The Nitrogen Murder

by Camille Minichino

  Quick handshakes all around, and Russell got down to business. He put on half-glasses like Julia’s, minus the comment about getting old, and lowered his head to a sheaf of papers in front of him. Dana thought she’d never seen a pointier chin.

  “I have your statement from last Friday evening, Ms. Chambers. At that time you indicated that your partner, Tanisha Hall, was not a drug user.” Dana gulped. She remembered the question, remembered deciding that a toke now and then, and a pipe at parties, did not constitute “drug use.”

  “That’s correct,” she told Russell, clutching her purse to keep from wringing her hands.

  “Well, that’s what I thought you said.” Russell leaned back in the chair until it hit the wall behind him. His head landed next to a poster on crime prevention. Bold letters and bullets shouted safety tips and information on burglar alarms, senior safety, holiday safety, personal security, domestic violence … the rest were hidden behind Russell’s broad shoulders. “But see here,” he said, holding up a fax, “this report you submitted to your supervisor says different.”

  Dana shrank back, feeling her stomach clutch; Matt shifted closer to Russell’s desk and made a motion to view the fax. He looked more like her lawyer than a friend, and Dana wondered if she did need an attorney. She thought of the countless Law & Order reruns she’d seen and how “lawyering up” was a big deal.

  Matt put Dana’s report on the table between them, so Dana could see the copy of what she’d given to Julia only a couple of hours ago. Dana remembered downloading the form from Valley Med’s Web site and filling in the blanks on the screen. At the bottom of the page was room for a brief summary of the CI, and she’d typed that in also. She’d assumed no one outside Valley Med would see it, certainly not the police. What would I have done differently if I’d known it was going to end on a cop’s desk? Dana asked herself, and thought, Nothing.

  Matt pointed to QUESTION 10: TO YOUR KNOWLEDGE, WERE DRUGS INVOLVED IN THE CI?

  Dana was startled by an x beside YES. She was sure she’d checked NO. What was this? A slip of her fingers? She’d have to explain.

  “Uh, I’m sorry, this is an error. I meant to check no. Neither of us was using drugs.” That should clear it up, Dana thought, but still felt her mouth go dry.

  “Not as simple as that,” Russell said. “Especially since we found rolling papers on her body.”

  Rolling papers. Dana thought back to the convenience-store stop they’d made on Friday afternoon. Tanisha had bought a packet of her favorite, environmentally friendly papers, no flavored dyes or toxins, no glue. What did all that health consciousness get her? Dana thought.

  “Papers are not illegal—” Dana began.

  She stopped when Matt put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Do you have anything else?” Matt asked Russell.

  Russell smiled. Not a friendly smile, more like a “gotcha” smile. “As we speak, we’re searching the Hall residence in San Leandro.”

  Dana’s throat closed up. She had no idea where Tanisha kept her stash, except far from where her daughter or her mother might come upon it. It’s just weed, she thought, but she didn’t dare say anything.

  Some nonverbal communication that Dana missed had taken Russell and Matt to the side of the room, out of her hearing.

  Inspector Russell’s briefcase stood under the small table. The soft-sided kind, not at all like the briefcase the Indian scientist left in her ambulance, but it reminded Dana of the one missing from her house. The police seemed to have forgotten about the Indian’s briefcase. No way was she going to bring it up now.

  She thought back on her interview with Russell, and remembered Tom’s admonition: Better be careful what you tell them. And Julia’s warning: Avoid anything that would reflect badly on the company. She hoped she hadn’t said anything against that advice. Most of all, however, she wanted to get out of there without handcuffs.

  Matt took Dana’s arm and led her down the stairs to the front door, a gesture Dana would never have accepted from a date, but one she welcomed now. Her legs felt like two elongated gel packs, and she wanted to leave the building quickly. She knew she wouldn’t draw a decent breath until the last uniform was well behind her. She didn’t like the feeling; she’d always worked well with the cops she’d met on the job, who’d helped her with a few difficult transports, and she’d dated a rookie, Derek, a reasonably fun one-monther. Quite different being on the other side of them.

