Camille Minichino - The Oxygen Murder

G LORIA L AMERINO M YSTERIES B Y
C AMILLE M INICHINO

T HE N ITROGEN M URDER

T HE C ARBON M URDER

T HE B ORIC A CID M URDER

T HE B ERYLLIUM M URDER

T HE L ITHIUM M URDER

T HE H ELIUM M URDER

T HE H YDROGEN M URDER

CAMILLE MINICHINO

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS .

An imprint of St. Martins Press.

THE OXYGEN MURDER . Copyright 2006 by Camille Minichino. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. 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. Martins Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.thomasdunnebooks.com

www.minotaurbooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Minichino, Camille.

The oxygen murder : a periodic table mystery / Camille Minichino.1st ed.
p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-0-312-34786-4

ISBN-10: 0-312-34786-3

Lamerino, Gloria (Fictitious character)Fiction. 2. Women physicistsFiction. 3. New York (N.Y.)Fiction. I. Title.

PS3563.I4663 099 2006

813'.54dc22

2006040201

First Edition: August 2006

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For my dear sister, Arlene Minichino Polvinen, who delivered
life-saving oxygen throughout her long career in anesthesia

Im very grateful to the many writers, family members, and friends who reviewed this manuscript or offered generous research assistance, in particular: Robyn Anzel, Nina Balassone, Judith Barnett, Sara Bly, Don and Liz Campbell, Margaret Hamilton, Dr. Eileen Hotte, Jonnie Jacobs, Rita Lakin, Anna Lipjhart, Margaret Lucke, Dr. Marilyn Noz, James Oppenheimer, Ruth Oppenheimer, Ann Parker, Arlene Polvinen, Loretta Ramos, Sue Stephenson, Jean Stokowski, Karen Streich, and Barbara Zulick.

As usual, I drew enormous amounts of information and inspiration from Robert Durkin, my cousin and expert in all things mortuary, and from Inspector Christopher Lux of the Alameda County, California, District Attorneys Office.

Any misinterpretation of such excellent resources is purely my fault.

Special thanks to Marcia Markland, my wonderful editor, who has been with me in one way or another from my first book; and to my patient, extraordinary agent, Elaine Koster.

Im most grateful to my husband and webmaster, Dick Rufer, the best there is. I cant imagine working without his love and support.

Y oud think it would be impossible to find yourself alone in New York City. Especially on a bright Sunday morning in December, only a couple of blocks from the dazzling supersigns of Times Square.

A short distance away, elbows and shoulders overlapped at crowded intersections. Couples and families had to hold hands to stay together. Holiday shoppers, packed as close as particles in a nucleus, strained their necks toward the glittery, animated ads for cameras and underwear, baby clothes and whiskey, surround-sound systems and Dianetics.

But here I was, the only person in the tiny, dark lobby of a narrow brick building, about to enter the smallest, oldest elevator Id ever seen. Picture a dusty reddish-brown box with metal construction on three sides and a rickety accordion gate on the fourth. I hoped the indentations peppering its walls were only coincidentally shaped like bullet holes.

The blast of heat, comforting at first after the near-freezing temperature and gusty wind outside, now added to the swirls of dust around my nostrils.

I stepped inside the cage and pulled the squeaky gate across the opening. In the back corner, a janitors bucket and mop took up a quarter of the floor space. The smell of chlorine tickled my nose.

I could hardly breathe.

I looked up at the dented metal ceiling. Too bad there were no oxygen masks, like those demonstrated by our flight attendant on the plane from Bostons Logan Airport.

I was no stranger to creepy environmentshadnt I lived above my friends funeral parlor for more than a year? Done my laundry a few meters from their inventory of preservative chemicals and embalming fluid? Still, an uneasy feeling crept over me in the unnatural quiet of this space. I hunched my shoulders and pushed a scratched button with a worn-down label. Number 4, I hoped. I worked my jaw to loosen it.

The elevator jerked into motion.

I longed for a sign of life, some sound other than the creaking machinery of the old cage. Where were the alleged eight million citizens of the nations largest city? Not to mention the hundred thousand or so tourists supposedly passing through JFK every day. Where were the blaring car horns, the noisy taxis, the thundering buses? Where were the sirens of the famous NYFD? The old building seemed soundproof, leaving no noise inside except that of the whirring, rasping gears taking me upward toward... what?

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Four of us had flown into La Guardia two days ago, but everyone else was too busy for this errand. My best friends, Rose and Frank Galigani, were having breakfast with relatives, the parents of their daughter-in-law, Karla, who was originally from New York. My husband of four months, homicide detective Matt Gennaro, was tied up, so to speak, at a police conference, which is what had brought us all to New York City in the first place.

So it had fallen to me to go to the home-cum-workplace of thirty-something Lori Pizzano, Matts niece. His late wife Teresas niece, more accurately. Wed had dinner with Lori last night, and shed left her prescription sunglasses at the restaurant. As the only one of us truly on vacation this morning, Id offered to return them.

Id pictured something more exotic when Lori gave me directions to her film studio in Times Square.

The old elevator took forever, fitting and starting its way up, past two other red metal doors, each with its own blend of scuff marks. I saw graffiti-lettered FAGETTABOUDIT twice and wondered what daredevil wrote it, swinging around, hovering over the open shaft. Here and there bleached-out streaks hinted at unmentionable stains.

At the fourth floor, the cage jerked to a stop, landing me across a narrow hallway from the threshold to Loris apartment, the large metal door of which stood wide open.

Strange.

I checked my watch. Quarter to nine. I was cutting it close. Lori had said she usually went ice-skating around nine on Sunday mornings. Surely she couldnt have gone already, leaving her door open for me? My stereotypical New Yorker used two dead bolts and a chain to secure her door even when she was home.

From my place in the elevator I scanned the area, noting an eclectic blend of work and living furnishings, with an occasional partition in the form of a standing screen, a drape, or a curtain. Easy chairs in muted colors mixed with high-tech-looking worktables and computer stations.