The Helium Murder(18)

Berger, on the job, I noticed, came over to the group, and introduced himself to Buddy. I wondered if Berger had read Buddy’s statement, assuming he’d given one. I was getting more and more annoyed at how little I knew, and had to hold myself back from stomping to a phone to call Matt and demand some answers.

Next to Buddy was a man who looked at me a moment longer than he needed to, I thought. As we chatted about the tragic accident, and then about the weather, the man made nervous twitching motions, practically hopping from one foot to the other, like a seventh-grader who needed to use the boys’ room. Buddy introduced him to me and Berger.

“This here’s my friend Rocky Busso,” he said, and the soundtrack of The Godfather played in my head.

Rocky seemed to have no neck, and I thought I could see rippling muscles about to break through the sleeves of his dark jacket.

“Hello, Dr. Lamerino,” he said.

“Rocky,” I said, bravely offering my hand, and vaguely aware of a shiver that had started down my spine.

“I bet you’re not used to this weather, huh? California’s always seventy degrees, right?”

“Right,” I said, as a second shiver made its way all through my body, so strong that I felt my skirt and vest must be showing visible signs of a wave as large as those at high tide on Revere Beach.

“Excuse me, please, I need to see if Father Tucci needs anything,” I said, and walked away in what seemed like slow motion. I felt as I did often in dreams, when I’d keep running and running but stayed in the same spot.

I made my way to Tony, who was standing by the door to the foyer.

“I’m glad you’re here, Tony,” I said, touching his arm, feeling his muscle, as if to reassure myself that someone strong was on my side.





Chapter Eight

I climbed the two flights of stairs to my apartment, looking over my shoulder the whole way. Every time a step creaked under my foot, a tiny shiver went through me. It was only eight-thirty, but I completely abandoned the idea of staying at my post until the wake ended at nine.

I locked my door, then leaned against it, putting all my weight on its dark wood panels, as if that would help keep it locked. I breathed deeply and remembered that after my break-in two months ago, Matt had a police security expert install the latest in locks—a deadbolt with hardened steel inserts, and a specially designed strike plate anchored into the building frame. I felt better thinking of that, but only marginally. For all I knew, Rocky had a key.

I walked to my window and looked down on Tuttle Street. Thanks to the celebrity of the deceased, Frank had arranged for around-the-clock police presence, and the sight of a white-and-red Revere Police car and two uniformed officers brought my breathing to a normal level. I inhaled as hard as I could, as if to suction their strength and protection up through the wintry air and into my living room. At a certain angle, I could see my reflection in the window. My hair looked grayer and my jowls more droopy, and I seemed to have aged a decade since meeting Rocky. My “staff” ribbon was slightly askew, as if it, too, had suffered a blow.

Following a curious habit of mine whenever I entered a hotel room for the first time, I walked through my apartment, checking under my bed and in my closets, and even under the sink. I’d carried out this procedure once when sharing a suite with Elaine at a conference in San Jose.

“I thought physicists were supposed to be logical,” Elaine had said. “What are you going to do if you find someone?”

I had no sensible defense, but that never kept me from completing my search, then or now. Maybe it was just to eliminate the element of surprise, I’d decided. If you’re here, I want to know now.

In another display of faulty logic, I put on a CD of light Christmas music, to ward off pending evil. Surely, I reasoned, no harm could come to someone in her own living room listening to “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.” I resolved to put up a Christmas tree, too, for further protection, although I’d been resisting the effort that would take.

The hardest chore was entering the narrow hallway that ran the length of my bedroom and living room—a curious structural feature of my apartment. A trap door in the ceiling of the two-foot wide corridor provided access to the attic, which had been the scene of the only physical violence I’ve ever experienced. It was enough for a lifetime, however, and I hadn’t been in the attic since a bullet bounced off my shoulder and into its wall.

I took a flashlight and made my way up the short ladder that was designed to hook into slots on the attic floor. I trained my light around the musty loft, coughed out some dust, and saw that it was empty except for Galigani memorabilia and the boxes I’d kept there in storage. My eyes fell on the cartons labeled AG in thick black marker, and I remembered finding Al’s book, retrieved from the pocket of his robe in one of the boxes.