The Nitrogen Murder(60)

I heard a faint snapping of Rose’s fingers. Or maybe I imagined it, from knowing her so well. “A PDA. Right.”

“Is there any note of explanation? An invoice or a packing slip?”

I covered the phone and addressed Matt, sitting next to me. “Did you by any chance order a PDA?”

Matt frowned and shook his head, as I expected. I knew it was unlikely.

I was about to tell Rose to set the PDA aside and I’d deal with it when I got home. Then it came to me.

“Rose, can you turn it on for me and see whose it is?”

“You’re kidding.”

“You’re smarter than it is, Rose. I’m sure there’s a power button in an obvious place.”

I heard her sigh. “A power button? Okay. I’m pushing this red button at the top right. Oops!” I envisioned Rose jumping back as the screen came to life in her hand. “It worked. The screen says”This device is owned by‘then there’s a space. Hmmm.”

I tapped on the table. “Rose!”

“Gloria, it’s not often I have the upper hand, you know.”

She was right. Also, I reminded myself that Rose had no idea what we’d been going through since Friday evening. For all she knew, we’d been wining and dining at the tourist sites of San Francisco and overdosing on wedding talk, all of which Rose would enjoy immensely

“I don’t mean to be impatient, Rose. It’s an important piece of”—I looked at Elaine and Dana, both with heavy expressions—“a business matter for Elaine’s fiance.”

“Oh, okay. The owner’s a Lokesh Patel. Must be Indian. I think half our Indian clients are named Patel, and Frank has to be careful to put the red dot … sorry, this time I wasn’t trying to tease you.”

I gasped at the sound of Patel’s name, the first time Rose said it. Elaine placed a cup of coffee in front of me. She held out a plate of biscotti and raised her eyebrows. Want one?

I shook my head. I was reeling from the information from Rose, and from the idea that Patel’s PDA had been mailed to me. By whom and why had yet to be processed.

“Lokesh Patel,” I said out loud. Elaine pushed her chair back from the table; Matt and Dana leaned in.

“The address is … are you ready?” Rose asked.

I pulled the pad of paper I’d been doodling on closer to me and picked up my pen. “Very ready.”

“127 Woodland Road, Berkeley then there’s a telephone number—510-555-9712.”

“Anything else?” I asked Rose, as if I hadn’t heard enough.

“There’s a note on the bottom of the screen. It says, ‘If found, please contact me.’”

Too late, I thought.

“Something’s going on there, Gloria, isn’t it?”

“You might say that.”

“You’re not just rehearsing your walk down the Rose Garden aisle in pretty shoes.”

“No, we’re not.”

A pause, while Rose plotted, I was sure. “Robert is good with these things. If I get him to dig out whatever’s in here, do you promise to tell me why it’s so important?”

“I do,” I said, as if I were a bride.



“Why would Patel send his PDA to you?” Elaine asked. “You didn’t know him, did you?”

I put my hand to my chest. “Not at all.” I felt an unwarranted defensiveness, as if Elaine were accusing me of withholding a connection that might help exonerate Phil.

I’d determined from Rose that although Lamerino was spelled incorrectly (what else was new?) my Fernwood Avenue address was correct; there was no mention of Matt; and the envelope had no other distinguishing features, such as scent or unusual markings.

“Someone who knew we were away must have sent it to our address for safekeeping, so to speak, figuring it wouldn’t be opened for a couple of weeks.” Matt smiled. “They weren’t counting on Rose.”

No one expressed the obvious out loud: All the West Coast people who knew I’d be in California for two weeks were now in Elaine’s bright kitchen. Except Phil Chambers.

. I looked at the clock above the sink. About four o’clock in the east. Robert wouldn’t be available for PDA hacking for a couple of hours.

Might as well have biscotti.



The next call interrupted me in the nick of time. I’d been about to express the theory I’d held for a while: that Phil, Robin, and Patel were involved in industrial espionage, at least, if not treason. I’d concocted scenes where two of them pass by each other in front of the Indian fabric store on University Avenue, and one slips a computer disk into the pocket of the other.

I envisioned Phil taking Patel’s PDA when he killed him—I knew I needed a motive here—and mailing it to me, to get it out of town. It didn’t make sense, but I couldn’t come up with anything else. I tried to think whether I’d ever heard Phil pronounce my name. Did he say Lamerina? I tried to remember, but I realized that if I condemned everyone who mispronounced or misspelled my name, there wouldn’t be enough striped fabric in the world to make their prison uniforms.