“Yes.”
Elaine sucked in her breath. “Call me.”
BY THE END OF his second bagel and a look at Yolanda’s Web sites, Matt was ready to put in a call to his partner George Berger. They agreed that Byrne should at least be interviewed—not an official interrogation, Matt noted—in connection with Yolanda’s murder. As he pointed out, it would be a stretch to convince anyone to question him on a ten-year-old accident, and a fifty-five-year-old disappearance. We’d keep it as a police matter, not telling even the Galiganis.
Matt also admitted he had more reason to agree to a Byrne interview than my timeline.
“His alibi witnesses are questionable. Hector Gallerian, Dick Miller, a bunch of others. They’re all telling a different story. One says pinochle, one says poker, one says no cards just drinks. Then, they’re drinking beer, or they’re drinking whiskey, or they’re not drinking, and so on. I think the councilman’s friends were all set to alibi him immediately after the murder, but after all this time they forgot their story—those guys are all pretty old.”
“These are Revere’s statesmen of sorts. I can’t believe they’d all agree to lie.”
Matt shrugged. “Well, I hate to tell you, but it’s pretty standard. Byrne probably told them he was in a compromising situation that night and he needs them to say he was with them. Something like that. Happens all the time.”
“Isn’t that what Tony did?” I mumbled.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
MATT LEFT AFTER breakfast, and I was free to read boron articles at leisure. No more case to think about. I could even apply for a library card. Or take up sewing as the men of Revere wished for their womenfolk.
On the third page of an article on new methods of storing spent fuel in dry casks instead of pools, I stopped to answer a phone call from Andrea.
“I’m going to have lunch with Peter today,” she told me. “I spent a couple of hours with him yesterday.”
“That’s wonderful, Andrea. I’m glad that arrangement is working out. I’m sure he’ll love your transparencies. And you can talk to him about your new idea—Gertrude Elion, Nobel Prize winner in medicine, was it?”
“Yes, in 1988, but—” Her pause, and an ahem sound told me I’d missed the point of her call. “Gloria, this thing with Peter, I think it’s a date.”
My pause was longer. “Oh, a date?” was the best I could do.
One other time Peter had shown interest in a friend of mine—Elaine Cody, who was visiting me in Revere. It never went anywhere and Elaine and I both always assumed it was for my benefit. Elaine, of course, could handle Peter and four others simultaneously, but I wasn’t sure Andrea could. I hoped I wasn’t simply being egotistical, thinking Peter was showing off to me again.
“I thought he wanted to see my transparencies,” she said. And at that point my etchings came to mind. “But he said, no, let’s not do any business.”
“It sounds like a wonderful idea. Where are you going?”
“It’s a surprise. He’s going to pick me up at the gate at noon.” Andrea sighed heavily. “Gloria, I wish we’d already gone shopping for my new outfits.”
“Well, Andrea, he asked you out based on your current wardrobe, so I don’t think you have to worry. If you’d like a suggestion, why don’t you wear that blue paisley top, with the lapis earrings? That’s a nice combination.”
“Thanks, Gloria. That’s a great idea.”
I hung up with Andrea and immediately called Peter, catching him in between classes.
“I’m just calling to see how it’s going with Andrea,” I told him. I didn’t mention test your sincerity.
“Gloria, you won’t believe this, well, you will believe this. She’s really an amazing person. She’s well read and very, very smart and incredibly organized.”
I cleared my throat. “Really?”
Peter laughed. “I know, you told me all that. But I’m really delighted to get to know her, and I think it’s going to be perfect. I probably should have called to thank you.”
“No, no, that’s fine, Peter.”
And for the first time, Peter ended the conversation. “Got to go. Talk soon.”
It took a few minutes of meditation to accept Peter’s honorable intentions. First, I told myself, he didn’t mention having a lunch date with her, which he would have if he was simply trying to make a point with me.
Good, I said to myself, and I’m not even jealous that Andrea could impress Peter so quickly. And a moment later, I believed it.
