The Carbon Murder(93)

Only after I pulled the storm door toward me and felt the old wooden door give way at my gentle push did I realize I’d had no backup plan in case the doors were locked. Better lucky than smart, my father, Marco Lamerino, had often said.

I listened for police sirens, but heard none. I couldn’t imagine what was taking them so long.

I slipped into the back of the restaurant. A couple of young men in kitchen-help outfits saw me and smiled, as if this were an everyday occurrence. I smiled back. I was prepared with an “I’m looking for the ladies’ room” or “I just want to check the bulletin-board photos” defense, if questioned.

I smelled Tomasso’s wonderful, strong coffee and realized I’d had nothing to eat or drink since a fingerful of brownie batter at two in the morning. Pretty soon I’d be back as a regular customer in the front of the shop, I told myself.

I positioned myself behind the copper vat. At my height, I was mostly hidden by the vat, and I could look through the space between the center urn and one of the smaller sections, over the largest spout. The eagle at the very top of the center section hovered over me.

I scanned the area.

The ORDER HERE and PICK-UP HERE counters on my left had no one in line at the moment. Several tables along the right were occupied by women and children in strollers or booster seats. The new daycare environment. A row of tables down the middle of the room held an old couple that included the man with the cane, a young Asian woman writing in a notebook with a textbook to her side, and … a man by himself, his back to me, on a black wrought-iron chair not more than four feet away. Average age, average size.

It was Alex Simpson. I knew because of his posture, his tight black jeans, his pointy maroon boots sticking out into the aisle. Nothing, really. Just that he was the only single man and I didn’t like the looks of him, even from the back. The good news was MC was nowhere in sight.

The next moments rolled into one. Two RPD cruisers pulled up in front of Tomasso’s. Through the front window, I could see four uniforms swagger toward the door, two abreast. As they entered the shop, the man in front of me, who I was convinced was Alex Simpson, stood up, reached his right arm back, and lifted his plaid jacket.

The silver butt of a gun stuck out from his belt.

I felt part of a naturally flowing drama and let my mind and body respond freely. I grabbed hold of the thin strap that secured the vat against a floor-to-ceiling beam. I slipped the strap from its loose knot and did a quick calculation. If the vat’s center of mass was where I thought it should be from its external proportions, the vat would topple straight ahead, its towering center section hitting only the man and no one to either side of him.

I placed my hands squarely on the shiny vat, side by side, and pushed it over with all my might.

When the first section hit Alex’s right shoulder he was bent slightly, his hand on the handle of his gun. He turned a few more degrees and I caught his expression. His tanned face was pinched, first in surprise, then in pain as the eagle landed on his head.

My calculation had been correct.

The RPD rushed toward Alex Simpson, trapped under Tomasso’s vat, and arrested him.





CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

It’s always like this, I thought. A stormy week or so, and then a peaceful gathering of everyone I love. Matt was more than halfway through his radiation regime and was doing fine, better than in his pre-therapy stage, in fact.

Rose was pleased that Matt and I accepted her offer to throw an engagement party at the Galiganis’ residence. Our only stipulation was no presents. As a result we got a variety of amusing items, including an enormous “police badge” for me, made of plaster of Paris, and an oversized blue ribbon with BEST COUPLE in gold letters.

I lingered for a while in a corner of the living room with Jean and her children—my in-laws to-be. Alysse had a large red mark on her cheek. At first I thought it was a teenage rash, but on closer look I saw that it was a giant letter S.

“It’s for Stevie, my boyfriend,” Alysse said.

Jean rolled her eyes. “It’s what they do these days. Thank God it’s not permanent ink. I’m sure Stevie isn’t permanent.”

Alysse’s turn to roll her eyes.

I roamed the room listening to the spectrum of conversations, joining one now and then, but mostly thrilled to belong to this gathering.

My first stop was with MC and Daniel Endicott, standing by the fireplace, each leaning an arm on the mantel.

Daniel to MC: Maria Telkes’s heating system used black sheet metal collectors to capture solar energy; then it was stored in these bins by the phase-change of a sodium compound.

MC to Daniel: I read about that. I think it was sodium sulphate decahydrate.