The Helium Murder (5 page)

By the time Matt returned, I’d gone through at least two inches of documents, many of them contracts between CompTech and the various government agencies charged with maintaining the helium operations, principally the Bureau of Mines and the Department of the Interior.

I thought it was strange that a facility that Congress was about to close would still be awarding multimillion-dollar contracts for services such as computer
upgrades and training for its more than two hundred employees. I wondered if Congresswoman Hurley thought it was strange, too. Why else was she carrying this material around during her Christmas vacation?

Matt presented me with my contract, a simple two-pager, looking even more straightforward than I remembered, next to the legal jungle I’d just been struggling through.

“Will it do any good for me to remind you of your limited duties?” Matt asked. “No work on your own; you’re not an officer of the city, and so on?”

“Is this like reading me my rights?”

“This time you may not even have to leave this office. I just want some intelligent notes on the technical contents of Ms. Hurley’s papers.”

“I’ll need to take copies of these technical papers with me,” I said. “I’ll write out a summary of each one and we can go from there.”

“Sounds good.”

“Is this everything you have?” I asked, gesturing toward the large brown briefcase dominating the small space between Matt’s desk and the wall.

“That’s everything,” he said.

“While you were out, I looked at these contracts with CompTech,” I said, thumbing the edge of the sheaf of papers as if it were a flip book. “I knew that the CEO, William Carey, has been giving testimony in favor of keeping the helium facility going. Now I see why—the operation has been his bread and butter for several years. Suppose Hurley were going to vote
to close it. He might have been desperate enough to ...”

Matt stood up, both palms up like a stop signal for a jumbo jet at Logan Airport. He shook his head and came out with the laugh I liked best, the one that sounded like “whoa.”

“Why am I not surprised?” he asked.

“Now that we’ve opened the subject,” I said, “Frank mentioned that Hurley’s brother, Brendan, is a heavy gambler and was cut out of his father’s will. Evidently he blames Margaret and has been trying to contest it for the past ten years.”

There must be something about Matt’s office
, I thought,
that releases my inhibitions and turns me into the assertive woman that I’m just getting to know
. For better or worse, it didn’t carry over into our personal relationship, but I took advantage of the feeling of the moment.

“It just doesn’t seem likely that a car would be driving full speed ahead like that down Oxford Park, fast enough to ram into someone and kill her. It’s practically a cul-de-sac. The only thing you can do at the end of that street is circle around and come back on Revere Street or dead-end at Folsom.”

“I know,” Matt said. “I know. And that’s why we’re not ruling out a deliberate attack. But that doesn’t mean you should be involved. This was a politician, not a scientist.”

“Except for this.” I waved the papers in the air again, moving in on the little opening Matt had given me. I found myself remembering all the times I’d
heard that on courtroom TV dramas—“he’s opened the door on that,” they’d say.
I must really be lowering my standards
, I thought,
if I’m taking my cues from prime-time television
.

“Hurley was on the Science and Technology Committee and about to vote on something with very high stakes,” I said to Matt, shaking my head a bit to get rid of the images of actors in my head. “I’m just saying that I’ll keep that in mind as I read these papers.”

I gave him a “not to worry” smile and heard what I took to be a sigh of resignation. I knew that Matt worried about my safety, so I was all the more pleased that he would trust me to work on this case in the first place. I hadn’t exactly behaved myself the last time.

Matt looked at his watch. “Do you have anything to do around town for now?” he asked. “I have a few things to take care of, then I’ll meet you at Russo’s at eleven-thirty.”

“That’ll be fine,” I said. “Maybe I’ll go to the library and start my limited duties.”

I’m not sure I ever had any intention of going to the library, but I ended up only a few doors away from the police station, at the office of the
Revere Journal
, the city’s primary newspaper. I told myself that it was too cold to walk all the way down Pleasant Street and over to Beach where the library was. The digital display on the bank across the street supported my reasoning—it was ten-thirty in the morning and twenty-nine degrees.

