The Boric Acid Murder by Camille Minichino

wrapped her hand around my wrist and led me toward the fishbowl that was Tony Taruffi’s office. She positioned us behind an orange felt partition. I hoped the cubicle’s resident, a Jeff Bonivert according to the sign, wouldn’t appear and call 911.
    “See that man with Tony?” I nodded, and focused on a short, wide man in a tweed jacket, engaged in animated conversation with Yolanda’s former boss. “That’s Garth Allen.” Andrea sounded as if I should know the name. The man had a jaunty air about him in spite of graying hair and half glasses perched on his nose. A talk-show host? A movie star? If so, I
was lost. I’d abandoned my interest in popular culture right after the Kennedy administration.
    “He’s the safety manager for the nuclear power regulators. He oversees the contract they have with the lab—we give technical advice to the safety inspectors.” My look must have betrayed my continued bafflement but Andrea remained patient. “Allen’s the one who’d be on the line if Yolanda uncovered a problem with boron. I thought you’d want to see him,” Andrea whispered, using her hands to emphasize a word here and there. “He could be a suspect.”
    I gave her a smile, hoping she’d interpret it as appreciation. “Interesting. Thanks.” I had no idea what to do with the visual data Andrea had provided with such flourish. Evidently she’d taken to heart my comment that “everyone was a suspect.” But I couldn’t put Allen on a short list simply because he was in charge of safety at reactors. Or because he was in conference with the man who’d fired Yolanda. I might as well go with an indictment for a poor fashion choice—he wore polyester jeanlike pants and a leather-elbowed jacket.
    I regretted not having read the boron file Matt had given to me. Yolanda’s thick portfolio might hold more possibilities than the articles I’d fallen asleep with last night. While I was sizing up my options, Allen and Taruffi left the office and walked toward us. Andrea and I slipped around the partition as if a grand coincidence had brought us all together.
    “Dr. Lamerino. You’re here so often, we’ll have to get you a badge.” Taruffi leaned into me, closer than I thought necessary for normal conversation. His silky tone and sweet-smelling cologne provoked me to move away from him, and from pretense. It seemed a “nothing to lose” moment.
    “A badge would come in handy,” I told him. “Since I’ll be wanting to interview Yolanda’s colleagues.”
    The look of consternation that took over Taruffi’s face, though momentary, was worth the price I’d pay for stepping out of line, either by feeling guilty later or when the real cops found me out.

    Allen cleared his throat and extended his hand. “Garth Allen. You’re with the police?”
    I smiled. “As a technical consultant. I understand you’re familiar with such contracts.”
    Allen nodded and laughed. He seemed more relaxed—less guilty?—than Taruffi. “Listen, Dr … .Marino?”
    “Lamerino.”
    “Right. I used to know a Buddy Marino.”
    We Italians all know each other, I almost said, but I let Allen continue instead.
    “I’d love to talk to you. But I’m only here till COB tomorrow.”
    “Garth works out of Washington,” Taruffi said, apparently proud to be doing business with a true bureaucrat, one who knew the acronym for close of business , the end of the workday.
    Andrea stepped back and leaned against our ambush partition. Her small dark eyes darted back and forth among us as we spoke. I figured her smile was self-congratulatory at having inadvertently set up the bizarre meeting.
    “How about tomorrow morning?” I asked Allen, whipping out my electronic calendar at the same time. Busy police consultant that I am.
    “It’d have to be early. Seven-thirty? I’ll buy you a cup of coffee in Tony’s office.”
    Very funny these government men. “I’ll see you then.”
    Andrea and I walked off, heads held high, as if