The Hydrogen Murder (21 page)

"Are you going to fire me?" I asked.

He laughed and rubbed his hand across his chin. He gave me a
look I would have called intimate in other circumstances. Since he first came
in I'd wanted to fix his shirt collar, half of which was under the crew neck of
his sweater and half over it. My old-school conservatism came to my rescue
before I made a fool of myself. I may preach raving feminism, I thought, but
I'm still going to wait for him to make the first move.

"Not yet," Matt said.

It took a moment for me to connect his phrase to my question
about being fired, not my unspoken thoughts about romantic moves.

"At this point, I think you're right about the doodles
at the end of the printout," he said, pulling at the tufts of gray hair
around his ear. "I can't imagine why else you'd have had this break-in.
I'd like you to keep thinking about the printout, but we'll have to find a way
to make it absolutely safe for you. I have a plan that I think will work."

The phone rang and we both jumped a bit. The ring had the
unique sound that phones always seem to have after midnight, even if you're up
and dressed.

I answered and heard Peter's voice.

"Are you okay?" he asked. "Is the cop still
there?"

"Yes and yes."

"Well, I just wanted to make sure. I think you should
have gone home with Rose and Frank."

I sighed loudly enough, I hoped, for Peter to hear a message
of exasperation.

"Thanks for checking. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Call me tomorrow," he said, as if it were his
idea.

I still hadn't thanked him for the evening and although I
thought of doing it, I didn't want to have that conversation in Matt's
presence. Matt had walked over to the far wall of my living room and was
looking at my books, photographs, and memorabilia scattered around on the
shelves. I appreciated what seemed to be a gesture toward giving me privacy
without a lot of options in my small apartment. When I hung up with Peter, Matt
returned to the sofa.

"Your boyfriend?" he asked.

So much for privacy, but I was glad to have a chance to
explain Peter.

"Peter's an old friend," I said, emphasizing the
difference. "He wanted to make sure everything was still all right. We
went to Saint Anthony's dance at Wonderland tonight with Rose and Frank. I've
known them all since fourth grade at the old Lincoln School. Except I didn't
really have contact with Peter these last thirty years. I just met him again
when I came back to Revere. Actually, just this week."

I stopped, looked up at the ceiling and down again, acutely
aware that I'd been rambling. This must be how Matt gets confessions from
murder suspects, I thought. Ask a casual two-word question and let the guy
convict himself.

"You probably didn't want to know all that," I
said.

"As a matter of fact, I did."

I swallowed and noticed stirrings in all the danger zones of
my body.

"Is there anything else you'd like to know?" I
asked.

He sat back and crossed his legs, one arm along the back of
the sofa.

"A lot."

And there in my ransacked apartment, I felt a surge of
happiness to rival any other joy in my life. I wished I could explain to
Josephine how this was possible.

"Ask away," I said.

"Is your friend a scientist?"

"Which friend?" I asked, laughing at the thought
of Peter's being mistaken for a scientist, and at the same time determined to
situate him as one among many friends on a long list. "Peter."

"Peter's about as anti-science and technology as you
can get," I said. "He doesn't have a microwave oven or a car phone
and he thinks calculators mean the end of quality education as we know
it."

"Is he smart?"

As he asked this, Matt waved his arm in the direction of my
bookcases. I wasn't sure what he meant and decided to take no chances.

"He teaches history and Italian at Revere High."

"So he's smart, but not necessarily your caliber."

"Do I have a caliber? Like a gun?"

That drew a laugh, a deep, warm laugh and a slight shake of
his head. If this is flirting, I thought, I like it.

"You know what I mean," he said. "The guys at
the station call you a brain. They're all afraid to talk to you."

"Not George Berger," I said.

"Berger's okay, he's just young. He still has a lot to
prove, and I think you intimidate him."

"Well, we're even," I said. "I'm intimidated
by policemen."

"Because ...?"

"Because you carry weapons and have a lot of power and
authority."

"To make up for no brains?"

"That's not what I meant," I said, afraid I was
about to flunk flirting.

At that moment a tall young man in a khaki jumpsuit knocked
on my half-open door. Poor timing.

"Joey," Matt said, and waved him in.

Matt introduced me to Joey, a police department lock expert
who looked young enough to be my grandson. While Joey worked on my door with a
strange-looking tool he'd taken from his wide leather belt, Matt and I resumed
the business talk we'd strayed from. Matt explained his plan—he'd call
the principals together for a meeting as soon as possible, preferably Sunday afternoon.
We noted that it might be difficult to arrange since it was already well into
Sunday morning.

Matt would tell everyone who'd been questioned in the case
that my work was over, that he was pursuing other lines of inquiry. Meanwhile,
I was to keep working on the printout.

"Can you just write down that last line of characters
for your use and give me the printout with all your red notes? That way they'll
figure you don't have a copy."

"That's fine," I said, "Whatever this line of
type is, I don't think it's connected to the rest of the data. And, believe me,
I know the characters by heart."

"You think Eric was trying to tell us who his killer
was, like in the movies?" Matt asked.

"I guess I do. He might have had a split second to hit
three keys that would identify the person. Is it only amateurs who come up with
things like that?"

"No. It happens."

"But you don't think so in this case?"

"I try to keep an open mind."

I wasn't satisfied, but I knew that was all I was going to
get.

Joey signaled that he was finished. He closed and opened the
door for me twice.

"It's better than it was before your break-in," he
said, and showed me a new pin that made it harder to jimmy the lock.