John Galigani, Rose and Frank’s second son, had
been editor of the newspaper for about three years. The receptionist called back to him and less than ten minutes after leaving Matt’s office, I’d been set up in the
Journal’s
musty, little-used basement with microfiche files for the year 1962. It wasn’t a coincidence that I had Al’s notebook with me, though I wasn’t exactly certain how I would use it.

“No problem, Gloria,” John had said, tossing back his extra-long brown hair, a source of contention between him and his perfectly groomed father. John had rubbed his hands together when I told him what I needed, as if this would be the easiest thing he’d do all day. All of Rose and Frank’s children treated me like royalty, confirming my view that other people’s offspring are much better companions for me than my own would have been.

I inserted a blue plastic card into the microfiche reader and breathed in deeply, acquiring an uncomfortable dose of dust. I wrinkled my nose and scrolled to December.

Al’s crash had been on the Friday before Christmas, December 21, 1962. He’d canceled a date with me that evening, telling me he had “business.” It wasn’t unusual for that to happen, and I never knew the nature of the business. I remember actually being thrilled by his secret life, as if that gave me status. Josephine was already dead when I met Al, who was working at the Zarelli Nursery, owned by Rose’s family. I was so proud of the way he lavished gifts on me and my father, peeling off bills from the roll he always carried.

“Here, Marco,” he’d say to my father, “go play some horses.”

“Al’s a nice boy,” my father would say, and I’d be relieved that finally I’d pleased at least one of my parents.

How was it that I never wondered how a thirty-year-old landscaper managed to accumulate thick wads of fifties? I could now understand how Diane Keaton’s character, Kay, was fooled for a while by her God-father husband, even as she saw lines of men waiting to kiss his hand.

Over the years I’d forgiven myself for my enormous lapse of judgment. I chalked it up to the times, to my youth, and to my incredible need to be wanted by someone who seemed important.

With less than an hour to work before meeting Matt at Russo’s, the most I could do was locate the articles about the car crash and print them out. The reports on the inquiry into the crash ran into early February 1963, then petered out. I had hardly any memory of reading the news or seeing the grainy crash-scene photos the first time they were printed. I didn’t leave the area until three months after the crash, but it made sense that I’d avoided the media coverage at the time.

The notebook I’d carried with me to the
Journal
office was the one I’d found in the attic a few months ago, its brittle yellowed pages filled with names and numbers and dollar signs. The next step in my plan was to see if those names were in the news for any reason around the time of the crash. What I really hoped for was Matt’s help to give me access to the
police files for that time, but that opportunity hadn’t quite gelled.

I packed up my slippery copies from the microfiche printer and headed for Russo’s, another in the long list of Revere restaurants with phony Italian decor, but genuinely delicious Italian food.

Tuesday was blue suit day for Matt, I’d figured out, and as I sat across from him I tried to remember if I’d ever seen the tie he was wearing, a maroon paisley. I’d been counting his ties—an embarrassing occupational hazard. I always felt I had a good handle on things when I had an accurate count of some variable.

We ordered chicken pesto sandwiches and cappuccinos and got down to business before the food arrived. I tried to cover the fact that I hadn’t done any homework since I left him.

“I’ve made a few notes about the helium program,” I said, pulling out the charts and lists I’d made the night before. I went over the fact sheet about how helium is extracted, then added some details about the federal operation.

“The Bureau of Mines owns and operates an extraction and purification plant, plus peripheral facilities,” I said, “in Amarillo, Texas, not far from the main headquarters of Carey’s company. I haven’t looked over these contracts carefully yet, but I see two possible reasons why Carey would be unhappy with the congresswoman. One, she might be a deciding vote to kill the program, or two, she might have found out
that these contracts were way out of line for a program with a questionable future.”

“Tell me again why the government is involved in the first place?”

Matt had chosen not to respond to my brilliant analysis of motive for murder, so I stayed on his topic.

“It started with the Helium Act of 1960. The Bureau of Mines was supposed to buy and sell helium without loss to taxpayers and also make sure that we’d have enough for emerging technologies, independent of what private industry was doing.”

