This apartment surely is, Lori thought. “The Village is a great place to stay,” she said, playing it safe.
Rachel rubbed her hands together as if the apartment were chilly, which it wasn’t. “So. Questions?” Rachel asked.
Lori was happy the schmoozing was over. “We already have the footage from your Tenth Street facility,” she said. “I just need to clear up some points for the narration.”
The footage was from Amber, of course. Lori remembered the day Amber had left the studio and headed to Blake Manufacturing. She’d made some comment about how boring it was to shoot scenes of guys in Darth Vader helmets and thick, fireproof aprons.
“They made me take a picture of some drawing they’ve done showing a close-up of stuff welded together, like on a valve or a wheel. How exciting.” Amber had stopped to mimic yawning. “Who’s going to stay awake during those scenes?”
“I guess you don’t get the same thrill as when you’re crawling in the bushes snooping on some guy who has a wife and two mistresses on the side,” Lori had responded.
“Definitely not.”
Lori suspected that Amber wouldn’t have lasted too much longer at her job with Pizzano Productions. Eventually she’d have been able to afford her own facilities and would have gone with Tina full-time or found some other sleazy way to make money. Now Lori needed a new cameraperson anyway, a little sooner than she’d thought she would.
“The narration?” Rachel asked, apparently not for the first time.
Lori came back to the present, to Rachel’s couch and blue toile tea set. “Right, what I’ll be saying in the voice-over.”
“So you won’t be showing me saying anything?”
Lori tried to determine whether the beautiful PR lady did or did not want to be seen in the video. “What are your thoughts, Rachel?” she asked. She could practically hear Professor Moore in his class on interview techniques: Whenever possible, let the subject feel part of the production process.
Rachel put her lovely fingers to her mouth, avoiding direct contact with her lipstick. Lori figured it was just as likely she was reviewing her Christmas list as thinking about the documentary. Lori had the feeling Rachel had already decided not to be seen. She wouldn’t be surprised: People, especially PR personnel, didn’t want to be held to what they said in interviews, and it was easier to deny quotes if there was no visual documentation.
“Oh, let’s leave me out of this,” Rachel said finally. “It’s not about me. It’s to showcase the company.”
“Fine, but I’ll tape this conversation if you don’t mind.”
Rachel raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know . . . ”
Lori waved her hand and talked quickly. “It’s for my own reference, I promise. Because I don’t have the greatest memory.” Lori touched her head. Duh, she implied, showing Rachel where her memory cells were weak. “This way I won’t have to keep bugging you with questions.”
“Okay, then.”
For a few minutes Lori asked Rachel for general information about Blake Manufacturing. She’d get to the tough questions once the PR lady was relaxed and trusting. She took diligent notes as Rachel talked about the management of the company (the owner was a certified journeyman tool and die maker and accomplished mechanical designer, blah blah blah), the overall organization (the employees profited from a system where they were allowed to grow professionally and at the same time have a variety of learning experiences, blah blah blah), and other employee-friendly policies (Blake welcomed union welders and had a commendable retirement plan, blah blah blah).
Rachel had her own messages ready, no matter what Lori asked, and slipped them in wherever possible. “We manage all phases of the customer’s project, from material specifications to welding and machining to the finishing process to the final assembly and inspection. Our goal is to exceed our customer’s expectations, whether they’ve ordered a custom bicycle or a staircase or a—”
“This is all good stuff,” Lori said. Is that a direct quote from your Web site? She wanted to ask.
Rachel, apparently encouraged, went on. “Everything’s changed so much with computers,” she said. “We do a three-dimensional model to evaluate designs before a costly fabrication process. The customer can see the concept graphically at all stages.”
“Can you tell me a little about who’s responsible for the oversight of federal regulations for the company?” Lori asked.
Rachel cleared her throat. “Of course, but I just wanted to add a bit more about this three-D stuff, because it’s fascinating. We now offer three-D animations that can be packaged with a product. You know, more and more vendors are including videotapes or DVDs with the product, showing how to assemble the pieces, or even mass-mailing them to attract new buyers.”
Lori nodded, mumbled, “Good,” and made it look as if she were taking it all down in her notebook even as the tape recorder ensured she wouldn’t miss a word.
“The reason I’m asking about the regulatory oversight is that, from public records, I see that Blake has had to pay a lot of fines for violating OSHA rules for ozone exposure in your workplace.”
Lori didn’t add that last year Blake had paid more fines than any other company its size in the Northeast. She knew that for many businesses, it was cheaper to pay fines than to institute the changes or upgrades necessary to follow the regs.
“Yes, there was the occasional fine, but Blake is only one of four companies run by our parent in New Jersey. I wouldn’t know, overall, how those infractions were distributed.”
“Infractions” sounded so much more benign than “violations,” Lori noted. But, wouldn’t you know, Rachel had brought up a possible loophole. New York was very restrictive in many regulatory and legal matters, often more than federal mandates for the same issue. If its parent company was in New Jersey and not New York, this might let Blake off the hook. Lori made a note to check with her friend at DEC, the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation.