I poured a second cup of coffee. All was right in Revere. We’d exposed the perpetrator of three murders, John Galigani was on his way home, Rose and Frank would be happy, Elaine was dating a physicist, Andrea had a new friend, Peter would not be annoying me anymore. I added a picture of Derek Byrne, devastated at first to learn of his father’s crimes, finally making peace with it and going off into the sunset with Frances Worthen.
I topped off the scenario with Matt and me holding hands in front of the Atlantic Ocean, not far from Kelly’s Roast Beef stand.
Could life get any neater than this?
I was feeling so good and so generous, I decided to invite my cousin Mary Ann to the Galiganis’ annual Fourth of July party. And I made the call in the middle of the morning, when I knew she’d be home.
THIRTY
I WAS READY for class on Friday afternoon with a briefcase full of notes and downloads from the Internet, including a listing of every nuclear power plant unit in the United States, and its current inventory of spent fuel rods. The long alphabetical tabulation, from Arkansas 1 in Russellville, Arkansas, to Wolf Creek in Burlington, Kansas, itemized important parameters such as the core size, the number of assemblies stored in the pool, and the data on the plant’s license.
Jamel was amused at the drawing that accompanied an explanation of PWR operation—behind the domed containment building was a lovely, full-color rainbow.
“Like these nuclear reactors are natural phenomena,” Mi-Weh said. Her tiny outfit of black cotton pants and pink tank top hugged her body. I estimated she could fit her entire wardrobe into one fuel rod.
“Some spin doctor created this banner,” Erin said, causing me to think of Tony Taruffi, the premier spinner of the Charger Street lab.
David and Mi-Weh had paired up and researched dry cask storage—a new method to store the fuel in metal containers instead of pools of water. They’d created a model out of soft clay, shaped to scale next to a small human figure.
I noticed the figure was in a skirt.
I LEFT THE SCHOOL feeling more carefree than I had in a long while, though from time to time I entertained an image of Councilman Brendan Byrne sweating it out in the basement of the police station, under a bare bulb. More likely sitting in the captain’s office with a scotch and soda, I guessed. I was eager to hear how the interview was going and called Matt several times during the afternoon, but didn’t reach him.
The only damper on my happy, normal day was that I’d kept Frank and Rose in the dark about John’s whereabouts as well as the councilman’s, but I knew it was the best choice. I wished I’d gotten a phone number from John so I could tell him he was no longer the prime suspect. I tried to picture him booking his flight, boarding a plane, being met at Logan. It might be less than twenty-four hours before their lives would be back together.
Then, I told myself, I’d focus on my own life.
DINNER AT Russo’s with Matt began as usual—a romantic briefing on the status of a criminal investigation.
“The councilman is standing firm on his alibi—some record number of judges and mayors came forward to defend his character. He’s still being held for questioning, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Revere’s elite took turns playing pinochle with him.”
“What about the other murders? When Scotto’s body is dug up—”
“If Scotto’s body is dug up, then yes, I think we might be able to push for an investigation that would include the councilman. Whether that wo
uld ripple to Irving Leonard is questionable, and then to Yolanda, it gets even shakier.”
I nodded, a frowning and frustrated concession to reality “There’s nothing to tie him directly to the scene.” I was aware my voice had gotten louder, just as our waitress arrived with two steaming plates of spinach tortellini. I gave her a sweet smile and a grandmotherly thank you. She left hurriedly.
“That’s right,” Matt said, his tone more even than mine “And let’s remember, even accusing the young Brendan Byrne of murdering Scotto won’t necessarily lead to your idea of justice.”
I raised my eyebrows. “What does that mean?”
Matt smiled. “You know, the civilian notion that the system always works.”
“I thought I was a cop to you now.”
