Matt laughed and took out his notebook, apparently still up for business conversation. He flipped through the pages, densely packed with writing and doodles.
“I assume you’re ready to ask Carey some specifics about the contracts?”
“Absolutely,” I said, calculating how many hours were left to do a bit of cramming. The meeting wasn’t until one o’clock. Plenty of time, I thought.
In the spirit of our partnership, I asked Matt about the alibis of the likely suspects. Not that physics gives you any better training in logic than detective work, but I knew Matt liked to bounce his reasoning off me. In the last two months, I’d often thought that my timing couldn’t have been better—I showed up just as he was losing his partner, at least temporarily.
I got a notepad of my own, ready for Matt’s briefing.
“Carey says he was in his room at the Beach Inn all evening. Ate a room-service dinner. So far, that checks out, but we can’t be sure he didn’t leave for a while to drive over to Oxford Park.”
The inn was near the overpass on the Revere/Chelsea line, so, with icy roads, I figured Carey would have needed close to forty-five minutes for the round trip. I made some columns on my notepad, and started filling in data, feeling the rush I always got from collecting and organizing information.
“Patrick Gallagher, the ex-boyfriend,” Matt continued. “Said he was at the Northgate mall shopping by himself until it closed at nine, then home to watch television. Turns out that although it was Sunday, the mall was open that late—extended hours in December. We’re looking into some witnesses who can place him there. Says he didn’t buy anything, was just looking.
“Buddy was playing cards in a clubroom with a group of buddies, pardon the pun. And they were surrounded by about a dozen people playing pool and drinking. His alibi is the most solid at the moment.
“And that about covers the money, passion, domestic discord trio of motives. Mrs. Whitestone, who’s not exactly a prime suspect anyway, was at home waiting for Margaret. She’s making a fuss because we still have Margaret’s personal effects, including the luggage and the bags of Christmas presents. She thinks we should release everything that’s personal, but of course we can’t do that yet.”
“She’s not even a relative,” I said. “But she looks like a woman who’s used to getting her own way.”
“Seems so,” Matt said, sticking his notebook into his back pocket. “The Whitestones have dominated politics around here for a long time.”
I cleared my throat, ready to change the subject.
“What about Buddy’s friends?” I asked. “He came in tonight with an entourage of strongmen.”
“You mean maybe he hired someone? Always a possibility. With luck that would turn up in his bank records.”
“Unless he paid him cash.”
“You sound like you have someone in mind,” Matt said.
“One of the men there tonight impressed me as capable of making such a deal,” I said, wondering if my voice sounded as shaky to Matt as it did to me.
Matt took out his notebook again.
“You have good instincts,” he said. “Do you have a name for this man?”
“Rocky Busso.” I neglected to say that I had his telephone number, too, and perhaps his weekly salary as a teenager in 1962.
“I’ll check with Berger, too,” Matt said. “Maybe he noticed something. Did you see Berger there tonight?”
“I did.”
“I’m glad you two are getting along,” Matt said, getting up and stretching his arms out to the side. His jacket fell open, putting his hefty middle at my eye level. It was still tight enough not to creep over his belt, I noted, sucking in my own middle. Matt wandered around the room, rubbing his temples and rolling his head around his neck. I had the feeling I’d been invited to his warm-up routine. I almost invited him to use my exercise bicycle, which was still as good as new.
I found myself following him around with my eyes, trying to see my apartment as he saw it. I hoped he liked my set of California posters, framed in a light wood, a present from my West Coast friends when I left my Berkeley lab. I also hoped he wouldn’t lean on a dusty surface. I was sure he cared that I hadn’t done any housework in days. Fortunately, at five-six, he was too short to lean on the top shelf of my bookcase.
“I know George can be tough,” he said, coming perilously close to the tiny gray dustballs behind my computer monitor, “but I hated seeing antagonism between my partner and my ...”
I could hardly wait for the next word, hoping for the middle-aged equivalent of “girlfriend,” willing to settle for anything more personal than “consultant.” What I heard was neither.