Authors: Camille Minichino

Tags: #Revere Beach (Mass.), #Police Procedural, #Mystery & Detective, #Boric acid, #General, #Boston (Mass.), #Lamerino; Gloria (Fictitious character), #Women Sleuths, #Fiction, #Women physicists, #Detective and mystery stories; American, #Massachusetts

The Boric Acid Murder (23 page)

BOOK: The Boric Acid Murder

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She sighed. “My evenings are pretty free. I’m really grateful to you for giving me this assignment.”

“It works out well for me, too,” I said. I didn’t bother sharing with her how relieved I was not to have a regular commitment to Peter. “What else did you pick up on your stakeout at the high school?”

“Well, this is going to sound crazy to you, but not all the kids are skinny, you know. I was worried about that. I—”

My own chubby heart went out to her. “You don’t have to apologize, Andrea. I understand that feeling.”

“I was wondering if you could help me choose something to wear. I know you hate to shop, but maybe if I bought a nice outfit, I’d feel a little more …qualified.”

I pictured myself spending precious time at the mall, picking through dresses and suits and fancy shoes. Then, in a matter of seconds I edited the scene, and Rose Galigani stepped in to take my place.

“You need a personal shopper, Andrea, and I know just the person.”

AFTER DINNER and a run-through of Andrea’s transparencies—I talked her into cutting the number in half, to ten instead of twenty—I walked out with her.

“I have to pull my car into the garage,” I explained. “When I came home earlier, a delivery truck was blocking my driveway.” I smiled at the notion that the bottled water phenomenon had arrived on Tuttle Street.

“I don’t know how you manage that big car,” Andrea said, unlocking the door of her normal-size sedan.

“I’ve had practice,” I told her.

I’d left my Cadillac at the curb at the end of the dead-end street. I stepped carefully in the dark, along the crumbling sidewalk, where the roots of large, old elms had shattered the cement. Smells of various ethnic dinners hung in the still, humid
air. I detected the aroma of at least one Asian dish, and another that was close to my own lasagna.

Ten o’clock—still a good two hours before I’d run out of energy.

My feet were healing surprisingly well, considering how neglectful I’d been of the California doctor’s instructions—soak for fifteen minutes twice a day, sprinkle with medicated powder, rest. I wondered who had time to bother. My list of things to do was long enough without adding
pamper feet
. I reviewed the list as I passed neat old houses and tiny front lawns: check the Internet white pages for Fiores in Detroit, tell Matt—fi—nally—about the note in my desk, since the subject of sewing kept coming up, do a little boron review before meeting with Erin Wong’s students again.

The next item had to do with Tony Taruffi’s alibi, and the next thing I saw was Tony Taruffi appearing before me, coming from behind the last tree on Tuttle Street.

TWENTY-SIX

I FUMBLED WITH my key chain, stuck in the pocket of my knit pants, trying to locate the little red panic button that had served me well during another Tuttle Street ambush. I chided myself for not having it ready ahead of time, before heading down a dark, quiet, dead-end street. The shadow of St. Anthony’s Church, behind me on Revere Street, was doing nothing to protect me.

“Time to chat, Gloria,” Tony said, grabbing my arm. He felt as strong as he looked, with his upper arm muscles straining the ribbing on his short-sleeved shirt.

Chat, I thought, taking a breath against the painful pounding in my chest. At least he hadn’t said,
the jig’s up
, or something else with a ring of finality. It was too dark to see the expression on his face, but his voice was relatively calm, and his hold on my arm was lighter than I’d expected, given the method he’d chosen to initiate a conversation.

I opened my mouth, probably to scream, although I wasn’t responding logically. Tony put his hand up. He’d walked me a few steps to a spot illuminated by a streetlight and I could see his look was one of panic, not aggression.

“Look, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He glanced down at where he held my arm, and frowned. “Sorry,” he said.

He let go, and I briefly considered running away. I knew I could never outrun him, however, even in my most athletic shoes.

“I suppose this is about your alibi.” Brilliant, I told myself.
Not only do I not attempt to escape, but I remind a maybekiller why he should attack me.

Tony nodded, a sheepish look taking over his face, making me slightly more comfortable about my safety. “I’m a married man,” he told me. “I have a family, and I have a responsible job. I’m in the public eye. I have to be careful.”

“You mean you have to be careful you don’t get caught?”

Tony screwed up his mouth. “This is not really your business, Gloria. But yes, I was with a woman, not my wife, and I’d rather not have to tell the police.”

Although we both whispered, our voices seemed loud, as if they were being amplified, the stagnant air acting as an efficient transistor. A few lights glowed from the windows, mostly moving TV images.