He reached over and took my hand. “Sometimes a cop, sometimes a civilian, sometimes—”
I blushed. I was certain all the other Russo patrons had dropped their forks, aware what Matt and I were thinking at that moment. I withdrew my hand, wondering if I’d ever be comfortable with public displays of affection. I looked around Russo’s, at the tables interspersed with plastic ferns and fauxmarble statuary, satisfied that the other diners were caught up in their own worlds and not ours.
“You mean Byrne will get off?” I winced at the image of Byrne coming to the defendant’s table at eighty years old—since he’d certainly be able to draw out the prosecution process for a few years—being tried as a juvenile.
“Maybe not scot-free. But the man has had five decades to prove himself an honorable and respected member of society. His life has been one of service to his country. He’s a veteran, a family man, a public servant—”
I held up my hand, desperate to stop Matt’s characterization of Byrne, as if he were the man’s defense attorney. “Unless he killed twice again. Then he’d be a mass murderer.”
“Technically, a serial killer. Mass murderer would be if he killed three people all at the same time.”
I gave him a look that said, picky, picky. “Either way, it’s a pretty sobering thought.”
Matt nodded and dug into his pasta.
By the time we dipped chocolate frosted biscotti into our dessert cappuccinos my cheerful mood had dissipated significantly.
I WAS FURTHER DISAPPOINTED when Matt dropped me off at the mortuary around nine o’clock, with no plans to come upstairs. I’d tried to needle my way into his other principal case—the murder/suicide he was officially working on—but he’d assured me it was under control and had no science-related elements.
As I walked through the Galigani Mortuary lobby, I noticed Parlor A was empty. I pictured Mrs. Patira, uncomfortable in her facedown position in Holy Family cemetery.
Upstairs, I entered my apartment and picked up the pile of mail either Rose or her assistant, Martha, had slid under my door. Among the flyers and bills was a plain envelope without stamps or postmark. I sucked in my breath. Another note of questionable origin and threatening content? I carried the envelope to my rocker, holding the edges only, the way I used to transfer photographic plates from the developer into the fixing fluid so as not to get my fingerprints on the image.
I pulled out the single sheet of white paper, eight and a half by eleven. A note, typed on Revere Journal letterhead. I let out a breath. An innocuous ID.
Don’t want to hang around your house right now.
Meet me in the library—John
I could believe John was leery of being seen around town. For all he knew his parents’ home and business were being watched. Poor John, I thought—he doesn’t know anything about the evidence we have on Councilman Byrne. Somehow, I’d managed to convince myself that even though Matt doubted Byrne could be charged with Yolanda’s murder, at least suspicion had shifted away from John Galigani.
I called the library, on the chance that John was in the building and not outside—if the press were issued passes, maybe they were also issued keys, I reasoned. I paced my living room, listening to the recorded message. I thought John might have heard the ringing, and if I waited long enough he’d make his way to the phone and intercept my call. Hours of operation, directions to the building, and special programs—an impressive list, with children’s hour, adult literacy classes, senior volunteers, family book exchange—but no pickup from John. Of course not, he’s in hiding, I reminded myself.
Nothing to do but drive over and meet him.
I’d already parked my Cadillac inside for the night so I left the building through the garage. I jiggled my keys nervously, running questions through my head. How do I know the message is from John? It’s on Journal letterhead, I answered. Why would John type a note to bring to my house before he knew he’d need one? He’s efficient, thinking practically, like a fugitive. Should I call Matt and have him meet me? Don’t bother him. This will be quick, once I tell John he can come back home.
My car purred into action, and I pulled out onto Tuttle Street, and drove to the library. I had a new question and answer at each intersection. What if Byrne is in the library, waiting in ambush? Byrne is in the city jail. Resting on specially provided pillows, maybe, but locked up nevertheless. Who else would want to lure me to an empty building for harm’s sake? No one. The most likely scenario is the simple one—that John is inside, or outside in the shadows, waiting to come out and join me. With Byrne being detained, all was fine with the world.
