Carbon Murder, The

by Camille Minichino

  She made a firm resolution never again to have coffee with anyone unless she wanted to.

  The best thing was she’d forgotten to say where she was meeting Wayne, so she didn’t have to worry about Aunt G getting stuck with him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Stay where you are, Matt had said, surely the most sensible advice.

  I started the car and rolled out of the parking lot. A right onto the street would take me to the hospital, a left to Tomasso’s. There’s still time to be sensible. I turned left, my windshield wipers going more slowly than my heartbeat.

  I punched in Berger’s cell phone number. When it rang through to his voice mail, I clicked off, not bothering to leave a message.

  I made it to Tomasso’s in record time, in spite of a new downpour, ignoring the speed limit as if I had a siren and flashing lights attached to my Caddie. I’d hoped to see six or seven cruisers crisscrossed in front of the restaurant, but the street was quiet. I didn’t see MC’s Nissan, either, but realized it didn’t mean anything, since she might have walked.

  I pulled up across the street from Tomasso’s and studied the exterior of the squat yellowish building. The right side, the main dining room, was dark, but the Coffee Annex on the left seemed busy as usual. Through the long narrow window onto the street I could make out a few people at the drink counter, several occupied tables and chairs, and the long handles of baby strollers.

  Once again I was on a kind of stakeout without a description of the person I was there for. I let out a loud sigh. With any luck, I thought, Alex Simpson doesn’t know what I look like, either.

  I checked my watch. Eleven-ten. MC had said she’d be here about eleven, but she tended to run late. Or, MC was across town in another coffee shop. That thought was too frightening to pursue.

  I reviewed my options.

  I could go into the restaurant and look for a Texan. I wondered what the chances were that Alex too had a handlebar mustache. I figured MC would have mentioned that at some point.

  Be more specific, I told myself, look for a man—did I know his age? He’d be old enough to run a major science program, and he’d be sitting alone. Looking like a killer.

  I got out of my car to the sound of ding ding ding. My keys. Not that I was nervous.

  At the last minute I decided not to enter through the front door. What if Alex had a gun pointed and ready as soon as MC gave a sign that she recognized me? What if he was shooting everyone coming through the door? That theory was happily blown when an old man with a cane entered and I heard no shots or sounds of struggle.

  There was a small alley around the side of the restaurant, along the left wall of the building, on the Coffee Annex side. In the old days of the bakery, I remembered, there was a delivery door there.

  I got back in my car and drove up the block and around so that I was now one half a building past the restaurant, on the same side of the street. From this position, I could exit my car and walk around the front of it, and then down the alley without being seen by the people in the shop.

  I got out again, this time remembering to take my keys.

  Thanks to unpredictable weather the last few days, I was wearing my flat, black boots, comfortable and rubber-soled. Quiet, as the shoes of a scout should be. There was no window along the wall, no opening except the old delivery door with a new-looking storm door in front of it. A narrow overhang prevented me from getting soaked. I made my way down the alley, keeping my back against the wall. Another jacket lost to the job, I thought, as I heard the scraping of the rayon against the rough wood.

  In front of me was the yard to the next house, raised off the sidewalk and surrounded by a chain-link fence. If anyone were looking out the top window, what would they think? The senior-citizen branch of the CIA let loose on the street? An inmate from the nearest asylum? I picked my way through orange peels and halfcrushed soda cups and straws. And Styrofoam to-go containers, to remind me of Matt waiting for me at the hospital. I took the reminder as a signal to turn off my cell phone, in case he tried to call me. Wouldn’t that make an amusing headline on the police blotter—RESCUE ATTEMPT FOILED WHEN CELL PHONE RINGS.

  I could hear crowd noises from inside the shop, but not too loud, with background music that could have been classical jazz or some other instrumental strains. I pictured the interior of the restaurant just behind the door. I’d been inside enough times and had a clear memory of the rest rooms at the back, beyond the door, between the main dining room and the coffee shop. When I entered the door, I’d be not quite that far back, but in front of the kitchen area and directly behind the famous, enormous copper vat.

