The Nitrogen Murder (17 page)

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Authors: Camille Minichino

Tags: #California, #Lamerino; Gloria (Fictitious Character), #Missing Persons, #Security Classification (Government Documents), #Weddings, #Women Physicists, #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Women Sleuths, #Reference

BOOK: The Nitrogen Murder
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“Do you think all lovers talk this way?” he asked.
I felt my face flush, and nearly missed the green light, but didn’t stop the lesson.
“Last I heard, people were working on the possibility of joining six ten-atom nitrogen molecules into the soccer-ball shape. We’ll have to check on the progress next time we’re online.”
“This is sounding like homework,” Matt said.
I smiled, and reluctantly gave up on the nitrogen tutorial when we saw the address we were looking for on a large white stucco building. Various signage indicated that Dorman Industries and several other consulting firms had quarters in what looked like a restored factory building. We were in the neighborhood a few blocks north of Bette’s Diner, an area that had once been a bustling manufacturing center. It was heartening to
see that many of the structures had been converted to useful space for retail outlets, offices, and artists’ studios.
I pulled into a slot right in front of the building—a miracle in Berkeley, where even residents had restricted parking permits.
“About that ‘lovers’ comment,” Matt said, as we opened the frosted glass door to the lobby. “Pretty soon we’ll be able to say ‘husband and wife.’”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
And then I tripped on the edge of the carpet.
“Okay,” Matt said. “‘Wife and husband.”’
I regained my composure and gave him a loving smile.
 
Our worries that Dorman consultants would overreact to our questioning presence were put to rest when we met the imposing, white-haired Dr. Howard Christopher, whom I’d been introduced to at the bagel shop the day Phil and I had lunch. The day Phil disappeared.
Christopher’s manner was stiff, like his modern office decor, and his responses were brief and factual.
“Chambers came to the meeting around one-thirty on Monday. Right after that lunch with you, Dr. Lamerino.” He nodded at me, as if to shift blame for any upset. “He gave a presentation to the senior staff.” Christopher leaned back in his black leather chair, keeping his hands in his jacket pocket.
“Anything you can talk about?” Matt asked.
“Not really.”
“Understood.”
“Was there anything unusual about the presentation?” I asked. A weak attempt at a cop question, though Matt and I had decided not to play up his RPD credentials. He was, after all, three thousand miles from his jurisdiction. We’d made it clear to Christopher that we were on a personal errand, on behalf of Phil’s family.
Matt and I had discussed the near certainty that Inspector
Russell had visited Dorman to inquire about Lokesh Patel, the firm’s recent gunshot victim, but so far Christopher hadn’t mentioned an onslaught of “investigators” at his office.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Christopher answered. “As usual, Chambers had some, uh, charts, and some, uh …”
“Data?” I offered.
“Right.” Christopher’s voice was deep and resonant, reminding me of a network news anchorman whose name escaped me.
Elaine would know
, I thought. She watched all the Sunday morning political talk shows and was always up on current events. I felt a shiver of distress at her current plight. And maybe Phil’s.
“That’s it?” Matt asked. “Nothing you can tell us about his manner, or his mood?”
Christopher shook his head, sending a shock of white hair to his forehead.
I wasn’t sure why I didn’t believe him; maybe because, except for his hair color (that is, not colored), he reminded me physically of Phil, whom I’d never gotten to know well enough to trust.
 