The heat of the day had not dissipated much and I felt the muggy wash of air as I stepped out of my car in front of the library. The tall white flagpole, without its banner, caught the threads of moonlight and seemed to divide the building in half. I walked around the perimeter of the building; running my hand over the circular wooden picnic furniture as I passed. Nine-thirty and no sign of life. Not surprising, since the library had been closed for five hours—I’d learned more than I needed about the hours of operation during my recent phone call.
I stood at the corner of Beach Street and Library Street and glanced at the back lot. Where Sabatino Scotto’s body was buried, I was certain. Had I walked on his bones the evening I strolled back here a week ago?
Nothing stirred on the library lot. I wondered how long I should wait. One more look on the other side of the building, I decided, and headed toward Beach Street.
Finally, a small light caught my eye near the back of the building on the north side. On and off, on and off, like Morse code. Or simply a flashlight. John’s flashlight, I thought with relief, as I headed for the signal.
Closer to building, I saw the shadow of a person, leaning against an open door, arms waving me in.
I quickened my step and peered into the shadows at the figure. Taller than John. And heavier. How could that be?
I stopped short.
What had I been thinking, or not thinking? A flash of pale blue crossed my path as I remembered an important envelope—not the one with the message to meet John in the library, but an earlier one containing Yolanda’s E-mails and the data on her Web use. The envelope from Tony Taruffi, with a pale blue note attached. The fashionably rough texture, the size, the slightly jagged edges. It had been a different hue, light blue instead of off-white, and I didn’t recognize it as coming from the same batch as my original TAKE UP SEWING letter.
That advice was looking better and better. As a detective, I’d make a good quilter.
Tony Taruffi hurried to close the gap between us. His gun glinted in the light from the streetlamp. Or was it the moon? I tried to figure it out, as if it were an important calculation, a matter of life or death.
I’d been so stupid. Distracted and excited by the prospect of reading Yolanda’s E-mails.
“I was stupid,” Tony said, causing me to wonder if I’d confessed my dimwittedness out loud. He grabbed me roughly, cupped his hand over my mouth. “Using the same stationery—from that supply of my wife’s.” Mrs. Taruffi, the wedding coordinator, I remembered. “Stupid. Stupid. I knew it was just a matter of time before you’d figure it out.”
He was right.
I did figure it out. Just a little late.
THIRTY-ONE
TONY WAS MUCH heavier than I and had no trouble marching me, half carrying me, the few remaining steps to the building. I tried to squirm until I felt the butt of his gun in my back, one click away from ending my life. My heart pounded in my chest, my brain sending flashes of bright light across the optics of my eyes, as if a prism had been installed there.
I was still in the clothes I’d worn to dinner—lightweight pants and a raw silk short-sleeved top, all khaki, and now all soaking wet.
Up to now no other traffic had passed in the area, but at that moment an enormous white delivery truck pulled noisily up to the Beach Street entrance of the library. I took a deep breath and opened my mouth, prepared to scream, but Tony quickly tied a sweaty cloth around my face, covering my mouth. I gagged at the smell, at the same time relieved it wasn’t soaked in chemicals.
He dragged me roughly inside the building through a trapdoor. The opening did not lead to the basement, as I’d thought, but only to a stairwell. I heard the heavy doors of the truck outside open and close. A delivery? More lions? Two other virtues? I knew my brain was rattled when I started to joke about a critical situation.
“Shit.” Tony drew the word out so it became a hissing sound. “I’m going to have to take you upstairs. This may be the delivery entrance.” He forced me up two flights of stairs to the attic mezzanine, opposite the level that held the administrative offices. I looked down on the area between the mezzanines—the circulation desks, now empty and fruitless as a source of help.
Tony pushed me down, and I landed between Patience and Fortitude, surrounded by other relics of the Historical Society. Photographs, fruit crates filled with scrolls, the old spinning wheels, part of the bootleg liquor still, a pile of old cloths that might once have adorned the dining-room tables of Revere’s upper class. I looked at the artifacts, as if at the milieu of my final resting place.
Boric Acid Murder, The Page 23