The Oxygen Murder

by Camille Minichino

  The plan to return in person to the agency seemed risky also, the odds of my finding myself once again alone in Dee Dee’s office being very low.

  I imagined placing an anonymous phone call telling Dee Dee to go alone to locker number such-and-such at Penn Station.

  Ridiculous.

  I needed more options.

  Blip blip blip. Blip blip blip.

  The tinkling ring of my cell phone. I dug it from my purse and checked the caller ID.

  Matt! Had he followed me? Had Tina contacted his NYPD friend already?

  My hand slammed into the drinking straw that was sticking out of my water glass. If the tumbler hadn’t had a base large enough to support a skewed center of mass, it would have fallen over.

  I looked past the coffee shop to the stacks of books, as if I’d heard Matt’s voice from there. I imagined he was standing near the true crime section, scowling, his arms across his chest, ready to deliver scathing remarks about my behavior. Irrational notions flitted through my head: that Matt had followed me to Tina’s office and to the bookstore café, that he’d had one of his NYPD friends tail me, that a camera had caught me lifting the file in Dee Dee’s office (maybe this one was not so paranoid) and Tina had called the police.

  Blip blip blip.

  I could let it blip one more cycle and go to my voice mail, but eventually I’d have to face Matt and explain my whereabouts or my unavailability. I heaved a sigh and clicked TALK.

  An attractive young Asian couple stopped by my table, meant for four, and asked if they could sit on the other side. I nodded and turned a bit to shield my conversation from them. They piled layers of clothing and packages onto the extra chair and then unwrapped two thick sandwiches. They began to speak, in Chinese I thought, in normal tones, but it sounded to me like the loud clinking of lab glass. As if I didn’t have enough distractions.

  “Hi, Matt. How’s the conference going?”

  “Terrific. Can’t wait to tell you about smart guns.”

  “Can’t wait to hear.”

  “I also have some tidbits from Buzz. I have a Yogi Berra quote—I wrote one down this time—and some news in the Keenan case.”

  “What’s the Yogi Berra quote?”

  A long pause. “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.”

  Much too appropriate for my situation. I uttered a nervous laugh. “Funny,” I said.

  “I was kidding, you know, telling you that first. Didn’t you hear me say I have news about Amber Keenan?”

  “Oh, Amber,” I said, my mouth dry. “I’m glad.” I cleared my throat. “Where are we eating tonight?”

  Matt was silent for so long I thought we’d lost our connection. Then, “Are you in trouble?”

  “No.” Was my voice really as high as it sounded to me? Was I mimicking the Chinese rhythm on the other side of my table? “Why would you ask that?”

  “Only because you’ve never been so blasé about the skinny in a murder investigation. And there’s that thing in your voice.”

  “What thing?”

  “The nervous thing, like when you’re on the edge of putting yourself in danger, or you’ve done something questionable, legally speaking.”

  I wondered if he knew how right he was. I couldn’t tell him that I was in a quandary about the Keenan case. On the one hand, I felt the only way I could make restitution for my theft was to withdraw completely from any Amber-related involvement. On the other, the only way I could make up for turning my back on Amber was to find her killer. And I used to think quantum paradoxes were baffling.

  “I’m fine, Matt. You said yourself, this is New York and I have no authority here. Not that I actually have authority in Revere.” My mouth was impossibly constricted. I took a sip of water.

  “Okay, now I am worried. Where are you?”

  “No, no, nothing’s wrong. I’m just having a coffee, and there’s a problem hearing you because it’s very crowded in here.” I turned toward the young couple at my table, this time hoping Matt would catch a bit of the animated Chinese conversation across from me.

  I saw myself dressed in gray cotton, if they had jumpsuits big enough to fit me, sitting at a long table with other inmates, our plastic trays touching.

  “And you’re not wildly interested in the Keenan investigation?”

  “Not wildly, and only if you are.”

  “This is not my honey. Tell me where you are or I’ll have a BOLO on you in no time.”

  I uttered a half-laugh, half-cry, and realized how much I needed to see Matt.

