The Helium Murder (8 page)

“Hello,” I said, when the light stopped and my pulse settled on a steady rate. I heard the catch in my throat, and cleared it as softly as I could.

“Hello, I hope I’m not waking you.”

When I heard Matt’s voice, I dropped into my rocker with such force, it almost glided off its tracks.

“I figured you’d be down at the wake until nine or so,” he said.

“As a matter of fact, I came up a little early,” I said. “I can barely hear you, by the way. Are you in your car?”

“Yes, I’m down by Starbucks. If it’s not too late, I’d like to bring you a cappuccino.”

“By all means,” I said, thinking
“Yippee!”

“See you in fifteen minutes.”

I nearly skipped around my apartment, straightening the pillows on my couch, clearing away the evidence of my snack, and running a brush through my unruly wavy hair, which was a week past its optimum short length. I considered adding a squirt of cologne, but decided that would be too obvious, especially since I very seldom used it. I settled on shaking the crumbs from the creases of my skirt and smoothing out my vest, since I didn’t have time to change.

On my way to the CD player to switch to a jazz disc that Matt had given me, I heard the buzz from the intercom that connects all the offices and my apartment,
a remnant of the days when a caretaker lived on my floor.

I pushed
RECEIVE
on the unit at the back of my desk and heard Rose’s voice. Within just a few minutes, my apartment and my mood had brightened considerably, as if someone had thrown a switch and introduced extra lighting.

“Gloria, are you all right?” she asked. “Robert said you went upstairs early and looked sick or upset.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “I’ll explain tomorrow. I’m sorry I fell down on the job. You must be exhausted.”

“There are still a few people around outside, but we’ve just closed the parlors.”

“Is Buddy still there?” I asked, amazed at my own question.

“No, he came late and left early. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” I lied, justifiably, I thought, since I didn’t want to worry her.

“Well, we were going to come up,” Rose said, “but I think we’ll just head home. Did you see the police car? They’re going to be there all night, just so you know.”

“Frank told me,” I said. “And there’s going to be another one out there shortly, an unmarked one.”

“Matt’s coming?” Rose was quick, and the delight in her voice, echoing from the tinny intercom speaker, embarrassed me. “Now we’re definitely not coming up,” she said.

“It’s probably business,” I said, suppressing a grin, as if she could see my expression.

“I’ll expect a report in the morning.”

“You’ll have one.”

Matt appeared on my doorstep carrying a cardboard tray with two paper cups bearing a familiar logo. He was still in work clothes, dark suit and tie and the raincoat that looked like he’d purposely wrinkled it to match Columbo’s.

“I got in just before they closed,” he said.

“This is wonderful,” I said, taking the tray, leaving him to wonder whether I meant him or the espresso drinks.

“I decided it was time to brief you on a few things,” Matt said. “Since this has officially become a murder investigation.”

My pleasure at finally being brought in on the case overcame any disappointment I felt that Matt hadn’t just dropped in for a casual social visit.

We sat in the rockers with our coffees, a plate of cheese and crackers and fruit on the low table in front of us. I liked the idea that for once I had something to serve an unannounced guest, and resolved to stop and shop more often.

I wasn’t sure whether I was going to say anything about Rocky. Certainly Matt’s presence in my living room had made the event seem far away and insignificant.

In any case, there seemed to be more tangible connections to pursue in the Hurley case.

“I called Carey in Texas,” Matt said, “since he was on Hurley’s calendar for next week. I assumed she was
going to travel there, but I learned that their meeting was here. Carey’s at the new Beach Inn.”

“Here in town?”

“Here in town.”

“He was in Revere on Sunday evening?”

“He was.”

I settled back in my rocker and took a sip of foam. Matt had shaken a generous amount of chocolate on it, just as I liked it. He was looking at me as if we were playing Twenty Questions and it was my turn.

“Did you talk to him?”

“I did.”

“Did he have a rental car?” I asked, and his body language told me that was the right question.

“Yes.”

“Something big and heavy, not a compact?”

“Yes.”

“Did you track it down?” Now we were both smiling at the course of the conversation.

