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The Carbon Murder(60)

By:Camille Minichino


I moved through various angles, looking past the decorative trim, catching the bushes, the tree near the curb, the edge of Mr. Dorlando’s lawn. Nothing threatening or even interesting.

I was about to turn away when a patch of moonlight seeped through a gap in the rain clouds and reflected off a piece of glass on the floor of the porch. Many pieces of glass. The lightbulb, in shreds on the porch.

Next to the largest piece was a rock.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I jumped back from the door, as if the frosty surface of the lightbulb might defy entropy, gather itself together, and attack me. I told myself it wasn’t out of the question that an unruly adolescent had decided to terrorize Fernwood Avenue by throwing rocks at selected porch lights. I wasn’t about to test the theory, however; or do anything else that required leaving the house.

My second, more likely theory was that Wayne Gallen, upset by the PFA, had decided to intimidate Matt and me, perhaps to lurk in the darkness he’d created by smashing our porch light. It was possible that composing one note to MC had taken all the creative energy he had for the evening. This juvenile, mental scoffing at Wayne Gallen seemed to help make him less fearful to me, and got my pulse rate back to normal.

I stayed at the door a few minutes longer, uncomfortable with my stocking feet on the cold tile. I gave the already tight dead bolt an extra twist and listened for out-of-the-ordinary movement; I heard none and eventually put my shoes back on and went up to my office.

At my computer, I clicked on the Alex Simpson email MC had forwarded to me, and read carefully.




There’s good news and bad news. Our contact sees no problem delivering the package, but one unfortunate outcome—the bute that’s not bute—might bring trouble.





Was it as simple as Alex Simpson giving show horses a dose of bute before a competition? Illegal, according to Jake Powers, but was it an FDA matter? I made a note to ask Matt about the mission and jurisdiction of the FDA. Matt, who seemed very far away at the moment, but would soon be home and we’d work cases together as usual, for a long time. Wasn’t there a philosophy that said positive thinking brings about the reality?

I got out my case folder, now labeled MARTIN/FORMAN, for the two murdered Texans. I doodled around the star I’d drawn, the one that had led me to Lorna Frederick. Suppose the FDA, or whichever regulating body cared, got wind of a bute coalition, with Alex and Lorna working together, drugging show horses before competitions? They’d need a vet, at least to obtain the bute, if not to administer it, and Dr. Schofield was the one. What part they played in the research project, I didn’t know—a loose end I’d have to work on.

Nina would have taken MC’s class to get close to Alex, then might have come to Revere to track down Lorna. But was this scam worth the risk Alex and Lorna would be taking?

Maybe MC had a better idea.

“Not really,” she said when I got her on the phone. “That’s all I came up with, too.”

“Is Alex Simpson also an equestrian?”

“Not as far as I know, and I think I would. The guy doesn’t miss an opportunity to brag, if you know what I mean.”

“So his bute reference might be something entirely different.”

“It could be some shorthand for a completely unrelated compound.”

“Lorna gave us the impression that there isn’t a lot of money in equestrian sport, nothing worth killing people over. Is that your understanding?”

“Uh-huh. Jumpers—that’s what show jumping horses are called—can be very expensive, and some of the bigger competitions have pretty hefty prize money, but not in the league of racing horses, for example. I can ask Jake.”

“Is he there?”

MC laughed. “Smooth move, Aunt G. No, he’s not here. And if you want to know if we’re getting back together, I don’t know. We’re taking it slow.”

“If you ever want to talk …”

“I know. And maybe I will. Soon. Right now though, sleep is sounding really good. I’m glad I have a burglar alarm.”

I didn’t need the reminder of my vulnerable state. When Matt returned, I told myself, we would revisit the need for increased security in our house. Whether or not it had anything to do with Alfred Hitchcock, I knew I could not take a shower. I felt defenseless enough fully clothed. I pulled my white flannel robe over my knit pantsuit, already wrinkled from sitting around the hospital waiting room, and settled on the overstuffed chair in our bedroom.

The last time I looked at the clock it was three in the morning.



I woke at six, stiff from the chair/footstool combination that had served as a bed. Psycho or not, my need for a shower and a change of clothes won out. I carried my cell phone into the bathroom and got ready for the day.