The Helium Murder(9)
I’d had success in the past when I prepared lists and charts for Matt, so I decided to do that again, starting with the simple part, the science. I made a list of facts about helium that made it a special commodity, and desirable to have on hand:
Helium occurs naturally in small amounts in natural gas deposits.
It must be extracted and stored as soon as the gas is mined, or it escapes into the atmosphere and can’t be reclaimed for useful purposes.
No other element can reach the low temperature of liquid helium.
This low temperature is required for many emerging technologies.
Demand for helium is rising about ten percent a year.
There was a lot more I could go into—details about how the federal government got involved in the first place, for example, since private companies also mine and sell helium. For the moment, I decided I’d done enough. For all I knew, this science lesson was far off the mark and I’d wasted my time.
At nine o’clock I dropped my notes into my briefcase and headed for the closet to choose a light-snowfall outfit. Since this was my first New England winter in a while, my cold-weather wardrobe choices were limited. I did have one pair of black knee-length boots, suitable for walking through slush, so I built around them, choosing a wide black skirt with silvery threads and a gray cowl-neck sweater—uninspired, but at least warm and coordinated.
I poked around in my box of scatter pins, sustaining only minor stab wounds, and came up with a neutral holiday design, an abstract ceramic sleigh that I’d picked up at a crafts fair in Berkeley. I wasn’t sure about Berger’s religious connections, if any, and didn’t want to annoy him any more than I already did by my presence. Surely the father of a newborn couldn’t take offense at the suggestion of Santa’s vehicle.
As for my own vehicle choices, I’d finally gotten rid of the Jeep I’d driven from California, so my only source of transportation now was the shiny black Cadillac I’d bought from the Galiganis. I still couldn’t bring myself to say “my Cadillac,” but there it was, and it got me safely to Matt’s office at the Revere Police Department on Pleasant Street.
I entered the old building and identified myself to the uniformed officer sitting behind a thick pane of glass, which I supposed to be bulletproof. Except that it was no larger than a few square feet, the foyer, painted in a bright blue, looked more like the box office for a theater than the stepping-stone to law enforcement.
As I approached Matt’s office, I could see Berger’s short, stocky frame through the frosted-glass window. He stood with his back to the door, facing Matt. I threw my shoulders back, shifted my briefcase to my left hand, and entered the office, ready for battle.
With only the briefest nod to Matt, I launched into my offense.
“Sgt. Berger,” I said, “I hope you have pictures to show me.”
Berger’s eyebrows went up into the shape of a question mark just briefly, then he reached into his jacket and brought out a yellow envelope full of Kodak moments.
I saw a wide grin come over his face and knew that my strategy had worked, at least for the moment. As I shuffled through the photos, I made noises of admiration, wishing I knew the gender of the child. After counting no fewer than six different shades of pink in the clothing and general environment of the baby, I used my skills as a physicist/detective and took a risk.
“She’s beautiful,” I said.
“Her name’s Cynthia,” Berger said, still grinning.
“Beautiful,” I said again, and actually meant it. I was a traditionalist when it came to names, making fun of the new trends and the unlikely cultural combinations. In a class I taught in San Francisco one semester, I had two young men named Ian Wong. Not that I was against interracial marriage, just interracial names.
If I had children, I thought, I’d probably number them until they were old enough to choose for themselves—too much responsibility to give a lifetime label to a person. Another advantage I’d noticed in moving back to Revere was that people here, at least the old-timers, could spell and pronounce my name without trouble.
“‘Cynthia Berger’ has the ring of a cellist at Carnegie Hall or a Nobelist in literature,” I said, happy to be flattering and honest at the same time. “You must be really proud.”
“We are,” Berger said. What I saw in the vicinity of Matt’s eyes came very close to a wink.
I took a seat and Berger excused himself to go to a meeting. As he left the office he shook my hand and said, “I told Matt you were the one to help us with this. Most of it is pretty straightforward, and I could handle it, but there are a couple of things I think you could clear up.”