The Nitrogen Murder (16 page)

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Authors: Camille Minichino

Tags: #California, #Lamerino; Gloria (Fictitious Character), #Missing Persons, #Security Classification (Government Documents), #Weddings, #Women Physicists, #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Women Sleuths, #Reference

BOOK: The Nitrogen Murder
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“Not that I’ve rushed out to replace mine,” Elaine said. Her voice sounded wistful, full of nostalgia for her normal life.
“I don’t get this,” Dana said. “These are Valley Med invoices. What are they doing in my dad’s house?”
“And why would Phil hide them?” Elaine asked. I wondered if she was at all relieved that we hadn’t uncovered evidence that indicated a cold-feet theory might be in order—a perfumed love letter, perhaps, or a note saying
Thanks for last night
.
“This is a laugh,” Dana said, pointing to the letterhead: VALLEY MEDICAL AMBULANCE COMPANY, and under that, ACCOUNTING DEPARTEMENT. “Julia is the accounting department.”
We continued to stare at the invoices, as if the words were one half of an equation, about to rearrange themselves into the other half, making the whole understandable, giving us a reason why Phil had the copies in the first place, and then thought it necessary to hide them.
The suite of Evanescence songs ended, emphasizing the silence that settled over us, the excitement of finding “something” overshadowed by “so what?” The last words I heard as the music came to a halt were
bring me to life
.
“Not bad,” I told Dana as a commercial for a tranquilizer replaced the music. “Not Tony Bennett, but not bad.”
In the short-lived thrill at finding the invoices, I’d forgotten about the briefcase, which I now noticed standing in front of the oven.
“It was in the same place,” Elaine said, in tune with my gaze. “Still empty. I thought we should take it with us this time.”
I nodded agreement. I was sure Matt would want to take it to Russell, though by now there’d be a sufficient number of overlapping fingerprints to make it useless, I guessed.
“Wait a minute,” Dana said, waving an invoice in our direction. Elaine and I put down our mugs and gave Dana our full attention. “There’s no Schnur Convalescent Home in Alameda County.”
“You mean you’ve never heard of it?” Elaine asked.
“I mean there isn’t one. I know them all. Hospitals, senior centers, convalescent homes, trauma centers, you name it. I
have
to know them all.” Dana picked up the sheet and held it closer to her face, studying it. “Here’s another one. A bill for a pickup at a Mattson Assisted Living Center. That doesn’t exist, either.” Dana ran her fingers down the page. “Okay, okay, okay,” she said, apparently giving approval to some of the listings. A little more than halfway down the page, she tapped her finger and shook her head. “Absolutely no Jacobs Home in Alameda County. I don’t believe this. There must be at least six care centers listed on this page alone that don’t exist.”
“Maybe some of them are new?” I asked. “Or really small facilities, so you might not have made a pickup?”
Dana placed the invoice on the island counter so we could see it. She stepped back and folded her arms across her chest. “Then how come I’m listed as the driver?”
 
