Sleuthing Women

by Lois Winston

  I made a note to look again at the photographs, which we’d left in Matt’s car.

  As a small gesture toward health and fitness, we took the stairs to the second floor. Leder was standing outside his office talking to a young woman with the efficient look of a secretary. He looked past her and walked over to greet us with a wide smile.

  Leder took my hand and gave it a couple of light pats.

  “How unfortunate to meet again under these circumstances,” he said. He spoke in low tones, looking down from his six-foot height at Matt and me. I noticed how closely his gold-toned turtleneck matched the part of his hair that wasn’t gray.

  To Matt he said, “I hope you’re here to tell me that we can have our lab back.”

  “We’re as anxious for that as you are, sir,” Matt answered. “In a couple of days, I hope. First, I’d like to know more about the project Eric was working on. Doctor Lamerino’s along so she can translate for me when we get back to the station.”

  Matt smiled at me when he came to the last sentence and I felt a tiny, but distinctive twinge in my chest.

  “Oh, Gloria and I are old friends,” Leder said, “Very bright lady. But surely you don’t think Eric’s murder had something to do with his work?”

  “We can’t rule anything out,” Matt said. “Do you have information about another motive, one that doesn’t involve his work?”

  “No, no, but none of us are angels, you know, and Eric did have some problems that could get a man in trouble.” At this, Leder winked, as if we all knew what he meant.

  “Can you explain what you mean?” Matt said, his voice calm and casual, as if he’d done this before.

  “Well, I don’t like to gossip, especially when someone is dead, but I think Gloria here will verify that Eric’s wife Janice was unhappy in her marriage and his girlfriend was tired of sneaking around. His girlfriend on this coast, that is.”

  Matt and I sat up straighter at the hint of a girlfriend on each coast. By this time we were all seated in Leder’s office, furnished in the typical academic style of leftover furniture and an abundance of posters covering up an old paint job. The woman from the corridor came in with Styrofoam cups and a pot of coffee. The woman smelled of vanilla musk; the coffee smelled old and burnt.

  “Yes, Eric had quite a thing going on the side,” Leder said, “with our little technician, Andrea Cabrini. And this other little gal in Berkeley. I thought you’d have found out by now.” Leder rocked back and forth in his chair with his hands behind his head.

  “Did you tell this to the officer who took your statement?” Matt asked.

  “No, he was more interested in me,” Leder said. “Where I was—in bed with my wife, by the way—how long I’ve known Eric, and so on.”

  Seeing Matt write ‘Andrea Cabrini’ in his notebook, I assumed he was going to pursue this line of questioning. Instead he brought up the subject he’d come to discuss.

  “Tell us about the work Eric was doing for you. You were directing his research for his degree?”

  “That’s correct. Eric did all the programming for fluid molecular hydrogen at over one hundred and forty gigapascals. I should also remind you that this work represents a condensed-matter physics breakthrough and gives us insight into the nature of Jupiter.”

  Great, I thought, just the kind of talk that gives physicists a bad name, pouring out jargon on a layperson as a way of gaining the upper hand. It was time for me to speak up.

  “Jupiter’s ninety percent hydrogen, isn’t it?” I said. “So whatever you find out about hydrogen will add to our knowledge of Jupiter and the rest of the solar system.”

  Leder nodded and pointed high up on the wall behind him at a large poster of our sun and planets, but before he could speak again I pushed on.

  “But that’s not where the profits will be, is it?” I asked. Leder dropped his arm. His smile disappeared into the folds of skin around his lower jaw. “Didn’t I read about some preliminary talks you’ve had with SuperCon Tech? I think I saw something about their interest in funding the next version of the gas gun based on the results you have so far.”

  Matt looked at me, then down at his notebook where he’d been doodling. I saw the symbol for infinity. Or maybe it was just a figure eight.

  Leder sat forward and folded his hands on his desk blotter. His large flat forehead had the markings of a frown.

