The Helium Murder (13 page)

I was greatly distressed at how the meeting was going, realizing that Matt was right to keep me out of nontechnical interviews. I didn’t have a clue how to proceed, and I’d obviously upset Gallagher.

Peter had gone over to the kitchen area, taking an inordinately long time to throw away his plastic cup and napkins and wash his hands.

“I’m sorry,” I told Gallagher. “I didn’t mean to pry.” But of course I did; I just didn’t know how to be cool about it. “I’m working on a report for the police department,” I said, pulling a second identity out of my hat.

“You’re a cop?”

“No, I ...”

“Then I don’t have to talk to you, do I?”

“No, you don’t.”

“Is there any reason you followed me to work today?”

I had no good response for this, not wanting to implicate Peter in what was turning out to be one of the worst ideas I’d ever had. However, a glance at Peter, standing at the sink with his arms folded across his chest, told me that I had nothing more to lose.

“Have you been able to find someone who saw you at the Northgate mall on the evening of Ms. Hurley’s murder?” I asked.

Gallagher’s face looked ready to explode as his nostrils flared and his eyes bulged. For once I felt that my age, short stature, and gender served me well. I had a strong feeling that if I were young, tall, male, or any of the above, Patrick Gallagher would have punched me in the nose.

Instead he took a deep breath, turned away from me, and nodded at Peter.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he said, not as an apology, but as a loud parting statement as he left the room.

I was sure my face was red. Not only had I brought stress to someone who might not deserve it, but I’d given Peter an excellent demonstration of how poor a detective I really was. And maybe I’d also spoiled his relationship with Patrick Gallagher, with whom he had to work. I couldn’t bear to look up from my biscotti crumbs.

“Peter,” I said, “I’m sorry I put you through this.”

“I am, too.”

“I’ll understand if you prefer to cancel Monday’s class or lunch or both.”

“I have a class at nine,” he said, and left the lounge.

I left the building and drove directly home, hoping I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew. Fortunately, that was unlikely—I hadn’t made many friends since moving
back to Revere. It was one skill I’d never developed, and I couldn’t help thinking I’d be better at it if Josephine had taken me to a coffee shop once in a while when I was a little girl, and colored and giggled with me.

Just before I turned down Tuttle Street, I saw the long line of funeral cars coming from St. Anthony’s parking lot. One flower car after another made its way down the street, with more floral arrangements than the biggest shows I’d been to at Horticultural Hall with Al.

Although I couldn’t see her, I envisioned a stoic Frances Whitestone in the first car, suffering in silence, keeping her shoulders back and refusing offers of assistance. I pulled over as the procession passed, and bowed my head, clutching the steering wheel of my luxury car as if it were the top of a prie-dieu.

I felt worse than ever about my inability to accomplish anything positive in the course of the investigation into Margaret Hurley’s death. I dismissed the idea that there was some connection between my failed interview with Gallagher and missing mass on a Holy Day of Obligation.

By the time I reached my apartment, I was in a mood that only food and work could help, so I dived into both. Rejecting my first inclination, ice cream at nine-thirty in the morning, I settled for a grilled cheese and coffee.

With Cavallo’s reports and letters spread out on my table, I ate my brunch and looked for a clue as to why the two letters were in Hurley’s personal file. And, I
admitted to myself, for some way to redeem my poor performance thus far.

After an hour of staring at Cavallo’s list of proposals for improving the operations of the helium facility, I practically knew them from memory. I was about to give up, except for one tiny idea left in the back of my mind.

I went to my computer and called up the home page for the helium facility. After waiting several minutes for the elaborate graphics to download, I was able to click on a link to the operation’s contractors. Sure enough, in the fine print, I saw the name, Vincent Cavallo, private consultant.

“Aha,” I said to my empty flat, and felt I deserved a nap.

Two hours later, I sat outside Matt’s office, refreshed and ready with my Internet scoop—yet another conflict of interest in the Hurley case. A young woman in a starched white shirt with an RPD patch on her sleeve had told me that Matt was at lunch. She offered me coffee, but I’d chosen to keep my private vow never to drink office brew.

