The Carbon Murder(79)

“Detective Gennaro’s fiancée, right? I’ll be back in a sec,” she’d said, a half hour ago.

There was nothing I could do but wait. Wait for Rose, wait for Berger, wait for Dr. Rosen. I felt I’d read every old periodical in every waiting room in Suffolk County, though I’d have hated to be quizzed on the contents.

None of this had been predicted by the dozens of consultations, brochures, pamphlets, URLs, or wellness letters we’d drowned ourselves in. Side effects of external beam therapy for prostate cancer, if any, weren’t due until well into the radiation program. Matt had had only one treatment and had seemed fine the rest of that day. Until I prodded him into working, I told myself.

I’d dozed off in the stiff chair when I felt a sharp poke on my upper arm. I looked up to—none of the people I’d been waiting for—Jean Mottolo. I’d forgotten that I’d asked Rose to call Matt’s sister. I wasn’t ready for her criticism; I’d already given myself enough.

I was even less ready for her friendliness.

“Gloria, how are you? I can’t believe this is happening. Did you talk to the doctor yet? You must be exhausted.” Jean slung her burgundy shoulder bag onto the chair next to me and gave me a warm smile.

I waited for the zinger. It’s all your fault Matt’s here and I had to drive all this way again, my mind heard. But there was no zinger. Jean took off her coat, plunked down next to me with a big sigh, and put her hand on my arm. The way Rose would.

“I … uh … Dr. Rosen should be here any minute. I hope the traffic wasn’t too bad.”

Jean waved her hand and spoke rapidly, as if she wanted to close a deal quickly. “It took about an hour and a half. I was making good time until that Braintree split. Then things got bogged down. Thank God for easy-listening WQRC, and of course WBZ.” She took a breath. “‘Traffic on the threes,’” she said, mimicking the radio announcer’s signature line. She looked at her watch, a fancy number with her children’s birthstones along the band. I remembered the day she explained it to me—I’d tried to hide my imitation-leather-strapped drugstore watch under the sleeve of my jacket. “Anyway, I’m glad I’m here.”

“So am I.” I said this shakily, thinking Jean might be laying a trap. Trusting soul, that Gloria.

Jean patted my hand. “We’ll get through this.”

Rose arrived upon this scene, and gave me a look that was no more trusting than I felt. “Hi, Jean. You made great time.” I heard the wariness in her voice.

“Rose, I’m so glad to see you.” Jean stood up and hugged Rose. I saw Rose’s arms stiffen, then make their way to patting Jean’s back. She looked at me over Jean’s shoulder—possible only because Jean had bent over to accommodate Rose’s height. “How’s your daughter? I heard the terrible news about her friend’s death.”

I wondered how Jean could have known about Jake’s death. I didn’t think the Cape Cod Times would carry stories of murder or mayhem in Revere. Most likely Matt had told her.

Dr. Rosen came through double doors that seemed to swing in tune with her hair. She beamed a big smile at us, and motioned me to come forward.

“You go ahead, Gloria. We’ll be right here,” Jean said, earning another strange look from Rose. I wondered briefly if Rose thought I’d decided to try one of the “I’m pregnant” stories on Jean.

“We just can’t seem to get this right,” Dr. Rosen told me. “Another bad reaction, this time to no medication. So, somewhere in the middle between too much and zero, that’s where we’re aiming.”

I blinked my eyes at her glibness. This was my … fiancé, for all she knew, and her reporting came off as if she were trying to gauge the right distance to clear the highest pole in a competition. I took a breath before addressing her.

“So this reaction was to just one dose of the radiation?”

She nodded gaily, as if to commend me for getting the correct answer. “It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes that’s all it takes. He’s presenting with exactly the symptoms we might expect in the fourth or fifth week. He’s ahead of the class, you might say.”

No, I might not say that.

“Can I see him?”

She shook her hair. “Not for a while. He’s all doped up.” Dr. Rosen checked her watch, more like mine than Jean’s, with a plain brown strap. “I’d say come back at noon.”

I gave her the best smile and thank-you I had available.





Jean insisted she be allowed to treat Rose and me to an early lunch at a place of our choice, so at about eleven-thirty the three of us sat in Russo’s, the elaborately decorated restaurant on Broadway where I’d met Matt for one of our first meals together. We called it our Half Meeting because it had been half work, half date, and, as Matt remembered, he’d half stood to greet me, not wanting to offend my sensibilities either way.