“That’s strong language, Councilman. How come the failure of this project—one that your son is in favor of—means so much to you?”
A pause, during which I envisioned the councilman calming himself, running his long fingers through his thick white hair. “The property is holy, Dr. Lamerino.” My title, delivered in a patronizing manner. “Is it so hard for you to believe a person in public life can be motivated simply by religious considerations?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Then we have nothing more talk about, do we?”
“I guess not. Good night, Councilman.”
I hung up the phone, curious at my own reaction, more than his. He wasn’t the first man to treat me condescendingly. I wondered if the councilman had also phoned Rose to thank her personally, and if it had ended so badly. I decided it was too late for me to call and check. Rose was an early riser and might even be taking medication to help her sleep. The morning was soon enough.
But maybe it was time to check the old man’s alibi.
ALTHOUGH I HADN’T BEEN physically hurt in any way, I was exhausted from the tension of the past four days, and ready to put my head on Matt’s broad chest and tell all. The threatening note to me, the matching envelope in Yolanda’s trash, the blaring intrusion alarm, the slashed tires, the ambush by Taruffi, the nasty end to my conversation with Councilman Byme. And I wanted a sympathetic ear to hear me whine about the futility of research on moonshine and faked documents. Plus the dead end on boric acid. And, to borrow an expression from Rose Galigani, plus-plus her son John, an absconded suspect.
How handy that Matt had called during the mental gymnastics between Tony and me.
I played his message. “It’s after ten o’clock. Where are you? Any lasagna left over? I’m on my cell.”
Multitasking once again, with one hand I used the speaker phone to return Matt’s call, and with the other carved out a generous slice of lasagna.
WHO KNOWS WHAT chain of associations prompted my next move?—from lasagna to Italian to Tony Taruffi to E-mails to Italy, perhaps. I picked up the phone and punched in Tony’s home phone number. When he’d scribbled it on the back of his business card earlier in the day, in case I had a question about the lab’s model PWR, I never thought I’d use it.
“This is Gloria,” I began, speaking to Tony’s answering machine.
“Hi, Gloria.” Not a hopeful tone as Tony intercepted the message. I smiled at the idea that Tony might be worried about what I’d do with my new information. I’d left it ambiguous—whether I’d reveal his false alibi, alert his wife as to his latest adultery, or forget about the whole incident.
“I’m ready to deal,” I said. I wasted little time since Matt, the person with the real power to make deals, was due any minute. “Does the lab’s computer security staff have copies of Yolanda’s Web use and E-mails?”
“Sure, but why do you care? I know you want to clear John Galigani. He’s out of town right?”
“How do you know that?”
“Small town.” Tony laughed. “Nah, really, I’m buddies with the Journal people. Don’t forget my job is to network with the media.” Only Tony could make an innocuous phrase like networking with the media sound morally questionable. “Anyway, I told you, these E-mails were just about personal, family stuff.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because I needed to cover my—myself, so I made copies for my files.”
My heart soared. “Then we have a deal.”
MATT AND I HAD settled on my sofa while the lasagna heated. The smell of melting cheese was almost as comforting as Matt’s gentle caress.
“It’s not that any one of these incidents was terrifying,” I told him, my head against his chest. “But I have to admit, taken all together, they make me nervous.”
He kissed my forehead. “They should make you nervous. I’m glad you told me. I wish there were something we could use in all this.” Matt picked up the note, the only tangible symbol of what was causing my distress. “I’ll at least take this and see what I can do with it. You never know … watermarks, fingerprints …” He trailed off, without much enthusiasm.
Matt’s reasonable response surprised me. I remembered clearly one evening when he stood in my apartment and tore up a contract I had with the RPD. He’d felt number one, I’d overstepped the bounds of my agreement, and number two, I’d placed myself in physical danger.
Of course this time there was no contract, but still …
“You’re not mad?”
He shook his head. “It’s not useful for me to be mad. I have to trust you. I can’t spend the rest of my life worried about you, so I’ve built this little compartment where you’re a cop, and I don’t worry any more than I would about my partner.”
I sat up. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. Thanks.”
He pulled me back and ruffled my hair. The timer on my microwave oven sounded, but it was a long time before we paid any attention to it.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I WAS AT MY computer early on Thursday morning, determined to show up at Revere High School fully prepared for class, just as I’d always done in my days as a student. Whether out of fear of repercussion from my mother, or love of learning, or a little of both, I’d always done my homework.
Using a simple graphics package, I made a few rough sketches of the components we’d need for the waste pool. Full scale, the fuel pellets of uranium are about three-quarters of an inch in diameter, about five-eighths of an inch long. They’re inserted, one on top of the other, into twelve-foot-long, slender metal tubes, usually stainless steel. When filled, pressurized, and sealed, the tubes become known as fuel rods, which are then bundled together to make up the core. I’d leave it up to the students to scale down the sizes to fit our model.
