Authors: Camille Minichino

Tags: #California, #Lamerino; Gloria (Fictitious Character), #Missing Persons, #Security Classification (Government Documents), #Weddings, #Women Physicists, #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Women Sleuths, #Reference

The Nitrogen Murder (2 page)

BOOK: The Nitrogen Murder

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“How awful,” I heard her say Had she overheard my mutterings about pink tulle? “She’s … she’s
dead
?”

Uh-oh
. I hoped I’d heard incorrectly, but I sensed a cloud forming over Elaine’s wedding, not to say someone’s life, someone’s family and friends.

Elaine came back to the living room, a look of consternation on her face.

“That was Dana, Phil’s daughter. Her partner’s been shot. Dead.” Elaine’s speech was slow, as if she were weighing each word for credibility. Her voice was high-pitched, as usual when she was upset. She rubbed her bare arms as if a sudden chill had overtaken the warm room.

“Her partner?” I tried to recall what Elaine had told me about Phil Chambers’s daughter. Twenty-four, living with a couple of roommates in a house in Oakland, working to earn money for med school. Dating preference? Male or female, I couldn’t remember.

“Her ambulance partner,” Elaine clarified. “A beautiful young black woman. Tanisha Hall. I’ve met her.”

I moved closer and rubbed Elaine’s shoulders. “I’m so sorry, Elaine.”

“I just can’t believe it. She was studying to take the firefighter’s exam. She has a little daughter.”

Had
a daughter hadn’t registered yet, I noted.

I continued my amateur massaging, though I wasn’t sure Elaine was aware of my touch. “You said she was shot?” I asked.

Elaine took a deep breath; her voice told me she was close to tears. “Dana says Tanisha was walking from the ambulance to the trauma center entrance. They’d just delivered the patient on a gurney, and Tanisha was taking his property in after him.” Elaine threw up her hands, as if newly surprised. Her voice became a whisper. “Someone ran up and shot Tanisha and stole the briefcase that belonged to the patient. And she died. While just doing her job.”

In the line of duty. So much for the taxi driver theory.

CHAPTER TWO

G
ranted, I wasn’t meeting Dr. Philip Chambers under the best of circumstances. He’d been interrupted during an important meeting the night before to talk to his traumatized daughter. She’d seen her friend and partner shot down in front of her. Phil may even have known Tanisha Hall and been grieving for her. On top of all that, he’d cut his hand making special hors d’oeuvres for Matt and me.

Still, I wished I liked him better. I’d always relied on my first impressions as holding true. I ran a checklist through my mind. Did his expensive-looking clothing intimidate me? Not likely—I wasn’t put off by Elaine’s cashmere sweater sets, nor by the dapper wardrobes of my friend Rose and her husband, Frank Galigani, the well-put-together mortician.

Was it his physical appearance? Phil Chambers was tall and thin; he had thick brown (I wondered about this) hair and wore strong cologne. Citrus, I guessed. Matt was short and stocky and odor-free, and his hair color matched my own more-salt-than-pepper locks. But I couldn’t imagine that was what turned me off about Elaine’s fiancé.

I hoped it wasn’t solely his opening remark when Elaine introduced us.

We’d all met for breakfast on Saturday morning at Bette’s Oceanview Diner, an award-winning Berkeley restaurant. Old-timers remembered when Bette’s stood out on Fourth Street, one
of the few operating businesses for blocks, surrounded by abandoned factories and warehouses and gravel lots that were empty except for debris. Now the diner was physically dwarfed by gentrification. In the early eighties, we referred to the whole neighborhood, close to the Berkeley marina, as “
Bette’s
”; now it was “the Fourth Street Shopping Center.” I’d even heard “the Crate and Barrel Mall.” Still, Bette’s managed to attract both locals and tourists on its own merits, and in great numbers, as evidenced by the long sign-up sheet for seating.

Bette’s itself hadn’t changed much since its opening: black-and-white harlequin floor; long, shiny counter with swivel stools; authentic 1950s jukebox that crowded the minimal waiting area; and chrome trim wherever possible. Bette’s was always densely populated with the eclectic mix we expected in Berkeley Elaine and I used to play at naming the customers. The long-haired family in the booth next to ours today, for instance—we would have imagined the children’s names to be Sunflower (a girl), Redwood (a boy), and Mulberry (too young to tell). A twenty-something couple waiting by the jukebox, on the other hand, dressed nearly identically in khaki shorts and white tops, had to be Ashley and Josh.

