The Nitrogen Murder(54)

I wondered what Ms. Cefalu’s training was.

“The caller said for Dr. Chambers to meet in one hour at the usual place.” Ms. Cefalu emphasized her answer by crossing her right index finger over her left for “one hour,” and then over two left fingers for “place.” “This time he said it was urgent.”

“Did you recognize the voice?” Matt asked.

Ms. Cefalu pulled at her skirt to take it to the tips of her chubby knees. I could relate. “Only that this same person has called before. A man, middle age, I guess. I mean not a kid, you know, or an old, old man. No accent or anything.”

Ms. Cefalu had led us to a small grouping of chairs between her desk and the entrance to the building. The setting spoke of a woman’s touch, unlike Christopher’s office. Or mine, I realized.

We were interrupted by a Type A scientist or engineer who handed Ms. Cefalu a stack of papers—I recognized the familiar style of bulleted vu-graphs—with a curt, “Twenty copies by COB.”

“Close of business,” Ms. Cefalu said to us. Her way of apologizing for the man’s rude behavior, I sensed. She checked her watch unobtrusively.

“Does Phil ever seem upset when he gets these messages?” Matt asked.

Ms. Cefalu bit her lips, bottom over top, then vice versa. “Not usually.”

“But on Monday?”

“Well, he did rush out. Of course, the caller doesn’t always say it’s urgent.” She made a cross with her fingers again, and I got the idea that Ms. Cefalu was a very organized, logical person, with mnemonics and tickler files to help her get her job done.

“When did these calls start?”

Another lip-biting session. “I’d say, about two months ago.”

“And he didn’t leave word with you about where the meeting was, or a phone number where he could be reached?”

“No. I was in a hurry because my son’s babysitter called. She got a flat tire, and I had to pick him up from school and take him to day care.” I pictured a minivan with juice boxes in the backseat. “Then I came back to work, but Dr. Chambers was gone by then. But Dr. Chambers never would give me details when these messages came. Like when he’d be back or anything.”

I heard panic and guilt in Ms. Cefalu’s voice. Was she to blame for not getting a forwarding address? Did her lack of attention to detail cause a problem for Dr. Chambers?

“That’s good to know,” I said, by way of positive feedback.

“Can you tell me—is Dr. Chambers missing? I mean really missing?” she asked.

I figured Ms. Cefalu meant milk-carton missing versus a-half-hour-late-for-a-tux-fitting missing.

“Thanks for your help, Ms. Cefalu,” Matt said, standing up.

She followed us to the door. “I mean, first Dr. Patel, the poor man, and now Dr. Chambers.” She pulled her cardigan across her chest, as if to protect herself from being the next to fall.

Matt shook her hand. Warmly, but not budging as far as imparting any information. “We’ll get back to you as soon as we know anything.”

This time I felt genuine sympathy for Ms. Cefalu, so cooperative, yet not getting even a tiny hint of an answer to her questions.

I hoped Matt never pulled his cop Q&A training on me.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Thursday was a dry, warm day. The kind Dana thrived on. She walked briskly, making a conscious effort to feel her muscles work and to breathe deeply, clearing her head. A trip to the farmers’ market, where she bought a single large sunflower, a bag of long green beans, and a scoopful of dried cranberries, had brightened her spirits.

Dana had been born in Silicon Valley, but she loved living close to Berkeley. All the Berkeleys, she thought. She could ride her bike up in the hills behind the university campanile or down in the flats by the marina. If she felt like a successful professional, she could put on her Eddie Bauer shorts and a crisp white shirt and join the yuppies with their Cadillac baby strollers on Fourth Street. If she felt retro, she could join the hippie crowd—she’d thread a multicolored cotton belt through the loops of a pair of worn jeans and cruise the vendor tables on Telegraph Avenue. Berkeley had something for everyone.

Today Dana wore a gauzy shirt with an African motif, in honor of Tanisha Hall. On the way home, she stopped at Dziva’s, a women’s bookstore-cafe near the Oakland/Berkeley border, and sipped Rooibos, Tanisha’s favorite African red bush tea. She thought of her friend and favorite partner and tried to replace the image of Tanisha in a silk-lined casket with that of the vibrant woman who made everyone listen to her daughter’s knock-knock jokes.

Dana closed her eyes and remembered.