With a matronly body much like my own, Verna Cefalu, one of the consulting firm’s secretaries, managed considerably more animation than the tall, fit Dr. Christopher.
“What’s this about?” she asked. She raised her eyebrows, revealing more of the pale blue eye shadow that matched her sweater set. “Has something happened to Dr. Chambers?”
“Ms. Cefalu, did anything unusual come up for Dr. Chambers, say, on Monday afternoon? Something he might have needed to pay attention to unexpectedly?”
“Nothing.” Ms. Cefalu twisted a button on her cardigan. “Well, except for that urgent phone call.”
I gasped, but internally.
“I see. Can you tell us about that?” Matt asked, with a restraint I wouldn’t have been able to summon.
“Once in a while he gets these calls, from the same man, I
think, and then he has to leave in a hurry He got one on Monday I had to call him out of his meeting. Should I have done something different?”
I was distracted by the thought that Howard Christopher hadn’t considered it important to mention the urgent call that took Phil from his meeting. I knew I’d been right not to trust him. Not that I was quick to jump to conclusions.
“Do you remember exactly what the caller said?” Matt asked.
I loved listening to Matt
not
answer questions. One more way that his training differed from mine. Scientists tended to answer questions directly and literally Like children, sometimes. I thought of a typical telephone dialogue I’d had with Sophie, my cousin Mary Ann’s five-year-old grandniece.
“
Is your aunt home
?”
“
Yes.
”
No offer to call Mary Ann to the phone, as an adult would. Children had no context for social dialogue; scientists had context trained out of them, to better prepare them to attack each question or problem with rigorous logic.
With Matt, it was all context. He understood layers of meaning, and often answered a question with one of his own when on the job. The subtext: I’ll ask the questions; your job is to give me information. Pleasantly administered, but a firm and effective policy nonetheless.
I wondered what Ms. Cefalu’s training was.
“The caller said for Dr. Chambers to meet in
one
hour at the usual
place
.” Ms. Cefalu emphasized her answer by crossing her right index finger over her left for “one hour,” and then over two left fingers for “place.” “This time he said it was urgent.”
“Did you recognize the voice?” Matt asked.
Ms. Cefalu pulled at her skirt to take it to the tips of her chubby knees. I could relate. “Only that this same person has called before. A man, middle age, I guess. I mean not a kid, you know, or an old, old man. No accent or anything.”
Ms. Cefalu had led us to a small grouping of chairs between her desk and the entrance to the building. The setting spoke of a woman’s touch, unlike Christopher’s office. Or mine, I realized.
We were interrupted by a Type A scientist or engineer who handed Ms. Cefalu a stack of papers—I recognized the familiar style of bulleted vu-graphs—with a curt, “Twenty copies by COB.”
“Close of business,” Ms. Cefalu said to us. Her way of apologizing for the man’s rude behavior, I sensed. She checked her watch unobtrusively.
“Does Phil ever seem upset when he gets these messages?” Matt asked.
Ms. Cefalu bit her lips, bottom over top, then vice versa. “Not usually.”
“But on Monday?”
“Well, he did rush out. Of course, the caller doesn’t always say it’s
urgent
.” She made a cross with her fingers again, and I got the idea that Ms. Cefalu was a very organized, logical person, with mnemonics and tickler files to help her get her job done.
“When did these calls start?”
Another lip-biting session. “I’d say, about two months ago.”
“And he didn’t leave word with you about where the meeting was, or a phone number where he could be reached?”
“No. I was in a hurry because my son’s babysitter called. She got a flat tire, and I had to pick him up from school and take him to day care.” I pictured a minivan with juice boxes in the backseat. “Then I came back to work, but Dr. Chambers was gone by then. But Dr. Chambers never would give me details when these messages came. Like when he’d be back or anything.”
I heard panic and guilt in Ms. Cefalu’s voice. Was she to blame for not getting a forwarding address? Did her lack of attention to detail cause a problem for Dr. Chambers?
“That’s good to know,” I said, by way of positive feedback.
“Can you tell me—is Dr. Chambers missing? I mean really missing?” she asked.
I figured Ms. Cefalu meant milk-carton missing versus a-half-hour-late-for-a-tux-fitting missing.
