend who had a side business. No store-bought generics for Spartan Q or Werner.”
the best treats, home-baked cookies he bought from a friend who had a side business. No store-bought generics for Spartan Q or Werner.”
MC talked more about Jake, and I let her show me a video of dressage. I had no interest in a competition with prancing horses, but at that moment I would even have watched slapstick comedy, which I hated, if MC wanted me to.
MC scanned through to a prize-winning performance by Jake and the dark brown Werner. She narrated the moves for me. Canter pirouette right, extended trot, zigzag half-pass, and a gentle tap dance called a piaffe. Or it might have been pilaf.
Knowing I’d never be tested on the information, I concentrated instead on the peripherals. The ring, or corral, or whatever the fenced-in area was called, was draped in the banners of advertising sponsors. I checked off the obvious ads for saddles, insurance, riding apparel. But a beef restaurant? Would these equestrians who treated their horses like crown princes really have dinner later at the expense of a cow?
I also tried to apply a bit of basic physics, calculating the tension in each very skinny leg of a horse weighing about fifteen hundred pounds.
MC’s video camera lingered on the score chart, presumably to show Jake Powers and Werner in first place, with 76.525 percent.
MC laughed and held up her hand. “Don’t say it, Aunt G. I know what you’re thinking.”
But I had to say it. “Three significant decimal places! It looks like a freshman lab report.”
MC stopped the tape. “Okay, that’s it. Thanks for being a good sport, Aunt G. I feel a lot better.”
“I know it doesn’t seem so now, MC, but you’ll meet someone you won’t have to work so hard with.”
MC shook her head, drained her hot chocolate. “I don’t think so. I feel like I’ve hit the wall here. I’m getting too old for the dating scene.”
“I managed to skip that scene,” I said. I spread my arms wide, as if to encompass an absent Matt Gennaro. “And look at me.”
“I hope I do as well,” MC said.
I did, too.
One other concern had been crowding my thoughts, and as much as I didn’t want to worry MC, I decided I couldn’t let it go.
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