Read The Boric Acid Murder Online

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 (3 page)

BOOK: The Boric Acid Murder
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Matt had answered for me. “About as much science as you’ve done, Berger,” he’d said with a grin. Although I’d proven my worth a few times, I still took great pains to play down my expertise when Matt’s partner was around.
Berger rubbed his hands together, clearly delighted at the
prospect of tutoring Matt, who at fifty-five was at least twenty years his senior. “Boron is the fifth element in the periodic table,” he said. “And the most common boric acid is H
3
BO
3
.”
I wondered if he’d researched boron in his old chemistry text before Matt and I arrived. When he announced, “Boron was discovered by Humphry Davy in 1808 but not identified as an element until 1824,” I was sure he had done some cramming. Most scientists I’d worked with would never pass a test on historical trivia. It was the present that mattered.
“The main use of boron compounds is as a bleaching agent in detergents,” Berger said, continuing to sound like a textbook. “The most popular one is called sodium perborate. It’s obtained by mixing boron with two other—uh—some kind of -ides that I can’t quite remember.”
“Like 20 Mule Team Borax?” Matt asked. “My father always had that around the garage.”
“Exactly,” I said. “That’s one of the common products that contains boron.”
Matt looked at Detective Parker’s list. “How’s boron used in nuclear reactors?”
Berger cleared his throat. I had the feeling he’d come to the end of his expertise on boron. “Gloria probably knows more about that than I do.” He smiled at me, as if to indicate there were no hard feelings.
“I’m a little rusty, myself,” I said truthfully. It had been a while since I’d read
Nuclear News
.
“Do you need some paper?” Berger asked. He pulled a child-size bright red easel from the corner. The image of me sitting on the built-in seat, formed for the one- to three-year-old set, must have hit all of us at once and we laughed out loud—a nice relief for the tension in my muscles.
Knowing the boron tutorial had to do with John Galigani’s arrest for murder made it less fun to talk science, but I organized my thoughts and went on.
“Boron is what we call a neutron poison.”
“So it’s no good for neutrons?” Matt asked.
I shook my head, aware the term was confusing. “Just the
opposite. It
absorbs
neutrons. That means it doesn’t allow them to interact with each other, or with whatever other nuclei are in the way. It’s important in a nuclear power plant because we don’t want runaway reactions.”
“Right,” Berger said.
“Huh?” Matt asked.
“We need to be able to control the reactions of the neutrons. Putting a neutron absorber like boron into the system does that for us. Usually components will be made of boron, and a solution of boric acid will be used in cooling and waste systems.”
“OK. That’s enough for now,” Matt said.
“But I’m just getting started.”
“Later.” His grin took the edge off the abrupt curtailment of my lesson.
“We’ll have to look at Yolanda’s notes,” Berger said. “Whatever she might have had with her in the library when she was killed is gone. There were no notes or disks near the body.”
“No briefcase?” Matt asked.
Berger shook his head. “Nothing like that. But I’m sure Parker’s checked her apartment and I don’t know what he found there. Sorry you’re out of the loop here, Matt. Rules are rules, I guess.”
Matt nodded. “It’ll be hard not to get involved. But I have plenty to do. There’s Rigione, Peters, Gong, Sforza …” He wiggled his fingers, indicating there were too many other cases to count.
I tried to determine if Matt felt as acquiescent as he sounded, but his face was turned from me.
The noisy whoosh of a minivan door floated through the screen door. I looked out the picture window and caught a glimpse of Roberta, Berger’s wife, unfolding an elaborate stroller, with enough pockets and shelves to rival a lab locker. I was thrilled to hear Matt’s next suggestion.
“We probably should be going. I’m sure Gloria’s exhausted from her trip.”
After a brief visit in the driveway with Roberta and Cynthia,
Matt and I waved good-bye to the family. The nuclear family, I mused.
“Are you really going to recuse yourself from this case?” I asked as I buckled myself into Matt’s Camry.