  Not that I could ever tell him what I’d done.

  “What were you thinking?” Matt asked, scratching his head. He’d walked to the bookstore café from his conference at the Hilton, a few blocks away, in record time. His face was flushed from the cold and, I guessed, distress at my behavior.

  The young Chinese diners were still at the table, sipping from large plastic cups, and I wondered how much English they understood.

  “I just wanted to help. I felt I’d let Amber down, and I thought if I could figure out why she was killed it might help the police.” I threw up my hands.

  Matt sat on a chair from the table next to mine, so close our knees were touching. It had taken me all of three minutes to tell him what I’d done, how badly I felt, how afraid I was of the consequences.

  I hated that I’d caused him pain. He’d never caused me a moment’s anguish, except when he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Nothing Matt ever did made me lose sleep or look as concerned as he did now.

  “I should be able to handle this,” he said, as if coming back from a tough legal battle with himself. “You didn’t break in or hurt anyone. You saw something that had personal interest for you, Karla’s letterhead. You were curious.”

  I swallowed. Matt sounded like a defense lawyer. Did I need one?

  Matt went on, as if he were rehearsing for an arraignment. “You’re a model citizen. You haven’t done anything like this before. Not that they know of, anyway.”

  He gave me a look I knew was meant to remind me of all the lesser infractions I’d committed working with his department in Revere. A little extracurricular snooping here, a little white lie there, a bluff or a pretense now and then, but all in the name of justice.

  “I have never stolen anything,” I said. Keeping the record straight.

  He patted my knee. “I know that. Now you need to promise me that you won’t pursue this case. It’s not Revere. It’s not safe. Do I need to make a speech?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “I need you to step away from this while I talk to Buzz,” he said, taking out his cell phone. “Do something to distract yourself. Do you think there’s anything in New York City, the Big Apple, to interest you, besides police work?”

  I tilted my head from side to side. Maybe.

  “Rose?” Matt said into his phone.

  Rose? Not Buzz? “Why are you calling her?” I whispered.

  “Gloria’s ready for some sightseeing,” he said into the phone.

  I breathed a sigh of resignation and gave him a sweet smile. Cooperating. Behaving. All the while feeling like a kid whose parent had to go and straighten things out with the school principal. I reminded myself that Matt and I had convinced the Galiganis to take the trip with us so we could enjoy the sights together. At the time, I’d fully intended to let Rose lead me to the places that interested her, to broaden myself in ways other than dress size. It was time to live up to my promise.

  I took Matt’s phone. “It’s me.”

  “I can’t believe you’re up for something fun, Gloria,” she said.

  “What do you feel like doing? I’m all yours, Rose,” I said, as much for Matt as for my shopaholic, sights-obsessed friend.

  I put a chipper note in my voice. Maybe Rose would choose the planetarium, I thought, hopeful. Rose had been there once, though, and had already informed me that was enough. She wasn’t even swayed when I told her the upgraded facility on Central Park We
st was called the Rose Center for Earth and Science.

  My favorite tour would have been to Brookhaven, the national laboratory on Long Island. I’d have given a lot for the inside scoop on their upcoming special conference where two experimental groups, dedicated to the Tevatron and the Large Hadron Collider, would share data and techniques.

  I hoped Rose had already covered the Christmas windows at Lord & Taylor. I wasn’t sure I could ooh and aah to her satisfaction. I didn’t relish another trip through Saks or the gold-inlayed Trump Tower shops, either.

  You’d think I’d have been less picky, that I’d have been grateful just to have been acquitted.

  CHAPTER N

  Rose and I had covered all the main tourist attractions in our youth. The Statue of Liberty. The Empire State Building. Grand Central Station. The New York Stock Exchange. The United Nations Headquarters. I’d even jogged (more like walking a little faster than usual) with Rose in Central Park. We’d had tea (with the tiniest sandwiches I’d ever seen) at the Waldorf and lunch at the Plaza (with the largest vase of flowers in my youthful experience). Rose had also managed to educate me on the then-new Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts.