With a highlighter from Phil’s kitchen-drawer collection, Dana marked the nonexistent facilities Julia had billed, all with post
office boxes as addresses. We examined the pages, shuffling them among us, one or two at a time.
Dana gave us a quick rundown of the acronyms for sites such as convalescent homes, assisted living centers, and the trauma center, and the patient codes that included dates and insurance IDs.
It was obvious that Julia was running some kind of scam, laundering money through services she never rendered.
“These billed amounts are all different,” I said.
“The basic cost of transport is three hundred dollars, then on top of that there’s fees if we need equipment or supplies.” Dana ticked off the list. “Like oxygen, cannulas, bandages, dressings. That’s all extra.” She looked down the list. “Say there’s about six or seven fake trips a week here. She could be hiding, like, ten thousand dollars a month.”
“Somehow Phil uncovered this swindle,” Elaine said.
Or was part of it
, I didn’t say.
“This is a new one on me,” Dana said. “I’ve heard some worse things, though, like beating old people so they’ll need the ER and more money comes in from their insurance. Then the ER and the home split the reimbursement.”
“What?” Elaine seemed stunned, as I was. It made taking extra pens and pads of paper from the lab supply room seem not worth noting.
“I wonder how Phil discovered this,” Elaine said, still on her Phil-is-one-of-the-good-guys tack.
“Dad met Julia once or twice, but he doesn’t know her well, and I’m sure his only connection to her is through me,” Dana said.
“And Robin,” Elaine said. This time the lovely bird came out as a growl. When we looked doubtful, she elaborated. “Robin used to work for Julia at Valley Med. Robin had a badge in her closet from the company Phil works with. The briefcase was in Robin’s house, then Phil’s.”
A little loose and haphazard, but I could almost follow Elaine’s thinking, although she’d skirted two murders.
“What if Dad’s in danger?” Dana’s voice cracked as she uttered what we were all thinking. “There’s a lot of money involved in this, if it’s ongoing. Dad might be—”
“The cookies are here!” A cheery voice from the foyer broke into our high-level meeting, just in time. An energetic fifty-something woman, in a red-and-black power suit and pumps, despite the heat, burst into the kitchen. “Sorry I’m a little late, but Brokers’ Open House is now officially under way.”
The woman tore plastic wrap from a plate of chocolate chip cookies; they smelled warm and homemade.
We dug in, ready for something sweet and simple.
I
t didn’t help that there was a stack of wedding presents waiting for us on Elaine’s doorstep. A UPS truck seemed to have dumped half its load of cartons, large and small, meant to cheer and honor the bride and groom. But the pile of boxes was simply one more reminder that, instead of happily anticipating and celebrating a joyous event, we were accumulating one mystery after another.
Rose’s gift had already arrived, even before Matt and I did. On our first evening in California, Elaine had shown me the beautiful hand-fashioned wine set—eight glasses, a decanter, and a tray, all in bold stained glass colors.
Matt and I had yet to decide on a present. I’d tried to get a hint from Elaine, but she refused to give one, claiming our trip was present enough.
“Anyway, if I ask for something, it’ll be too much like registering at some mall store, which I hate,” she’d said. “A gift should be a gift. Whatever moves you.”
Matt arrived soon after Dana, Elaine, and I reached home. His step seemed lighter now that he’d communicated with Russell, his fellow law enforcer.
“Phil is still among the missing,” Elaine said, by way of a greeting to Matt. From her tone she might have been a hostess checking off guests invited to a party. Or a wedding. I wondered if she felt an obligation to appear strong for Dana.
It had been more than forty-eight hours since I’d watched Phil walk out of the bagel shop, the last of this immediate circle to see him.
In a movie, I’d be the prime suspect.
 
Dana briefed Matt on the situation with the phony Valley Med invoices. She’d noticed that Julia Strega’s fictitious driving duties rotated among two dozen or so EMTs.
“Probably to avoid tax problems,” Matt said. “This way no one individual EMT’s tax returns are going to be flagged as not matching the company’s statements.”
“Also, there are some fake EMTs here,” Dana said. “I don’t know absolutely everyone in the company personally, but I’m pretty sure I know all the names, from seeing the schedule in the lounge, and from talking. You know, who’s a good partner, who’s an a—” She flushed. For whose benefit had she cleaned up her vocabulary? I wondered.
“A what?” A tease from Elaine, one of few light moments lately.
“A jerk,” Dana said with a smile. She ran her fingers down the list. “Gary Langland, Marcia Streich, Jose Williams. Who are these people?”
“Julia would sprinkle phony names among the real ones, again, just for cover,” Matt said.
“This could be why Phil is missing,” Elaine said. “What if someone is holding him … hostage”—her voice cracked; she glanced at Dana and continued—“because he uncovered Julia’s scam?”
I mentally amended her statement, pending some explanation Julia might give, to
alleged
scam. Hanging around Matt will do that to you.
 