He nodded. “Department policy.”
Good thing I’m not in the department, I thought.
AS HE PULLED ONTO Broadway, Matt turned and gave me a wide smile. “Nice work, letting Berger in on the chemistry lesson,” he said, reminding me of his own attractive qualities.
“I’m glad you’re not egotistical,” I told him.
“You mean you’re happy I’m not sensitive about my ignorance?”
I laughed. “Something like that. By the way, have you been to the library lately?” I used a nonchalant tone, as if I hadn’t been plotting a trip to the crime scene for the past hour.
Matt reached over and rubbed my shoulder and upper arm, a proprietary gesture that I loved, although it had taken several amorous evenings for me to stop wishing I had leaner, firmer biceps for the occasion. His, after all, were in similar soft, cushiony shape.
“You’re thinking there’ll be a uniform there and he’ll let us in,” he said.
“Exactly.”
“And since we’re not on the job, you must want to check out the New Releases shelf?”
“Right again.”
We took a slight detour down Pleasant Street, past the police department, and parked on Beach Street near the front of the Revere Public Library. Bereft as I was of any literary sense, I had always admired the building itself, which dated from 1902, according to the numerals on the new-looking sign—brick—red printing on white—that decorated the front lawn. In my day, Revere High had been next door to it, before being rebuilt in
another location a few years ago. I guessed I hadn’t visited this spot since Rose had dragged me to a fund-raiser around the holidays. I remembered hearing about plans for remodeling and expanding the library, and the importance of preserving the architectural lines and materials of the original Georgian structure. The Carnegie style, they’d called it, after philanthropist Andrew Carnegie.
Now the beautiful building was a crime scene, but the only indication of that was the uniformed officer sitting on a brick ledge that protruded from the left front of the edifice. No yellow tape, no sign on the door. I didn’t even notice a cruiser in the vicinity. A coffee run in progress, I guessed.
“The director probably wants to keep it low-key,” Matt said. “A highly publicized murder is not the best way to inspire donors.”
“Is he planning to open on Monday?”
“She,”
Matt said. I slapped my forehead, figuratively. Matt’s grin told me he was pleased he’d caught me in a sexist assumption. “Dorothy Leonard’s had the job since the first of the year. She’s spearheading the plan for renovation and expansion.” I’d forgotten the name on the police report. Jet lag, not old age, I told myself. And lack of interest, I admitted. I’d never used public libraries on a routine basis since they couldn’t compete with a lab or university for the specialized books and periodicals I liked to read.
In spite of thirty years of effort by my well-read friends, I’d never sustained an interest in fiction or any other nontechnical reading. The farthest I strayed from a book with numbers was to scientific biography.
Once inside the building—a small wave of Matt’s hand was all it took to get us access—we were surprised to find we weren’t alone. The impeccably dressed Director Dorothy Leonard greeted us as Matt and I climbed the half flight of stairs from the entryway to the main floor.
“Working late?” Matt’s smile said they were well acquainted.
Professional associates, I assumed.
Hoped
.
“I lost a lot of time yesterday and some things won’t wait,” she said, in the resigned tone of one who didn’t like working on a Saturday night. Several inches taller than Matt and me, Leonard wore smart slacks and a blazer, in taupe, and seemed the kind of woman who did the dishes in a similar outfit. I was conscious of being in my airplane clothes—green knit pants and top, now sticking to my body in disconcerting places. After ten days in the dry heat of California, I had to reacquaint myself with the humidity of Massachusetts in June. Even in Leonard’s imposing presence, however, Matt seemed perfectly comfortable in his casual pants and faded brown polo shirt. I figured he must have learned the attitude in detective school.
“This is Dr. Gloria Lamerino,” he told her. “A science consultant for the department.”
Leonard nodded in my direction. A polite gesture, with no warmth or accompanying greeting. I hoped her apparent lack of interest in me stemmed from the distraction of dealing with murder on her premises and not disgust at my appearance. I was glad I’d at least left my cane in Matt’s car.
