The Nitrogen Murder(89)

For now, here I was, the poor man’s answer to Einstein, who spent much of his life trying to tie gravity and electromagnetic forces together, in one grand unified theory.

Winding through the narrow streets in the Claremont district, needing a U-turn in spite of my having been here before, I wondered how anyone could have followed me that first time without my spotting him. But assuming it was Howard Christopher, Patel’s boss, all he had probably needed was to realize the direction I was heading. Then he could have figured out that the Woodland Road home must be Phil’s hideout.

I pulled into the cul-de-sac, drove around under my own private hide-a-car willow tree, and stepped out of the Saab. No sounds other than whispering branches; no rooms lit up in the neighboring houses. No rowdy frat parties here. But there was a dim light in an upstairs room of Patel’s house, not the night-light I’d seen on the bottom floor on my last nighttime trip. Inadvertently left on by the crime scene team, I figured.

Light from the streetlights at two and at ten o’clock in the cul-de-sac circle bounced off various shiny surfaces—the chrome bumper of a car in a driveway (the least worthy vehicle in the family, I guessed), the handle or hand brake of a bicycle, and then the shiny yellow plastic of the crime scene tape. The strip of tape fluttered in the slight breeze, and as I approached the front door, I saw why.

The tape had been cut.

I froze.

Someone must be in the house. Someone also addicted to crime scenes? A curious neighbor who’d witnessed the drama earlier in the day? Not the police—the only cars in the cul-de-sac besides mine were tucked into driveways, and whoever had a right to be here wouldn’t need to hide his vehicle or nose around inside in dim light.

I’d gone halfway up the walk; my feet seemed attached to the flat stones. I strained to see if the door was open; it appeared to be slightly ajar. My body swayed involuntarily, following my mind. To go forward or to run back to the car?

I took a short step toward the door, mesmerized by the shadows, the breezes, the dim light, the yellow tape that seemed to glow.

In the next second, the upstairs light went out, and a shot rang out over my head.

I unstuck my shoes from the walkway in record time and ran.



I arrived at the car gasping for breath, my already injured ankle and my knees hurting badly As I ran, I’d kept my head and shoulders low—no mean feat for someone without a well-defined waist, and now my limbs were protesting. My heart pounded somewhere up in my throat. I fumbled to put the key in the ignition, dropped it to the floor, picked it up, and tried again. When I finally roared out of the cul-de-sac, I checked the rearview mirror. I noticed no cars or people following me or even looking after me.

The shot had sounded like an early firecracker.

I wanted desperately to think that was what it was.

This time there was no interesting package on the front seat, no amusing prank I could play with a pizza delivery person.

Possibilities ran through my mind. My best guess was that Howard Christopher had broken into Patel’s house, suspecting his time was running out, trying to destroy any additional incriminating evidence at the last minute.

Halfway across town I caught my breath. I realized I would have been dead if the shooter had been seriously trying to kill me. I’d been the world’s best target, standing under a streetlight, my hips wide enough for any sighting mechanism, especially if this had not been the shooter’s first experience with a gun.

I was sure the person was only trying to scare me off.

It worked.



I pulled into Elaine’s driveway. Unlike the Patel house, in Elaine’s all the lights were on. I’d been found out. Comforting as the lights were, I knew it would be a specious welcome.





“You could have been killed,” Elaine said. Not one to talk after her stunt this morning. Except she could claim that her instincts saved Phil’s life; all I’d done was endanger mine.

My aborted visit to Patel’s house had been so upsetting that I’d blurted out the truth before I could stop myself.

Matt’s silence unnerved me. I wished he would yell, though yelling wasn’t his style. It had been a long while since he’d chided me for putting myself in a dangerous situation. I hated the thought of his being angry with me.

“I was curious.” It sounded lame, even to me. “And I guess someone wanted me to mind my own business, so they … scared me off.”

“Shot at you,” Matt said. “Someone shot at you. Is that right?” His tone was gentle; his voice would sound cool to anyone but me. I heard the undercurrent of distress and frustration.

“Yes, a shot went way over my head,” I said, making it sound as if I’d been able to calculate the harmless trajectory of the bullet. I looked at the kitchen clock. One o’clock; my fiancé and my hostess, each holding—almost leaning on—a mug of coffee, looked exhausted and tense. “I’m so sorry. I caused all this.”