Inspector Dennis Russell had not been impressed, according to Matt. Not by Robin’s taking over the printing of Dana’s incident report, and certainly not by her new wardrobe. Russell took
custody of the Dorman Industries ID Dana had found in Robin’s closet, but without comment. He had listened to a description of Phil’s connection to Lokesh Patel through Dorman Industries, but again without interest.
“Unless we’re ready to report Phil missing,” Matt said, with a look around the table.
Elaine gave me a helpless look. “Not yet,” she said. “It’s still sort of within the window …”
I gathered Phil had done this before—that is, be even less considerate than Elaine had made him out to be.
Not my problem,
I told myself.
“Russell did say he wanted the briefcase immediately,” Matt said, “and that we were not to fiddle with it.”
“Fiddle?” I asked.
“His word.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t detain you until he took custody of it.”
“I told him it was at Phil’s house, so they’re headed over there.” Matt was not about to encourage a joke at the expense of a fellow officer.
Elaine looked at Dana, and they both looked at me. “The briefcase is here,” we all said, out of synch.
“What will they do when they get there and no one’s home?” I asked Matt.
“Except the cookie lady and her open-house guests,” Elaine reminded me.
Matt frowned. Thinking. “Well, in a situation like this, no urgency, I’d call his office. If that didn’t pan out, I’d ask around at the neighbors, see if anyone knows when he’s due home. They won’t have a search warrant, and, remember, technically Phil is not missing unless and until we make a report. So they’re not going to go busting in.”
“And eventually they’ll call … whom?” Elaine asked.
“I gave them this number. By rights, I need to call them now and tell them the briefcase is here.”
“By the time you look up the Berkeley PD number in the phone book—” I began.
“Russell gave me his card.”
“But you still have to find it in your pockets. How much time do we have?”
“For what?” Elaine asked.
“For fiddling,” Matt said, and left the room to make his call. His back was to me, so I couldn’t determine what level of humor, if any, was in his remark.
Elaine brought the briefcase to the living room and set it on the coffee table, pushing aside her bride books in the process. I regretted every derogatory remark I’d made, to myself and others, about the various planning and make-your-day-special volumes. She flipped open the briefcase.
“It wasn’t locked when I opened it the other day, either,” she noted.
We peered in and scanned the beige leather lining, as if it would take more than a fraction of a second to determine that the roughly two-hundred-cubic-inch briefcase was empty.
We each took a turn fiddling with the briefcase. Elaine ran her fingers around the inside edges, trying to pull up a corner. Nothing. Curiously, Dana lifted the case close to her nose and sniffed. She shook her head. A silent
Nothing
. I manipulated all the metal parts. The hinges, the decorative buckles on the sides, the lock. Still nothing.
Matt might as well have brought the cops with him to pick up the briefcase.
 
To report or not to report Phil missing?
“What do you think, Matt?” Dana asked.
Matt scratched behind his ear. I knew he’d already given this matter some thought. He took his time giving his opinion.
“Can we talk about Phil for a few minutes? When did we see him last, for example.”
He addressed Dana and Elaine, but for some reason I raised my hand slightly, reminiscent of seeking permission to go to the girls’ room at Abraham Lincoln Elementary School in Revere, circa 1955.
“I had lunch with him on Monday,” I said. A confession, but no one seemed to notice. We’d gathered in Elaine’s living room, our seats in a conversational arrangement I was sure was meant for her book club, not a brainstorming session on the whereabouts of her fiance.
“I talked to him Friday night, after Tanisha … we talked about Tanisha,” Dana said. “That’s it.” She rubbed her hands together, as if she were applying lotion. But I knew there was nothing soothing in the gesture.
“I haven’t talked to him since Monday morning.” Elaine’s voice was controlled and weak.
“And ordinarily, would you talk to him every day?”
“Not me,” Dana said.
“Not
every
day,” Elaine said. “But he wouldn’t just disappear.”
It was hard to tell whether Elaine was trying to convince us or herself.
Dana stood up abruptly. “Maybe this is a clue,” she said. “Before I left for my interview with the police on Monday, Julia told me to be careful—like, don’t tell them too much, or something. Maybe she was afraid they’d start looking into stuff and find her scam.” She snapped her fingers. “And Tom, too, he said sort of the same thing. Maybe he’s in on it.”
“Don’t forget Robin,” Elaine said. I knew she was speaking from her fear of an involvement between Phil and Robin. “She had that ID.”
“Okay, we’re getting somewhere,” Matt said.
I raised my eyebrows.
We are?
“This is just a long shot, but does Phil have any hobbies that might put him in danger? Like—” Matt began.
“Scuba diving? Rock climbing? Hang gliding?” I filled in with some of my top candidates for dangerous pastimes.
Elaine shook her head. “Not unless you think handball is dangerous. And I did call Barry, his gym buddy. And I told you I spoke to his BUL administrator, Penny Thomas, since he checks in with her now and then. And also to Verna Cefalu, his secretary at Dorman. Phil was there for a presentation Monday, but that’s the last she saw of him.”
I had a thought. “Phil’s last words—”
Bad choice
. “Phil was on his way back to Dorman Industries to give that presentation when he left me after lunch, and he did show up there, evidently. Let’s start from there and see if we can pick up the trail.”
The trail?
It made me nervous that I slipped into cowboy talk so easily when I was out west.
“Would you be able to go there, Matt, and ask some questions?” Dana asked.
“You, too, Gloria, in case there’s some … nitrogen … involved,” Elaine added.
I couldn’t have said it better.
 
