The Nitrogen Murder(21)

Julia pushed back from her desk. The wheels of her chair rumbled along the linoleum. “One more thing, Dana. Be careful what you tell the cops today.”

What was this? Everyone seemed concerned about her interview with the Berkeley PD. Maybe she should be more worried herself.

“I’m not suggesting you lie, of course,” Julia continued. “Just, you know, we want to avoid anything that would reflect badly on the company.” She flipped her short too-red hair, as if making sure her own appearance would give a good impression of Valley Med.

“Okay,” Dana said, without the slightest idea what Julia meant.





CHAPTER SEVEN

Early Monday morning Matt and I sat side by side on the gold jacquard loveseat in our room. Elaine was down the hall, still asleep—or preparing her face for public view, but quiet at any rate—so we’d brought our mugs of coffee and two lemon biscotti back to the bedroom. The perfect breakfast.

Sunlight came into the room with great effort, having to first pass through Elaine’s elaborate window treatment and a hexagonal piece of stained glass, in gold and blood-orange hues, hung by an invisible cord.

“I’ve been patient,” I said to Matt, “but I need to know.”

“What I said to Dana on Saturday.”

A statement, not a question. No wonder I loved him. No games, no making me beg.

I hoped I wasn’t motivated by idle curiosity or, worse, by jealousy that another woman might know something about Matt that I didn’t. I was reasonably sure this need came from loving him and wanting to understand the highs and lows of his life before I met him. I’d thought about it off and on for two days, and I felt more and more certain he’d shared a significant occupational low with Dana.

Unlike our friends Rose and Frank Galigani, childhood sweethearts, now married more than four decades, Matt and I had met as adults. We carried baggage and emotional histories, both positive and negative.

I hadn’t needed to tell Matt much about my first and only other fiance, Al Gravese. Matt was a rookie cop at the time and knew before I did that Al was “connected” and that the car crash that took Al’s life three months before our wedding wasn’t an accident.

I hoped I was less naive now than I had been then. I’d never questioned where Al got the rolls of bills he carried around, and felt proud when he’d tear off a fifty and give it to my father. I remembered his deep voice and his flashy style: Get yourself some butts, Marco.

I’d pieced together a picture of Matt’s first wife, Teresa, from what Rose and Frank told me about her low-key personality, her work with special-needs children, and her long illness. One evening after Matt and I had been seeing each other regularly for a couple of months, he took an album from a desk drawer. We went through it page by page, photo after photo: birthday parties; sailing trips around Nantucket Sound with Matt’s sister, Jean, and her family; Fourth of July barbecues; Thanksgiving turkeys; Christmas trees. His life with Teresa.

“Remember the time you shared your Teresa album?” I asked him now.

He took a sip of coffee. “I do.”

“I loved that moment.” I cleared my throat and tasted lemon frosting. “Do you also have a police album?”

Matt laughed and took my hand. A noble gesture since it meant he had to sacrifice half a biscotto for the time being.

“First, you know I love you, and I would never keep anything from you deliberately, to deceive you or to—”

“It’s not about that.”

He nodded. “I believe it.”

The house was very quiet, except for what I thought might be Elaine’s hair dryer, down the hall. Matt kept my hand in his lap but stared straight ahead, where a framed art print of sunflowers hung on the wall. I couldn’t name the artist, which would sadden Elaine, who’d tried to fill in the gaps in my very technical education. The lines in the painting were curvy, and I thought I remembered that feature went with van Gogh. Or Cézanne. Matt seemed to be tilting his head to figure it out himself.

I sensed rather than heard the hard swallow that preceded all his serious disclosures. Some were upsetting: My wife died ten years ago today. Then, later, I have cancer. And some were thrilling: I love you, I want us to be married.

I knew this one would be difficult.

“It was my worst moment,” he said. “On the job, anyway. I wasn’t much older than Dana. Kenny was a dispatcher I knew very well; I’d gone to school with him in Everett. We’d been at a retirement dinner at a hotel on Route 1.” Matt took a long breath. I felt him pull back to that day “We’re walking to our cars together.”