“Thanks for your help, Ms. Cefalu,” Matt said, standing up.
She followed us to the door. “I mean, first Dr. Patel, the poor man, and now Dr. Chambers.” She pulled her cardigan across her chest, as if to protect herself from being the next to fall.
Matt shook her hand. Warmly, but not budging as far as imparting any information. “We’ll get back to you as soon as we know anything.”
This time I felt genuine sympathy for Ms. Cefalu, so cooperative, yet not getting even a tiny hint of an answer to her questions.
I hoped Matt never pulled his cop Q&A training on me.
T
hursday was a dry, warm day. The kind Dana thrived on. She walked briskly, making a conscious effort to feel her muscles work and to breathe deeply, clearing her head. A trip to the farmers’ market, where she bought a single large sunflower, a bag of long green beans, and a scoopful of dried cranberries, had brightened her spirits.
Dana had been born in Silicon Valley, but she loved living close to Berkeley.
All the Berkeleys,
she thought. She could ride her bike up in the hills behind the university campanile or down in the flats by the marina. If she felt like a successful professional, she could put on her Eddie Bauer shorts and a crisp white shirt and join the yuppies with their Cadillac baby strollers on Fourth Street. If she felt retro, she could join the hippie crowd—she’d thread a multicolored cotton belt through the loops of a pair of worn jeans and cruise the vendor tables on Telegraph Avenue. Berkeley had something for everyone.
Today Dana wore a gauzy shirt with an African motif, in honor of Tanisha Hall. On the way home, she stopped at Dziva’s, a women’s bookstore-cafe near the Oakland/Berkeley border, and sipped Rooibos, Tanisha’s favorite African red bush tea. She thought of her friend and favorite partner and tried to replace the image of Tanisha in a silk-lined casket with that of the vibrant woman who made everyone listen to her daughter’s knock-knock jokes.
Dana closed her eyes and remembered.
“
Knock, knock,” Tanisha says
.
“
God, not again,” Dana says, grinning in spite of herself
.
Tanisha nudges her. “Come on, Dana
.
Knock, knock.”
Dana sighs. “Who’s there?
”
“Jamaica.
”
“Jamaica who?” Dana holds back a laugh.
“Jamaica cake today?” Tanisha belts out a laugh; Dana gives in and joins her.
Dana ran her tongue around the rim of the handleless ceramic cup, savoring the sweetened tea, and smiled at the memory.
A group of rowdy kids from the junior high school across the street entered the shop and headed for Dziva’s famous oversized snickerdoodles. Dana couldn’t remember having a ten o’clock cookie break when she was in junior high, but the interruption was just what she needed to shake her into the present.
Julia wasn’t being pushy, but Dana knew she couldn’t put off work forever. She needed to be doing something, not dwelling on this last, upsetting week. As if it weren’t bad enough to lose her friend, there’d been a murdered patient, too. Plus the stolen medical supplies in Tanisha’s home, a dead man’s ID in Robin’s closet, and Julia’s questionable billing practices.
And now her father might be missing. Dana’s head hurt. To think, a few days ago she’d considered working and getting ready for a wedding a lot of stress.
Now, work was the answer to relieve stress, even if it meant partnering with Tom Stewart for a while. She wished Tom would get over being nosy about her personal life and, more important, the idea that he and Dana could be an item. When she’d broken up with Scott—five minutes after she realized he had a “best friend” on every shift—Tom had seen it as an opportunity.
In his dreams.
Matt had convinced Dana to say nothing to Julia about finding
the phony invoices, and Dana was just as glad to let him handle it with the Berkeley PD. She knew she’d miss Matt when he went back east. Hanging around with him made her realize how totally young and immature all her boyfriends had been. Matt was out of circulation, but there might be other guys her father’s age Dana should consider. Or maybe Dana would wait until she was her father’s age before getting involved again.
Thump
. A backpack swung into Dana’s arm, rattling the small black metal table and sending her cup to her lap. The few drops left of her tea spilled onto her jean shorts.
“My bad,” said the kid attached to the pack. He and his buddies sauntered away without looking at her.
Dana packed up her tote and went out into the bright sun. Julia had told her to come by anytime and pick up a shift, whenever she was ready.
It was time to go back to work.
 