I was looking through my notes when Matt appeared, about ten minutes before one.

“Did you sleep all right?” he asked, looking like he hadn’t had the luxury of a nap.

“Revisiting 1962 wasn’t exactly conducive to rest,” I said, “but I’ve made up for it. I guess I wasn’t very good company last night.”

“You’re always good company,” he said, in keeping
with our backdoor way of flirting with each other. I didn’t deliberately plan these entries into compliments, and I don’t think Matt did either; it seemed just the natural course of awkward, middle-aged courtship. I wondered when we’d be comfortable and confident enough to address our feelings directly—assuming he
had
any feelings for me, Josephine’s voice reminded me.

I wasn’t sure what time Cavallo was due, so I got to business quickly, telling Matt about the new conflict of interest I’d discovered.

I thought it was about time for a verbal pat on the back, when we were interrupted by a ringing phone. Matt picked up the receiver and gave only brief responses to the party on the other end, writing in his notebook all the while.

“When?” I heard him say, and then “where,” and “how,” and “what,” until I thought I was listening in on a journalism class. When he hung up, his expression was serious, his tone very low.

“Rocky Busso was found dead an hour ago,” he said. “An apparent suicide. He left a note confessing to Hurley’s murder.”

Chapter Fifteen

I
felt a shiver through my whole body, and a sadness that surprised me. I couldn’t believe that Rocky Busso was dead, and I couldn’t believe that I cared. I also felt waves of doubt—that he took his own life, or that he was solely responsible for Hurley’s murder—all the more amazing considering how fearful I’d been of him. It seemed that the few minutes he’d spent in my apartment changed my view of him completely, and I felt closer to this victim than to Congresswoman Hurley.

From the distance created by my mental wanderings, I heard Matt’s voice.

“Gloria?”

He gave me a look I’d come to recognize as concern—his brow knotted into wrinkles, his mouth twisted a little to the left.

“I’m shocked,” I said. “Do you really think there’s anything to it?”

“That he’s dead?”

“That he did it himself, or that he murdered Hurley?”

“It does have a funny ring to it. It’s not usually that simple,” Matt said, talking as much to himself as to me. “We’ll certainly be looking into it. It’s not your problem, though, is it?”

“I think he was hired to kill her, but whoever was supposed to pay him, killed him instead.” My declaration came out with much more emotion than I’d planned, and I realized I’d snapped a red plastic paper clip in two while I was talking. “Maybe he wanted more money or something, or maybe he wanted out of the life,” I said.

“Evidently Rocky’s good deed had a greater effect on you than you thought. Are you going to be all right? You’ve had a lot to deal with this week, Gloria, and I think you should call it quits for a while.”

“I wonder if he told any of his friends he was expecting money, or ...”

“You’re not listening, are you?”

“I’m afraid of what you’re going to say.”

“Like, ‘you’re off the case?’”

“Something like that. You know I can’t drop things, Matt. Cavallo will be here any minute, and you’ll need me,” I said, waving my notes in the air to emphasize my point.

As if by some magic, coincident with the fluttering papers, a uniformed officer appeared in the doorway
with Vincent Cavallo, much younger and much more handsome than I’d pictured, with dark hair and eyes and a nose so perfect I knew he couldn’t be all Italian. Was it my imagination, or were they giving Ph.D.s out sooner than they used to, I wondered, and to better-looking people?

I knew it would be awkward for Matt to fire me in front of company, so I used the occasion to my advantage.

“You have some very interesting proposals,” I said to Cavallo, immediately after Matt introduced me. “I’m especially curious about the idea of eliminating cylinder-filling but increasing sales of crude helium.”

There
, I thought,
he can’t fire me now
.

Matt gave me a side glance and shook his head. I knew I hadn’t heard the last of his worries, but at least for the duration of this interview I was safe from downsizing.

Cavallo answered three or four questions I had, laying out the statistics on the balance of revenues, and when he was relaxed and confident, Matt stepped in.

“Tell me about your association with the federal helium operations,” he said.

Cavallo shifted in his seat, placing both feet on the floor in front of him. He unbuttoned his leather jacket and loosened the scarf around his neck. I was most disappointed when he screwed up his mouth and disturbed his poster-boy features.

