The Helium Murder(23)

“Our old landlord lived upstairs from me and my father, and he used to let Al stay with him if we came home late, so he wouldn’t have to drive all the way to the North End. Al kept a few things up there and Mr. Corrado gave them to me in a sealed bag, after Al died.”

“And the police wouldn’t have thought to search your house.”

“No, I guess not.”

“And it never occurred to you to tell them about the bag?”

“I told you, I wasn’t thinking straight at the time.”

I didn’t like Matt’s tone or mine, but I didn’t seem to have any control over either one.

“I’m going to take this,” Matt said, putting Al’s book in his already bulging jacket pocket. “I’m sure you have no use for it?”

I swallowed hard, hearing an exclamation point at the end of his last remark, though it was disguised as a question.

“So, what does this mean about the police files?” I asked. I had nothing to lose, I thought, since the romantic atmosphere had already been shattered.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, and moved toward the door.

“I’ll see you at one tomorrow,” I said, hopeful that he wouldn’t cancel his invitation to go with him to Carey’s plant.

“Right,” he said, “Good night, Gloria.”

I closed and locked the door behind him. This guy is the master of abrupt departures, I thought. And I’m only slightly better off now than before he came. I have a little more information about the Hurley case, but I don’t have Al’s book and I don’t have a good feeling about our relationship.

At least one thing had worked in my favor—after a lifetime of working in science and mathematics, I had excellent recall for numbers.

I took a pad of paper and pencil and wrote down R. B., 555-6754.





Chapter Ten

Thanks to a few unsettling dreams, I woke up several times during the night. In one dream, I was at Al’s wake and hundreds of people were pointing at me, accusing me of killing him. In another, Rocky Busso was pushing Josephine over a cliff on the Pacific Ocean, at the edge of San Francisco, where the real-life Josephine had never stepped foot. Just before I woke, I dreamed I was talking into my telephone, but no sound came out.

Why don’t I ever have pleasant dreams, I wondered, like an image of Matt folding his napkin, saying, “that was the best snack I ever had,” and “I love you, Gloria”? I considered calling Elaine in Berkeley and asking her opinion, since she had a strong belief in the connection between our dreams and our inner lives.

That notion didn’t get very far, and instead I sat at my desk to do a morning’s work. I had Carey’s contracts to go through, and it was about time I’d given a little attention to my presentation for Peter’s students, only a few days away.

So far, all I’d done was choose the quote I would use to open the class, Marconi’s own observation on his invention of the radio: “My chief trouble was that the idea was so elementary, so simple in logic, that it seemed difficult to believe no one else had thought of putting it into practice.” Not a bad thing for a homicide investigator to keep in mind, either, I thought.

I started with the pile of consulting agreements from Hurley’s briefcase. I made a list of questions I had for Carey, including the nature of the computer upgrades and the training classes he’d contracted for. I had a hard time weeding out the substance from the legal boilerplate.

About an hour later, I felt I was ready for the Chelsea meeting and called down on the intercom to see if Rose had time for a coffee break.

“You bet,” she said. “I can’t wait to hear about last night.”

“You’re not going to be happy,” I said.

“I’m coming up anyway.”

While I waited for Rose, I started the coffee, loaded my papers into my briefcase, and brought out my file on Peter’s class. I prepared a plate of food, assembling the one cannoli I had left, along with some fruit. The presentation left a lot to be desired, and I whined to myself about how little talent I had for such tasks. I could picture the same tidbits in Rose’s hands, looking like the cover of an expensive coffee-table book.



A rare sight greeted me when I opened the door—Rose in jeans and a California sweatshirt that I’d sent her, with a green-and-white bandanna wrapped artfully around her hair. Rose seldom wore anything but professional attire around the mortuary, but even in her work clothes she looked ready for visitors. I was sorry that I was in jeans and a sweatshirt, too, since I hated the comparisons I always made when Rose and I wore similar outfits.

“We haven’t had so many guests since we waked Bishop Donovan,” she said. “I decided to help a little with the cleanup. The foyer was a mess from people tracking in slush.”