The Oxygen Murder (36 page)

“Who’s up for a trip to the Met?” Rose said, always ready for action. Nothing was nagging at her.

I’d promised Rose one evening at a museum that was open, and she was collecting on my pledge.

“I think I’ll pass,” Matt said. “Frank called with a little RPD story.” He emphasized the
R.
“They caught that guy who’s been a fugitive for almost ten years—the one who killed his own grandfather when he found out the old man was an FBI informant.”

“Silvio Di Gregorio,” Rose said. “I remember the case.”

I was grateful she didn’t give us the genealogy of the family. “Are you sure he wasn’t from Everett?” I asked, needling Matt about the town he grew up in, a few miles from Revere.

He hummed a few bars of the Everett High fight song, then reminded us, “You know, at some point I need to go back to work. It might as well be tonight. I’m expecting some faxes from Berger. You remember George, my partner from long ago when we were in Revere?”

I gave him a big grin. “We’ll be home Saturday morning.”

Matt said he’d be happy grabbing a fruit-and-cheese dinner at the all-night market on Eighth Avenue.

Rose promised me an excellent cappuccino and pastry at one of the cafés in the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Fifth Avenue.

A museum with coffees and pastries was okay with me.

Rose was smart enough to start me off with a meditative visit to the Met’s Christmas tree, set up in the medieval art gallery. We stood in front of an enormous tree decorated only with a magnificent array of silk-robed angels. The largest Nativity scene I’d ever encountered surrounded its base, and the strains of heavenly Gregorian chant filled the darkened area. A moving experience. If Rose had more information about the crèche, she wisely kept it to herself.

We made a plan to separate and meet in an hour and a half for coffee (me) and wine (her) at the café-bar by the main restaurant. Rose headed downstairs to the Costume Institute. I went to seek out the American Wing, where I knew there was a replica of a room designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. In the end, it was geometry that pleased me most.

I wandered through the galleries, deciding not to use the site map in the booklet I’d picked up but to enjoy whatever was on the way. An hour passed quickly, and I realized I was on a completely wrong path if I wanted to visit the American Wing. I checked the floor plan
and saw that I should have walked north from the tree but had strayed to the northeast. I’d gotten lured into the arms and armor gallery by the sheer enormity of the pieces. There was something about the seven-foot-tall suits of armor sitting on giant horses that was irresistible.

I wished the museum designers had used a system of numbered streets with orthogonal, numbered avenues, like the efficient midtown layout. Then a docent could say that a certain painting was at Fifty-ninth and Fifth, for example.

According to the legend on the map, it was nearly a quarter mile from the Temple of Dendur, which was just to my left, to the café and bar at the far southern end of the museum. I thought I’d better skip American this time and head for my date with Rose.

I made my way back, arriving again at the entrance to the building. Crowds of people were sitting on the benches, milling around the information desk, standing in long, snaking lines to deposit or retrieve coats and bundles. The chatter echoed in the Great Hall.

Once I cleared the hall and headed down the long rectangular gallery of Greek and Roman art, the crowd thinned out. I’d always had the idea that this gallery served more as a passageway to the restaurant. I stopped at the restroom off in a corner by the elevator. When I came out, looking down to be sure my clothes were reasonably well adjusted, I bumped into someone.

Not an unusual occurrence. This was New York City, after all. Except that I knew this person.

I heard a whispered “Not a word,
Doctor.
”

Tina Miller.

I felt a gun in my ribs, my arm in a vise that was Tina’s fist.

Before I knew it I was inside the elevator next to the restroom. Tina pressed her gun into me. Even with my extra pounds as a cushion, I felt the muzzle. With great ease Tina used her other hand to push first the
CLOSE DOOR
button and then the P button. Screaming was out of the question since my vocal capability had shut down. My entire respiratory system was in shock. I felt smothered.

“Do you know how long it’s taken me to pull this off?” Tina said. “To get just the right time and place?”

Keep them talking,
I remembered from police lore. “How long?” I squeaked.

“Remember that elevator in the hotel? I came close, but some tour bus emptied out into the lobby and I couldn’t follow through.”

“How?” A peep from my strangled throat.

“It’s not that hard, really. Frat boys pull that trick all the time to scare their pledges. And it’s even easier now with remotes. Not to mention a greased palm here and there. You forget my training, Gloria.”

The elevator had jerked into motion, propelling us downward. I remembered from the map that the ground floor had only the Costume Institute on the northern end and some classrooms and parking on the southern end. Tina must be taking me to her car.

“Why?” More inarticulate muttering. I felt my knees go weak, as if I’d made another trip down eleven flights of stairs.

“Why did I kill Amber?”

I’d meant
Why are you doing this to me?
But I’d take any discussion that put off what seemed the inevitable. Me in Tina’s car headed who knew where. It was dark out, and she could dump me in any of the dozen districts Rose had mentioned.

“Millions of reasons,” Tina said, on her own track. “Have you ever heard of Toyland? They’re the biggest conglomerate of kids’ stuff in the country. I had that account in the palm of my hand. I’d have been vetting employees, including up to one hundred new hires a month all over the country. I could have moved in across the street from Trump Tower with that kind of income.” Tina slammed her hand against the elevator door. “I have worked hard. I have earned success.”

Even in my weak state, I could figure out that Amber’s schemes would eventually bring down all that Tina had worked for. She didn’t have to spell it out, but she did.

“Amber screwed it up. She actually tried to blackmail Mr. Toyland himself over a little fling in the Caribbean last summer. It was to his advantage to tell me but not to press charges against the little twit. That was the last straw. I knew that firing her would do no good.” Tina smirked. “She’d end up blackmailing me. Either way, I’d be in the middle of a scandal.”