  “What did all that mean?” she asked Matt, safely in her Jeep. “And why aren’t I in jail?”

  “You weren’t found with drugs. They have to accept your explanation for now, that you made a mistake, but if they find anything at Tanisha’s, they may call you back.”

  “So are you the reason they’re not holding me now?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Thanks.” A weak voice, and a word that hardly covered her feeling of gratitude.

  “Will they find drugs at Tanisha’s?” Matt asked.

  Dana sighed, annoyed now that she felt free of the police building. “Maybe a couple of ounces. Or less. Just some grass, absolutely nothing else. It should be legalized anyway. Something like 80 percent of Americans favor legalization.” How many times had she and her friends had this conversation, thought about getting involved with activist groups trying to change California laws?

  “But it’s not legal now, Dana, though I’m guessing the Berkeley PD has more to worry about than a toke or two. They’re on a fishing expedition. They’re looking for something to close this case. How do you think it happened that your report gave them the opportunity they were looking for?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been pretty upset. I could have just hit the wrong box.”

  “Was the report in your custody until you submitted it to your boss this morning?”

  Custody was such a formal word, like her parents’ custody fight when they split, or when they asked you at the airport if your luggage has always been in your custody. Dana’s first thought had been to say “of course” about the report—until she remembered that Robin printed out the report for her. Robin, who suddenly had a whole new wardrobe fit for a luxury cruise. Robin, who had the dead man’s ID card in her closet.

  Dana fished inside her purse, stuffed between her thigh and the door of the Jeep, and pulled out the laminated card. She turned to Matt.

  “I have something to show you,” she said.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Andrea’s voice message started out benignly enough.

  A“Hi, Gloria and Elaine, this is Andrea back here in Revere, where it’s very hot and humid. Ugh. I hope everything’s going fine with the wedding plans. I can’t wait to see some pictures.”

  But the message took a turn that ruined my day, and then some.

  “Gloria, I happened to be hanging around here late and had a chance to look up the names you gave me. I figured I’d just call you. I’m not sure what you had in mind for your class, but I found a lot of papers written by those two guys you wanted me to look into. Looks like Philip Chambers and Lokesh Patel have worked together a lot.”

  I could have sworn Andrea had put undue emphasis on “Philip Chambers.” Elaine looked at me as if she’d just been wounded but couldn’t figure out where, nor where the blow had come from. I knew it wouldn’t be long before it was clear to her.

  Andrea’s voice continued.

  “ … a list of about six papers, the most recent that they coauthored, with some other guys, on nitrogen fullerenes, high explosives, that kind of stuff, definitely weapons related. So just let me know what’s next. I’ll have to dig out the unclassified versions in hard copies, and then I can fax them to you, or mail, or maybe scan and attach to an e-mail, whatever. Hope this will help your class prep. Any crime-busting adventures out there, by the way?”

  Here Andrea laughed, and I nearly cried.

  “You know I love to help. Bye for now.”

  By the close of the seemingly endless message, Elaine knew exactly who had
struck the blow. She shot me a look of pain and consternation. Her eyes narrowed to slits focused on me. She leaned one elbow on the kitchen counter, between her answering machine and her blender; her other arm hung by her side. The sloppiest posture I’d ever seen on her.

  How could I have been so dumb as to forget to tell Andrea to use my cell phone number? I’d given no thought to how Andrea might respond to my e-mail request from the library A bad detective, and a worse friend. I was hardly able to stand up myself without leaning on the counter next to Elaine and her immaculate toaster oven.

  Where to start? “I’m sorry, Elaine, I—”

  She held up her hand. Clearly, that was not a good beginning. Elaine turned and left the kitchen. I heard her footsteps on the stairs. I heard her bedroom door slam. In my mind, I heard her call a cab to take Matt and me to the airport.

  I left the house almost immediately so Elaine wouldn’t feel like a prisoner in her own home. I’d slipped a note under her bedroom door. I sensed no movement inside, probably because she’d heard me pound my way up the steps.

  Elaine, I’m going for a walk. I know I have a lot to explain and hope you will allow me to. Love, G.

