The Oxygen Murder (24 page)

“You mean controversial?” Matt asked.

Lori cocked her head, her face taking on a faint red hue. “I guess. We can go for coffee afterward, Gloria. Roland Hirsh opened a new place off Tenth where a string of fast foods used to be. He hired the former manager of Gilda’s in Little Italy, so the food should be . . .” Evidently no word could describe the fare. Instead Lori kissed the tips of her fingers and waved them off, Italian style.

I marveled at the way Lori could spout off such details, like Rose, who knew Revere’s history, businesses, and families inside and out. It was nice, too, to see Lori being enthusiastic and playful, and clearly not thinking of the danger she might be in. Being around a cop can give you a sense of security no matter what the circumstances. I knew that.

“Anything else? You said there were a couple of things?” Matt asked. Always on the job.

“The other is, you know how you asked about some of Amber’s, uh, victims? Well, I did remember one, not that I even know what she had on him, but Amber talked about someone she called ‘old man Fielding.’ I don’t have a first name or anything.”

Matt had his notepad out in seconds.

I wondered what he was writing. Could he hear the noise pounding in my ears? Did he remember the names on the letter I’d stolen from Dee Dee’s file?

Fielding v. Fielding
.

The case that was the subject of Karla Sasso’s letter to the Tina Miller Agency.

I hoped this was simply another instance of my flailing.

Matt didn’t mention the Fielding connection after we left Lori, and I didn’t bring it up, either. I figured he would pass the name on to Buzz and forget about it. In my mind I heard him tell me it was a very common name, and what kind of unlikely coincidence it would be that I happened to steal the very letter that connected Karla to Amber’s schemes? What if all of Karla’s clients were connected to Amber’s scheme? I answered in my head. What better resource for blackmail than a divorce lawyer (I couldn’t put Karla’s face in the picture yet) who would feed clients’ names and information to Amber?

This ugly mental conversation kept me busy all the way across to Sixth Avenue and up to Fifty-fourth Street. Matt was quiet, his arm around me part of the time. The light was fading, a magical time of day in New York City, which looked better to me in shades of gray than it did in color. I hoped I’d have some time before the end of this so-called vacation to enjoy more moments like this.

For now I was preoccupied by the specters of women murdered, mugged, or in danger, and a best friend who’d be devastated if she knew what I was thinking about her daughter-in-law.

Buzz had already staked out a place in the far corner of a bakery-deli between Fifth and Sixth and was leafing through a magazine I couldn’t identify.

“Spring 3100,”
he said, when he saw me looking at it. He held it up to show me the cover. “It’s the NYPD magazine, named after the telephone number of the old headquarters down on Centre Street.” Before he slipped the magazine into his portfolio-style briefcase, I had time to notice the announcement for the featured article: “New test robot hurls suspected bomb into container that can safely detonate the equivalent of a car bomb.”

Something to tell Rose,
I thought,
so she’ll think I’m interested in
her
trivia.

Matt took my coffee order, leaving me at the small, round marble
table with Buzz. “Be good while I’m gone,” he whispered to me, with a wink in his voice.

“That was a great lesson on ozone the other day, Gloria,” Buzz said. “I went home and told my kid. He’s fourteen. Turns out he already knew most of it from general science, but, hey, at least I’m caught up with the ninth grade.”

“I’m glad it worked out. Let me know when you’re ready for part two.”

“That’s where the ozone is the good guy.” Buzz twirled his spoon heavenward. “Up there where it keeps sunlight out.”

“Excellent.” Next time I’d explain that only part of the sun’s spectrum was harmful.

The midafternoon traffic at the counter was light, and Matt was back in no time with a tray of coffees. Espressos for Buzz and him, and for me a steaming cappuccino ordered mostly because I knew they were served European style in this café, in a wide ceramic cup. I was happy just to warm my hands on the bowl.

Matt retrieved the Family Suites letter and envelope from his inside pocket. He’d encased both in plastic storage bags from Lori’s kitchen, a gesture toward preserving what might be left of evidence.