  “It’s not at all uncommon to form partnerships between science and industry. You should know that, Gloria,” he said, as if he were explaining fractions to a dull child.

  “I was just surprised to read about negotiations so soon. Wasn’t it only in March that Eric was mentioning a significant problem with the data? Something about not making enough runs with the signal from the new trigger pin?”

  I was guessing about the trigger pin—the device that produces an electrical signal when a shock wave hits it— but it seemed good enough to get his attention. There’s always something that strains the relationship between computational physicists like Eric and project directors like Leder. The physicists who work out the long complicated equations for big projects want to keep going over every possible decimal place for accuracy. The ones who become project directors like Ralph Leder, while not entirely unscrupulous, tend to focus on the bottom line. They’re looking for reportable, fundable results as quickly as possible.

  “I remember that occasion,” Leder said. “It was at Jim Guffy’s Saint Patrick’s Day party. I think we’d all agree Eric had too much to drink that night.”

  I noticed he didn’t correct me on the trigger signal, which meant either the problem was with the data from the trigger signal, or Leder wasn’t about to give me any free information.

  “Did you pursue this problem that Eric had with your data?” Matt asked. He’d added a string of infinities to the margin of his notepad.

  “As a matter of fact, I did discuss it with the team, and we came to the conclusion that our findings are solid,” Leder said, looking at his watch at the same time. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a faculty meeting in ten minutes.”

  Matt closed his notebook and we all stood up.

  “It certainly was a pleasure seeing you again, Gloria,” Leder said. His smile came back too easily, reminding me of why I distrusted him and why I’d given him four stars on my potential killer scale.

  Back in Matt’s car, we talked about the interview.

  “What’s a gigapascal?” he asked.

  “It’s a unit to measure pressure. We used to refer to ‘pounds per square inch’ or ‘psi,’ which you’re probably familiar with. Now we have “pascals,” named after the French scientist. A gigapascal is a unit representing one billion pascals.”

  “Is that the same Pascal who was a philosopher?”

  “The same,” I said. “He turned to religion and philosophy at the end of his life—first he worked in mathematics and science. He published a book on geometry when he was only sixteen.”

  “And you know all this?”

  “I spent a lot of time in school. You pick things up if you hang around long enough.”

  “Right,” Matt said, sounding like he didn’t accept my explanation, which I firmly believed—if you show up at school often enough, you’ll learn a lot and people will think you’re smart.

  “Woody Allen says 88% of life is showing up,” I said, to support my position.

  “Is that right?”

  “Well, some number like that. I saw it on a bumper sticker.”

  I figured that would show him that I had a wide repertoire of resources. It did at least get a laugh.

  “However you did it, nice work in there with Leder,” he said.

  In my younger days, I would have downplayed my little contribution even more, but I’d made some progress in recent years accepting myself as an intelligent and worthwhile person. I finally accepted Matt’s compliment graciously.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’m glad I can help.”

  ~*~

  Our next
stop was back toward the center of Revere, at the house Eric and Janice rented on the lower end of Broadway. As we drove along, I opened the envelope with the crime scene photographs and looked carefully at the close-up of the area surrounding Eric’s computer monitor. One of them was a tight enough shot to show the University of California seal on his pencil mug. I focused on the little brown cartoon bear that was UC’s mascot.

  And that’s when it jumped out at me.

  The arrangement of Eric’s figures in the police photograph was not the same as the arrangement on the desk that I’d just seen. I was sure of it.

  “Batman is supposed to be in back,” I said out loud.

  “What’s that?” Matt asked.

  He turned his eyes from the road and tried to see the photograph. I held it up for him, and pointed to the small black Batman figure.

  “The way we just saw Eric’s desk,” I said, “Batman is hiding the UC bear. And also the rest of these figures are in different places.”

  We looked at each other for a moment until Matt returned his gaze to the road.

  “Someone’s rearranged Eric’s figures,” we said, almost in unison.