“I’m sure you’re aware that arc welding is considered to be one of the highest-risk occupations,” Lori said, “because of the elevated levels of ozone that may be generated unintentionally. I’ve also seen data that indicate Blake workers are getting sick at a higher than normal rate. Can you comment on that?”
Rachel uncrossed her long legs, pulled her short brown skirt forward, and leaned in toward Lori. While Lori was admiring Rachel’s gold ankle bracelet, Rachel pushed the OFF button on the tape recorder. “Blake has such a generous benefits package that sometimes there are abuses, if you know what I mean. Employees tend to take advantage of our lenient policies regarding sick leave and disability. But you did not hear that from me.” Rachel paused to zip her lip. “I mean, who doesn’t have symptoms like itching eyes or a sinus inflammation now and then. It doesn’t mean you’ve been overexposed to anything but the normal atmosphere.”
“Which isn’t that great, either,” Lori said. She pushed RECORD again, trying to hide her annoyance. She shifted a bit and caught a view out the west window onto Ninth Avenue. Lights were liberally strung around the wrought-iron fences on balconies at all levels of the buildings across the street, giving the overcast sky the romantic, comforting look she usually loved. Now she wondered how she was going to get through the season.
Rachel cleared her throat and made a show of looking at her watch. Lori needed to move fast if she was going to get anything out of this meeting.
“Do you have any company memos I could look at, like communications issued from management, detailing how Blake implements OSHA requirements?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
Lori wondered if Rachel knew what “implement” meant.
“Well, there might be notices or directives to the foremen, for example, or whoever, on what the ozone exposure limits should be and how to enforce the regs to keep the workplace safe. Also, there should be records on what kinds of filters or detectors are used in the fabrication areas. As I’m sure you know, once ozone
is created in the welding arc, it can drift through the air for a long distance. If it’s not diluted by fresh air, you can have a hazard, like, way across the shop, really far from where it was generated.”
Lori was glad she’d done her homework.
Rachel looked flustered, as if her personal shopper had just shown her a wardrobe meant for a much older, larger person.
Lori continued, keeping control of the conversation. “So all your employees are at risk of suffering severe lung injury if they work in areas that have inadequate ventilation. Maybe there’s a company newsletter with communication about safety and safeguards? I believe the current regulation is that ozone exposure in the workplace should be no more than point-one parts per million.”
“I’m not a numbers person, you know,” Rachel said, “but I do believe there’s a range, from point-one to point-two, depending on how long the employee is exposed. But don’t hold me to the ppms.”
For not being a numbers person, Rachel knew how to quote the most lenient guideline, Lori noted. She made two or three more attempts to get definitive answers from Rachel: What measures are you taking? Who’s in charge? Are your inspection reports on file?
Rachel held fast to her position that Blake was exemplary in following regulations. “I know you’d like to find something a little more sexy, like rampant disregard of government rules, but you’re wasting your time.”
Lori decided to give it up. At least she had it on record that Blake’s official liaison did not think there was a problem with occupational ozone exposure. She’d find a way to juxtapose that with a graphic of employee complaints and treatments for ozone-related ailments for the last three years.
“That should do it, then,” Lori said, packing up her recorder, notebook, and pen.
“I’m so glad this worked out,” Rachel said, her tone more relaxed now that the recorder was disabled. “When I heard about what happened to that girl who works for you, I thought you might not get back to me.”
Lori’s mouth went dry. She searched for a response other than shaking her head.
Rachel apparently took her silence for confusion. “You know, that pretty girl who came out to the facility to take pictures last week.”
“Amber Keenan,” Lori said, in a soft voice. The name stuck in her mouth.
“I can’t believe she was murdered,” Rachel said. “I’ve never known anyone who was murdered. Supposedly, New York leads the nation in effective crime fighting, and I was just reading in the paper how the murder rate in the city is way down, the lowest in forty years.” Rachel uttered a tsk tsk sound. Lori thought she’d scream if she heard the word “murder” one more time. “Anyway, it’s supposed to be safer than ever around here.”
“For some people, I guess,” Lori said, picking up her jacket.
“But, you know, that girl was a little stubborn,” Rachel said. “She wangled her way into areas that weren’t on the list we gave her. She kind of barged her way past some barriers and had to be called back by security.” Rachel inspected her fingernails. “A girl can make enemies that way. I was wondering if you’d had any other complaints?”
First, Lori was surprised that Amber had taken her assignment that seriously, given her boredom with the topic. Lori was also annoyed. “Are you saying that’s why she’s dead?”
“No, no. I just want you to know we tried to be very cooperative. But if she was always upsetting people . . . well, never mind. I guess we’re finished here.” Rachel stood and straightened her skirt. She reached into a magazine holder and pulled out a large manila envelope. “Let me just give you this. It has our recruiting brochure and other FAQ sheets that might be useful.”
“Thanks,” Lori muttered. This was where ordinarily Lori would stand and shake the hand of the person being interviewed, tell her what a pleasure it was to meet her, and how she hoped they’d see each other again. At this time of year, there might even be a friendly question. Where are you going to spend the holidays? Or, if there were Christmas decorations in the apartment, which there were not, she might venture a Merry Christmas to you and your family.
