The Helium Murder (11 page)

Somehow, I’d convinced Matt to let me make photocopies of the letters in Hurley’s personal correspondence file, and I added those to the pile of paper on my lap. I sat back and glided a few minutes on my rocker, enjoying the music. It was a nice reminder that my weekend was looking good.

I sorted through my notes, Hurley’s letters, and the newspaper clippings, looking for a pattern or an indisputable clue to Hurley’s murderer. I was amazed at my own arrogance—did I really believe I could solve this high-profile murder more easily or quickly than all of the police power of Revere and the neighboring cities that had been brought in for support? Did I care so much about justice in general, and Congresswoman Margaret Hurley in particular?
Was I trying to impress Sgt. Matt Gennaro? Or did I just love a puzzle? I settled on “all of the above,” and got to work.

I reviewed what I knew about each suspect—William Carey, Patrick Gallagher, Buddy Hurley, and Vincent Cavallo had all made my list, in that order. I’d moved Carey into first place after meeting him—realizing that assigning guilt by familiarity probably wouldn’t make it in the annals of detective work.

Buddy’s alibi was the most solid, witnessed by a large crowd in a public place, but I didn’t think it meant much, since it wouldn’t have been hard for him to hire someone to do the deed. I flashed on an image of Buddy Hurley handing over a thick envelope to Rocky Busso, both nodding knowingly. And I didn’t doubt that Carey had access to a large pool of very strong cowboys.

Since alibis were a dispensable variable in my theory of the case, I moved on to clues, which were as scarce as women in physics. The only real clue in my mind was Margaret Hurley’s last word, or syllable, before she died.

I made a list of all the possible meanings of “mo” or “mole.” I ruled out a license plate since I couldn’t imagine anyone’s using a car with vanity plates as a murder weapon. I doubted that Hurley meant mole/spy, since there was no national security issue that I was aware of with the helium reserves. Did the murderer have a mole on his body? I deemed it impossible that Hurley would have been able to see a mole on the driver of a vehicle coming at her full speed, in the
dark. Or that a gopherlike, furry underground animal was behind the wheel.

Leaving alibis and clues for a while, I focused on motive. Although Buddy had been written out of his father’s will, I was sure that more options opened up to him with Margaret out of the way. Maybe the courts would look more kindly on a sole heir. On the “not so nice” side of the ledger for his sister was renewed gossip that it was Margaret who had instigated the change of will not long before both parents died in a plane crash.

I was neither proud nor completely trusting of my sources for these tidbits—TV coverage, news magazines, and hearsay from Rose the Eavesdropper—but not much was forthcoming from Matt the Detective on nontechnical matters.

The motive I’d assigned to Cavallo was different from the others. It didn’t have to do with either love or money, but professional reputation and frustration. Weak, I concluded, so he was my last choice. The only strange thing was why Margaret Hurley had put Cavallo’s letters in her personal file. From what I’d read, everything he’d said in the letters was already in his public reports, the ones I’d found on the Internet.

Matt had invited me to Cavallo’s interview the next afternoon, Thursday, but not to Gallagher’s or Buddy’s in the morning. They had no apparent link to the helium program, so there was no technical reason for me to be there.
Maybe on our Saturday date I’ll speak to Matt about this handicap he’s giving
me
, I thought,
and also find out what he’s done about Al’s notebook;
but I doubted it. I knew I’d be concentrating on not tripping on Boston’s cobblestone streets.

I’d had only a brief glimpse of Gallagher, plus copies of two letters he’d written to Hurley, plus Rose’s account of his drunken apology to the victim; so far, not exactly winning behavior. I’d had even less direct contact with Buddy, if you didn’t count the intensity of the moment I did have with him.

I wanted to talk to Gallagher and Buddy so badly that I reconsidered going downstairs to the wake, and probably would have, if I hadn’t changed out of my professional mortuary clothing and misplaced the staff ribbon that provided a modicum of armor.

I took another glance at the piece about Gallagher in the newspaper and let out a tiny gasp when I read that he worked for the school district and had an office at Revere High School.
How did I miss that before?
I wondered, with mounting excitement.
And what’s the protocol for asking one’s ex-boyfriend to introduce her to a murder suspect?