While I worked, the Fiore case swam around in my head. E-mails to Italy, Prohibition, nuclear waste, false documents. On Monday night I’d dreamed the entire library had imploded, like the fuel pellet in a laser fusion target chamber, caving in on itself. A maelstrom of books whirled around the interior of the building, finally funneling down the lethal stairway. Thousands of hardcover biographies, paperback novels, oversize art books, atlases, and reference volumes tumbled headlong, knocking over the coat rack on their way to the basement.
I knew I had either too many clues or none at all.
And one more memory, a happy one, flitted among the murderous thoughts in my brain. Matt had stayed the night. He’d delivered my morning coffee with two mini-biscotti before going home to change his clothes and report to work. Did I want to wake up that way every morning? Yes, was at the tip of my tongue.
I remembered the first time Matt and I met. Rose had set up the meeting, supposedly for purely business purposes. Rose had heard the Revere Police Department was looking for scientists who could help as expert witnesses and as technical consultants for a variety of criminal investigations.
“His name’s Matt Gennaro,” she’d said. “Wife died ten years ago. Her heart. No children. We’ve known him for years. Family was from Everett, but they’re all gone now, except for a sister on the Cape.”
“They have two thousand scientists down the street,” I’d said. “The Charger Street lab is overflowing with candidates for this job.”
Rose shook her head. “Not ones like you. The lab scientists have a vested interest when the crime takes place on their property or if it involves one of their own. You’re a godsend, coming in from out of town like this.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Just come and meet this guy, Gloria,” Rose had said. “You don’t have to date him.”
I’d caved in to Rose’s prodding, warning her it might not work out.
And I’d warned Matt also. “I’ve never done anything like that before,” I’d told him at that first meeting. “What if I ruin your case?”
He’d smiled. “Don’t worry. It doesn’t hinge on you. We just want your expertise. We’ll prepare yo
u for what questions to expect, and you answer truthfully.”
Another smile, no doubt meant to calm me, but in fact it charmed me.
I liked his kind eyes, his comfortable body. Since none of my uncles had weighed in at less than two hundred pounds or so, Matt looked just right to me. Not so fit that I couldn’t imagine myself resting my head on his chest.
AFTER MATT LEFT on Thursday morning, I was able to work until about eight o’clock before my apartment came alive with calls and a visit.
Rose was first, and frantic.
“Where do you think he is, Gloria?”
“Try not to worry about it, Rose. He’ll probably call you as soon as he has something.” I’d decided not to tell Rose about my guess, shared by Matt, that John had gone to Detroit. I understood Rose’s concern, but for my part, I felt John was safer in the Midwest. The murderer is in Revere, I told myself.
“Has something? You mean you think John’s working on the case? I suppose that would be good, wouldn’t it?”
“It might be.”
“I thought about calling all his friends, but what would I say—is my son the fugitive there?”
“Strictly speaking, he’s not a fugitive.” I was happy to eliminate at least one of my friend’s troubles. Matt had told me no one on the RPD seemed concerned about the missing John Galigani.
“Probably because of his parents,” he’d said. “They’re not worried about finding him if they want him.”
I’d carried the phone to the window, and now I noticed the hearse pulling into the delivery area at the back of the building. “Here comes another client,” I said to Rose, in an effort to get her talking about something she loved—the Galigani Mortuary business. “It’s pretty busy here these days.”
“It certainly is. Did you see the Indian woman, Mrs. Patira, in A? Frank had to paint that red dot on her forehead.”
I’d often tried to set Rose straight on this issue—I did not make regular visits to the decedents who rested temporarily on the first floor of my residence—but she clearly didn’t get it.
“Gosh, I missed the dot,” I said, but the subtlety was lost on Rose.
“There’s also a small red line on her scalp, that you can hardly see, but it signifies that she was a widow. And she’ll be buried facedown. Isn’t that interesting?”
I’d asked for this. “Fascinating.”
“She had a little boy, too, only eight years old. Very sad. They let him see her in the casket, and he lashed out at Robert, as if he’s the one that took his mother away. So Robert talked to him for a long time. He’s very good with kids. So is John …”
Oh-oh. “Are you coming in to work today?”
“I’m here.”
“You’re downstairs? Why didn’t you come up?”
“I thought you might still have company … you know, he sometimes drives an unmarked that’s unfamiliar to me.”
He. We hung up on a laugh, and a date for a coffee break at ten o’clock.
MATT’S CALL WAS BRIEF, since we’d been apart only an hour or so. He’d agreed to have Berger and his temporary partner, Ian Parker, check into Councilman Byrne’s alibi.
“They’re not too happy about it, but they’ll do it. It won’t be a pleasant reception. Some of those guys Byrne hangs around with are the elders of Revere.”
“That doesn’t put them above the law.”
“Right.”
Another laugh-filled hang-up.
When I turned away from the window, I saw an envelope on the floor in front of my door. A large brown manila envelope had been slid under it during the two or three minutes I was on the phone with Matt.
I was correct in my guess that Tony Taruffi had acted quickly. A note was clipped to the envelope—a piece of pale blue stationery, with cramped handwriting. Enclosed material you requested. Didn’t want to wake you. T2
T-squared, for his initials. Tony probably thought it was the way to my heart, but I’d never liked cute uses of mathematical or scientific notation.
