The Oxygen Murder

by Camille Minichino

  In all my years as friend and then tenant of the Galiganis, I’d never thought to wonder where they bought their refrigeration units. I made a mental note to ask Rose if she or Frank had ever been approached for their input into mortuary cooler design.

  I thought I’d seen enough until a tall young man with reddish-brown hair walked across the screen behind a worker who was demonstrating a small refrigerated vehicle that reminded me of an ice cream wagon. I wondered who had the contract for such wagons for New York City. I’d run into them everywhere.

  One scene I’d never noticed on a New York postcard had been the appearance of a giant flatbed truck on Fifth Avenue around six o’clock on our first evening. The trailer section was loaded with six or eight hot dog and ice cream wagons, their umbrellas deflated, stuffed together so tightly their wheels intertwined. Not only had the vision shattered my image of the little old vendor in business for himself, but it also made me wonder where all that wonderful ice cream was going to spend the night.

  I promised myself a chocolate Drumstick after I completed my homework: finishing the Curry DVD.

  The young man in the background in the last section tweaked my memory. I scanned back and took a closer look at his broad shoulders and the trendy stubble on his chin and cheeks. Before he walked out of the frame, he turned his head and glanced briefly at the camera.

  The final glimpse sealed it for me: The man was Zach Landram, Dee Dee’s fiancé.

  And a Curry employee?

  I had no tools to zoom in or enhance the frame, but I was sure enough who the man was without any special editing capability. He had on a pale blue dress shirt and tie and carried a clipboard. I pictured him in profile standing in front of Nurse Pogel. Lacking a split screen and dual imaging, I still had to say the noses matched.

  I scanned ahead to the end of the DVD, but Zach didn’t appear again. I reached into my bag and took out the Curry brochures. A man in a dress shirt walking among employees in stained jumpsuits might be a manager, I thought, and managers often had their names and faces in company literature.

  By the time I’d leafed through the brochures this second time, I was warming up (so to speak) to refrigeration technology. Not that I’d trade my scientific supply catalogs for details of cooling systems, but I had to admit there was something fascinating about structural steel frames, observation windows, pressure relief ports, and diaphragmatic speed locks.

  My diligence was rewarded by the fourth pamphlet: “The Curry Industries Team Working for You.” The first pages featured an organization chart with photographs of all the managers. A broadly smiling Zach Landram was regional purchasing manager.

  I looked at the details of the photo of Zach at a desk, surrounded by what looked like cubicle furniture—L-shaped surfaces with cabinets hanging on the wall. I looked for a snapshot of Dee Dee in the cluttered area, but the resolution was poor. I could make out only generic stacks of papers, books, and files. I winced at the sight of a tall metal organizer that reminded me of my clumsy pilfering at Dee Dee’s desk.

  I ran all the coincidences through my mind, drawing imaginary lines. From Amber to Curry Industries, working for Lori. From Curry to Zach, one of their managers. From Zach to Dee Dee, his girlfriend. From Dee Dee to Tina Miller, Amber’s other boss. I factored in Dee Dee in the alley and Dee Dee being attacked in Central Park.

  Too many D’s, I decided. I needed a face-to-face with her.

  I retrieved the disk from the drive and went to the counter to pay my fee. While I was there I ordered another cappuccino.

  I needed to be alert for my upcoming interaction.

  I was on hold for several minutes before someone in Dee Dee’s ward picked up the phone.

  “Ms. Sanders is back in her room now and will be on the line shortly,” I heard. I was glad she didn’t sound like Nurse Pogel.

  I waited about five minutes, sipping cappuccino and checking my battery power icon every now and then. It wasn’t even ten o’clock, but lunch smells were already taking over the café. I breathed in the aromas of pastrami, panini sandwiches, vinegary salads, and garlic bread. Too early. The huge slab of pumpkin bread I’d eaten felt heavy in my stomach, and I resolved to try to be more like Rose and not feel obliged to eat every crumb I was served.

  Finally, “Hi, this is Dee Dee.”

  “Dee Dee, this is Dr. Lamerino. You may remember I met you at your office earlier this week.”