Phil had been seated in a red Naugahyde booth when Elaine, Matt, and I arrived. He stood and shook Matt’s hand, protecting his bandaged left hand with his right underarm, then turned to greet me. His eyes narrowed as he half said, half asked, “Elaine tells me you have a doctorate in physics?” As if he hadn’t believed his fiancee and, now that he’d seen me, he was sure she’d been mistaken.

I called up a questioning look of my own. “And you have one in chemistry? Amazing!” I said.

Elaine and Matt laughed, both better prepared than Phil for the nastier, sarcastic side of me. Most people don’t expect much from a short, gray-haired female.

“We need a diner like this in Revere,” Matt said, redirecting
our attention to what no one could be acerbic about. He slid in next to me and unobtrusively patted my knee. Relax. “I’ve been craving homemade pancakes, and I see that’s a specialty here.”

“Made with locally milled flour and all natural ingredients,” Elaine said. “After all, this is Berkeley.”

I took a deep breath, deciding I might order according to smell. Bacon or fruit? Buttery pancakes or hash browns? Even the salad that swished by us in the hands of a waitress had a fresh, handpicked aroma.

I resisted a reminder to Matt to choose an item with a heart icon: low-fat, low-cholesterol choices. I didn’t remember noticing his diet before his prostate cancer; I know I never kept surreptitious track of his fat and calorie intake every day But since his diagnosis I’d been on guard, as if everything he ate, every choice of movement or activity, was related to his illness, which had to be kept at bay

To his credit, Phil rushed to clarify his comment to me. “I didn’t mean to sound surprised, Gloria. I work with a lot of women these days.”

“You’re not helping yourself, Phil,” Elaine said, containing a laugh. And then to me, “He’s old-school, as you can see.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d met sexism as a woman in science, but I didn’t often meet it among scientists themselves. And I wondered about the “old-school” designation. Did that mean he and Elaine never went out without a chaperone?
Too snide
, I told myself, and held that remark back.

I thought of Elaine’s two ex-husbands and her “extra” fiance. Where were they now? I wondered. Not in our lives. Elaine had lost track of Greg, a lab engineer; Skyler, a San Francisco street artist; and Rene, a Parisian chemist, whom she’d been engaged to but never married. In between, there had been Bruce, Mel, José …

Looking at Phil, I missed them all.

We spoke only briefly of Tanisha Hall’s death, but the fact of it was there, hovering over the heavy white mugs of strong coffee and the wide-bottomed glasses of orange juice. Every time we laughed, someone cut the moment short, as if it were improper to be frivolous so soon after hearing of the young woman’s murder.

“How’s Dana holding up?” I asked Phil, once our pancake and French toast specials had arrived. I knew he’d had a lengthy conversation with his daughter last night, though he hadn’t left his meeting to visit her.

I saw a pained look cross Phil’s face, but it passed quickly. He shrugged his shoulders, then swung his syrupy fork in the air, its tines pointing upward, carving out a small circle a few inches from his face. “You know Dana,” he said, turning to Elaine. “She takes everything so seriously.”

“Murder is pretty serious, don’t you think?” Matt asked. A simple question from one who’d made a career out of bringing killers to justice. His voice was calm, his eating uninterrupted, and he saved me from making another remark I might later regret.

“Sure, sure,” Phil said. “It must be hard seeing someone you know get shot. And over a duffel bag.” He shook his head:
the futility of it all
. “But Dana’s strong. She’ll be okay.”

I caught the error in Phil’s comment. According to Elaine, the shooter had taken a briefcase, not a duffel bag. I almost corrected Phil, but I thought I’d caused enough friction already.

I did my best to be pleasant for the rest of the meal, though anyone who knew me would have been able to tell I was in a polite-but-cold mood. Then I saw the look on Elaine’s face. She
did
know me well, and she was distressed.

I felt guilt settle in my stomach, making Bette’s double-egg-dipped sourdough French toast seem feather-light by comparison. Elaine had chosen Phil; it was my shortcoming that I couldn’t find his redeeming qualities. And what about Phil having to sit through
breakfast with his fiancee’s flighty friend, going from one coast to another every twenty or thirty years?

I gave myself a mental slap. I needed to get with the program and behave like a normal maid of honor. I’d come to help with bridal tasks. I’d been Elaine’s attendant twice before, and I knew there were endless errands to run and phone calls to make concerning the food, the champagne, the minister, the flowers, the rings, the photographer, the decorations, the music, the outfits. I was out of breath thinking about it.

“So, when are we going shopping for our shoes?” I asked Elaine. “I’m favoring some navy patent leather flats with a little Mary Jane T-strap.”

Poor Elaine choked on a piece of Bette’s famous lemon scone.