“Anything else?” Rachel asked.
“We’re finished,” Lori said, thinking how Professor Moore would disapprove of her rudeness. She put on her jacket and walked to the door.
Outside the apartment, Lori raced down three flights of stairs and onto the street.
The smells in the hallway had turned sour, and she passed up the bistro.
CHAPTER NI
I wasn’t much of a reader, except of technical magazines and scientific biography—the newest one on Marie Curie was back in my luggage in our room. Though I wouldn’t think of picking up fiction or a general nonfiction book, I liked the new trend of combining bookstores with coffee shops. It gave them both a bit more class, I thought, and increased the number of espresso makers in the world.
That said, I wished I hadn’t inadvertently sat facing the true crime section of the bookstore café I’d wandered into. I needed no reminders of my legal status.
I hadn’t intended to steal Karla Sasso’s letter from Dee Dee’s tray. That fact should be worth something, I hoped. Maybe the difference between a misdemeanor and a felony. Not that I could prove I didn’t enter the office for the purpose of taking the paper from the file. I knew it mattered that I didn’t lift a proprietary item. Say, the secret formula for the next-generation New York cheesecake. I remembered a case Matt told me about, a theft of files from a commercial nursery in Revere. Because the papers contained details of growing a new variety of peony, the crime escalated in seriousness, and the thieves ended up charged with the theft of tens of thousands of dollars.
That wasn’t likely to happen in my case. Still, I was aware that even if I’d taken my own medical record from my doctor’s office without permission, it would be considered a theft, and it would be up to the DA to—I could hardly think the phrase—arrest me, or not.
I wondered if I could make surreptitious restitution. I could return to Dee Dee’s office and slip the letter back into the file. Or under the door: Let her think a breeze had wafted it across the room.
Whatever penalty awaited me, I needed to read the letter. I looked over both shoulders. Most patrons were dressed in business attire, briefcases at their feet, eating premade sandwiches from the refrigerated case under the counter. They seemed too wrapped up in their own conversations to bother about me and my confiscated eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheet.
Fumbling under the table, I unfolded the letter. My fingers were cold from the weather and slippery from my nervous state. I adjusted my reading glasses to focus on my lap and read.
To: Tina Miller Agency
Re: Fielding v. Fielding
I received your report dated December 1, regarding your asset search and surveillance. Thanks very much for your work.
As it happens, I plan to be in New York in the next couple of weeks. I’ll give you a call when I arrive so we can arrange to speak about the results so far and our next steps in this matter.
Sincerely,
It was signed: Karla Sasso.
Fielding v. Fielding. Not Keenan v. Someone. Not Someone v. Keenan.
This letter was not remotely connected to Amber Keenan’s murder, I mused, and convinced myself that what I’d pulled truly represented the rest of the folder. Making a judgment from a sample of one—a first for me.
This was good news. It meant Rose’s daughter-in-law simply, coincidentally, had legitimate business with Tina Miller—and why not? Lawyers and PIs interacted all the time, and Karla was a New Yorker, after all. For all I knew, she and Tina had been neighbors for years and now shunted business to each other whenever appropriate.
All that fuss for nothing.
I looked out onto the street, somewhere in the West Fifties, and saw a sight that cheered me: a hot dog wagon dressed for the holidays. Every city wraps greenery, fake or otherwise, around telephone poles and lampposts at this time of year, but how many had festive garlands streamin
g from portable hot dog ovens and pretzel wagons? I grinned in spite of my plight.
I ran my fingers over the paper on my lap and considered my options. How could I get the letter back into Dee Dee’s file?
Not that it would work here, but I smiled as I remembered a trick my grade school teachers used. I could hear Miss Johnson’s voice: Let’s close our eyes, boys and girls, and cover our ears, and the student who took the colored chalk from the tray can come up and put it back.
I sighed, half wishing for the simple life at the Abraham Lincoln School in Revere. One big difference was that I was never the one guilty of the theft. Joey Di Luca took that chalk, and another time Connie Benedetto snatched the package of bright green construction paper and slipped it into her desk. I never stole supplies and always got an A in conduct.
That was then.
Now I was faced with my adult theft. A more realistic plan was to mail the letter to the Miller Agency in a plain brown wrapper. With the density of services in midtown, it would take no time to find an envelope, a stamp, and a mailbox. I’d add a stop at St. Patrick’s to light a candle. I’d be spared. No one would have to know how close I’d come to incarceration.
The disadvantage to this plan was that it would bring the theft to Tina’s and Dee Dee’s attention, and I had no idea how they’d respond. If I hadn’t messed up the entire folder, they might think the letter was misfiled. That wasn’t likely, given the condition I’d left the Sasso file in, not to mention what I felt was my suspicious sweaty-handed leave-taking.
What if the agency had fingerprint-lifting equipment and online access to a database? My prints were on file, from the many security clearances I’d had during my research years in California. My stellar record as a physicist who could be trusted with national security secrets felt like a lump in my throat.
The Oxygen Murder Page 7