  “Oh, yes. Dr. Marino.”

  Close enough. I wouldn’t expect a secretary to remember the name of every nonclient who passed through her office, even ones who absconded with correspondence. I still didn’t know exactly what had become of Karla’s letter, or whether Tina Miller or Dee Dee had been made aware of its absence, temporary or permanent. Every time I asked Matt where the letter was and what, if any, explanation had been given to the women in the agency, he’d answer, “I’ll tell you when we’re safely back in Revere.”

  “. . . nice of you to call,” I heard Dee Dee say.

  I realized my mind had wandered to my recent brush with felony status.

  “I hope you’re making a good recovery,” I said.

  “Oh, yes. I should be out of here tomorrow.”

  If Dee Dee was surprised that a relative stranger would be calling her hospital bed, she didn’t let on. I’d seen the same ability to interact with hundreds of background people in most of the secretaries I’d known in my lab career. I, on the other hand, had a hard time keeping track of the few foreground people in my life.

  Time to own up to the reason for my call.

  “Dee Dee, I’ve been looking into Curry Industries for a project I’m working on. Imagine my surprise when I saw Zach Landram on a video of the facility.”

  I heard a big sigh, and something like a whispered “Uh-oh.”

  “Will you talk to me about it?”

  “I’ve already talked to the police. They keep coming back.” She sighed, as if the cops were a persistent virus.

  “Did you tell them your boyfriend is a manager at Curry Industries, where Amber Keenan shot some video for a documentary?” The murdered Amber Keenan, I meant.

  “I told them what they needed to know. I went to the loft on some business for Tina. Amber gave me that address, and I found Amber . . . dead. I got scared and left, but I called 911 first. There wasn’t anything else I could do for her. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Nothing wrong?

  I’d given a lot of thought to my own failure to act to help Amber. Matt had told me once about the scarcity of what were called duty-to-rescue statutes in most states: “If you stand around and watch someone die, you may be a moral coward, but you’re not a criminal,” he’d said. He’d told me this long before either of us knew I’d be the coward.

  I decided not to tell Dee Dee that Amber was alive when she left. Why have anyone else feeling guilty as I did that we might have saved her life?

  I focused instead on the puzzle that was Amber’s murder. “That’s not the whole truth, is it?” I said. “About why you were in the loft. I think it’s in your best interest to talk to me, Dee Dee.” I paused for effect and lowered my voice. “Or I could just go directly to the police.”

  Another big sigh from Dee Dee. Another whispered phrase. “I’ll put your name on the list.”

  I was glad Dee Dee didn’t ask why I hadn’t gone to the police already. My first thought on seeing Zach on the Curry video had been to approach her and not Buzz—because I was anxious to be of maximum assistance, I’d reasoned. I’d have to give that some thought when this vacation was over.

  I needed to move quickly. I wasn’t sure how long I could trust Dee Dee not to split from the hospital or to put a special DO NOT ADMIT note next to my name.

  I checked my watch. Getting a cab to the hospital would be easy since I was still essentially inside the hotel lobby and the doorman on duty could just whistle for one. That would put me on the Upper West Side by about ten thirty. I’d have to allow at least forty minutes to
get a cab from there unassisted and travel all the way down to Little Italy by eleven thirty. Even in the middle of the day traffic was dense everywhere on the main streets and avenues of Manhattan, no matter what the direction. That would leave me twenty minutes max with Dee Dee.

  It would be close, but I could do it.

  I called Rose’s cell phone, trying to maneuver into my coat at the same time.

  “Are you enjoying the hat shop?” I asked her. I stuck my right arm into the sleeve of my coat and flung the rest of it across my shoulders.

  “It’s wonderful, Gloria. They’ll make up our designs and ship them in time for Christmas.” She paused. “Not for you, of course. Though I was thinking that a lovely little white hat for your wedding reception might be perfect.”

  I switched my cell phone to my right ear and shoulder. “I’m not going to wear white.”

  “Well, you’re not going to wear black, are you?”