  What was left?

  “Ellis Island,” Rose said now, calling my cell phone from Bloomingdale’s. Matt and his cell phone had left, and Rose and I were completing arrangements directly. “I’ve been meaning to go down there, but I still haven’t done it since they reopened.”

  How could I refuse a trip to the spot where so many of my relatives, including all of my grandparents’ families on both the Lamerino and the Circelli sides, had entered the country?

  We decided to take separate cabs and meet at Castle Clinton, where the ferry tickets were sold. Easier said than done. New York was cleaner than earlier times I remembered, and I’d read that crime was down, but what hadn’t improved was the availability of taxis. It seemed harder than ever to commandeer a cab. Lori had explained the complicated system of lights on the roofs of the cabs: When just the center bar is lit, highlighting the cab number, the cab is available. When the center and the side lamps are lit, the cab is off duty. When no lights are lit, the cab already has a fare. Sounds efficient, but as far as I could tell, the drivers were not scrupulous about setting the correct lighting. I saw heads in the backseat of every cab that passed me, whether its light was on or off.

  Lori had also taught us the finger signal. A nice, G-rated finger signal. If you were going only a short distance and not taking a homebound driver out of his way, you used your thumb and index finger to indicate “little.” This tactic would not work for the ride from midtown to Battery Park, however, and it took twenty minutes to capture a taxi.

  Reluctantly, I gave the driver an address that took me away from the investigation that had captured my attention.

  Rose was excited to meet me. She’d already bought our tickets and memorized an Ellis Island pamphlet.

  “Twelve million people landed here,” she told me. “Today their descendants—that’s us, Gloria—account for almost forty percent of the United States population. Imagine.”

  “I must say, that is interesting,” I admitted to Rose. “Maybe there’s something to this sightseeing thing after all.”

  Rose showed me her palms, indicating she’d always known as much. Buoyed by my comment, she went on. “The rich passengers were processed on the ship and sent straight to wherever they were going, but the ones in the lower classes or in steerage were detained on the island for medical checkups and paperwork. They were kept in the main hall, which is on the tour.”

  We knew that detention must have been the fate of our grandparents, all of whom started life in America with little more than one battered steamer trunk and a dream.

  I wondered if Amber Keenan had been among the descendants of immigrants (Irish? Welsh? I was no good with names that ended in consonants) to Ellis Island. I had no idea how many of them made their way to the Midwest. Something to ask Rose the next time I needed to keep her busy.

  The ferry ride from Lower Manhattan to Ellis Island, on the waters of New York Harbor, was truly a vacation moment as Rose and I talked about the old days. She was always happy to reminisce, and I was grateful not to be responsible for thinking up topics other than her daughter-in-law’s letterhead, which was at the front of my mind. I had to struggle to keep from feeling I’d betrayed her, also, by taking Karla’s letter.

  Thankfully, Rose hadn’t been inquisitive about why Matt foisted me on her for the afternoon.

  Once on the island, we spent a while cruising the exhibits and the cases of artifacts from the turn of the twentieth century.

  “These might have come from my own house,” Rose said, pointing out collections of crocheted doilies, wedding dresses, christening outfits, and embroidered hankies. “Isn’t this fun, Gloria? See what being a tourist can be like?”

  “It’s fun, but let’s not make a habit of it,” I said.

  Rose laughed, clearly taking my comment as more of a joke than I meant.

  The Ellis Island Immigration Hall put us both in a contemplative mood. We made our way to the dormitories that our grandparents may have slept in. Bunk beds—thin, lumpy, mattresses, more exactly—were stacked three high, two such units to a room, in a space that was barely ten by ten.

  “And we think our hotel rooms are small,” Rose said.

  “I feel extremely petty complaining about the size of our closet when I see this,” I said.

  By unspoken agreement we stood there in silence. I knew Rose was praying, and I thought I was, too.