She invited us into her office, an ample room a half flight up from the main floor, on the mezzanine level. My eyes ran over the rich mahogany furniture, an art deco lamp, and a large bay window onto the back lot. The ugly orange carpet seemed out of place, as if it might be a temporary fix while the city government replenished its stock of the pleasant, light blue fabric that lay over the main floor.
But it was the walls that captured my attention. They were covered with nearly a dozen art prints of the old Revere Beach Boulevard. Bluebeard’s Palace. The Virginia Reel. Carousel horses. Popcorn and cotton-candy stands. The Cyclone roller-coaster, seen from a car on its topmost hill. DO NOT STAND UP warned a cracked wooden sign. Several views of the ocean side included boxy old cars lining the street, dumping out bathers in cumbersome black suits. The colors were muted, as if they’d aged along with the people in the scenes.
I wanted the prints, and it showed.
“I can get you a set,” Matt said softly. He pointed to a chair and I guessed I’d missed an invitation to be seated.
I made a note to request another detour before Matt took me home—to the real Revere Beach Boulevard, a mile from my apartment. The Atlantic Ocean would always be
the
ocean for me, even after thirty years by the Pacific.
“I can’t stop thinking about what happened here,” Leonard said to Matt. “It’s too … bizarre.”
It
, I assumed, was finding Yolanda Fiore’s body in her establishment. I wondered at her choice of
bizarre
until Matt explained. “Mrs. Leonard’s husband was killed by a fall down the same staircase.” He turned to her. “About ten years ago, wasn’t it?” he asked.
Leonard nodded, running a well-manicured hand through her short gray-blond hair. Unlike mine, the gray in Leonard’s hair seemed strategically placed, designed by a professional. “An accident that time, of course. And, fortunately, I wasn’t the one who discovered Irving’s …” She hunched her shoulders, as if to ward off a sudden chill, and swung her chair halfway around to look out the window onto the back property. I thought she left us for a moment to visit an earlier decade, and her husband’s death.
I made a note to ask Matt for more details, wondering why he hadn’t mentioned the incident before. Two deaths in the same spot, ten years apart. In my mind, no coincidence was too small to investigate when John Galigani’s life was at stake. I looked at Dorothy Leonard’s tall, slender figure and constructed a variation on the black widow theme—she brushes back her stylish bangs and shoves first her husband, then Yolanda Fiore down the same narrow metal staircase. Why, I’d yet to figure out.
Matt stood up, bringing me and Leonard back to the present.
“Sorry,” she said, in a monotone, as if she wasn’t sure why or to whom she owed an apology. I wished I were better at reading faces. Did a flat stare mean guilty or not guilty?
“Why don’t we let you get back to work. We’ll take a walk around by ourselves,” Matt said.
“Would you mind? I’ve already been through everything with Detective Parker and his team. I’ll be here another half hour or so, if you have any questions.”
“Uh, technically, I’m not on the case.”
Leonard made a silent snapping gesture with her fingers. “Oh, of course not. The Galiganis.”
I wondered how she’d learned about John’s alleged involvement so quickly and mentally filed it under “suspicious behavior.” Any suspect but John would do.
Matt touched his forehead, as if to salute the director, and followed me down to the main reading room.
When we were out of earshot, I cleared my throat in a deliberate
ahem.
Matt picked up on my unspoken question. “I didn’t think of Irving Leonard’s death until I saw Dorothy,” he said. “As I remember, it was ruled an accident after a brief investigation. Nothing suspicious. No extra bruises or bumps on his body.”
“Still …” I said, leaving the rest of the thought in the air.
We stopped in front of a small redbrick model, a three-dimensional rendering of the library-to-be—the present structure, with renovations, plus a new wing extending into the back property. I had a vague memory of seeing the model at the fund-raiser.