“I’m not associated with the helium facility,” he said.

“You’re listed as a private consultant.”

“I’m not representing myself in that regard.”

“I don’t understand,” Matt said. “Do you or don’t you receive contracts and money from the helium facility?”

“In a way.”

“In a way,” Matt said, clicking his tongue. “And haven’t you also received money to evaluate the facility as an independent expert, as if you had no interest in it?”

Cavallo’s smooth, low baritone had changed to one slightly higher in pitch, and I noticed that he’d begun to play with his watchband. I felt like part of an experimental psychology team, where I set up the subjects and Matt came in with the “gotcha” questions.

“I receive contracts, but I’m not the endpoint. I represent another party who has the controlling interest in what I do.” Cavallo spoke with seconds, if not minutes, between words, as if he were making his way slowly through a test in a foreign language.

Matt, on the other hand, came through quickly and to the point.

“Controlling interest in a private consulting firm? Are you saying you have an anonymous partner?”

“Yes, you could say that.”

“No one stays anonymous for very long in a murder investigation, Mr. Cavallo,” Matt said. “Who is your partner?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

Matt sighed and put his pencil down on his desk.

“All right, Mr. Cavallo, but you know we’ll get this
information sooner or later, and your cooperation would mean a lot here.”

Cavallo gulped, and I thought I saw perspiration on his forehead.

“I’m going to have to check things out first.”

Matt stood up, and Cavallo followed suit.

“I have one other question for you, Mr. Cavallo,” I said. “Does the nickname ‘mole’ mean anything to you?”

Cavallo ran his tongue over his teeth and shook his head.

“No,” he said, “it doesn’t. Sorry.”

Matt looked at me and scratched his neck, then addressed Cavallo.

“We’ll be in touch,” Matt told him.

Cavallo left the office without another word.

“Mole?” Matt said. “You still think that’s a clue, don’t you?”

“I do, and as for Cavallo, I think he’s shady, and I’m embarrassed that he’s a physicist, but I don’t think he’s a killer.”

Matt sat down, and it seemed we were going to pick up where we were before Cavallo’s interview, when I’d almost lost my job. I tried a preemptive strategy.

“What exactly did Busso’s confession say?” I asked him.

“Of course, I haven’t seen it,” he said, apparently caught off guard by my tactic, “but he did know some details about the murder that we haven’t released to the press or to anyone else, for that matter.” He leafed through his notebook and, to my amazement, continued
feeding me information. “He wrote something about Hurley’s garment bag and flashlight.”

“Flashlight?”

“She was holding a flashlight in one hand and her garment bag in the other when she was found.”

“She was holding a flashlight? So she could have seen something?”

“It was just a small one, like the kind you’d carry on your key ring.”

“Still,” I said, while some neurons traveled through my head, unable to find the connection they knew they should make.

“And that about wraps it up, Gloria,” Matt said. “I can’t think of a single other thing I’ll be needing you for before Saturday night.”

He came around to my side of his desk and, smiling, put his arms on my shoulders and spun me around toward the door. It was the most playful gesture he’d ever made, and because of that, I didn’t mind leaving.

I knew better than to take Matt’s light tone in ushering me from his office as a sign that he was willing to have me continue working on the case. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the pieces of the investigation, even after I got home.

Around four o’clock, I made coffee, put on a CD of Christmas hymns sung by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, and brought one of my rockers close to the window. I left my apartment lights off and watched the darkness move in on the beautiful elms of Tuttle Street.

Christmas lights came on, as far as I could see, up and down the street, but the music and lights were no longer enough to give me a feeling of security. What had I been thinking? I asked myself. Hadn’t Al died four days before Christmas? And now Margaret Hurley and Rocky Busso were struck down amid sleigh bells and cheerful wrapping paper.

I felt a chill as I acknowledged that murder doesn’t take a holiday. I turned on my lights and took out my notes.

I didn’t for a minute believe that the powerful man who’d delivered my engagement ring had taken his own life. I thought it strange that it was easier for me to accept Rocky as the murderer of Margaret Hurley than of himself.