  Only after I pulled the storm door toward me and felt the old wooden door give way at my gentle push did I realize I’d had no backup plan in case the doors were locked. Better lucky than smart, my father, Marco Lamerino, had often said.

  I listened for police sirens, but heard none. I couldn’t imagine what was taking them so long.

  I slipped into the back of the restaurant. A couple of young men in kitchen-help outfits saw me and smiled, as if this were an everyday occurrence. I smiled back. I was prepared with an “I’m looking for the ladies’ room” or “I just want to check the bulletin-board photos” defense, if questioned.

  I smelled Tomasso’s wonderful, strong coffee and realized I’d had nothing to eat or drink since a fingerful of brownie batter at two in the morning. Pretty soon I’d be back as a regular customer in the front of the shop, I told myself.

  I positioned myself behind the copper vat. At my height, I was mostly hidden by the vat, and I could look through the space between the center urn and one of the smaller sections, over the largest spout. The eagle at the very top of the center section hovered over me.

  I scanned the area.

  The ORDER HERE and PICK-UP HERE counters on my left had no one in line at the moment. Several tables along the right were occupied by women and children in strollers or booster seats. The new daycare environment. A row of tables down the middle of the room held an old couple that included the man with the cane, a young Asian woman writing in a notebook with a textbook to her side, and … a man by himself, his back to me, on a black wrought-iron chair not more than four feet away. Average age, average size.

  It was Alex Simpson. I knew because of his posture, his tight black jeans, his pointy maroon boots sticking out into the aisle. Nothing, really. Just that he was the only single man and I didn’t like the looks of him, even from the back. The good news was MC was nowhere in sight.

  The next moments rolled into one. Two RPD cruisers pulled up in front of Tomasso’s. Through the front window, I could see four uniforms swagger toward the door, two abreast. As they entered the shop, the man in front of me, who I was convinced was Alex Simpson, stood up, reached his right arm back, and lifted his plaid jacket.

  The silver butt of a gun stuck out from his belt.

  I felt part of a naturally flowing drama and let my mind and body respond freely. I grabbed hold of the thin strap that secured the vat against a floor-to-ceiling beam. I slipped the strap from its loose knot and did a quick calculation. If the vat’s center of mass was where I thought it should be from its external proportions, the vat would topple straight ahead, its towering center section hitting only the man and no one to either side of him.

  I placed my hands squarely on the shiny vat, side by side, and pushed it over with all my might.

  When the first section hit Alex’s right shoulder he was bent slightly, his hand on the handle of his gun. He turned a few more degrees and I caught his expression. His tanned face was pinched, first in surprise, then in pain as the eagle landed on his head.

  My calculation had been correct.

  The RPD rushed toward Alex Simpson, trapped under Tomasso’s vat, and arrested him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  It’s always like this, I thought. A stormy week or so, and then a peaceful gathering of everyone I love. Matt was more than halfway through his radiation reg
ime and was doing fine, better than in his pre-therapy stage, in fact.

  Rose was pleased that Matt and I accepted her offer to throw an engagement party at the Galiganis’ residence. Our only stipulation was no presents. As a result we got a variety of amusing items, including an enormous “police badge” for me, made of plaster of Paris, and an oversized blue ribbon with BEST COUPLE in gold letters.

  I lingered for a while in a corner of the living room with Jean and her children—my in-laws to-be. Alysse had a large red mark on her cheek. At first I thought it was a teenage rash, but on closer look I saw that it was a giant letter S.

  “It’s for Stevie, my boyfriend,” Alysse said.

  Jean rolled her eyes. “It’s what they do these days. Thank God it’s not permanent ink. I’m sure Stevie isn’t permanent.”

  Alysse’s turn to roll her eyes.

  I roamed the room listening to the spectrum of conversations, joining one now and then, but mostly thrilled to belong to this gathering.

  My first stop was with MC and Daniel Endicott, standing by the fireplace, each leaning an arm on the mantel.

  Daniel to MC: Maria Telkes’s heating system used black sheet metal collectors to capture solar energy; then it was stored in these bins by the phase-change of a sodium compound.

