The Helium Murder(28)

“I just learned them this morning,” I said, reverting to my old-time habit of self-effacement. “The numbers are on the Internet.”

“Maybe, but not everyone knows how to get them or what they mean.”

“So, do you think he did it?” I asked, amazed at my ability to change a subject.

“I’m not ruling him out.”

Before I closed my Hurley folder, I made a neat pile of the newspaper clippings from the day following the murder. A headline caught my eye and I remembered something I’d wanted to ask Matt.

“One of these clips says that the 911 call came in shortly after eight o’clock on Sunday night,” I said.

“Right. Mrs. Whitestone was at the back of the house, without her hearing aids, and didn’t hear anything. The young couple next door heard a loud noise and the screech of a car leaving in a hurry. They went out to check and called 911.”

“But another clip here says that Hurley died late Sunday night. Eight o’clock isn’t ‘late.’ Did Hurley live for a while in the hospital?”

“She did. She hung on for a couple of hours, but didn’t regain consciousness.”

“Did she say anything at all? Maybe to the people who found her or the paramedics?”

“You sound like Mrs. Whitestone. She demanded to talk to all the people who handled Margaret, asking how she was and if she had any last words.”

“Did she?”

“As a matter of fact, the paramedic has her making some sound. I can’t quite remember, but I wrote it down. If you want to reach into my coat pocket on the backseat, you can take out my notebook.”

I leaned over and pulled Matt’s coat toward me. I found his notebook and flipped through some pages, stopping at one headed Paramedic. I was impressed with his organizational skills and legible handwriting. The sign of a good researcher, I thought, if someone else can follow your notes.

“It looks like ‘mole,’” I said. “As in ‘spy’?”

“That’s what the guy said. Mole or moles. No name in the case sounds like that, so I gave up on it as a lead. And, of course, she kept asking for Mrs. Whitestone. That’s it.”

“Hmm,” was all I said, but something else that I couldn’t put my finger on was churning in my brain.





Chapter Twelve

Trying to cultivate at least one healthy habit, on the way home I stopped at a market and picked up bread and fruit and raw material for a salad. At the last minute, I added a quart of ice cream to my basket, unable to resist a new Ben & Jerry’s flavor with caramel and marshmallows. For unexpected company, I told myself.

Mrs. Whitestone had chosen the old custom—two evenings of wake before burial—so Wednesday evening presented another opportunity to talk to the principals in the case.

I had to weigh my desire to meet Patrick Gallagher and Vincent Cavallo against the dread of encountering Rocky Busso again. I threw the probability of seeing Matt into the equation, although he hadn’t said anything about attending the wake. All in all, I entertained one final vision of Rocky’s tiny eyes and puffy face and came down on the side of staying in my apartment.

“I have too much to do tonight,” I said, talking to Rose over the intercom.

“I’ll stop by when we’re finished and give you any news,” she said. “Don’t forget, the cruiser will be out there again tonight.”

Following my theory of no personal attacks while a police car is outside one’s door and Christmas music is playing, I put on a CD of The Messiah. I changed into comfortable pants and a loose black sweater and went to my computer. I checked my e-mail, paid some bills, and opened my Hurley file. After typing in the new notes from the interview with Carey, I printed out the whole file and took the pages, with a cup of coffee, to my rocker.

Somehow, I’d convinced Matt to let me make photocopies of the letters in Hurley’s personal correspondence file, and I added those to the pile of paper on my lap. I sat back and glided a few minutes on my rocker, enjoying the music. It was a nice reminder that my weekend was looking good.

I sorted through my notes, Hurley’s letters, and the newspaper clippings, looking for a pattern or an indisputable clue to Hurley’s murderer. I was amazed at my own arrogance—did I really believe I could solve this high-profile murder more easily or quickly than all of the police power of Revere and the neighboring cities that had been brought in for support? Did I care so much about justice in general, and Congresswoman Margaret Hurley in particular? Was I trying to impress Sgt. Matt Gennaro? Or did I just love a puzzle? I settled on “all of the above,” and got to work.