Dana had so much energy, she offered to help change the oxygen tanks in the ambulances that were on-site at Valley Med. Julia played it straight when it came to this kind of regulation. She’d trained her EMTs to follow the strict fire department guidelines and not let the tanks go below about five hundred psi of oxygen.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” the rookie Melissa asked her. “The dirty jobs are supposed to be for newbies.”
“Just this once,” Dana said. She gave the young woman’s back an affectionate pat, remembering her own first days on the job. Melissa was hardly any bigger than Jen, but Dana knew better than to judge someone’s strength by appearance.
The two women opened the side door of the first ambulance. Dana turned off the valve and unscrewed the head, and she and Melissa lifted the nearly empty five-foot tank from the cabinet behind the backseats. The tank was covered in dust, which was immediately transferred to the women’s black uniforms.
“Good thing dirt is sexy,” Melissa said with a smile, as she and Dana inserted a new tank. “Two thousand psi and ready for action.”
They worked together, checking that all the ambulances had small tanks attached to the gurneys, plus the larger ones needed for longer transports. As Dana had guessed, Melissa was quite able to handle her share of the physical load.
“I’ll take the old ones to storage,” Melissa said, but she didn’t budge. She cleared her throat, and Dana felt something heavy in the air. Sure enough, it came out. “I know it’s none of my business, but I just want to tell you, I don’t believe the stories about Tanisha.”
“What stories?” Dana asked.
Melissa put her hand to her head, shading her eyes, pulling at her wispy brown bangs. “Well, the coke and the meds and—”
“Good. Don’t believe them,” Dana said. She brushed off her uniform and stormed into the building, heading straight for the employee lounge, no doubt in her mind who was operating the rumor mill.
She found what she expected: Tom Stewart was stretched out on the couch, the TV remote in his right hand, a large soda cup in his left. Dana reached from behind his head, grabbed the remote, and clicked the TV off. His cup fell to the floor, spilling reddish liquid on the couch.
No one will even notice the extra spots
, Dana thought.
“Hey!” Tom sat up. He smiled when Dana came into his field of view. “You want my attention?”
“Yes, you wank.” Dana strained to keep her voice low. No use waking the EMTs grabbing some Zs in the bedrooms. “Since when does a little grass become coke? I’d appreciate it if you did not mess with the reputation and the memory of my friend and your coworker.”
She had a good mind to grab the long-handled brush in the corner and whack him. Maybe that would also remind him to
take his turn washing the outside of the ambulance once in a while.
Tom kept his smile in place, calling attention to an especially large pimple near the corner of his lips. “Not my fault. The cops came to search Tanisha’s locker. We all saw them.”
“And
you saw coke?”
“Maybe not coke …”
Dana’s jaw muscles tightened, the beginning of a serious headache. “So, I’ll expect you to spread the truth around just as loudly, or—”
“Pickup at No Name 5 in Emeryville.” Julia’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker, in time to break up the argument. Dana wondered if their boss had the employee lounge bugged. She wouldn’t put anything past Julia after seeing the fake billing lists.
“No Name” was Valley Med’s jargon for the many skilled nursing facilities in the area that were regular homes, with three or four bedrooms, in residential areas, with no sign in front. No Name 5 was on a quiet Oakland street not far from Dana’s own house.
“That’s us,” Tom said. “Lucky me. I get to hear you bitch some more. But I don’t mind. You’re so hot when you’re—”
“Cool it, Tom. Let’s just do this job, okay?”
 