Buzz put on half-glasses, ruining his cool turtleneck-and-sports-jacket look, and focused on the correspondence. “You got this how?”

I wondered if he’d ask. “I, uh, found it in Lori’s trash.” I added quickly, “In plain sight.” I was glad both cops laughed.

“Off the top of my head, without an expert, I’m going to say it’s most likely the same as the pair in evidence, from Amber’s things. It has the look and feel, for sure.”

It occurred to me that cops and scientists had a lot more in common than people thought. Buzz had used three caveat phrases in one sentence.

“Was there anything from the hotel?” Matt asked.

Buzz shook his head. “We have a copy of the register, but that doesn’t tell us much. We’d have to have someone in mind, with a photo to show them. It’s the kind of place where you’re not expecting real names, you know.”

I thought the family-friendly name and logo spoke otherwise, but what did I know? “Can you show them Billy Keenan’s photo?” I asked.

Buzz raised his eyebrows, nicely trimmed. Like Frank Galigani’s, and unlike Matt’s. Or mine, for that matter.

“Gloria has a theory about Billy.” Matt scratched his head, a gesture I didn’t appreciate.

I gave Buzz a summary of Billy’s account of his visit and threw in my own ideas about a possible motive. “Can you pick him up?”

“Not on the basis of a weather mistake. What do you think, Mattie? Would the brother be on your list?”

Matt shrugged, his head shaking a slight no. “The language doesn’t fit, for one thing.” He fingered the plastic. “This sounds more like it’s from someone who’s under threat of exposure from Amber, and I don’t see how that could be Billy.”

“Did anyone check him out in Kansas?” I asked. “Maybe he owes a lot of bookies.”

Bookies, in Kansas? What was I thinking? I looked around the bakery to be sure no other customers had been paying attention to me. I noted with relief that there were no single patrons, who were more likely to eavesdrop than ones who had companions. I knew from experience how hard it was not to listen in on conversations when dining, or snacking, alone.

“We checked Kansas, of course, just because we check out all of a victim’s family. There’s nothing there. Billy seems like a good guy: works on the farm, takes care of a sick mother. If he
was
in town earlier, it might have been just Sunday night, and he might be embarrassed to admit he took time out to enjoy the sights while his sister was in the morgue.”

“However—” I started.

“However,” Buzz interrupted, “it’s Mattie’s niece we’re worried about here, so let’s do something. We can bring him in, say there are more questions we need to ask about his sister. That gets him out of the house, and then we’ll set something up outside Lori’s place.”

“Can’t you tell him the NYPD comps all victims’ relatives with a free hotel room?” I asked.

Two pairs of cop eyes stared at me.

“It was just a thought,” I said.

C
HAPTER
T
WENT

M
att took care of refills on espresso and this time brought back a plate of cookies. It had been at least three hours since our last dessert, at Lori’s. This selection was what Marco Lamerino would have called “American.” No anise or pine nuts or biscotti. I wasn’t fussy when it came to cookies. I chose a black-and-white from the assortment; Matt and Buzz went for the shortbread.

“So, the reason I asked you here in the first place . . . outside of the terrific company”—Buzz laughed, and I thought we were about to hear another Yogi Berra quote—“is, I know that Mattie and you have an interest in the rest of this case, too. As I told Mattie on the phone, I’m only too happy to share our progress. Not that there’s much. About the only definite, and it’s a negative, is the ex-boyfriend’s alibi. Kevin Russell. He was in Atlantic City, losing his shirt in front of enough sober witnesses to convince us.”

“Then there’s Dee Dee,” I said. “Is she okay?” In my anxiety over a possible attack on Lori, I’d nearly forgotten the real one on Tina’s secretary.

Buzz reviewed the few details he had—or was willing to reveal. Dee Dee was at Central Hospital and on the way to recovery from broken limbs and an injured larynx. She had already implied she wouldn’t be able to ID her attacker.

“She’s not even sure why the guy stopped throttling her, but she thinks a biker came along and he freaked,” Buzz said.