  “Rose, I have to run. I might be a little late for lunch.” I wrapped my scarf around my neck. “Do you have the name of the restaurant yet?”

  “Yes, the New Vineyard. It’s on Spring Street. You can’t miss it. It has a brand-new green awning hanging over the sidewalk, with ferns everywhere.” Rose interpreted my pause correctly. “I told you it would be upscale,” she said.

  “Not a problem. I’ll see you there, but don’t worry if I’m a little late.”

  “Just tell me the color,” Rose said.

  I thought of pretending I didn’t know what she meant, but I decided to give my long-suffering friend a break.

  I looked down at the dregs of my cappuccino. “Maybe a coffee color,” I said.

  CHAPT TWENTY-FIVE

  Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

  The insistent doorbell was nearly shattering Lori’s eardrums. She pressed her eye against the peephole.

  Rachel Hartman was at her door.

  “Lori, please, open up.” Rachel sounded frantic and out of control. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes puffy, even allowing for the peephole distortion. “I know you’re in there.”

  Lori stepped back, her breathing loud and raspy, like after the breast cancer run she did every year in the park. She paced the small area in front of her door. The mayo from the pasta salad was making an unpleasant comeback. She thought of the cop in the unmarked downstairs. A lot of good it did to have him four flights down. She should have set up some kind of signal to get him up here in case someone sneaked by. The way Rachel did.

  Too late now.

  “There’s a cop right downstairs,” Lori said. She couldn’t believe how weak her voice sounded even though she was telling the truth. If she were Rachel she wouldn’t believe it.

  She had an idea. She walked to the switch that controlled the living room lights and flicked it on and off, on and off, eight or ten times. Maybe that would get the cop’s attention, since a crazy woman walking into the building didn’t catch his eye.

  Lori checked the peephole again. Rachel was pacing also. Gone was the PR woman’s trim, confident demeanor, her luxury environment. Lori tried not to be swayed by the pitiful, scruffy woman outside her door. A woman who might have killed Amber. Who might be here to kill her.

  “Listen to me,” Rachel said, turning back toward the peephole. “I’ve been a wreck all night, since I saw you in the lobby at Family Suites.”

  Lori started. I need to work on my spy skills, she thought.

  “I know you have the pictures Amber took of me and Ricky Blake.”

  Ricky Blake? The son and heir of Blake Industries? Clearly Rachel didn’t know what a tiny portion of her body Amber had caught on video. Amber must have convinced Rachel she had up-close-and-personal views of an office tryst.

  “Did you write those letters?” Lori asked. Start with the minor offenses.

  “Lori, just let me in to talk. This is ridiculous.” Three sibilants in a row emphasized Rachel’s lisp. “I can barely hear you through this door. I promise I won’t stay long. I just need to explain.”

  “It’s this way or with the cops,” Lori said, hoping she sounded tough.

  She flicked the switch again. She wondered if Rachel could see the lights go on and off through the crack under the door.

  “Yes. I wrote the letters,” Rachel whispered, as if she couldn’t bear to admit it out loud. “I sent a note to Amber first. Then when she was murdered, I worried about where the video would end up. I figured you must have it.”

  Now that she’d started her outpouring, Rachel couldn’t be stopped. “I had to do something,” she said. “If it ever got out, everything would be up in flames. Ricky’s married, for one thing, and it’s his wife’s money that keeps the business going. And then there’s Max . . .”

  Rachel trailed off. Lori heard the sounds of sniffling and nose-blowing.

  “The guy who’s paying your rent and buying you Tiffany vases,” Lori said.

  She took Rachel’s pause as an admission that her wild guess was correct.

  “I talked it over with Amy, my sister from L.A, and she convinced me to come here. She said you weren’t necessarily like Amber, that you might be reasonable.” Rachel paused. “I need to have that video. It’s nothing to you, and there’s no reason the police or anyone else has to see it. I didn’t kill Amber.”

  “Why should I believe you?” Lori asked. Then she asked herself, Why am I challenging a potential killer? And where is the cop?

  She flicked the lights on and off again. This time she counted—twelve times.