Phil was a connected guy. Not connected like my long-deceased Uncle Pasquale, a small-time Revere bookie, but connected to his cell phone and pager and state-of-the-art PDA, each of which he fingered at one time or another during our breakfast. Taking a call, entering a date, answering a page, making a note with a sleek black stylus. Elaine didn’t seem to mind this, so I tried not to. Not surprisingly, Phil had to leave our company earlier than he’d hoped, to attend an important meeting. I congratulated myself on resisting the temptation to ask why he couldn’t clear a whole Saturday morning for his fiancee and her maid of honor.

Outside Bette’s, Phil kissed Elaine, shook Matt’s hand and mine, and crossed the street. He got into a snazzy BMW driven by a white-haired man, about the same age as all of us.

Elaine waved at the BMW driver. “Howard Christopher, Phil’s boss,” she told us. “Nice guy, but always on Phil’s back to do more, work more hours. You know the drill. I keep telling him, ‘You’re not marrying Christopher.”

I’d caught the parting I-love-yous between Elaine and Phil.
That had made me happy, but by the time Phil left, I’d given myself enough mental slaps to keep me alert for two weeks.

Elaine wanted to check out the wedding site—the magnificent Berkeley Rose Garden. True to her name, my best East Coast friend, Rose Galigani, loved roses and insisted on visiting the garden every trip she made to visit me when I lived in California.

“There are three thousand bushes and two hundred fifty varieties,” I’d told her the first time, reading from the guidebook, pleased with myself for finding such a treasure for her.

“They’re not all blooming at once, Gloria. Different varieties peak at different times.”

“You mean pink one month, red another?”

Rose shook her head and rolled her eyes at the idea that a woman whose bedtime reading was the latest news on the Big Bang wouldn’t know the life cycles of roses.

What I liked best about the Rose Garden was the surprise of it. Even with the newly installed viewing area, walking or driving along Euclid Avenue in northeast Berkeley, you might miss it. Bushes and trees partly hid the entrance. Once you turned down the path, however, an enormous amphitheater of six terraces opened up below you. Berkeley’s own Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Roses everywhere.

In the bright sun, I enjoyed sharing the pleasure with Matt.

“Whoa,” he said. The expression he reserved for special occasions.

Today’s roses were a breathtaking pink and white, their scent swirling around like clouds of charge around a heavy nucleus. Steep, wide stone steps, as beautiful as they could be treacherous to any but the sure-footed, led down, down, down, to a small clearing—a few square feet that were as lovely as any sanctuary.

Straight ahead, looking across to the horizon from the street
level, were San Francisco Bay and the hills of Marin County. A postcard scene in Elaine’s backyard, and mine at one time.

A wedding ceremony was coming to a close as we arrived. In the Rose Garden, no invitations were needed. It was normal for families and passersby enjoying the park’s tennis courts, paths, and picnic areas to pause and “attend” a wedding in progress, settling on the stone steps or leaning on bikes and scooters. We watched as the bride and groom and their attendants—all youngsters, compared to Elaine’s and my wedding parties—climbed up to the street level and rode off in a Model A Ford appropriately decked out in streamers. Cameras clicked and rolled as the driver, in a vintage 1930s cap, cranked up the car.

For no good reason, I wondered whether Hollywood producers had ever used the Rose Garden for an action-movie car-chase scene, sending motorcycles and police cars up and down the narrow walkways. For all I knew it had been done.

Elaine had made arrangements for us to hold a rehearsal here in two weeks, before the Saturday afternoon Cody/Chambers wedding. Saturday was the third of July, so everyone would be celebrating all night, Elaine had told me.

“You’ll walk in from this direction, Gloria,” Elaine said, indicating a set of steps that began at the Euclid Avenue entrance. Her arm swept to the aisle sixty degrees away “Dana will come in from there. Phil and I are going to come in together from the other side.” She turned to me and said in a soft voice, “Too late for me to be given away, don’t you think?”

I smiled. “No comment.”

Elaine felt it would be a good idea for us to stop in to see Dana. She called ahead and reported that Dana sounded very grateful we’d thought of it. We stopped at Fourth Street again and picked up pastry from Bette’s takeout annex, coffee beans from Peet’s, and a small purple plant (Elaine called it by name) at one of the
many home and garden shops. If Dana was at all ready to be cheered, these items would do it.

I could hardly wait to meet Dana Chambers. Like father, like daughter? I hoped not.

“Open mind,” Matt whispered as he held the car door for me. I always marveled at how well he knew me.

BOOK: The Nitrogen Murder

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