A city councilman had listed the shortcomings of the current facility, from its lack of handicap accessibility to the treacherous—in fact, twice lethal—stairway to the basement, not up to code by several measures. I’d found myself rooting for the grant proposal they’d submitted to the state, though I doubted I’d frequent the new building any more than I had the old.
Matt and I walked to the northwestern corner, to the top of the deadly stairs. As we started down, I held on to the wooden railing, as if to brace myself against a sudden forward thrust.
One of the cleaner crime scenes I’d visited, the area where Yolanda Fiore’s body had been found was now bloodless and unremarkable. A door marked CUSTODIAN was immediately behind the staircase, the children’s reading section spread out to
the side. We looked in on the staff lounge and a storage area, completing the tour of the north wing’s bottom floor.
Matt took notes, though I couldn’t imagine what he found worthy of recording. Especially since he wasn’t “on the job” as he’d put it. I hoped I’d be able to read the official police report, figuring Parker and his crew had combed the whole building for physical evidence. But how likely was it the library would be free of fibers and prints from John Galigani, a writer and a great reader who worked in the
Journal
office, only a few blocks away?
“There’s nothing more we can do here,” Matt said. What have we done? I wondered, growing more anxious every minute John was in custody. He flipped his notebook closed. Jet-lagged though I was, I hated to leave the building. I felt we were just beginning to explore its nooks and crannies.
The area above the circulation desk was open to the roof, past two unconnected mezzanines, one of which housed Leonard’s office. I stretched to survey the strangely arranged lofts. What rare books might be stored under their rafters? More to the point—where might a murderer lurk? I resolved to return soon.
As we passed the model library again on the way out I stared at it, as if it might come to life. I wished it could provide a mini-reenactment of the murder John had been accused of. I’d hoped to return to my apartment with a long list—suspects, motives, evidence. All I had from an evening’s work was an unidentified controversy over boron and a respectable widow of ten years.
I climbed into Matt’s car, straining to see the vacant lot designated for the library expansion, hoping John would be freed before the first shovel went into the ground.
MATT HAD PICKED ME UP at Boston’s Logan Airport at three-thirty in the afternoon, East Coast time, and driven me directly to the Galigani residence. I’d been away only ten days, but Rose had planned what was supposed to be a happy reunion.
“Come straight to our house, Gloria, and we’ll have an early
dinner,” Rose had told me over the phone the night before. “Robert and John will be here, too. Besides, I want to see you and make sure you’re home to stay.”
Although her voice was full of laughter, Rose had good reason to worry—thirty years earlier, after my fiance died in a car crash, I’d left my oceanside hometown and gone to Berkeley, California, where I stayed until a year ago. At fifty-five I decided to return and find out if I’d missed anything. It turned out, I had.
My luggage was still in the trunk of Matt’s steel-blue Camry—my clothes stuffed into a duffel bag, unlaundered. I felt like a level four biohazard worker running from one crisis to another. But the circumstance of John’s arrest had sent enough adrenaline through my system to sustain however many more waking hours I needed. Besides, I had three hours on everyone else in town.
We carried my luggage up the two flights of stairs. Neither of us liked to ride the elevator in the Galigani Mortuary. Spots of blood and other displaced organic material haunted my fantasy of the closed, padded space that Frank and Robert used to transport their clients, as they referred to them.
When Matt’s beeper went off, I knew a long kiss was all I could hope for before Matt would leave.
“Don’t make any plans for tomorrow,” he said.
“Day or night?”
“Both,” he said, and we kissed again.
IT TOOK LESS THAN an hour to reconnect with my life. My E-mail and phone messages were light since I’d accessed them from Elaine’s house in Berkeley. One phone message had come in during the morning from Peter Mastrone, an old friend who expected more than renewed friendship from me. I deleted it, with a resolution to be clearer than ever about how I felt, or didn’t feel, about him.
BOOK: The Boric Acid Murder
3.88Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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