  But my mind had been wandering away from Ellis Island, to a precinct in Manhattan, where Matt was pleading my case to Buzz, if that’s what he was doing. I wondered what favors he’d owe as a result of my indiscretion. More indicative of my lack of willpower was that I was dying to know what Matt had learned. He’d mentioned some “skinny” he could share on Amber Keenan’s case. I didn’t dare ask him while he still held my freedom in his hands.

  Anyway, I was off the case.

  “Gloria, did you hear me?” Rose asked. “I’m suggesting we get in line for the next ferry back, since it will take a while to catch a cab uptown once we’re in Manhattan.”

  “Good idea. Oh, by the way, Rose, do you know if Karla does any business in New York?” Off the case, but not off the curiosity.

  “She certainly does. It’s nice to be able to claim a business expense when you’re visiting parents, right? Not that the IRS should worry,” Rose said, giving me a poke in the arm.

  “She lived here in New York through college, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, all her life until she graduated. She was on vacation in Boston one spring and drove out to Revere to see her cousin Edwina. You’ve met Edwina. She’s the one with the charming pixie haircut. Nice young woman. Well, Edwina’s brother was a friend of my Robert’s, so they were introduced, and the rest is history.”

  The history was that Karla Sasso relocated to Revere, went to Northeastern Law School in Boston, and married Robert, who was now in partnership with his father, running the Galigani Mortuary. Their teenaged son, William, was Rose’s only grandchild. Rose always gave her children equal time, so I was surprised she didn’t launch into the history of her other two children: John, a journalist for the Revere newspaper, and Mary Catherine, MC, my godchild, an ex–research chemist and now a high school teacher.

  “I hope we’ll be able to see Karla this week. Unless you think she’ll have too much business?” I said.

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I talked to Karla this morning. I wanted her to know we’d still be here, so we can all hook up at her parents’ for dinner some night. You and Matt are invited, too, of course. She mentioned having to follow up on some work with a private investigator.”

  I gulped. “A private investigator here in Manhattan?”

  “Yes, and I wish she’d forget work for a while and relax. She’s seemed so stressed lately.”

  I mulled this over, but before I could pry
further, Rose turned her back to me. “Let’s not miss that view, Gloria. Isn’t that the perfect skyline?”

  Looking over Rose’s shoulder, I had to agree. The beauty and the density of the buildings were overwhelming. Rose snapped a few photos, but I couldn’t bear to limit the view to a tiny four-inch-square screen, and my camera stayed in my purse.

  I wondered in which building Fielding lived, and why Karla was stressed. It’s nothing, I told myself. What lawyer isn’t stressed?

  After nearly a half hour of stepping on and off the curb at Battery Park, taking turns sticking our arms out, bouncing up and down to keep warm, Rose and I garnered a cab to our hotel. We settled in for a tinny-sounding “Let It Snow” blaring from the back-door speakers. Once we were warm, Rose made another pitch for a wedding reception for Matt and me, just a simple party at her home, to celebrate our marriage.

  “A party for the new Mr. and Mrs. . . . Oops,” she said. “I mean, the Lamerino-Gennaro union. Really, Gloria, I don’t see why you didn’t change your name. Aren’t you happy to be married to Matt?”

  A straw-man fallacy if I ever heard one.

  Then, as if to make up for her biography of Karla and Robert on the ferry, Rose related anecdotes about John (he took his girlfriend, Suzanne, to a wedding last weekend, and that could be a sign he’s thinking of getting married himself ) and Mary Catherine (she finally got rid of the couch I left in the apartment above the mortuary and bought her own).

  I took in enough of the stories to pass a quiz, but in the back of my mind was Amber Keenan and her short life. I knew Matt was out there bailing me out with the NYPD, and I’d promised not to meddle again, but how was I supposed to pretend Amber’s terrible death hadn’t happened, right in front of me?

  In the hotel elevator, Rose pushed the button for the sixth floor.

  “ ’Bye until dinner, Gloria. Thanks for a wonderful, wonderful afternoon.”

  All I’d done was show up. Rose had suggested the trip to Ellis Island, bought the tickets, and narrated the tour. If she weren’t so easy to please, we wouldn’t have been friends this long.