“So you want me to convey your innocence to the RPD?”

“Something like that.”

I shook my head. Not that I’d had any direct experience with adultery, but I remembered reading that men who cheat on their wives do it often. “So you did have an affair with Yolanda Fiore,” I said, hoping to get something useful from this unpleasantness.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Did she dump you? Is that why you fired her?”

I took a moment to congratulate myself on good police procedure. My linear, one-track training in science had been hard to overcome, but I’d finally learned to
not
answer a question, and proceed instead with my own agenda. Tony was born to that kind of rhetoric, however, and proved a tough opponent.

“I was with another woman the night Yolanda was murdered,” he said.

The broken-record technique. I tried to stay focused. “I see, so you dumped Yolanda for this other woman—what was her name?”

“Nice try.”

I grinned. “And then you fired her.”

“You’re making this very hard for me.”

“Thank you.” I indulged myself in a fantasy, where Sergeant
Matt Gennaro was standing in the shadows, one elm tree over, watching my performance and applauding. This image was preferable to reality, in which I knew he’d be upset at my careless disregard for my own safety.

“I fired Yolanda because she was using the lab computer system for personal research. I admit I was looking for an excuse. She was not what you would call a company person. But you can check the employment records. Her termination papers are there. I’m sure you can use your pseudo-police status.”

I ignored the sarcasm. “Do you know what the research was about?”

“Genealogy. It’s a big thing now, you know. Everyone is writing memoirs. They find a great-great-grandfather who was the first man in Suffolk County to make gloves with five fingers and they think it’s some exciting, groundbreaking, big deal.”

“Did you ever see evidence of that—a chart on the screen or something?”

“I sure did. It wasn’t hard to sneak up on her—she only had a cubicle, you know.”
Unlike me, a supervisor
, was the unspoken boast. Recalling the fishbowl that was Tony’s office, I was amazed he clung to status symbols. “She even E-mailed Italy, for God’s sake.”

“It doesn’t cost any more to E-mail Italy,” I reminded him.

“Yeah, well, it’s just the idea.”

“I assume you knew all this through the lab’s computer security program?”

Tony nodded. “Right. They have software now that can intercept every keystroke. I had a hunch, since every time I approached her at her computer, she’d zip over to the desktop or a lab file. As if I were an idiot. So I had her targeted. Had her E-mail and Web use intercepted. Once they confirmed my suspicions, I fired her.” Tony snapped his fingers, snuffing out a career.

“You fired her, then you killed her.” This last attempt was only halfhearted, more to aggravate him than because I believed the accusation. I hated Tony’s smug expression, but I was losing my confidence in him as a murderer.

He made an unpleasant snorting noise, and I had a peek into what his snoring might be like. “Give me a break here, Gloria. Firing is one thing, killing is another.”

A good point. With that, Tony sprinted away. I had the disturbing realization that my suspects were dropping off, like extruded metal dripping from a precision-engineered needle.

MY OUTDOOR INTERVIEW with Tony Taruffi had taken less than a half hour, but a lot had been going on in my apartment. I opened my door to a ringing phone and a message on my machine. I picked up the phone, with the awful thought that it might be time for another threat or prank. I prepared myself for heavy breathing, but heard instead an upbeat voice.

“Gloria, this is Brendan Byrne. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No. In fact, I’m just arriving home.” More or less.

“I want to thank you and your dear friend for your excellent work in uncovering the document fraud.”

That was fast, I thought. Apparently Councilman Byrne was on someone’s short list for breaking news. “Thanks for your kind words. I had very little to do with it.”

“Now, don’t be modest. And, by the way, I’m sure you’ve been informed that my son was in no way connected with that devilish scheme.”

“Yes, Mrs. Leonard said as much. May I ask how you found out about our tests so quickly?”

He laughed. “There aren’t that many lawyers in Revere, Gloria. They’re all connected.” I remembered Dorothy Leonard’s comment about calling her lawyer immediately after she heard my message. She might as well have called the councilman directly.

“Well, I’m glad we could be of help.”

“Who knew to what depths Dorothy Leonard would stoop for that project of hers? Of course, I had my suspicions.”

I took a breath, annoyed. Perhaps it was the irritation, perhaps because he was keeping me from answering the message I hoped was from Matt—for whatever reason, I goaded the councilman. “Mrs. Leonard seems to think it won’t matter. She
says they have enough documentation without the fraudulent property papers.”

“Not on her life.”

