The Carbon Murder(10)

I laughed. “You win. Matt, where are we going?”

“Gallen will be released in about fifteen minutes. We’re going to beat him home.”

“We’re going to Houston?”

“Ha.” Matt hit the steering wheel to indicate good one.

“You pulled his address,” I said, then reviewed my own language. When had I switched from “discovered” or “located” to police jargon like “pulled” an address?

Matt made no reference to my migration to his language. “He’s registered at the Beach Lodge,” he said.

“And you want to make sure he stays home tonight.”

Matt nodded. “Covering all bases. Two guys are standing by outside the station. I offered to take the first shift here, and since this is not likely to turn into a wild ride, I figured I’d save myself the trouble of suggesting that I take you home first.”

I stretched across the seat, my ample bosom straining the fabric of my seat belt, and gave his rough, dark cheek a kiss, a reward for not banishing me from the action. “Good move.”

The gray in Matt’s hair, a pattern that nearly matched my own, caught the light of the streetlamps along Broadway, and eventually the bright signs in the motel parking lot, giving him neon-green highlights. I’d always considered Matt the picture of health, if on the chunky side of the insurance stats. He had a lot of well-paced energy, decent upper body strength for a man his age, good coloring. That he looked tired and pale this evening was all in my mind, I told myself, a reaction to hearing his medical report.

He caught me looking at him and covered my hand with his. “You’re thinking we could do better than a B-rated motel, aren’t you?”

I smiled. The Beach Lodge was a joke among the natives, its name playing a trick on tourists. We’d all seen their brochures that implied an ocean view, whereas in fact the so-called inn was at least two miles from sand and surf. I’d never been inside, but its low rates and dingy exterior didn’t inspire confidence about the amenities within.

The parking lot had few cars, not surprising in the off-season. We parked in a corner, facing the entrance, the Camry’s taillights toward the intersection of two major arteries, the Revere Beach Parkway and Route 1.

I scanned the area. My second stakeout in one evening.

“I’ll bet you know what Wayne Gallen looks like.” I realized that’s where Matt had been while everyone else was gathered around MC—he’d been checking the stats on Gallen.

He nodded, and smiled. Together we said, “It’s what I do.”

“Short, thin. A lot like the way MC described her boyfriend to you, which must be why she thought it was Powers hanging around. But Gallen has some facial hair—a long handlebar mustache if you can believe it, and a short beard. All red.” Matt massaged his own hairless chin.

Traffic on Route 1 stayed light, and there was not much action at the lodge. We talked, uninterrupted, speculating alternately about Wayne Gallen and about the cost of a new roof on the Fernwood Avenue house, about MC’s emergency call and about yet another fund-raiser Rose and Frank wanted us to attend. In the air between us was health talk, as if we had an unspoken agreement to take it up later, when we were face-to-face in a well-lit room.

Matt pulled out the large, heavy-duty department thermos and poured us cups of coffee. I took a sip, and promised myself a Tomasso’s Coffee Annex high-quality double cappuccino at the next possible opportunity.

Then a light dawned. I had a captive audience.

“About buckyballs,” I said.

“Oh, no.” Matt pressed the palm of his hand to his forehead, but I’d long ago stopped being sensitive to that kind of rebuke.

“Let’s start with nanotechnology. A nanometer is one billionth of a meter. That’s about a billionth the size of your leg.” I reached over and ran my hand along his thigh, to his knee, down his calf. “Well, at least the leg of a tall man.”

He laughed. “Do that again. Maybe you’ll pique my interest after all.”

There was a time when a line like that would have sent a flush across my face, but that was a different, more naïve Gloria. I could tell that my cheeks had not turned red, just slightly pink. I pushed on.

“The width of a period at the end of a sentence—that’s already about a million nanometers, and buckyballs are only about one nanometer in diameter. Impressed?”

A slight nod from my captive student. “The technical name is buckminsterfullerenes, after Buck—”

“Buckminster Fuller. I get that part.”

“Buckyballs are just one molecule among many that make up the science of the very small.”