“Yes.”

“And what shape is it in?”

“It had a busted front bumper. Carey said he’s not used to driving in snow and he ran into a tree.”

Chapter Nine

F
or a while, I felt like Matt’s partner. He asked me to accompany him when he went to talk to Carey at his Chelsea plant on Wednesday afternoon. He’d be asking questions about CompTech’s helium contracts, and thought it would be useful to have me there as a technical consultant. So did I.

“Can’t your lab people tell if Carey’s car hit a tree or another car?” I asked.

“We’re looking at it, but Carey brought the car in right away, so that trail is dead. The Revere Rents mechanic wasn’t paying attention to details like that. He just straightened the car out and painted over the problems. We’re lucky anyone remembered that Carey turned in a damage report.”

“That was fast. I wish my mechanics were that swift and thorough.”

Matt laughed and took out his notebook, apparently
still up for business conversation. He flipped through the pages, densely packed with writing and doodles.

“I assume you’re ready to ask Carey some specifics about the contracts?”

“Absolutely,” I said, calculating how many hours were left to do a bit of cramming. The meeting wasn’t until one o’clock. Plenty of time, I thought.

In the spirit of our partnership, I asked Matt about the alibis of the likely suspects. Not that physics gives you any better training in logic than detective work, but I knew Matt liked to bounce his reasoning off me. In the last two months, I’d often thought that my timing couldn’t have been better—I showed up just as he was losing his partner, at least temporarily.

I got a notepad of my own, ready for Matt’s briefing.

“Carey says he was in his room at the Beach Inn all evening. Ate a room-service dinner. So far, that checks out, but we can’t be sure he didn’t leave for a while to drive over to Oxford Park.”

The inn was near the overpass on the Revere/Chelsea line, so, with icy roads, I figured Carey would have needed close to forty-five minutes for the round trip. I made some columns on my notepad, and started filling in data, feeling the rush I always got from collecting and organizing information.

“Patrick Gallagher, the ex-boyfriend,” Matt continued. “Said he was at the Northgate mall shopping by himself until it closed at nine, then home to watch television. Turns out that although it was Sunday, the mall was open that late—extended hours in December.
We’re looking into some witnesses who can place him there. Says he didn’t buy anything, was just looking.

“Buddy was playing cards in a clubroom with a group of buddies, pardon the pun. And they were surrounded by about a dozen people playing pool and drinking. His alibi is the most solid at the moment.

“And that about covers the money, passion, domestic discord trio of motives. Mrs. Whitestone, who’s not exactly a prime suspect anyway, was at home waiting for Margaret. She’s making a fuss because we still have Margaret’s personal effects, including the luggage and the bags of Christmas presents. She thinks we should release everything that’s personal, but of course we can’t do that yet.”

“She’s not even a relative,” I said. “But she looks like a woman who’s used to getting her own way.”

“Seems so,” Matt said, sticking his notebook into his back pocket. “The Whitestones have dominated politics around here for a long time.”

I cleared my throat, ready to change the subject.

“What about Buddy’s friends?” I asked. “He came in tonight with an entourage of strongmen.”

“You mean maybe he hired someone? Always a possibility. With luck that would turn up in his bank records.”

“Unless he paid him cash.”

“You sound like you have someone in mind,” Matt said.

“One of the men there tonight impressed me as capable of making such a deal,” I said, wondering if my voice sounded as shaky to Matt as it did to me.

Matt took out his notebook again.

“You have good instincts,” he said. “Do you have a name for this man?”

“Rocky Busso.” I neglected to say that I had his telephone number, too, and perhaps his weekly salary as a teenager in 1962.

“I’ll check with Berger, too,” Matt said. “Maybe he noticed something. Did you see Berger there tonight?”

“I did.”

“I’m glad you two are getting along,” Matt said, getting up and stretching his arms out to the side. His jacket fell open, putting his hefty middle at my eye level. It was still tight enough not to creep over his belt, I noted, sucking in my own middle. Matt wandered around the room, rubbing his temples and rolling his head around his neck. I had the feeling I’d been invited to his warm-up routine. I almost invited him to use my exercise bicycle, which was still as good as new.