  SIX

  We pulled up in front of the Bensen residence, a large two-story white-shingled duplex set back from the sidewalk. Next to the Bensen’s was a run-down apartment building with a makeshift basketball court in the back. Several teenaged boys played in the mild afternoon, their voices loud, their language crude. Within a block of the Bensen house was a fast food restaurant with drive-up ice cream service. Although I wouldn’t have called it exactly an inner city slum, I guessed it was not Janice’s first choice in neighborhoods.

  Matt had called ahead from his car phone to tell Janice we were on our way. I remembered the last time I’d seen her, just before I left California. We’d all gone out to dinner—Leder, Connie, Jim, Eric, Janice, and two other scientists who’d worked on the gas gun. All my suspects, I thought, except for the ones left on the West Coast.

  I walked in front of Matt up a narrow, sloping driveway, past neat green hedges to the first floor apartment. Janice greeted us at the door. Although her smile was pleasant, her face twitched like someone in a hurry.

  “I have an appointment in hour,” she said, “but I do have some coffee ready.” Unlike the Physics Department coffee, this time the aroma was enticing and Matt and I accepted.

  We drank our coffee from china cups, sitting on brown leather chairs in Janice’s living room. The carpet was a shag, with thick tufts of browns and oranges, echoed in brown and orange wallpaper above stained pine paneling, reminiscent of the earthtone era. The decor didn’t fit at all with Janice’s usual classy image and I suspected she was still living with the landlord’s choices.

  In one corner of Janice’s living room stood an old maple desk with a pen and sheaves of papers that looked like formal documents spread out, as if its owner had just left a moment ago. I made a mental note to ask Matt if there was any insurance money involved in Eric’s death.

  I came back to the present and Matt’s soothing voice.

  “Is there anything in particular you remember about the night Eric was killed?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what else I can tell you,” Janice answered. “I must have been asleep when Eric left the house. He was always slipping out in the middle of the night if he got some idea in his head that couldn’t wait.”

  Her words came out shrill and whiny and I wondered if Janice ever talked in a normal voice. I had to admit this time she had reason to whine, and felt guilty thinking ill of this new widow.

  Even in a state of mourning, in her casual black slacks and silk shirt Janice looked ready for a stroll on Boston’s Beacon Hill. She had the look of people whose clothes remain perfectly pressed, and never touch their skin even if they do their gardening in them. I scanned her fair complexion for signs of crying and couldn’t see any. I did see a fine make-up job and newly coifed chestnut hair. Probably because Eric was nearly bald, Janice looked a lot younger than her late husband, though I seemed to remember that she’d had her thirtieth birthday.

  “It’s always awkward to ask this question, Mrs. Bensen,” Matt said, “but it’s fairly routine in cases like this. I need to know if you thought Eric might be seeing someone else.”

  “You mean that technician,” Janice said, with a shrug of her shoulders, as if Andrea Cabrini were sitting there and needed to be brushed off. “She was infatuated with him, that’s all. And Eric probably enjoyed it, as men do.”

  “So, as far as you know, there was nothing going on between them?”

  “Nothing.”

  “And in California?”

  “What about California?”

  Janice wasn’t making it easy for Matt, but he remained unflustered, taking time to sip his coffee and dab his mouth with the tiny cloth cocktail napkins Janice had set out.

  “Do you think he was seeing someone else in California?”

  “No, I don’t,” Janice answered, sounding annoyed. She looked at her watch and then at Matt, but didn’t say anything more.

  “I think that’s all then,” Matt said. “In a couple of days you’ll be able to collect his things at the lab. I assume you know where to go?”

  “Vaguely. I found it very depressing, all those drab walls and clunky equipment, and no light or air from the outside world,” Janet answered. “What a place to die.”

  Janice put down her cup and walked over to the large bay window facing Broadway. She opened the filmy white curtains as a bus rumbled by and came to a stop at the corner. We were all silent for a moment, as if its noisy brakes had called time-out.