Before I could change my mind, I picked up the phone and called Peter. I owed him a call, anyway, I reasoned, and maybe I could trade Christmas lunch for an introduction. Or maybe Peter knew Gallagher well and we could all go to lunch, I thought, pushing positive thinking way over the limit.

Peter answered, with the voice of one who has just swallowed a bite of dinner.

“I’m sorry to call you at dinnertime,” I told him.

“Not at all. I’m delighted, Gloria. I was wondering if you got my message the other night.”

“I did. I’ve been busy, working on your class, too, of course.” I was disgusted with my fawning, but I did need his help to carry out my limited duties for the RPD.

“I’m looking forward to Monday,” Peter said. “All I ever wanted to know about Marconi, right? And I’m hoping you’re free for lunch afterward. We need to do Christmas.”

I shivered at the thought of getting close to someone who “did Christmas,” but I persevered.

“I’ll count on lunch,” I said.

I managed a few more sentences of chit-chat about Peter’s plans for the holidays and the state of health of his sister, his nephews, and grand-nephews, then got to the point.

“By the way, Peter,” I asked, “do you know Patrick Gallagher?”

“Not well. I work with him a little, since he’s running our curriculum project for the district. He keeps an office in our building.” As Peter progressed through his sentences, his voice became softer and his speech slower until, finally, he ended with a long, heavy sigh, and I knew he’d put the pieces of my call together. “Gloria,” he said.

“I’d like to meet him, Peter, just briefly.”

“And that’s why you’re calling?” It was more a statement than a question, and I couldn’t argue with it. My silence must have said as much, so Peter continued.

“Gloria, I don’t know what bothers me more, that you’re way over your head investigating a murder on your own, or that you’re using me to do it.”

“Peter, I don’t need you to do my job. And let me remind you that this victim is our representative to the United States Congress, yours and mine.”

“It’s tragic, Gloria, but it’s not your job.”

“I’m simply asking you for a favor that you’re obviously not willing to do. Let’s forget the idea, Peter. I’m sorry I bothered you and I’ll see you on Monday for class.”

“Wait,” Peter said. “I know how stubborn you are, and you’ll get what you want one way or another. I can take you down to Gallagher’s office. I have to drop some papers off to him anyway.”

I ignored the slur on my character and took what I could get.

“Thanks, Peter,” I said. “When?”

“Tomorrow morning, early, say, eight-thirty. He’s not going to be here after nine.”

I almost said, “I know,” remembering Matt’s interview schedule. I had a few qualms about talking to Gallagher even before Matt did, but I shrugged them off.

“I’ll meet you in the main office, where I usually do,” I said. “Eight-thirty. Can I bring you a coffee?”

“Decaf,” Peter said, and we hung up.

Just after nine, Rose and Frank came upstairs, looking as exhausted as I’d ever seen them. I actually detected
wrinkles in Rose’s navy blue knit suit, and Frank’s eyes were half closed.

I insisted that they relax while I brought them drinks—wine for Rose and a beer for Frank. Since I never drank alcohol, my entire liquor collection consisted of what others, including the two of them, had brought into my apartment at one time or another. I made coffee for myself and sat across from them.

“You missed a big night,” Rose said. “I think the whole Democratic side of the aisle was there, and a few Republicans, too. And this is the first time we’ve had a Kennedy in our parlor—young Joseph—isn’t it, Frank?”

From Rose’s lips, it sounded as though royalty had come to tea in their home. Since coming back to Revere, I’d noticed that the Kennedys still held magic for natives of Massachusetts. After so many years on the West Coast, I’d forgotten the enduring charm of Camelot.

“I think so,” Frank said. “We thought Teddy might come for the bishop last year, but he apparently couldn’t.” Frank removed his jacket and placed it carefully around the curved dark wood of the chair at my desk, then sat back and closed his eyes.

“So, what’s new,” I asked Rose, folding my hands on my lap, “besides the congresspeople?”

“He wasn’t there, just his partner.”

“He? You mean Matt? That’s not all I want to know about.”

“It should be,” Rose said, but her smile softened the reproach. She sipped her wine and continued. “No
scenes tonight. The brother and his muscle were there. Gallagher wasn’t. I’m sorry, I didn’t pick up a thing. It was so crowded every minute. Robert and the boys are still down there straightening up.”

