The Boric Acid Murder by Camille Minichino

called boron neutron capture therapy, caught my attention until I remembered my mission.
    Here was one problem with the Internet I knew too well—it was so easy to become sidetracked by useless information.
    The good thing about it—there’s no one to offend on the other end of the line.

SIX
    I PARKED IN THE BACK lot of Russo’s Cafe, an upscale coffee shop around the corner from the police station on Broadway. I’d signed my first Revere Police Department contract at one of the tables in the back of this restaurant. Matt had been waiting for me, his long nose deep into crime-scene photos from the murder of a hydrogen researcher. I’d met him only briefly before that day, when I appeared as an expert witness for him.
    Almost a year to the day, when I didn’t know what he ate for breakfast. It seemed long ago.
    On Sunday morning the weather had turned even warmer. I stepped from my air-conditioned Cadillac into the low nineties, with humidity to match. I wore an olive-green linen dress, sleeveless, but layered with a short-sleeved blouse in a sheer fabric. My upper arms hadn’t seen the light of day since I was a teenager, no matter what the temperature.
    Andrea was waiting in the small entryway, dressed in a purple and black print outfit I’d seen before—wide pants and a matching short-sleeved tunic. She stood and gave me a sweaty hug.
    “I always love your pins,” she said, studying the one-inch bronze computer on my lapel. I showed her how it opened, just like a real laptop, its tiny keyboard hanging from the collar of my shirt.
    Russo’s fine reputation was for food, not decor. I’d gotten used to the fake columns and broken sculptures, a shabby recreation of ancient Rome. But today the headless torsos reminded me of Frank’s decapitated client and the bodies buried
in the cemetery behind the library. I knew I wouldn’t enjoy my roasted peppers with thoughts of a hand-fashioned neck stitched to a dead chest, so I focused instead on a faux marble cherub with a faucet for a mouth.
    When we were seated I gave Andrea the souvenir I’d brought from California. A plastic sports bottle with the logo of Berkeley University Laboratory, my place of employment for thirty years. It was the kind of water container active people might attach to their bikes, or Andrea and I would keep on our desks, filled with pens and pencils.
    “Wow. Thanks, Gloria.” Andrea turned the mug around and laughed at the acronym BUL in blue and gold. “Everyone will want this.” This in exchange for entry into the Charger Street lab and the inside scoop on boron problems. It didn’t seem fair, and I thought of making it up to Andrea later. Silently I thanked Elaine Cody, my personal shopper. Andrea stuffed the souvenir into her tote bag, pulling a large notebook and folders out in the same motion.
    I wasn’t surprised to see Andrea had done her homework.
    “Yolanda Fiore’s supervisor was Anthony Taruffi. Tony. He heads the Public Affairs Office at the lab—one of those party-line guys. Nothing gets past him that might make the lab or any of our funding agencies look bad.”
    “He couldn’t have been happy with her activism. I hear she was a troublemaker of sorts?”
    Andrea nodded. “She started a newsletter for employees’ grievances and environmental complaints from the community. It’s called Raid-iation News. ” Andrea spelled the play on words. “Like ‘raid the lab,’ I guess. I’ve seen a few issues. She did a special one on boric acid solutions and how they can overflow from a waste tank onto the floor of the building and cause corrosion.”
    Boron again. Used properly it prevents meltdown, but if not handled correctly, it becomes a safety problem itself. “I’d like to see a copy if you have one.”
    Andrea made a note, and I knew from experience that she’d
follow through. “She got some volunteers to work with her. Supposedly it was all done on their own time.”
    “So technically it wasn’t a reason to