  “Why would I kill Amber before I got the video from her? I need that video.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  Click! Creak! Thump!

  The elevator going back down.

  Lori didn’t know whether to be relieved or more anxious. It was either help on the way or more trouble.

  Thump! Creak!

  It seemed to take much longer than usual for the cage to descend and start back up. Rachel sobbed even louder. Lori checked the peephole, half expecting Rachel to have a gun drawn. But she was standing like a defeated doll, her arms loose in front of her, her shoulders shaking.

  The elevator doors opened, and an NYPD uniform walked out.

  “Everything okay here? I thought I saw the lights flicker.”

  No kidding. Lori felt her shoulders collapse and almost laughed out loud.

  Rachel gave her a miserable look, and Lori lost the sense that she was negotiating with a killer.

  “We’re fine,” Lori said. Okay, don’t be completely stupid. “My friend would like someone to wait with her while she hails a cab.”

  “No problem.” The young officer held out his arm to Rachel, as if to lead her to a dance floor.

  Rachel turned back to the peephole and mouthed a thank-you.

  Lori went to the window and stayed there until she saw Rachel get into a cab. She was 90 percent sure Rachel hadn’t killed Amber. She was ambitious and annoying (so was Amber), but she didn’t seem the type, whatever that might be.

  If she were really a good person, she’d ease Rachel’s mind about what was on the video, or even give it to her. The more she thought about it, the flimsier her bracelet photos seemed, and finding usable fingerprints on the letter was always a long shot.

  For a minute Lori considered bargaining with Rachel. Maybe she could get something juicy about Blake’s ozone practices, some under-cutting of OSHA regulations they might have engaged in.

  Then a little voice reminded her—that’s exactly what Amber had done.

  CHAER TWENTY-SIX

  This time I was able to give the cab driver the hospital address. I was beginning to feel like a native New Yorker—keeping a busy schedule, visiting a friend who was recuperating, meeting another group for lunch, my husband off to work. My gasp was hardly audible when the cab nearly plowed into a double-decker tour bus.

  Not that Billy Keenan was off the hook in my mind, but I’d worked out a scenario in which Amber meets Zach while working on the Curry video material. They becom
e too friendly to suit Dee Dee, so Dee Dee kills Amber. I had no room in the theory for who attacks Dee Dee, unless it’s a random mugging. Or that Zach, angry with Dee Dee over his new girlfriend’s murder, teaches Dee Dee a lesson.

  Weak, but not completely out of line.

  A tiny flaw appeared in my reasoning when I realized that Dee Dee would probably know Amber’s home address from the office files and wouldn’t have to stake out the loft. Counterargument: Amber had lots of roommates, and it would be more efficient to track her down alone at Lori’s apartment.

  Another hole was that Dee Dee did not fit my profile of a killer (my profiling skills having been acquired while reading FBI articles over Matt’s shoulder). There were a lot of reasons for that, starting with her sweet name, her lovely perfume, her upbeat disposition, and (very high on the profile list) her love of candy and willingness to share it.

  As the cabdriver headed up Eighth Avenue, honking all the way, I heard the blip blip blip of my cell phone and checked the caller ID.

  Matt. My husband had uncanny timing.

  “What’s new in guns?” I asked him.

  “I learned more about RUVIS, that ultraviolet fingerprinting technique I told you about. It can also pick up shoe impressions on tile and other surfaces, smooth or porous, plus explosive residues.”

  “Fascinating,” I said, my mind still on the Zach-Amber connection.

  “For those who care.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you—what’s happening with Billy Keenan? Has he been told not to go back to Lori’s?”

  “I haven’t talked to Buzz yet today. I’m sure he came up with something. So where are you?”

  It had been foolish to hope he wouldn’t ask. I cleared my throat. “In a cab.”

  “On the way to lunch already?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Gloria, do I have to come and get you?”

  I needed voice training—lessons in how not to sound guilty when I’m not telling my husband the exact truth (lying seemed a harsh way to put it). Now I had to decide whether to conceal my destination. Until I had those classes, I figured, I might as well be honest.