The consultants for Lorna’s team represented a wide variety of research, government, and educational institutions, with an impressive array of credentials. I ran my finger along the column. MD, MS, PhD, MChem.
I scanned down.
Alex Simpson, PhD, Houston Polytechnical Institute. An aha went through my body, though I already knew the two labs were connected through common research. I searched for Wayne Gallen’s name, but couldn’t find it. I did find more MDs, an MBio., and a DVM.
A DVM? I looked again. Dr. Timothy Schofield, DVM, of Revere, Massachusetts. Daniel Endicott’s vet. Why was there a veterinarian on the contact list?
Finally, I had a couple of questions for Lorna Frederick.
I looked out the window to see Matt and Jean pull away in Jean’s new black BMW. Matt had come up to say good-bye and wish me luck at the interview; Jean had not.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Lorna Frederick did not disappoint me with her second outfit. Green enough for a St. Patrick’s Day parade, swirly enough for belly dancing, enough layers for a silicon chip on a wafer. I hadn’t forewarned Berger about her flamboyant appearance—a good partner would have, I thought, too late—and I saw him swallow his surprise as Lorna swept into Matt’s office.
“I’m so sorry to hear that Detective Gennaro is not feeling well,” she said. I wondered who had told her what, about why Matt was missing this meeting.
“Nice of you to come in,” Berger said. He pulled out a chair for her on the opposite side of Matt’s desk.
I sat to the side, and had a view of the photo of Matt and me that he kept on his desk next to the Massachusetts penal code.
Lorna folded herself and her fabric into the gray chair, an unworthy background for her costume, and smiled. “I certainly didn’t mean to be uncooperative when Detective Gennaro came out to the lab,” she said. “I was taken by surprise, I guess, and felt uncomfortable, but of course I’d be glad to answer any questions about our work, or anything else that might be helpful to you.”
“You’ve met Dr. Lamerino, our science consultant,” Berger said, nodding my way.
Lorna smiled at me. “Indeed I have. It seems I’m the last to know of your sterling reputation around the lab.”
“Sterling” sounded like a horse word, or maybe that was “gelding.” In any case, I couldn’t gauge her level of sincerity.
Lorna had the shortest distance I’d ever seen between an adult’s forehead and chin, as if her features had been squeezed together in an accident with a vise. A remarkable contrast between her tiny face, topped by tight blondish curls, on the one hand, and her dramatic costumes and gesticulations on the other.
For about a half hour the three of us talked, Lorna establishing that she still hadn’t been able to come up with a single reason why a murdered private detective would be carrying around her phone number. She’d done a little research, however, and come up with several numbers close to hers, she said—a dry cleaning establishment, a fast-food restaurant, and assorted citizens of Revere and Winthrop. Berger wrote down the information and promised to follow up.
Lorna brought out a folder with current publications from her group, most of which I had already received from Andrea.
“I’m most proud of our work in materials enhancement,” she said. “We’re taking the lead nationally in producing tougher ceramics and even sunblocks for UV and IR.” Lorna used a wellmanicured finger to march down the explanatory bullets, holding the page in front of her flat, green chest. I was tempted to offer her the use of the laser pointer I kept in my briefcase, but saved my intimidation for something more important.
I pulled the grant proposal contact list from my stack and placed it on top of the pile of reports on my lap. “I have a couple of questions, Dr. Frederick.”
She extended her arm full length, as I knew she would, her hand in a halt position. “Call me Lorna, please.”
I smiled a thank-you. “Lorna, I notice Dr. Alex Simpson’s name here, from Houston Poly. Do you work closely with him?”
Lorna cleared her throat and fidgeted, catching one of the slits in her cloak in the arm of the chair. Her tiny, dark eyes darted around the room, as if she were looking for a TelePrompTer. I tried to remember what her behavior meant in terms of how credible her next words would be. In what amounted to a training session for me, Matt had showed me a video of an RPD detective interviewing a woman caught robbing a bank. She claimed the man she was with had held her hostage and forced her to assist him. Matt pointed out one clue that indicated she was most likely lying. Several times the woman referred to “we,” as in “we drove down the street,” instead of “he drove me down the street.”