Once again I abandoned boron for Yolanda Fiore or, more correctly, for John Galigani. I pulled out a sheaf of eight-anda-half-by-eleven sheets—pages and pages of E-mails in a tiny font. Another collection of sheets clipped together contained the Web-use statistics for the two weeks before Yolanda was fired. A gold mine. The end that justified the means—promis—ing Tony Taruffi I wouldn’t reveal his infidelity. It will come out soon enough, I told myself, and probably his wife already knew.
I flipped through, estimating fifty pages of E-mails, some with replies and replies to replies in italics. I wished I had Yolanda’s original E-mails instead of T2’s copies—I was sure she’d have highlighted the important parts. These copies were hard to read, with double and triple brackets before every line. And how do I know Tony gave me all of them? I wondered, but then settled down to plow through the small print.
The E-mails were addressed to cousins, aunts, uncles, and friends. Each time, Yolanda began by identifying herself—
I’m Yolanda Fiore, in Revere, Massachusetts, USA. I found you through the Internet and wonder if you can help me. In 1940, my grandfather, Sabatino Scotto, was involved in a crime …
The first replies covered a range, from no information, to a referral to another person, in another town—a Rapone, perhaps, or a DiGiglio. But after a week of searching, Yolanda met some Italian relatives.
Cousin Maria Ambrosio said she went through scrapbooks and photo albums to see if she could find a mention of Sabatino Scotto. MAYBE HE CHANGED HIS NAME, Yolanda wrote back. NO ONE ARRIVES IN OUR HOUSEHOLD DURING THE DATES YOU GIVE ME, came the answer.
As I read, I added branches to Rose’s genealogy tree. The oldest relative still alive in Italy was Celia Pallavo’s sister, Yolanda’s great-aunt on her mother’s side, Gia Pizzimenti. Gia was not well, it seemed, but mentally alert. She remembered the scandal and even offered to harbor Sabatino, God forgive her, but he never arrived. Gia’s message was sent through one of her grandchildren, whose English was admirable—
Cara Iolandina. My name Luisa. My grandma Gia was the sister of your grandma, Celia. Gia says they wait for Sabatino many weeks. He never come. Celia in America was broken heart, but she never give up. She keep writing to ask has he come, because he take her jewels. Supposed to bring them to us for paying, and she say he never cheat like that.
So Matt was right—Celia reported her jewelry stolen as a cover for her husband. I wondered how Yolanda felt when she learned her grandfather really did intend to skip bail.
By the time I finished reading the E-mails, I felt I’d read a Mario Puzo novel. I’d never read his fiction, but I’d seen the movie versions. I wondered if the stories in his books were as compelling as the tale I’d fleshed out through Yolanda Fiore’s E-mails. Maybe I’d check one out as soon as I had a library card.
I ARRIVED AT the high school only minutes before our three o’clock meeting. The all-black-clad students were busy with Erin, who was in a flowery peach sundress.
“Do you think we can enter this project in the science fair?” Jamel asked.
“I don’t see why not. Ms. Wong and I will have to discuss the rules.”
“Really? Cool.” This from Charlotte, with nods from Mi-Weh and David.
Charlotte, Revere High’s star clarinetist in the school band, and the one who inadvertently busted Tony Taruffi’s alibi, had an ingenious idea. “I still have all my Legos,” she said. “I think I can rig up a system for lowering and raising the assemblies in and out of the rack in the pool.”
More reallys and cools. I was happy teenagers weren’t above using the play systems of their youth, in spite of the forbidding outfits they assembled.
I’d brought a video disk produced at my Berkeley lab, so they could see the life-size operations of a waste pool. A rich baritone voice came on, the spokesperson for an unidentified government agency: “Our Energy Department says only one of thousands of canisters that hold the waste will fail while it is still ‘juvenile,’ that i
s less than a thousand years old.”
The students didn’t miss a chance for ridicule. “That’s a long time to be adolescent,” Charlotte said.
I paused the disk at a close-up of the pool and the technicians, all in cumbersome white suits and head coverings. The robotlike figures used long poles to manipulate the fuel assemblies, the tops of which were several feet below the surface of the water.
“Do we have this straight? The waste is in the pools because we think if we bury it, radioactive atoms might get into the water table?” Mi-Weh asked.
“Right,” I said.
“So we have, like, tons of radioactive waste sitting above the ground where it can spill over or, like, anyone can fall in?”
“Sort of,” I said.
“Wow,” Jamel said, moving closer to the screen. He ran his pen down the display, showing how deep the pool was. He scratched his neatly shaved dark head. “I’ll bet you could put a body down there, and no one would find it for, like, fifty years.”
Fifty years. “I guess that seems like an eternity to you. More than three times your lifetime.”
The students and their twenty-something teacher laughed.
Fifty years. Fifty-five years.
I stood up abruptly. “Excuse me. I have an important errand I just remembered.”
What if a body had been buried not in a boric acid waste pool, but behind a building for fifty-five years?
That was the question I asked myself all the way to the police station.
Boric Acid Murder, The Page 21