I found myself following him around with my eyes, trying to see my apartment as he saw it. I hoped he liked my set of California posters, framed in a light wood, a present from my West Coast friends when I left my Berkeley lab. I also hoped he wouldn’t lean on a dusty surface. I was sure he cared that I hadn’t done any housework in days. Fortunately, at five-six, he was too short to lean on the top shelf of my bookcase.

“I know George can be tough,” he said, coming perilously close to the tiny gray dustballs behind my
computer monitor, “but I hated seeing antagonism between my partner and my ...”

I could hardly wait for the next word, hoping for the middle-aged equivalent of “girlfriend,” willing to settle for anything more personal than “consultant.” What I heard was neither.

“What’s all this?” he asked.

Matt had exercised his way over to my kitchen table, where my Al Gravese research project was spread out. He fingered the articles and looked at me, his tone changing to one of minor disapproval.

“A little investigation of your own, I see,” he said.

I went over to the table and picked up the articles, tapping them on the table to line up the sheets of paper, as if they represented a completed term paper I was about to hand in to the teacher.
Is this the moment I’ve been waiting for
, I asked myself—
do I ask Matt for the help I need from him, or do I cover this up and pretend I’m into nostalgia?
One thing I didn’t want was to anger Matt. He’d been angry with me before when I overstepped my “limited basis” contract, and it was not a happy memory.

I remembered an early conversation with Matt and hoped he did, too.

“I think I told you,” I said. “I’ve always wondered whether Al’s crash was really an accident.”

“Yes, you did tell me. And I know there was an inquiry. Were you interviewed at the time?”

“I was. Two detectives came to my home. I was living with my father, on Tuckerman Street. They asked if I’d ever met any of Al’s friends, if I knew
how he’d spent the day that Friday, what I knew of his financial situation, that kind of thing. It’s funny how little I remember of it. I guess I was too shocked to realize what was happening. Not to mention dumb and naive.”

“Don’t forget young,” Matt said. “How old were you, about twenty?”

“Is that a guess or a calculation?” I asked, in a attempt to lighten the moment.

“I wasn’t trying to pry.”

“I don’t mind if you do. Yes, I was twenty.”

“At the time, most of us on the force thought there was some connection there.”

“It’s kind of you not to specify the connection. It was only much later when I thought about the detectives’ questions that I saw where they were going with the interview. For the most part, I’m reading these for the first time,” I said, pointing to the neat pile of microfiche copies. “How did I miss what everyone else seemed to know about Al?”

I hadn’t intended to bring Matt in on my quest in such a personal way. I wanted his help with the investigation, not with sorting out my feelings and regrets. At least that’s what I thought.

“Don’t be hard on yourself, Gloria. It was a different era. Especially for women.”

“It certainly was,” I said, surprised and pleased that he noticed.

It was Matt’s turn to clear his throat.

“Now, Gloria,” he started, with a fatherly edge to his voice, “I can see why you’d be curious about your
fiancé’s death, but suppose he was connected? It could be dangerous for you to go digging around.”

I wanted to correct him with “late fiancé,” but I thought it would put too much emphasis on my current availability. I wasn’t that much of a feminist, I’d learned, when it came to dating protocol.

“I was hoping to confine my digging to police records,” I said. “Nothing hazardous to my health.”

Matt gave a hearty laugh.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were hanging around me just to take advantage of my badge.”

All of my internal organs twitched at “hanging around,” and I desperately wanted his definition of the phrase, but I stopped myself.
This is not a physics class
, I told myself.
We’re not talking about Newton’s laws
.

“I hope you do know better,” I said.

Matt’s look and smile told me all was well, and I imagined this to be the point in a romantic comedy where we rushed into each other’s arms.

Not tonight, however, because Matt had made his way to my phone. Al’s little notebook was next to it, open to B.

After a mental gasp, I had what I thought of as a stroke of sheer brilliance.

“I’ve been meaning to show you this,” I said, scooping up the book, closing it at the same time. “It was Al’s. I found it when I was going through his things in the attic.”