The Carbon Murder (23 page)
Authors: Camille Minichino
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths
Since most of Lorna Frederick’s program money was from government sources, the financial aspects were a matter of public record, just as my salary at mostly DOE-funded BUL had been. I checked the Revere payroll for Dr. Timothy Schofield, and the Houston payroll for Dr. Owen Evans. Both were listed at an hourly rate that was reasonable—for doctors or lawyers, though high for consultants in general. And certainly high for people who weren’t working for the program yet.
I found the input/output sheets for the microchips.
If I was reading the sheet correctly, Lorna was buying chips from different manufacturers—probably to satisfy a government regulation to avoid sole sourcing—and then selling them to the veterinarians. But Lorna was giving a 30 percent discount to the doctors. I was amazed the sponsors wouldn’t notice and question this. I had the feeling that somewhere in an executive summary meant for bureaucrats there was twisted jargon that made this seem reasonable. What else was being sanitized, I wondered.
Another perk for the doctors—I was willing to bet they were not passing the savings on to their clients.
I went back over the fiscal reports, looking for … something else. I didn’t know what. Until, there it was. I knew I’d recognize it when I saw it. Another chart for microchips, with different parameters tabulated.
Lorna kept a record of each chip, with its history. The page wasn’t numbered and I wondered if it had been submitted by mistake. Most intriguing was the column labeled PROCESSING.
The good doctors were installing “processed” chips? What kind of processing would take a month or more? I wondered why the chips couldn’t go straight from the manufacturer to the veterinarians. Surely if the veterinarians bought the chips themselves they wouldn’t “process” them. But, of course, why would they buy their own when they could get a huge discount from Lorna’s program?
I looked through the technical reports one more time, to see if I could find anything on “processing.” Nothing. Did Dr. Schofield and Dr. Evans know the chips were being processed before they received them for implantation? I wished I’d looked at the financial statements before interviewing Dr. Schofield. This case, plus all the time I’d been spending in hospital waiting rooms and in emotional stress over Matt’s illness, had made me sloppy.
I got off the couch, pulled my navy corduroy bathrobe tighter, and walked around the living room and dining room to warm up and to reorganize my thoughts. I needed to talk to someone. Andrea Cabrini could help, but not at two o’clock in the morning. It was only eleven o’clock in California, but I hadn’t given Elaine Cody running commentary on this case as I had on others. I had, however, poured all my stress over the phone lines to her.
I went upstairs to my office and found my notes from the first interview Matt and I had had with Lorna. I made noises, shuffled past the bedroom door, but not too loudly, just enough to wake Matt gently, I hoped. He slept on. I went back down with only my notes.
I’d recorded the dialogue as best as I could remember it, once we’d left Lorna’s office. I read the section where I’d questioned her about having veterinarians on her payroll:
Q./me: Do some of your programs require testing on animals?
A./LF: Not exactly. (
Annoyed. Ends meeting abruptly.
)
Annoyed. Ends meeting abruptly.
)
The question of chips never came up. I started to blame Houston PD for not sharing the transcript sooner. If we’d known from the beginning Nina Martin was investigating the death of a horse, things might have moved more smoothly. Matt had defended them when I’d brought it up, however.
“It hasn’t even been two weeks,” he’d said. “And the HPD couldn’t just walk into Nina’s office and take her files. Not only that, once they had them, they had to sift through to find the case that might have sent her here.”
“And it’s not as if she had had an equestrian card in her pocket,” I’d said, deciding to join his side.
After another fruitless half hour, I wanted to shake Matt awake and brainstorm, but I’d never keep him from the sleep he needed. It would be too rude, I concluded—unless he woke up from an odor, like the aroma of espresso.
Technically, I knew better—we can’t smell in our sleep—but something worked, because Matt came downstairs a few minutes into my middle-of-the-night coffee break.
“I thought I was going to have to bake lemon cookies,” I said. “Or try my new intense pesto sauce recipe.”
“You mean if I’d held out a little longer, there’d be an extra treat?”
“Next time.”
I summoned him to the coffee table and briefed him on my marked-up lists.
“What I don’t understand—besides what processing they’re doing—is why Lorna’s giving us all this potentially incriminating evidence in nicely bound reports.” I spread out the material on the coffee table, making a fan of the colorful plastic strips down the left-hand side of each report.
Matt shrugged. “You know what they say. If criminals didn’t do dumb things …”
“None of them would get caught.”
Matt pointed to other line items on the expense sheet. “Also, look at how expensive these other items are. Capital equipment, for
one. Rare chemicals. CPU time, whatever that is. The chips are way down in the noise of the money they’re spending. But Lorna certainly wants to be reimbursed for the full amount she’s spending, so she sticks these little chip expenses in there. Why not, if she thinks no one will question her.”
one. Rare chemicals. CPU time, whatever that is. The chips are way down in the noise of the money they’re spending. But Lorna certainly wants to be reimbursed for the full amount she’s spending, so she sticks these little chip expenses in there. Why not, if she thinks no one will question her.”