His voice had turned angry, the genial old man gone from the telephone connection. I counted three Brendan Byrnes. One, the young man, off to the side of the crowd at City Hall, seeking revenge for his parents’ cruel fate. Two, the doddering old Irishman who treated himself to pinochle with the boys, and a hangover once a week. And three, the crafty councilman, protecting his son at every turn, opposing him only on the library project.

“That’s strong language, Councilman. How come the failure of this project—one that your son is in favor of—means so much to you?”

A pause, during which I envisioned the councilman calming himself, running his long fingers through his thick white hair. “The property is holy, Dr. Lamerino.” My title, delivered in a patronizing manner. “Is it so hard for you to believe a person in public life can be motivated simply by religious considerations?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Then we have nothing more talk about, do we?”

“I guess not. Good night, Councilman.”

I hung up the phone, curious at my own reaction, more than his. He wasn’t the first man to treat me condescendingly. I wondered if the councilman had also phoned Rose to thank her personally, and if it had ended so badly. I decided it was too late for me to call and check. Rose was an early riser and might even be taking medication to help her sleep. The morning was soon enough.

But maybe it was time to check the old man’s alibi.

ALTHOUGH I HADN’T BEEN physically hurt in any way, I was exhausted from the tension of the past four days, and ready to put my head on Matt’s broad chest and tell all. The threatening note to me, the matching envelope in Yolanda’s trash, the blaring intrusion alarm, the slashed tires, the ambush by Taruffi,
the nasty end to my conversation with Councilman Byme. And I wanted a sympathetic ear to hear me whine about the futility of research on moonshine and faked documents. Plus the dead end on boric acid. And, to borrow an expression from Rose Galigani,
plus-plus
her son John, an absconded suspect.

How handy that Matt had called during the mental gymnastics between Tony and me.

I played his message. “It’s after ten o’clock. Where are you? Any lasagna left over? I’m on my cell.”

Multitasking once again, with one hand I used the speaker phone to return Matt’s call, and with the other carved out a generous slice of lasagna.

WHO KNOWS WHAT chain of associations prompted my next move?—from lasagna to Italian to Tony Taruffi to E-mails to Italy, perhaps. I picked up the phone and punched in Tony’s home phone number. When he’d scribbled it on the back of his business card earlier in the day, in case I had a question about the lab’s model PWR, I never thought I’d use it.

“This is Gloria,” I began, speaking to Tony’s answering machine.

“Hi, Gloria.” Not a hopeful tone as Tony intercepted the message. I smiled at the idea that Tony might be worried about what I’d do with my new information. I’d left it ambiguous—whether I’d reveal his false alibi, alert his wife as to his latest adultery, or forget about the whole incident.

“I’m ready to deal,” I said. I wasted little time since Matt, the person with the real power to make deals, was due any minute. “Does the lab’s computer security staff have copies of Yolanda’s Web use and E-mails?”

“Sure, but why do you care? I know you want to clear John Galigani. He’s out of town right?”

“How do you know that?”

“Small town.” Tony laughed. “Nah, really, I’m buddies with the
Journal
people. Don’t forget my job is to network with the media.” Only Tony could make an innocuous phrase like
networking with the media
sound morally questionable.
“Anyway, I told you, these E-mails were just about personal, family stuff.”

“And how do you know
that?”

“Because I needed to cover my—myself, so I made copies for my files.”

My heart soared. “Then we have a deal.”

MATT AND I HAD settled on my sofa while the lasagna heated. The smell of melting cheese was almost as comforting as Matt’s gentle caress.

“It’s not that any one of these incidents was terrifying,” I told him, my head against his chest. “But I have to admit, taken all together, they make me nervous.”

He kissed my forehead. “They should make you nervous. I’m glad you told me. I wish there were something we could use in all this.” Matt picked up the note, the only tangible symbol of what was causing my distress. “I’ll at least take this and see what I can do with it. You never know … watermarks, fingerprints …” He trailed off, without much enthusiasm.

Matt’s reasonable response surprised me. I remembered clearly one evening when he stood in my apartment and tore up a contract I had with the RPD. He’d felt number one, I’d overstepped the bounds of my agreement, and number two, I’d placed myself in physical danger.

Of course this time there was no contract, but still …

“You’re not mad?”

He shook his head. “It’s not useful for me to be mad. I have to trust you. I can’t spend the rest of my life worried about you, so I’ve built this little compartment where you’re a cop, and I don’t worry any more than I would about my partner.”

I sat up. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. Thanks.”

He pulled me back and ruffled my hair. The timer on my microwave oven sounded, but it was a long time before we paid any attention to it.

BOOK: The Boric Acid Murder

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