Compatriots, both just doing a job. I sat in my navy blue business casual, waiting for a piece of the action. So far, I hadn’t done much but smile and nod in appropriate places.
“Right,” Lorna said, “so, I came East to study engineering.”
“East from … ?” Matt asked.
“Galveston,” Lorna said, raising the hairs on the back of my head. I wished I knew the distance from Galveston to Houston. In a state the size of Texas, it might be the same as Revere to Portland, Maine, but, still, here was another Texan in Revere. Lorna seemed to enjoy giving her bio. “I majored in chemistry at BU, got involved in materials research when I came here to Charger Street as a summer intern. I came back after I graduated, and I’ve been here ever since. Do I have to tell you how many years?” This last was said in a coy, flirting way that did not become her.
Matt smiled and gave a page of his notebook a casual flip. “Do you know a Nina Martin?”
I smiled, recognizing Matt’s style—chat for a few minutes, let them direct the conversation, then hit them with a quick yes-or-no, black-or-white, do-you-or-don’t-you question.
Lorna seemed as taken aback as he’d intended. She cleared her throat and then frowned, as if in confusion, but to my mind, it was a cover-up in advance of a lie.
“Nina … Martin? No.” Lorna might have been trying to pronounce
a foreign phrase. She licked her lips, rubbed her forehead. Matt kept his eyes locked on her. She fumbled with paper clips in a bowl on her desk. “Oh, wait, I did see something on the news. The woman they found in the marsh?”
Matt nodded. I knew he wouldn’t say anything just yet. From the interview handbook, I imagined: Create an awkward silence, hope the suspect will fill it. Not that Lorna Frederick was an official suspect, except for all the connections I’d made on my computer-generated star.
Lorna obliged with stuttering remarks. “Terrible thing. Poor woman.” She shook her head in tsk-tsk sympathy. “What makes you ask if I knew her? Is that what brings you here?”
“Do you have any connections with the buckyball team in Houston?” The Don’t Answer Her Question; Ask Another One trick, a polite form of “I’ll ask the questions here.” I was proud of Matt’s glib mention of nanotechnology.
“Yes, I know the people from the program out there, of course. You know how it is with research these days, share and share—”
“Can you think of any reason Nina Martin would be carrying around your telephone number?” Matt asked, cutting in.
Poor Lorna. In the last few minutes she’d straightened out two metal paper clips. Good-bye steepled fingers.
“Well, no. I … uh … She had my phone number? I suppose it could have been a permutation or something.” Lorna sat up straight again, as if an idea had suddenly come to her. “Or maybe someone referred her to me. I’m responsible for recruiting people to the project. That must be it.”
“Would you mind telling me where you were last Friday, Ms. Frederick?”
His voice so sweet, the detective might have been asking her out for coffee. Which reminded me to look for signs of Lorna’s family life. She had so many rings on her fingers—I counted three on each hand, including an enormous silver/turquoise number that must have made it impossible for her to bend that knuckle—I couldn’t
tell if a wedding ring was among them. I saw only one photo that didn’t include horses—Lorna with two men I recognized as local politicians.
Lorna hadn’t misinterpreted Matt’s question as anything but what it was—a request for an alibi. Her face lost its color; she put her hands on her desk and rolled back in her chair, as if to push herself away from the topic. She bit her lower lip and closed her eyes; I thought she might cry. Then, in the next minute, her eyes widened. I imagined her mind churning, angry that Matt had not been open with her from the beginning. Her nostrils flared, as I
“Right,” Lorna said, “so, I came East to study engineering.”
“East from … ?” Matt asked.
“Galveston,” Lorna said, raising the hairs on the back of my head. I wished I knew the distance from Galveston to Houston. In a state the size of Texas, it might be the same as Revere to Portland, Maine, but, still, here was another Texan in Revere. Lorna seemed to enjoy giving her bio. “I majored in chemistry at BU, got involved in materials research when I came here to Charger Street as a summer intern. I came back after I graduated, and I’ve been here ever since. Do I have to tell you how many years?” This last was said in a coy, flirting way that did not become her.
Matt smiled and gave a page of his notebook a casual flip. “Do you know a Nina Martin?”
I smiled, recognizing Matt’s style—chat for a few minutes, let them direct the conversation, then hit them with a quick yes-or-no, black-or-white, do-you-or-don’t-you question.
Lorna seemed as taken aback as he’d intended. She cleared her throat and then frowned, as if in confusion, but to my mind, it was a cover-up in advance of a lie.
“Nina … Martin? No.” Lorna might have been trying to pronounce
a foreign phrase. She licked her lips, rubbed her forehead. Matt kept his eyes locked on her. She fumbled with paper clips in a bowl on her desk. “Oh, wait, I did see something on the news. The woman they found in the marsh?”
Matt nodded. I knew he wouldn’t say anything just yet. From the interview handbook, I imagined: Create an awkward silence, hope the suspect will fill it. Not that Lorna Frederick was an official suspect, except for all the connections I’d made on my computer-generated star.
Lorna obliged with stuttering remarks. “Terrible thing. Poor woman.” She shook her head in tsk-tsk sympathy. “What makes you ask if I knew her? Is that what brings you here?”
“Do you have any connections with the buckyball team in Houston?” The Don’t Answer Her Question; Ask Another One trick, a polite form of “I’ll ask the questions here.” I was proud of Matt’s glib mention of nanotechnology.
“Yes, I know the people from the program out there, of course. You know how it is with research these days, share and share—”
“Can you think of any reason Nina Martin would be carrying around your telephone number?” Matt asked, cutting in.
Poor Lorna. In the last few minutes she’d straightened out two metal paper clips. Good-bye steepled fingers.
“Well, no. I … uh … She had my phone number? I suppose it could have been a permutation or something.” Lorna sat up straight again, as if an idea had suddenly come to her. “Or maybe someone referred her to me. I’m responsible for recruiting people to the project. That must be it.”
“Would you mind telling me where you were last Friday, Ms. Frederick?”
His voice so sweet, the detective might have been asking her out for coffee. Which reminded me to look for signs of Lorna’s family life. She had so many rings on her fingers—I counted three on each hand, including an enormous silver/turquoise number that must have made it impossible for her to bend that knuckle—I couldn’t
tell if a wedding ring was among them. I saw only one photo that didn’t include horses—Lorna with two men I recognized as local politicians.
Lorna hadn’t misinterpreted Matt’s question as anything but what it was—a request for an alibi. Her face lost its color; she put her hands on her desk and rolled back in her chair, as if to push herself away from the topic. She bit her lower lip and closed her eyes; I thought she might cry. Then, in the next minute, her eyes widened. I imagined her mind churning, angry that Matt had not been open with her from the beginning. Her nostrils flared, as I
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