Good point. “So where are we on this?” I asked him, exhausted and frustrated. “Are we any closer to why Nina and Jake were murdered?”
“Maybe it will look better in the morning.”
I was tired enough to wait.
Matt climbed the stairs extra slowly, holding on to the worn oak banister that was on our list to refinish some week. Along with repapering the hallway and buying new stairway lighting.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, but planning to sleep in.”
“Me, too.”
O
n Tuesday morning I was awakened by retching noises coming from the bathroom. I shot out of bed. Matt was doubled over, unable to tell me exactly what was wrong. He mumbled syllables I couldn’t understand, then a few seconds later his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he fell over, unconscious. I called 911, then Rose, and then George Berger, as if it would take all of them to save Matt.
n Tuesday morning I was awakened by retching noises coming from the bathroom. I shot out of bed. Matt was doubled over, unable to tell me exactly what was wrong. He mumbled syllables I couldn’t understand, then a few seconds later his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he fell over, unconscious. I called 911, then Rose, and then George Berger, as if it would take all of them to save Matt.
How could I have been so selfish?
I asked myself over and over as I sat in the hospital waiting room, dry-eyed, having used up my tears driving behind the ambulance. I’d kept Matt up late, luring him to work in the wee hours of the morning, helping him ignore his doctors’ orders to rest. I’d even let him heat up the clam chowder himself, and forgotten to restock the cranberry juice.
I asked myself over and over as I sat in the hospital waiting room, dry-eyed, having used up my tears driving behind the ambulance. I’d kept Matt up late, luring him to work in the wee hours of the morning, helping him ignore his doctors’ orders to rest. I’d even let him heat up the clam chowder himself, and forgotten to restock the cranberry juice.
Dr. Rosen had been assigned to Matt again. I hoped she would be a little less cheery now that she had at least more one week of experience, but her chestnut ponytail still bounced when she greeted me.
“Detective Gennaro’s fiancée, right? I’ll be back in a sec,” she’d said, a half hour ago.
There was nothing I could do but wait. Wait for Rose, wait for Berger, wait for Dr. Rosen. I felt I’d read every old periodical in every waiting room in Suffolk County, though I’d have hated to be quizzed on the contents.
None of this had been predicted by the dozens of consultations, brochures, pamphlets, URLs, or wellness letters we’d drowned ourselves
in. Side effects of external beam therapy for prostate cancer, if any, weren’t due until well into the radiation program. Matt had had only one treatment and had seemed fine the rest of that day.
Until I prodded him into working,
I told myself.
in. Side effects of external beam therapy for prostate cancer, if any, weren’t due until well into the radiation program. Matt had had only one treatment and had seemed fine the rest of that day.
Until I prodded him into working,
I told myself.
I’d dozed off in the stiff chair when I felt a sharp poke on my upper arm. I looked up to—none of the people I’d been waiting for—Jean Mottolo. I’d forgotten that I’d asked Rose to call Matt’s sister. I wasn’t ready for her criticism; I’d already given myself enough.
I was even less ready for her friendliness.
“Gloria, how are you? I can’t believe this is happening. Did you talk to the doctor yet? You must be exhausted.” Jean slung her burgundy shoulder bag onto the chair next to me and gave me a warm smile.
I waited for the zinger.
It’s all your fault Matt’s here and I had to drive all this way again,
my mind heard. But there was no zinger. Jean took off her coat, plunked down next to me with a big sigh, and put her hand on my arm. The way Rose would.
It’s all your fault Matt’s here and I had to drive all this way again,
my mind heard. But there was no zinger. Jean took off her coat, plunked down next to me with a big sigh, and put her hand on my arm. The way Rose would.
“I … uh … Dr. Rosen should be here any minute. I hope the traffic wasn’t too bad.”
Jean waved her hand and spoke rapidly, as if she wanted to close a deal quickly. “It took about an hour and a half. I was making good time until that Braintree split. Then things got bogged down. Thank God for easy-listening WQRC, and of course WBZ.” She took a breath. “‘Traffic on the threes,’” she said, mimicking the radio announcer’s signature line. She looked at her watch, a fancy number with her children’s birthstones along the band. I remembered the day she explained it to me—I’d tried to hide my imitation-leather-strapped drugstore watch under the sleeve of my jacket. “Anyway, I’m glad I’m here.”
“So am I.” I said this shakily, thinking Jean might be laying a trap. Trusting soul, that Gloria.
Jean patted my hand. “We’ll get through this.”
Rose arrived upon this scene, and gave me a look that was no
more trusting than I felt. “Hi, Jean. You made great time.” I heard the wariness in her voice.
more trusting than I felt. “Hi, Jean. You made great time.” I heard the wariness in her voice.
“Rose, I’m so glad to see you.” Jean stood up and hugged Rose. I saw Rose’s arms stiffen, then make their way to patting Jean’s back. She looked at me over Jean’s shoulder—possible only because Jean had bent over to accommodate Rose’s height. “How’s your daughter? I heard the terrible news about her friend’s death.”
