The Nitrogen Murder(26)

“Remember when you couldn’t keep a classified file with you in a hotel room overnight?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. No matter where you were, you had to find a government field office and deposit the material in a safe, and then go and pick it up in the morning for your meeting.”

Since we were doing so well, I told Phil my favorite security story. I was leaving BUL on my bicycle, in the days when commuting by bike was a treat for me, with a large tote bag in my wire basket. I was due for a change of office, and the tote was full of material I’d cleared out of my desk—periodicals and files I wouldn’t need on a daily basis. My bike was so old and beaten up, it looked like it belonged to the fleet of bikes BUL kept on site for travel among its spread-out buildings.

At the gate, the guard stopped me.

“Is this a lab bike? You can’t take a lab bike off the property,” he’d said.

I assured him it was my own personal bike, but he kept me a good five minutes while he searched the entire frame for a hidden government serial number.

“He even tipped the bike upside down,” I told Phil, “while I stood to the side, holding the tote bag, obviously overflowing with goods. Then he let me go.”

“He never bothered to check the tote? You could have had a couple of line-up lasers in that bag,” Phil said, laughing. “I have to remember that one. Well, this has been fun, Gloria. Tell you what—maybe next time I’m in your neighborhood I could visit your classroom myself. I love to talk to kids, and I go to MIT now and then.”

I straightened my shoulders, alert. MIT, in Cambridge, Massachusetts, less than ten miles from Revere. “And you’ve been to the Charger Street Lab in Revere, I presume?”

“Uh, once or twice.”

Aha. Lucky guess.

Phil seemed to have been caught off guard. I guessed he’d kept this from Elaine, who, I was sure, would have told me if she’d known Phil was in Revere. I wasn’t easily offended, so the fact that Phil might not want to spend time with his fiance’s friend didn’t bother me. The good news was that I’d be able to sic my favorite lab technician, Andrea Cabrini, on the case. My girl in the field, I thought.

What case? I asked myself. What field?

No time for self-doubt; I decided to press my luck.

“Did you work with Lokesh Patel?” I asked, neatly spreading sun-dried tomato cream cheese on a jalapeño pepper bagel. Phil had opted for plain all around, probably better suited to an afternoon of work to follow.

Phil gave me a quizzical look, raising eyebrows almost as neat as Elaine’s. “Should I know him?”

“He’s the man Dana was transporting when her partner was killed,” I said.

“Oh, yes, I think I read his name in the Trib. I doubt Dana knew him.”

Not a smooth move: answering a different question, one he couldn’t be expected to know the answer to. “I meant—” I started. But I’d observed no sign of nervousness or discomfort when I mentioned the gunshot victim, so I decided I’d gone down a fruitless road. I told myself I should be thrilled to find Elaine’s fiancé free and clear of wrongdoing. It was time to drop the whole idea of the briefcase/duffel-bag murder and get into a wedding/vacation mode.

Phil checked his watch, stood, and pulled his jacket from the chair. “My people will be looking for me. I’d better get back. Can I walk you to your car?”

I showed him empty palms, as if I’d have been holding a car in my hands if I had one. “Elaine dropped me off, and Matt and Dana will be picking me up. He went with her to her counseling session.”

“I heard that. It’s quite handy that he’s around. I appreciate all he’s doing. I know Dana admires him a lot.”

I nodded at Phil the Charming. “He’s happy to do it. He’ll go to the police station with her also.”

Phil stopped midsleeve, a frown crossing his wide brow.

“But don’t worry about me,” I went on. “I have my book, and if I get impatient, I’ll catch a bus up University Ave.”

If that’s what you’re worried about, I thought.

“Right,” Phil said, favoring his bandaged hand while adjusting his jacket. Maybe he wanted me to remember the lovely hors d’oeuvres platter he’d given blood for. “Well, good-bye for now, Gloria.”

I thought back to Phil’s slight hesitation at the mention of police. Was that the slip I’d been waiting for? How desperate was I to incriminate Phil in something?

I ordered another coffee and took out my notebook.

Contact Andrea, I wrote.





CHAPTER NINE

My next contact was not with Andrea but with Matt’s voice mail. I called his cell phone and left a message that I wouldn’t need to be picked up. I walked from the bagel shop to a branch of the Berkeley Public Library, staying on the shady side of the street as long as possible. I enjoyed the odors that reached the sidewalk from Berkeley’s many ethnic restaurants. I passed a Black Muslim bakery (bean pie?), a Thai cafe (lemon-grass soup, I decided), an Indian eatery (curry, for sure), and a French bistro (the strong coffee that I loved), all in the same block.