“No one hung around to be thanked?” I asked.

Buzz laughed. “Lot of times people would just as soon not get involved to that extent.”

“Did Dee Dee have any candy in her purse?” I asked. My peripheral vision caught Matt rolling his eyes.

“Why? What do you have?”

What do you have?
I loved that phrase. When Matt said it on our cases in Revere, I felt like a true partner, though he had a perfectly good and official one in the department.

I told Buzz about my candy and perfume theory—that I was certain I’d run into Dee Dee in the alley next to Lori’s building. If he wondered how I happened to be in Tina’s office to meet her secretary the first time, or why I was snooping in the alley at night, he didn’t ask. I figured that Matt had done an excellent job of prepping Buzz for this meeting—or that in New York City I wasn’t the oddity I was in the smaller cities of the United States.

“So you’re thinking Amber’s murder and Dee Dee’s attack are related.”

I was about to make a grandly logical case for the connection when I caught something in Buzz’s expression. “You already know that,” I said, with mixed feelings about being one step behind the police.

Buzz nodded. “We’re pretty convinced that Dee Dee was also getting a little kickback from Amber. We’ll see if we can get a look at her bank statements. Tina, by the way, runs a squeaky clean office, from all appearances.”

“Dee Dee would be in the perfect position to give Amber inside information,” Matt said.

“Yup. All the files. All the lawyers that go through that office. A gold mine.”

I cringed internally at “lawyers.” I’d already decided not to bring Karla Sasso Galigani or
Fielding v. Fielding
into this conversation.

Another thought came to me. “It was Dee Dee who called 911 from the loft before I got there?”

Buzz stirred his coffee, nodding in time with the movement of the spoon. “We don’t figure her for the killer. Amber was probably already down when Dee Dee got there. She called 911 and split when she heard you come up. She was too sedated last night to say much, but I’m sure by now we have a better idea how she fits in. I just haven’t checked back yet.”

So I wasn’t in the loft with a killer, just another blackmailer?

Buzz looked at his watch. “Gotta go,” he said. “I’m due at the police museum. Hey, Mattie, you want to come?”

A police museum? That was one Rose never mentioned.

“What’s going on down there?” Matt asked.

“I have a little meeting of the fund-raising committee. You might like to look around at the exhibits. There’s a tour. Got everything from the old flintlock firearms to Harleys to uniforms. I think you’d enjoy it.”

Matt looked at me. “Want to go?”

I felt part of the NYPD tradition now, and a flintlock firearm seemed more interesting to me than a painting of hills or flowers or a dour-looking Dutchman. I’d promised Rose I’d meet her at the hotel, though. I wasn’t sure what she had in mind, but I guessed she’d found a special exhibit somewhere—New York City had them even in the lobbies of high-rise office buildings, I knew—or she wanted us to choose our outfits together for dinner at the Sassos’ later in the evening.

“I’d love to, except I have plans with Rose,” I said. “There’s plenty of time for you to go, Matt. You can tell me all about it.”

As we buttoned up, Buzz said, “Hey, you have to hear this one.”

“From Yogi Berra?” I asked.

“No, no. This is a cop story.”

Matt grinned: He liked it already.

“A cop is interviewing a victim in a car accident, so he asks, ‘What gear were you in at the moment of the impact?’ ” Buzz cleared his throat, getting ready for a big finish, I assumed. “The guy answers, ‘Gucci sweats and Reeboks.’ ”

There
must
be some funny science stories,
I told myself.

Buzz hailed a cab for me in less than two minutes. I turned around in my seat and saw a second one pull up for him and Matt before mine reached the corner. I wondered how he did it. He wasn’t in uniform, but maybe there was a certain code, besides the lights on the roof and the finger signal Lori had told us about, that alerted the cabbies to the presence of the NYPD.

Like a true old-school gentleman, Buzz had given the cabdriver the address of our hotel as he closed the back door for me. Matt stood by, probably wondering if I was about to call his friend sexist or declare my ability to give the address myself. Instead, I humbly accepted the assistance.