I wondered how Jean could have known about Jake’s death. I didn’t think the
Cape Cod Times
would carry stories of murder or mayhem in Revere. Most likely Matt had told her.
Cape Cod Times
would carry stories of murder or mayhem in Revere. Most likely Matt had told her.
Dr. Rosen came through double doors that seemed to swing in tune with her hair. She beamed a big smile at us, and motioned me to come forward.
“You go ahead, Gloria. We’ll be right here,” Jean said, earning another strange look from Rose. I wondered briefly if Rose thought I’d decided to try one of the “I’m pregnant” stories on Jean.
“We just can’t seem to get this right,” Dr. Rosen told me. “Another bad reaction, this time to
no
medication. So, somewhere in the middle between too much and zero, that’s where we’re aiming.”
no
medication. So, somewhere in the middle between too much and zero, that’s where we’re aiming.”
I blinked my eyes at her glibness. This was my … fiancé, for all she knew, and her reporting came off as if she were trying to gauge the right distance to clear the highest pole in a competition. I took a breath before addressing her.
“So this reaction was to just one dose of the radiation?”
She nodded gaily, as if to commend me for getting the correct answer. “It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes that’s all it takes. He’s presenting with exactly the symptoms we might expect in the fourth or fifth week. He’s ahead of the class, you might say.”
No, I might not say that.
“Can I see him?”
She shook her hair. “Not for a while. He’s all doped up.” Dr. Rosen checked her watch, more like mine than Jean’s, with a plain brown strap. “I’d say come back at noon.”
I gave her the best smile and thank-you I had available.
Jean insisted she be allowed to treat Rose and me to an early lunch at a place of our choice, so at about eleven-thirty the three of us sat in Russo’s, the elaborately decorated restaurant on Broadway where I’d met Matt for one of our first meals together. We called it our Half Meeting because it had been half work, half date, and, as Matt remembered, he’d half stood to greet me, not wanting to offend my sensibilities either way.
“I didn’t know whether to expect a feminist or an old-fashioned girl,” he’d told me once, reminiscing.
“Which was I?” I’d asked.
A crooked smile. “The best of both.”
As I thought of him now, I turned my head away, having brought myself to the brink of tears. Rose and Jean kindly ignored me, but in a way that said,
We’re here
. The best of both, I thought, mimicking Matt.
We’re here
. The best of both, I thought, mimicking Matt.
My friends—I was starting to include Jean in that group—ordered a bottle of wine and we clinked their wineglasses and my mineral water tumbler to Matt and his good health.
“I’m so glad to be with you both,” Jean said. “I know you’re not asking, but I have to tell you.” She brushed back a faux fern that appeared to be growing out of an armless torso just over her left shoulder. Russo’s seemed to add a little more of Old Rome every month or so, and Jean’s eyes landed on each pink plaster cherub in turn. Any minute I expected criticism of my choice of restaurant, and the news that her hometown of Falmouth had rules against such cheesy artifacts.
“Tell us what?” Rose asked.
Jean looked at me. “Matt wrote me a letter.”
Rose looked uncomfortable, as if she’d asked an embarrassing question and should excuse herself, but Jean apparently sensed it and held her arm. “This is for both of you. If I open my eyes, I can see how much Gloria cares for him, and I realized after reading Matt’s letter how much both of you mean to my brother and well, you know, et cetera, et cetera.”
“Well, you mean a lot to him, too, and we’re all lucky, aren’t we, because Matt is so wonderful. Thank you for sharing that, Jean.”
That was Rose, the gracious lady of Revere, whose ability to rise to any social occasion often stunned me. I stared past Jean’s shoulder at a fountain with water emanating from the mouth of an enormous winged creature, possibly Michael or Gabriel. Matt was not a letter writer. No notes, postcards, or Christmas cards. I had instituted the practice of sending birthday cards to Petey and Alysse. I couldn’t imagine why Jean would make up such a story, however.
Way behind in the conversation, I said, “Matt wrote you a letter?”
Jean nodded. “He didn’t say anything specific, but I know why he wrote it.” She laughed. “He wanted me to stop being huffy—that’s what he used to call me even when I was a little girl. Huffy.” She cleared her throat. “I knew what he meant even then.”
“We all get huffy now and then,” Rose said, looking at me, not quite kicking me under the table, but nudging me with her eyes.
It was my turn to accept Jean’s apology. I wanted to, but I was stuck on the image of Matt writing a letter.
Like a will
, I asked myself,
his last words?
I looked at Rose and she read the questions in my eyes.
Is Matt going to die? Is this the last scene, where the hero dies after doing one last good deed for those he loves?
Like a will
, I asked myself,
his last words?
I looked at Rose and she read the questions in my eyes.
Is Matt going to die? Is this the last scene, where the hero dies after doing one last good deed for those he loves?
“Gloria, this is a good thing,” Rose said to me, locking her eyes on mine. “Matt is getting better as we speak.”
Jean nodded.
The tears came again, filling my eyes. Jean moved her chair closer to me and hugged me. Rose gave us both a wide, beaming smile. I wondered if she was thinking of her dear departed mother-in-law.
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