I felt very guilty pumping my friend for information when she’d worked so hard and all I’d done was read my notes and manipulate Peter into doing me a favor.

“Thanks anyway,” I said, moving the bowl of cashews closer to her.

“So what about Saturday night?” Rose said, but without the spirit I expected. “The funeral’s tomorrow, so maybe we can go shopping on Friday and get you a new outfit.” She stifled a yawn as Frank slept beside her, snoring gently.

“Let’s talk about it tomorrow,” I said. “I’m not even sure you’re all right to drive home. You’re both exhausted and the streets are still icy.”

“Robert’s going to drive us. But I guess you’re right. We’d better go down and gather our things.”

I walked my friends to the door and let them out, disappointed on many counts—I had nothing new to think about, no company for the rest of the evening, and no fun conversation about Saturday’s plans.

As I cleared the glasses and napkins, I noticed that Frank had left his jacket on my chair. I was considering whether to race downstairs with it, when I heard a knock.

I picked up the jacket and opened the door.

Rocky Busso was standing on my threshold.

Chapter Thirteen

I
felt my heart beating against my throat, and my knees went weak. I squinted, opened my mouth, and tilted my head to the side, as if I’d just seen an unexpected glitch in a curve on my oscilloscope.

“Dr. Lamerino,” Rocky said, bowing slightly from the waist. “Can I come in?”

He held his hat in his hands in front of him, giving him a meek and humble look. Either that, or he was hiding his gun, I thought. The moment was like a dream—in my mind I reacted quickly, slamming the door in his face before he could move a muscle, but my body was absolutely rigid, my arms stiff as meter sticks.

If Rocky sensed my fear, he gave no indication. He might have been a Boy Scout selling cookies, or whatever little male scouts did for a living.

I stepped aside, taking a few steps backward into
my living room, under the spell of my own panic. Rocky entered my apartment and walked past me, as far as my couch. He’d switched his hat to one hand and I saw that there was no gun, at least none aimed at me. So far, he’d said only six words, but his presence was overwhelming. His enormous bulk, spread mostly in the horizontal direction, seemed to raise the temperature of my apartment, and his sharp-smelling cologne saturated my nostrils.

Rocky was standing between me and my window, and I couldn’t figure out how to get past him to where I could see if the cruiser was still parked on Tuttle Street. Another thing that worried me was that the Christmas disc had ended, leaving me very vulnerable.

With the speed of a Pentium processor, I raced through the pros and cons of my options. Number one, run out the door and down the steps—useless if he had a gun, or a backup team waiting on the landing. Number two, scream at the top of my lungs—futile if no one was in the building, and probably aggravating to Rocky. I didn’t want to aggravate Rocky. Number three, attack Rocky—and bounce back from the shiny buttons of his expensive-looking black wool coat.

During this lightning-speed calculation, my body had remained essentially immobile, and in the end, I did what I always do. I chose the intellectual approach.

“How do you know me?” I asked, as evenly as I could, finally articulating the question that had been in the back of my mind all day.

“You’re Al Gravese’s girlfriend,” Rocky said, answering the wrong question.

“Did you know Al?” I asked.

“I worked for Al. I was just a kid,” he said, smoothing down his ample head of black-and-gray hair.

In spite of his heavyweight physique, Rocky’s manner was so gentle that I almost offered to take his coat and invite him to sit down. “Did you like your job?” I might ask, over an espresso.

“What can I do for you?” was what I actually asked, as if I were in charge.

“We know you’re digging into Al’s accident. Don’t do that.”

“How ... ?”

“We knew you was back in town,” Rocky said, not disappointing me with his grammatical deviations. “We always thought you was too smart for Al.” At this, Rocky chuckled and bowed from the waist again. “And now you’re a doctor.”

I figured Rocky thought “doctor” meant I could fix broken bones, and I hoped he hadn’t come to recruit me. Although he’d given me no cause for alarm, I stayed in my no-risk, no-tricky-questions mode.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met you,” I said.

“We kept to ourselves,” he said. “I came to tell you there’s no way to track down thirty-four-year-old business. They’re almost all dead now. And all you need to know is Al did a little too much drinking that night and he went off the road.”