The Carbon Murder(86)

Did I care how the particular drug that saved him came to be developed? Through pure, honest research, or a scam that skirted long lead times and regulations? Through upstanding scientists, or men and women who cheated and even killed to further their work?

Thinking of Matt in the hospital, the long road of treatments ahead of him, our future together—I couldn’t give the quick answer I might have given even a few months ago.

When the phone rang at one in the morning, I was awake and roaming the house. While my mind was picturing the structure of phenylbutazone and figuring how one might alter it, I’d changed the sheets, straightened pillows, hand-vacuumed crumbs here and there, and made a batch of brownies—more for the comforting aroma, I told myself.

“You sound chipper,” Berger said. “I’m not.”

“What’s keeping you up?”

“Your theory, for one.”

“Is that good news or bad?”

“It’s very good, Gloria, especially with what else came up. I just had a chance to look at the report from the crime-scene people on the Jake Powers murder. He had a little something in his hand.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, a small piece of a mailing label from a horse magazine. We traced it back, because part of the subscription number was intact, and when they gave us the roll of possibles, you know, ending in that partial string, there was this name on the list … ta da …”

“Lorna Frederick.”

“Yeah, and now that we have motive … another ta da, thanks to you and your chip story … we’re good to go.”

“And Simpson?”

“We’ll give HPD what we have, and I think they’ll be moving on him, too.”

“So I can go to sleep now?”

“All the citizens of Revere, Massachusetts, and Houston, Texas, can sleep tonight. I’m going home. Say good night, Gloria.”

“Good night, George.”

When was the last time I’d thought of Burns and Allen? I wondered. Berger always brought out the 1950s in me. I smiled at the memory.

Until I remembered another citizen of Revere who might not be able to sleep safely.

Mary Catherine Galigani. MC, whose emails about bute had started my involvement in this case in the first place. I hadn’t given MC a thought since I’d watched the horse-show video with her. It was as if I’d told her to be careful, and then dropped all attention to her. I should have tried to have surveillance ordered, at least. Did Lorna know where she lived? I wondered. I quickly realized she did. MC had filled out an application to work for her.

I picked up the phone and punched in Berger’s cell phone number in case he’d already left the station.

Why hadn’t Rose reminded me? I asked myself, as if to rationalize my neglect of her daughter.

“Hi, Gloria,” Berger said, sounding pleased as most people with caller ID did, feeling ahead of the game.

I skipped opening remarks. “George, I’m worried about Mary Catherine Galigani. As long as Lorna is free, there’s a chance she might go after MC. Remember the email I told you about …”

“Right, right. Well, it’s going to be a while before we can take Lorna in. I’m planning to organize the material in the morning. That’s, uh, about six hours from now.”

I laughed, a nervous chuckle that gave away my panicked state. “In other words, can’t you get some sleep? I’m sorry, George, but isn’t there a way you can put a car at either Lorna’s or MC’s place? Or both.”

Berger sighed. “You know, nothing’s changed as far as Lorna Frederick’s concerned. It’s not as if she was at your place when you figured this out.”

“Well, she knows I’ve been talking to her vet. And …”

“And she knows you’re smart.”

“Thanks. And she knows you’re smart, George, and that you move quickly.”

“Okay, okay. Is this what you do to Matt?”

I laughed, a little more relaxed this time. “Sort of. Thanks, George.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

MC moved the curtains on her bedroom window and looked down on Tuttle Street. Just a check to see if the rain had stopped. Not looking for strange cars, no uneasiness. Not.

She considered a walk to the market near the circle. She’d heard that the rotary now had a formal name—the Albert J. Brown Circle. If she were a good daughter, MC thought, she’d give her mother a thrill and ask her who Albert J. Brown was, how he’d come to have a circle named after him.

MC was forcing herself to do normal things though she felt like she’d fallen under a stampede of wild horses. She’d been up early and gone for a run, lucky enough to miss both rain showers. Someday soon she’d set up an appointment with the Admissions Office at UMass to review her transcript and see about working toward a teaching credential. She could still keep her finger in research as a consultant. During the good five minutes that came about once an hour—progress, she thought—she envisioned using her contacts to develop a chemistry program as great as Daniel Endicott’s environmental science program.