We reached consensus that once we determined Phil’s movements when he left me, we’d make a decision about whether to make a formal police report. Matt had explained that in cases like this—an adult with no history of criminal behavior, not falling into any special at-risk category, like a person with Alzheimer’s—we could expect the police to enter a bulletin and a photo of Phil into their MUPS system within four hours.
“Missing unidentified persons,” Matt said. “It got started nationwide in the seventies after a particularly bad case where the police dragged their feet on an MP report, and … it didn’t turn out well.”
I could see that Matt was sorry he’d referred to a case with an unhappy ending.
“What will they do with the information?” Elaine asked. “Go out looking for him?”
“The system is monitored by investigators, maybe from the state, the DA’s office … I’m not sure how they do it in California. But, within that four hours, they’ll start the process. They check to see if he has outstanding warrants, for example, and if maybe he’s in custody somewhere.” Elaine smiled at this, but I couldn’t see how we could rule anything out. “Then they’ll start calling hospitals, ERs, and so on.”
I figured “and so on” meant morgues.
I looked at Dana and felt sure she had the same thought.
 
“How awkward is this going to be?” I asked Matt on the way to Dorman Industries. After a too brief respite, the heat wave had returned, and even in the late afternoon we needed the Saab’s air conditioner. I raised my voice to be heard over the noisy fan. “I’m sure when Elaine queried the secretaries she did it in a way that didn’t reveal she’s essentially lost her fiance.”
“I think we just ask the questions and accept that this might be embarrassing to Elaine or Phil.”
Though I was driving Elaine’s car and not mine or Matt’s—our usual classroom venue—it seemed the right time and place for a nitrogen lesson. We’d had some of our best tutorial sessions in our cars, riding to or from an interview—and once or twice on a stakeout.
“It makes the science seem less of a commitment,” Matt had told me. “And it’s less likely that there’ll be homework or pop quizzes.”
I ignored the slur against science education.
“The two most common forms of nitrogen are N
2
, which is the most abundant element in our atmosphere—”
“And number seven on the periodic table.”
“Very good. And the second form is N
3
, which is highly explosive. A nitrogen fullerene—sixty atoms of nitrogen arranged
in the shape of a soccer ball—would be an oddity, but a welcome one.”
“Because … ?”
“Because nitrogen bonding is so tight, when it’s broken, the explosive power of the molecule would be dazzling.”
“Did you know that there are some people who use the word ‘dazzling’ to describe a piece of jewelry, or the performance of an Olympic-medal-winning skater?”
“Would you rather be with one of those people right now?”
“Not on your life.”
Keeping my eye on the road, I was sure I’d missed a dazzling smile.
“As I told you in lesson one the other day, the energy released this way could be the basis for either a new weapon or a really novel nitrogen-based fuel—think supersonic transport. Either way, there’d be a lot at stake in the competition to produce this molecule.”
Matt reached over and put his hand on my knee. He’d waited till we were stopped at a light on University Avenue. Not to disturb my accelerator foot, I guessed.

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