  “I could have someone do that job for you,” Matt said. “If you’d trust us to take care of everything, we’ll bring his things here.”

  “Oh, would you? There’s nothing valuable really, just his superheroes and his little plastic Einstein.” A tinny laugh came out of Janice’s mouth. I could believe it was a sneer if I hadn’t promised myself not to have unkind thoughts.

  “We were there today,” I said. “He had a beautiful photograph of you on his desk. I’m sure you’ll want to keep it.”

  “Yes, I saw my picture,” Janice said. She looked at me and rolled her eyes as if to tell me she got my point. “I was in his office, if you can call it that, during the department’s Memorial Day picnic when we first got back. They had a sort of open house and told us they’d cleaned the lab in our honor—they actually thought it looked ready for visitors. I can’t imagine what it must look like in its normal state. I haven’t been there since, and if I never go again, it’ll be fine.”

  “We’ll take care of it,” Matt said. “Please call me if there’s anything else we can do or if you think of something that might help us find his killer.”

  Janice kept her arms folded across her chest and nodded as we said goodbye.

  ~*~

  Matt and I left the Bensen house and drove back to Russo’s to collect my car. The moment of reckoning, I thought, when he sees my Cadillac. A real litmus test for relationships.

  It was a whole new side of Matt Gennaro that came through as I had him stop at my long black eight-cylinder. He let out the loudest sound I’d ever heard from him—something like whooaaaa—and then confessed.

  “I knew what you’d be driving,” he said. “Don’t forget, my business and Frank Galigani’s intersect a lot, and Frank told me about your car deal. I think it’s great.”

  I felt my whole body relax.

  “It’s a little overwhelming,” I said, and then let out a loud laugh of my own.

  Matt drove away after asking me to be at the station at ten o’clock the next morning for interviews with Eric Bensen’s colleagues, Connie Provenza and Jim Guffy, and Andrea Cabrini if he could reach her.

  On my way home in my big car, I tried to replay in my head the sound of Matt’s whooping laugh. I also told myself that so far there was not one shred of evidence that Matt thought of me as anything but PSA-6, his sixth Personal Se
rvices Agreement this year.

  I stopped at the florist across from Saint Anthony’s and made arrangements for a spray of white chrysanthemums for Eric, the first time I’d ordered funeral flowers to be delivered to my home address. I ordered a separate spray of yellow mums with a card from Elaine and Eric’s other friends in California.

  ~*~

  Back at Galigani’s, I stopped in at the first parlor. Rose and Frank were there with Martha and the ushers they’d assigned to Eric’s wake. The body wouldn’t be available for viewing until the weekend, but they were already arranging the room.

  “Here’s our resident detective,” Frank said. “What’s new, Gloria?”

  With no clients around, Frank dropped his somber voice, but not his impeccable grooming. He almost always wore a dark suit and tie at the mortuary. If our yearbook had a category “most likely to be an undertaker,” Frank would have been first choice—always the one to comfort and put things in perspective, calming his friends in the face of teenage traumas.

  Since it was close to the end of the workday, I suggested we all go upstairs to my apartment for a snack.

  “Great,” Rose said, “I made a wine run, just in case you asked.”

  While I never remembered to buy wine or beer, I usually had a good supply of fruit and cheese and crackers. Topped off with a good vanilla ice cream, I often considered that dinner.

  Martha, whom I knew only slightly said she had to get home to her children.

  “Good luck on the case,” Martha said before leaving, “I’m sure you’ll crack it.” Clearly Martha’s employers had given her an overblown description of my role in the investigation.

  Rose and Frank and I sat around my coffee table with plates of food and got into another memory lane conversation. This time it was about my late fiancé, Al Gravese, and the car crash that killed him just before Christmas in 1962.

  “I always thought you’d do more to find out what happened,” Frank said.

  “I might still do that,” I said.

  It was one more thing, like the long walk along the beach that I’d been putting off. And one more reason my involvement in Eric’s murder investigation was such a welcome distraction.