The elevator was slow. I didn’t know if that was good or bad. I didn’t
know much other than fear. I was conscious of the pain in my ribs, the closeness of Tina. I could smell her perspiration and a hint of alcohol.

“Dee Dee?” I asked. A frightened chirp.

“I like Dee Dee, but she had troubles of her own with that foolish boyfriend. I just needed to scare her. But you—” Tina pushed harder into my ribs. I wouldn’t have thought it possible. “I knew it would be only a matter of time before you figured it out. My first clue that you were trouble came when Dee Dee told me the Sasso file had been messed up. There had been no one else in the office but you. Then the next day the cops brought that letter back to my office.”

At least I’d die knowing how Buzz had resolved the issue of Karla’s
Fielding v. Fielding
letter that I’d lifted from Dee Dee’s file organizer.

“Those dumb uniforms claimed they’d found it in the street and thought they’d return it. Right. Now cops pick up street crap and spend time on special delivery. How stupid do they think I am?”

I wondered what strange body chemistry gave us clear thoughts at moments like these: I finally realized what gave away Tina as the killer. In her office that Monday noon, she’d already known Amber was dead, claiming she heard it on the news—but the police didn’t release the information until much later because they couldn’t locate Billy. I’d had the one important link nagging at me to pay attention.

The perverse thing was that Tina thought I’d made the connection, and that’s why we were here.

If I’d realized that day in Tina’s office that Amber’s murder was known only to the killer and a very small circle outside of NYPD . . .

If we’d returned to Revere as scheduled . . .

If I’d left Tina alone in the meantime . . .

If, if, if . . .

I caught a whiff of Tina’s body odor as she switched gun hands and prepared to exit the elevator with me. I wondered if she’d worked up the sweat digging my grave.

I didn’t have much time. I needed to think about a possible weapon. The sharpest thing I had on me was the one-inch-diameter clip-on button we’d received when we bought our tickets. Not very useful. I mentally surveyed the contents of my purse. No keys, since we’d taken Matt’s car to Logan. Not even the flashlight I usually carried.
I’d last used it in the hotel bathroom to locate the tiny soap I’d dropped behind the sink, and I’d forgotten to put it back in my purse.

What was left? My bag was heavy enough to weigh me down. Now was its chance to come through for me.

“She not only sold real evidence,” Tina said. “She’d started doctoring photos. Putting in different backgrounds and all the tricks you can do with software these days.”

You don’t need me here,
I wanted to tell Tina.
You’re talking to yourself anyway.
Tina had been yammering incessantly. She continued to berate Amber Keenan, young people in general, and idiot clients who did foolish things and thought they wouldn’t get caught or have to suffer the consequences in the end. I wanted to suggest she explore a different line of work, but it wasn’t the opportune moment.

“I’m married to a cop,” I said. A whine this time. I had no control of my voice. The padded green walls of the elevator oscillated, closing in on me at one instant, fading away to infinity the next.

“I know who your husband is.” Tina seemed angry that I would question her ability to learn everything about me.

Where
was
my husband? Learning a new technique for catching bad guys while his wife was in the hands of one?

Back to the contents of my purse. A multicompartment wallet. Nail clippers that I’d had to stick in check-in luggage before going through airport security. Pens. A notebook. Neatly packaged tissues and hand wipes. A fold-up travel hairbrush. A
New Scientist
magazine. A laser pointer.

A laser pointer? I felt my cheeks flush. I had a laser in my purse! So what if it was only a Class IIIa, less than five milliwatts. This meant that the risk of a permanent eye injury was very small, but even a transient exposure would bring on a bright flash, if I aimed straight for Tina’s eye. It would be enough to dazzle and distract her.

I’d have to time the shot right. When we stepped out of the elevator would be best. I could then swing the pointer around and get the attention of anyone else in the garage. With the luck I’d had this week, however, I couldn’t guarantee that the garage wouldn’t be completely empty of cars or people.

It was my one shot. I had to take it.

First I had to get the laser out of my purse. I kept it in a small compartment near the top with my business cards. I made a plan.

During the ride, Tina had held me to her right, against the wall farthest from the control panel. Though she was not as heavy as I was, she was a lot stronger, to say nothing of the weapon she wielded. My right side was pressed against the wall, my purse hanging slightly to the front.

The elevator bounced to a stop on the ground floor.

Tina held my left arm with her right hand and the gun to my ribs with her left. While she adjusted her hands to usher me out of the cage, I dug into my purse and found the laser. To her it would have looked like I was rubbing my sore hip.

The doors opened. Tina stepped out and I followed.

One step, two steps.

Then, hoping to catch her off guard with a quick motion, I flung my purse on the ground, open end up so the contents would spill out. I pushed the button at the end of the four-inch laser pointer. The 630-nanometer red beam blasted out of the narrow tube. Tina turned to me with a startled look, giving me a clear shot at her left eye. I trained the laser on her eye, tracking as best I could her jerky motions as she dropped the gun and tried to protect her eye. I kicked the gun as hard as I could, sending it scuttling across the cement floor of the garage.

Tina tried to wrestle the pointer from me, at the same time dragging me back toward the elevator.

New York City, crossroads of millions of private lives, came through with a busy parking garage. I waved the laser wildly while I ducked away from Tina. I heard shouts of “Sniper!” from an adult and “Laser-man!” from a little boy.

Ping.

The elevator doors closed behind me, with Tina inside. She was on the run, but not for long.

I found my cell phone and called my husband, the cop.

C
HAP
R
T
HIRTY
-O
NE

O
n Friday afternoon, Matt, Lori, and I had our debriefing with Buzz at the precinct, comparing notes and tying up loose ends of the case.