“And these emerging technologies are?”

I was used to Matt’s style by now, and enjoyed filling in the blanks at the ends of his sentences.

“Computers, low-temperature medical applications, high-speed transportation systems, high-purity manufacturing. The trouble is the plan didn’t work. The operation is in debt and that’s why most reps in Congress want to shut it down.”

Matt’s beeper went off, as if to signal the end of class. We’d finished our lunch, and I had about run out of information, so the timing was good.

“Give me a call when you’ve gone through the papers,” Matt said.

We’d already started out Russo’s door, and stepped onto Broadway. The aromas of garlic and espresso couldn’t compete with the weather, so within a few seconds all I could smell was dry, freezing air. We clutched the tops of our coats and bent our heads against the wind.

“I’m sure I’ll have it finished by the time I see you at the wake tomorrow evening,” I said.

“Do you attend the wake for everyone laid out at Galigani’s?” Matt asked.

“No, but this one is sure to draw a lot more people than usual,” I said. “Probably hundreds, from all over the district and beyond.”

“So?” Matt said.

“So, I told Rose and Frank I’d help them out.”

I focused my eyes downward, as if putting on my gloves required all my attention, and started to list things I might help with, like taking care of Father Tucci when he came to lead the rosary, and being sure the guest books were in place, but I didn’t get very far before Matt started his laugh.

I waited for the “whoa,” then joined him.

Chapter Six

I
drove home with more-than-usual attention to the road, which was still icy from the last storm. As a result, I didn’t start making my mental list until I pulled into the mortuary garage and parked alongside the hearse. Its neat white chintz curtains on the back and side windows gave it the look of a Harvard Square café, but I knew better.

My list began with my assignment from Matt, then my class for Peter, and, least interesting of all, Christmas shopping. The only purchases I’d made while shopping with Rose were some ornaments and Christmas linens that I hadn’t even removed from the bags yet.

No one on my Christmas list was easy to buy for. Thinking of Rose and Frank’s beautiful home on the other side of town, and their magnificent wardrobes, I was stuck before I started. Elaine Cody had a closet
full of equally elegant clothing, and a lovely old house in Berkeley, furnished with heirlooms and antiques.

I’ll buy everyone books
, I thought,
just like every other year
.

I entered the main foyer of the building from the garage, which put me under the stairway to the upper floors.

Even before I reached the first step, I heard voices from the main parlor, where Margaret Hurley was to be waked. I couldn’t resist the temptation to investigate, and wondered when I’d become so nosy.

Fortunately for my reputation, should anyone care, I had the excuse that I was looking for mail on the table by the door. No one had to know that Martha, Rose’s assistant, took my mail up to my apartment every day, and left it in front of my door. What I was looking through were flyers about the services offered by Galigani’s Mortuary.

I sneaked a glance into the main parlor and saw Robert Galigani talking to a tall man with red hair and clenched fists. He was wearing a serious winter jacket, the kind Californians used only for ski trips.

“I’m her fiancé,” I heard him say, relaxing his fingers long enough to point a finger at Robert.

I hadn’t seen Robert in action before, and I was impressed that he’d adopted his father’s easy, calm style.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Gallagher,” Robert said, “but I’m sure you know that Mrs. Whitestone is Ms. Hurley’s executor, and in charge of the arrangements. And according to her, you two have been estranged for some
time. Mrs. Whitestone has asked that you not be included in the special visitations. I’m afraid we’re bound to follow Mrs. Whitestone’s directives.”

“So I can’t even see her?”

“You’ll be very welcome here, during regular visiting hours, I can assure you of that. For now, I can offer you a cup of coffee back in my office.”

“That will be the day I’ll come when the old lady’s here. She never liked me. She was worse than a mother-in-law would have been.”

He turned to leave, and I caught a glimpse of his very red face before I turned and left myself. As I climbed the stairs to my apartment, I had no trouble picturing Mr. Gallagher ramming his car into his ex-fiancé.