  MC to Daniel: I read about that. I think it was sodium sulphate decahydrate.

  Daniel to MC: So would you like to see the traps we use for the coyotes? I have some in my garage. Then maybe grab some dinner?

  MC to Daniel: Sure.

  I smiled and wandered to the police conversation.

  Matt on a chair, with Berger leaning over him: I guess he [Alex Simpson] thought he’d walk MC out the door with a gun held subtly to her back and … who knows? Make an issue of the fact that he wasn’t going to surrender easily?

  Berger to Matt: Gallen was an even stranger guy. I saw him after the D and D stint. He told me he considered himself a failure because he never got to kill anyone. He wanted to kill Forman at the Beach Lodge that night, before Forman could get to MC, but when he got there Forman was already dead. Of course, now we know that Simpson killed Forman. Gallen said he wanted to kill Powers, but Simpson beat him to that, too.

  Matt to Berger: Can’t arrest anyone for talking. So it looks like Simpson was in Revere for a week or so, not on his dude ranch.

  Matt to Berger: Yeah, I guess he didn’t completely trust his errand boy.

  Elaine and my cousin Mary Ann were at the buffet table together, filling lovely china plates with salads and calzone from Rose’s grandmother’s recipe, which called for both pepperoni and sausage.

  Mary Ann to Elaine: I’ll be glad when they’re married and not living … well, whatever they call it these days.

  Elaine to Mary Ann [scooping polenta onto her plate]: They call it fun!

  At the other end of the room, the two morticians talked shop.

  Frank Galigani to his son and partner, Robert: The aspiration process has nothing to do with the flow, so I don’t know what they’re talking about.

  Robert to Frank: I know, Pa, but this guy at the conference said aspirate for only five minutes unless the case is really bad, you know, if the bowels …

  I left quickly.

  Rose still had questions about MC’s near miss at Tomasso’s, and stopped at Matt’s chair to inquire about the efficiency of the RPD.

  Rose to Matt: Why did it take the police so long to get to the Coffee Annex? Gloria got there first and there must have been a police car closer, don’t you think?

  Matt to Rose: They were waiting for a fax from Houston PD with a photo of the guy they were looking for.

  Matt sent a glance in my direction to remind me I was never one to let something like lack of description of a perp get in my way.

  Andrea arrived early to help set the tables. Peter came later but behaved like her date, a pleasure to see.

  Peter: I’m so happy for you and Matt, Gloria. Things always work out well in the end, don’t they?

  Me: They certainly seem to.

  Andrea: [smiling hugely, sighing audibly, no words necessary].

  Back to the funeral directors.

  Robert to Frank: They found the guy’s horse, you know. Farther up toward Saugus. I looked into what they do with them.

  Frank to Robert: With what?

  Robert to Frank: Dead horses.

  Frank to Robert: Oh yeah? What?

  Robert to Frank: They call it a tallow works factory. They process dead farm animals into byproducts.

  Frank to Robert: Like what?

  I left again.

  Robert’s wife, Karla, had picked up Mrs. Cataldo, who’d taught both MC and me chemistry, albeit in different decades. MC took pains to explain to Mrs. Cataldo that not all Texans were evil, that she’d made many wonderful friends there.

  Mrs. Cataldo, on the couch, to MC and me, standing: Do you ever use your chemistry, dears?

  MC: All the time, Mrs. Cataldo.

  Me: Now and then, and when I do I think of you.

  Mrs. Cataldo: Do you ever do that amazing trick with the banana and the liquid nitrogen?

  Matt passed by just in time to hear Mrs. Cataldo’s question. He looked at me. “Don’t tell me. Nitrogen is after carbon on the periodic table.”

  I nodded and gave him my best smile, fiancée to fiancé.

  ALSO BY CAMILLE MINICHINO

  THE HYDROGEN MURDER

  THE HELIUM MURDER

  THE LITHIUM MURDER

  THE BERYLLIUM MURDER

  THE BORIC ACID MURDER

  THE CARBON MURDER. Copyright © 2004 by Camille Minichino. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  eISBN 9781429933872

  First eBook Edition : May 2011

  First Edition: March 2004