  Fortunately, in Berkeley, there’s always a coffee shop within walking distance. I took a table at the one nearest Elaine’s, at the edge of Holy Hill, and tried to regain my composure enough to formulate a plan. I was tempted to order from the impressive collection of Italian sodas but thought I’d fare better with another dose of caffeine.

  I called Matt first, to head him off. He answered from Dana’s Jeep.

  “We’re on our way back. Dana’s going to drop me off at Elaine’s,” he said. “We’re about five minutes away.”

  Close call. “Can you meet me at the Heavenly Cup instead?” I asked. “It’s the one near Hearst and Euclid.”

  “Something wrong?” Did he know that I’d nearly blurted out, No, no, don’t go to Elaine’s!

  “I’ll explain when you get here.”

  “You’re okay, though, right?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “So, you in trouble?”

  I looked at my cell phone and could almost see Matt’s grin on the screen. The image relaxed me enough to take my first good breath since hearing Andrea’s message.

  While I waited for Matt, I called Andrea and thanked her for finding the papers I’d asked for, trying to put only a positive spin on her efforts, in my mind as well as with my words. There was no way I could blame Andrea for this. She wouldn’t have recognized Phil’s name. Nor would she have thought I’d be so low as to investigate Elaine’s fiance.

  Without telling her why, I asked her to use my cell phone number for all future communication.

  “Oh, right,” she said. “I should have known not to tie up Elaine’s line. Wedding calls galore, I’ll bet.”

  “That’s it.” I didn’t mention that I might be going home sooner than planned. “I can’t really talk now, Andrea, but I’ll call later with a fax number for the nearest copy place.”

  “Okay.” Then, “Oh, wait, Gloria. One more thing before you hang up.” Andrea sounded out of breath, as if she’d had to run to catch up with me before I clicked END. “There was an explosion in Chelsea today. O‘Neal’s—”

  “O’Neal’s hearse.” I’d forgotten about Rose’s crisis. One too many for me at the moment. “I know. Andrea, will you do me a great favor and call Rose? Tell her my battery is—” It was a measure of my distress that I resorted to a trick as old as telephone wires. I punched numbers at random, hoping the sound would convince Andrea that I was losing my battery power. Not to say my mind, but Andrea might not be able to figure that one out. Then I punched OFF and put my cell phone in my purse, out of service.

  “Are you okay?” The young waitress who put a double espresso in front of me seemed concerned. I wondered what I looked like to prompt the question. I hadn’t realized I was crying.

  Dana stopped only long enough to drop Matt off. I was glad she didn’t join us for coffee. After all, the man whose life I’d been snooping around in was not only Elaine’s fiance but also Dana’s father.

  Matt greeted me with a look that warned of major teasing. “Dana’s going for a nice massage now. Arranged by Elaine. She’s such a good friend to all.”

  Matt knew how to get to me. It was a good thing he loved me.

  “How did you know? That I was in trouble with Elaine?” I asked him.

  “It was bound to happen. You’re living in Elaine’s house and investigating her fiance. It’s a no-brainer.”

  “A no-brainer? I can tell you’ve been hanging around with the twenty-something set.”

  The twenty-something waitress brought a latte for Matt and added regular coffee to my tiny espresso cup. The young woman’s T-shirt bore a yellow-and-black diamond-shaped design with the words JESUS AT WORK. A reminder that we were in the Heavenly Cup on Holy Hill. I felt anything but saintly.

  “I feel awful, Matt,” I said. “I don’t know how I’m going to fix this. There’s probably nothing to investigate in the first place, and here I am—”

  Matt put his hand on mine. I stopped speaking and allowed myself to feel the warmth. Not molecular heat, which I had plenty of myself, but the warmth of his touch. Understanding and supportive.

  And, this time, validating.

  “Turns out you were right to be suspicious, if that makes you feel any better.”

  “Yes and no, I guess.”

