The Nitrogen Murder(7)

The sun beat down on us. I’d remembered to wear long sleeves for protection against the intense California rays, but Matt had on a polo shirt and complained mildly about his skin burning up. “Summer wimps,” Elaine called us both. Her sleeveless linen dress, a pale yellow, showed no sign she’d even sat in it.

As we picked our way along the broken sidewalk, skirting candy wrappers and cigarette butts, Matt assumed his assessing-the-environment attitude, scanning the area. The posture seemed incongruous with the pretty flowers he carried.

“Dana just moved in a couple of weeks ago. I’ve never been here,” Elaine said. From her tone, she may have wanted to assure us that she had nothing to do with choosing the shabby neighborhood.

Except for several rowdy dogs, mercifully behind chain-link fences, there was no sign of life on the street until we arrived at the house Dana shared with two roommates. Her door was propped open by a large, bulging backpack. The purse of choice for recent generations.

Dana’s house was old, built long before safety codes. The stairs were steep and narrow, with no railing, almost as precarious as the Rose Garden’s terrace steps, but not at all as attractive. Neither were the few roses in the small front yard. They hung limply from their stems, as if they were sad, having just heard the news of Tanisha Hall’s death.

I worried about Matt, who insisted on carrying everything up the steps. I strained to listen to his breathing, inexpertly evaluating his respiration. He’d awakened to news of a murder that affected someone close to Elaine, if not to us, and probably was concerned about my juvenile reaction to Phil Chambers. So far, not a fun vacation. I’d wondered about the wisdom of his making the trip in the first place, but his doctors enthusiastically had given permission.

“I was on the lookout for you,” Dana said, appearing at her door. “It’s hard to see the number here with all this greenery.”

She’d swept aside a hanging plant, her gentle voice and sad eyes belying the obvious strength of her body Fitting my stereotype of what an EMT should look like, Dana was tall and broad-shouldered; her long arms and legs, not very covered by short shorts and a tank top, were tanned and muscular.

Elaine embraced Dana, reaching up as high as when she’d embraced Phil a while earlier. “I’m so sorry, Dana,” Elaine said. “This must be just … incredibly hard for you.” The two women stayed together a moment or two. Elaine sobbed quietly; Dana stared over Elaine’s shoulder, her eyes ringed with red. She patted Elaine’s back, as if Elaine were the one needing comfort. My heart went out to Dana; I liked her immediately and pointlessly wished I’d been nicer to her father.

“We brought some sustenance from Fourth Street,” Elaine said when she broke away

Matt produced the food and the plant and a warm smile, and we crossed the threshold into Dana’s living room.

“Elaine’s told me all about both of you, and I’ve been dying to meet you,” Dana said, addressing Matt and me. “I’m sorry I’m not in better shape, but I’m so glad you came. My roommates both had things to do, and I told them I didn’t need them to stay around, but I really don’t want to be alone.”

I had the feeling this visit would be free of hidden, or not so hidden, hostility and resolved to give Dana’s father another chance.



We settled ourselves on a variety of mismatched chairs in Dana’s living room. I took a wooden rocker with a multicolored braided pad; Dana and Elaine sat on the floral patterned couch, which I recognized from Elaine’s old living room set; Matt dragged in a straight-backed chair from the dining room. I imagined three sets of parents, plus assorted stepparents, all contributing to furnishing the house for the three young women. I wondered what, if anything, Dana’s mother had passed along. Elaine knew little about Phil’s first wife, she’d told me, other than she now lived in Florida with a new family.

In spite of her cushy seat on the couch, Dana sat stiff as the bed board I’d used when I hurt my back lifting an oscilloscope. Her conversation was equally taut.

“How was your flight?” she asked. She swung her head from me to Matt, her eyes not quite focused on either of us.

“No incidents,” I replied, regretting my word choice as soon as I said it. Dana showed no special reaction.

“Don’t you hate airplane food?” Dana asked. She glanced at the buttery scones, the moist muffins, and the double-thick brownies we’d brought from Bette’s as if they, too, had been served ice cold, wrapped in plastic on a tray of questionable cleanliness.

“We stopped at the Rose Garden,” Elaine said, with no elaboration.