I thanked him and offered him coffee or a soft drink, but he
said he had another stop to make across town. Joey reassembled his belt and
said goodnight. I wondered if the department kept locksmiths on duty all night.
There was a lot I didn't know about the police business, I realized, watching
Matt and Joey exchange forms and signatures.

Matt walked over to my window and looked down at the street.
When I imagined that he saw a lamppost and a man in an overcoat smoking a
cigarette in the shadows, I knew the strain of the evening had caught up with
me.

"The unmarked is there," Matt said, bringing me
out of the realm of Bogart movies. "I hope you can get some sleep."

"I hope you can, too. Do you want me at that meeting
this afternoon?"

"I'll let you know, but right now I don't think so.
It's probably better if they don't see us together."

"You mean we have to stop meeting this way?" I
asked, before I could stop myself.

Matt had stuffed his notebook and pencil into his pants
pocket and was at the door. He turned and gave me a broad smile.

"Until after the case," he said, and left.

I locked the door behind him and went over to the couch. I
sat in the spot he'd been in during our most personal conversation to date.
Next time this happens, I told myself, I'm going to fix his collar.

CHAPTER
20

Without a glance at the shower or my toothbrush, I took off
my jeans and sweater, wrapped myself in a robe and got into bed. I slept really
well for someone who had to climb over ravaged drawers of clothing and an
upside down lamp on the floor to get to her pillow. I looked at the black
fingerprint powder on my night table and thought of Josephine who couldn't
sleep if there was so much as a dirty coffee cup in the sink or an open
newspaper on a chair. I asked her forgiveness under these special
circumstances.

Throughout the morning I heard the bells from Saint
Anthony's tower announcing the hourly Sunday masses, but they became part of my
dreams, which were strangely peaceful. The only recognizable figure was my
father dressed in his paint-splattered overalls showing me his bald spot and
telling me to take care of myself.

It was almost noon before I was fully awake. I wandered
around my apartment, picking up towels and shoes, like a bag lady after a
storm. I created a large pile of clothing and linens, mentally labeled it "laundry"
and rewarded myself with the last cannoli. The two-day old pastry shell was
soggy and the cream had the consistency of rubber cement, but I ate it anyway.
I had the crazy thought that I'd better stock my refrigerator in case I ended
up with a house full of company for the third night in a row.

I considered calling Matt to ask about the meeting, or Peter
to apologize for my abruptness on the phone. I decided to go easy on myself and
started with Rose.

"What a night," she said. "I didn't know what
time you'd get to bed, so I didn't want to call too early."

"You mean you didn't know if I'd be alone."

She laughed and I heard a distinctly hopeful sound from her
throat. I hated to let her down.

"I slept alone," I said. "But there was
a—uh—a little hint of something." How articulate, I thought,
but my stuttering was enough to make Rose gasp.

"We have to talk," she said, and we agreed to meet
for a late lunch at Kelly's Roast Beef, at the north end of Revere Beach.

I left a message on Matt's voice mail at his office to tell
him I was available for a meeting. I gave him the number for my cellular phone
and dressed for my first walk on the beach. My red windbreaker hanging in my
hall closet was the right weight and showed no signs of being handled by
strangers the night before. I shoved the phone into the long front pocket
across my waist and headed out.

With a gusty wind lifting sand into the fifty-degree air,
few people were out of their cars along Revere Beach Boulevard. Traffic flowed
beside me at a steady pace toward the Point of Pines. They're probably all
going to Kelly's, I thought, remembering the long lines waiting there for roast
beef sandwiches and clam plates all year round.

I walked about a half mile in the opposite direction from
Kelly's, most of it through the sand, dark and muddy down near the water line,
light and soft near the cement boardwalk. The ocean was on my left, curving in
front of me as I headed south along the beach. I took my rhythm from the
pounding surf, giving myself up to its power, as if I could take in some of its
energy and make it my own, as if with the ocean at my side I could be anything
I wanted to be. For all we know about hydrogen, I thought, we don't know enough
about the ocean.

I crossed the street where the old red brick bathhouse used
to be. The bright blue sign on a tall post outside the building identified now
as the home of the State Police. Enormous apartment buildings with tiny
balconies stood a few yards to the north, which I estimated to be the former
site of the Cyclone, the old roller coaster.

I pictured myself on that spot at fourteen years old.
Dressed in a starched white cotton blouse, I'd made pink cotton candy for fifty
cents an hour while sleek metal cars whirled and screeched above me, like
unruly children playing tag on thirty-six hundred feet of track. I was glad I
was three thousand miles away in 1974 when a wrecking crew tore down the
charred remains of what was once called the fastest ride in the world. Since
returning to my childhood home, I found I could dwell on the past for a long
time. I wanted to ask Rose if it was any different for her, since she had lived
her whole life on the same streets.

Rose was fourth in line by the time I retraced my steps and
walked north to Kelly's. Her short frame was dwarfed by the people around her
lined up at the counter. In her most grubby look, designer jeans and hooded
sweatshirt, Rose looked better than most people on their way to a wedding.

"Good timing," she said. "What are you
drinking?"

"Water. A lot of it," I said, licking my lips at
the thought of a tall bottle of spring water and a lobster roll. I'd walked
fast enough to keep warm and to feel deserving of a feast.

We took our food across the street. Passing up the cold, wet
benches of the pavilion, populated by swarms of pigeons and sea gulls, we ate
in Rose's station wagon. Families on both sides of us had the same idea,
turning their mini-vans into picnic areas. Rose had parked facing the ocean and
for a while we watched the gray-green waves and ate in silence, with the sound
of the surf as background.