  At that moment I wished I could have gone to Elaine, confessed to being disoriented by hot flashes, or just an old, bungling retired physicist, and beg her forgiveness for the silliest suspicions in history. But I already knew from Andrea’s message that at the very least Phil had lied about not knowing a dead Indian scientist whose duffel bag or briefcase might have something to do with Tanisha Hall’s death.

  Now I had to decide whether to back off completely, in spite of confirmed suspicions, and crawl back to Elaine, or to crawl back to her with evidence that she would thank me for later. When has that ever worked? I asked myself. The messenger is rarely greeted with gratitude and open arms.

  I convinced myself that my friendship with Elaine would survive on its longevity and its own merits.

  “Tell me more,” I said.

  He laid out what he’d learned from Dana and the Berkeley PD, not necessarily in concert, he pointed out.

  Russell hadn’t been willing to share much except the negatives: The duffel bag did not have anything important, just tennis balls and gym clothes. The ballistics results were not in, but, because of the drug issue, they were going with unrelated shootings, just as the newspapers reported.

  “A crimp in my conspiracy theory.”

  Matt nodded and replayed for me the scenario that had Dana mistakenly checking the YES box for drug use. He seemed to doubt it, and I was inclined to agree. I was dismayed that the police now had a reason to write off Tanisha’s death as one more drug-related shooting in the African American community.

  I was most intrigued by the strange surfacing of Lokesh Patel’s Dorman Industries ID and by the triple threat of Phil/ Lokesh/Robin.

  “How long has Dana known Robin?” Matt asked, not because he thought I knew but as part of our working routine—asking questions without answers, throwing out theories without thought of logic. The first data dump.

  “How neat it would be if Dana’s father introduced her to Robin,” I offered.

  “It seems likely that there was classified stuff in the briefcase,” Matt speculated.

  “And where is that briefcase?” I wondered aloud. A belated response to Dana’s report to Matt about its being missing from her house.

  Over unidentifiable rock (maybe) music from Heavenly Cup’s speakers, I could hear the James Bond theme song. “Phil Chambers and Lokesh Patel are involved in espionage, and the CIA goes after one of them, and Tanisha Hall gets caught in the crossfire.”

  “Or vice versa,” Matt said.

  “Tanisha was CIA?”


  “Maybe this is a good stopping point,” Matt said.

  Matt and I left the coffee shop to find a copy place with a fax machine. We walked around the edges of the campus, using city streets, passing buildings and landmarks I knew and loved from my days as a Berkeley resident. I pointed out places I’d frequented—small parks, restaurants, bookstores, produce stands. It occurred to me that with this walking tour I was constructing my own visual “album,” like Matt’s Teresa album, to share my past with him in a tangible way.

  When Matt’s cell phone rang, at least three other people checked pockets and backpacks to see if the call was theirs. In some ways, Berkeley wasn’t that different from Wall Street.

  “Hi, Rose,” Matt said, looking at me. Do you want to talk to her? he mouthed. “You tried calling her? I guess her battery’s dead.” He grimaced, as if ruing the day he got involved with me and my lying ways.

  I couldn’t put Rose off any longer. I took the phone. “Rose, I got your message. Tell me what happened.” I tried to sound wildly interested. A crisis that was a full continent away was low on my priority list, but I didn’t want to lose another friend.

  “There’s never been anything like this, Gloria.” Rose’s voice was high-pitched, sounding as panicky as if the explosion were happening in front of her. “John showed us the photo the Journal is going to carry on the front page. He’s not covering the story. He gave it to a new guy. That’s how John is, you know, always looking out for the younger reporters.”

  Rose took a breath. Across the miles, I heard her mind clicking away, telling herself her mother’s pride had taken her off track. I felt a rush of affection and wished I were next to her on her wicker-laden porch. The feeling was intensified by my awareness that I’d effectively banished myself from Elaine’s porch.

  Matt and I sat on a short bench meant for bus riders. We were in the shade of a tall old building with ornate carvings around the high windows and tantalizing falafel odors emanating from a street-level restaurant. I was still hot, however, and eager to move into the next air-conditioned place. I hesitated to cut Rose’s call short and searched my mind for a question that might express concern and enthusiasm for her tale.