Dana tore out of Valley Med’s driveway before Tom was fully buckled in. This was her first call since Friday evening.
This is my j
ob, she thought,
the same as before
. Most of their calls were pretty ordinary, Dana reminded herself. Only a few stood out.
“Remember the last time we partnered?” Tom asked, apparently also in a reminiscing mode. “The kid with his eyeball popped out?”
Dana would never forget the little boy who’d been hit in the eye by a swing on the school playground. By the time they picked him up, he’d been bandaged, with a small paper cup taped to his face to hold the eye in place, but the trickles of blood were creepy to see.
Today’s No Name call was a wait-and-return. Dana and Tanisha had transported this patient several times before. Maria Santiago was recovering from spine surgery for scoliosis, about halfway through her rehab at No Name 5. She’d be getting an X-ray at the trauma center, where her insurance card would be accepted. It wouldn’t take more than a half hour, so it was easier for the EMTs to wait around and take her back.
The big question was how Dana was going to get through the half-hour wait with Tom. Usually that wasn’t a problem; partners would go to the cafeteria and chat over free food, or they’d finish up paperwork together.
Dana had a flashback to similar waits with Tanisha and longed for a knock-knock joke.
 
At No Name 5, a pale pink stucco home with a neat lawn, Dana switched with Tom, letting him drive while she got in the back with Maria. She admitted to herself, but not to Tom, that she wasn’t ready to face turning into that trauma center driveway again so soon. She’d have to deal with it later, but not today.
“I like to talk to Maria,” she’d told Tom as they climbed the few steps to the front door.
“Practicing your Spanish?”
She glared at him and rang the doorbell.
 
Maria needed spine precautions, so Dana and Tom stuck a board under her on the gurney She looked less than comfortable. This was a routine Code 2, and Dana went through the questions on the PCR, the Patient/Customer Care Report.
“Any pain today, Maria?”
“Yes,” Maria said, pronouncing it
jes.
“A little.”
“Is it radiating?”
“No.” A short
o
.
“Can you rate it for me?”
“A five,” Maria said.
Fi
. Halfway to excruciating.
Dana took Maria’s pulse and blood pressure and reported them to Tom, who’d be doing the ring-down when they got closer to the trauma center. To get Maria’s respiratory rate, Dana resorted to the usual trick.
“I need to take your pulse again, Maria,” she said. Dana folded Maria’s arms over her chest and counted her breaths. She’d been clued in on the technique by older EMTs: If you told patients you wanted their resp rate, they’d get nervous and throw off the reading, so you’d let them think you were doing a pulse check. She looked at Maria’s gentle face and wondered if she’d caught on by now.
Dana heard Tom through the window between the cab and the back of the ambulance.
“ETA five to ten minutes. How do you copy?”
When Tom steered the ambulance into the driveway about eight minutes later, Dana drew a long breath. She held it and held it until she was satisfied there’d be no gunshots.
 
Evan Harvey, a resident, was on duty at the trauma center, and Dana found him hanging around the intake desk. A nice break. Evan was always good for a little harmless flirting, and it would send Tom a message. Dana leaned over the desk and gave Evan a peck on the cheek. Tom turned away and walked toward the cafeteria.
Perfect
.
“Nice to see you, too, Dana,” Evan said. His dark eyes danced over her, and Dana felt a surge of possibility for young love ripple through her. “How’s your dad’s hand?”
Dana startled, her stomach flipping over, as if she’d inhaled some shwag. But it had been a while since she’d smoked at all. It came to her in a few seconds that Evan wasn’t referring to her missing father but to her injured father of a few days ago.
“Oh, his hand’s fine. I guess he doesn’t handle kitchen knives often enough, especially in a strange kitchen.” She hoped her father’s hand, and the rest of him, really was fine, wherever he was.
“He said he’d been cutting down some bushes,” Evan said, sweeping the air with a karate chop.
“Nuh-uh, he was making an hors d’oeuvres tray at his fiancee’s house, for her East Coast guests. Maybe that didn’t sound macho enough.”
Evan laughed—a very pleasant sound, unlike Tom’s cackle. “Could be. I was just going off shift at five-ish, so maybe I wasn’t paying attention.”
Dana frowned. “But he hurt himself around ten in the morning. I figured he came here right away.”

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