thought about it.
The EPA was needed on the marsh restoration project. An unfinished leg of highway, constructed in the 1960s and called “the expressway to nowhere” for years, had been removed, opening the clogged arteries of the marsh to seawater, and providing the ideal laboratory for wetlands study.
The MTA was connected to Boston’s Big Dig, the multiyear, multibillion-dollar construction of an underground expressway, under the heart of the city, and said to be the largest construction project in US history.
The link: Roadbed gravel from the restoration of Rumney Marsh—I thought I’d read two hundred thousand cubic yards of it—was being recycled to Big Dig sites.
Matt tapped his notebook on his knee. “They found a female Hispanic, early thirties, multiple gunshot wounds. Fingerprints
came back as a PI. Real name Nina Martin, though she had a couple of different IDs on her. Probably dumped there, though it’s hard to tell whether or not the marsh is the crime scene.”
“More than one ID? I didn’t know PIs went undercover.”
“Sure, they do it all the time. Claim to be someone else to get information. They don’t usually go deep, though, except for the brave ones.”
Or the dead ones, I thought. “What do you make of the Galigani connection?”
Matt frowned. “You won’t like this. She’s from Houston, and MC’s name was written on the back of the Galigani Mortuary card.”
I sat up, on alert, my senses suddenly sharpened. Our Fernwood Avenue home was much farther away from a main street than my mortuary apartment had been; at midnight, the only sounds were from inside the house. A zipper clacked against the drum of our dryer; my computer hard drive hummed, always at the ready; a soft saxophone tune emanated from the speakers in our living room.
The loudest sounds were of links connecting, in my mind. A murdered private detective from Houston. Did Jake send a PI to snoop on MC? I couldn’t entertain the thought that MC herself had done anything wrong, something worth an investigation, not for a nanosecond. But Jake was a different story. Maybe into drugs?
“The FDA investigates drugs, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, but not the street kind; that would be DEA. Are you thinking of the ex-boyfriend?”
I nodded. “Or that the people supposedly coming after MC are into drugs.”
“Or the FDA number is completely unrelated. Another case entirely that Martin was working on.”
“Or Wayne Gallen hired the PI to follow MC around.” He was still “at-large” so to speak, in that no one had seen him since he was released from the RPD on Tuesday night. Too confusing right now. “What else do we know?”
Matt skipped over the “we,” having adjusted beautifully to my status as his almost-partner. “Two blood types, one hers. So it’s possible
we’re looking for a wounded killer. Stands to reason, as a PI she would have a firearm and some training in self-defense, and probably got in a shot or two. The word is out at hospitals and clinics.”
“Is Berger handling the case?”
Matt twisted his wrist in a half-and-half motion. “For now, but you can bet Houston PD will be all over this, and the FDA, too, if she was connected to them at all.”
“But it’s our jurisdiction, isn’t it, if she was murdered here?”
“Yes and no. If they think she was killed while on a job out of Houston, they’re going to want in on it. Lots of places, cops and PIs work together. She wasn’t just an ordinary citizen touring Revere.”
“Maybe she was. On vacation, I mean.” Not that I believed it.
“You don’t believe that,” Matt said. My soul mate.
“Someone should find out who hired her and why.” Gloria, the master detective.
Matt nodded. “For now Berger is working this, and I can probably get on board by tomorrow.”
I frowned.
“What?” he asked. “I’m not going to sit around here and wait.”
I’d gotten used to equating DOAs with consulting contracts for me, formal or
The EPA was needed on the marsh restoration project. An unfinished leg of highway, constructed in the 1960s and called “the expressway to nowhere” for years, had been removed, opening the clogged arteries of the marsh to seawater, and providing the ideal laboratory for wetlands study.
The MTA was connected to Boston’s Big Dig, the multiyear, multibillion-dollar construction of an underground expressway, under the heart of the city, and said to be the largest construction project in US history.
The link: Roadbed gravel from the restoration of Rumney Marsh—I thought I’d read two hundred thousand cubic yards of it—was being recycled to Big Dig sites.
Matt tapped his notebook on his knee. “They found a female Hispanic, early thirties, multiple gunshot wounds. Fingerprints
came back as a PI. Real name Nina Martin, though she had a couple of different IDs on her. Probably dumped there, though it’s hard to tell whether or not the marsh is the crime scene.”
“More than one ID? I didn’t know PIs went undercover.”
“Sure, they do it all the time. Claim to be someone else to get information. They don’t usually go deep, though, except for the brave ones.”
Or the dead ones, I thought. “What do you make of the Galigani connection?”
Matt frowned. “You won’t like this. She’s from Houston, and MC’s name was written on the back of the Galigani Mortuary card.”
I sat up, on alert, my senses suddenly sharpened. Our Fernwood Avenue home was much farther away from a main street than my mortuary apartment had been; at midnight, the only sounds were from inside the house. A zipper clacked against the drum of our dryer; my computer hard drive hummed, always at the ready; a soft saxophone tune emanated from the speakers in our living room.
The loudest sounds were of links connecting, in my mind. A murdered private detective from Houston. Did Jake send a PI to snoop on MC? I couldn’t entertain the thought that MC herself had done anything wrong, something worth an investigation, not for a nanosecond. But Jake was a different story. Maybe into drugs?
“The FDA investigates drugs, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, but not the street kind; that would be DEA. Are you thinking of the ex-boyfriend?”
I nodded. “Or that the people supposedly coming after MC are into drugs.”
“Or the FDA number is completely unrelated. Another case entirely that Martin was working on.”
“Or Wayne Gallen hired the PI to follow MC around.” He was still “at-large” so to speak, in that no one had seen him since he was released from the RPD on Tuesday night. Too confusing right now. “What else do we know?”
Matt skipped over the “we,” having adjusted beautifully to my status as his almost-partner. “Two blood types, one hers. So it’s possible
we’re looking for a wounded killer. Stands to reason, as a PI she would have a firearm and some training in self-defense, and probably got in a shot or two. The word is out at hospitals and clinics.”
“Is Berger handling the case?”
Matt twisted his wrist in a half-and-half motion. “For now, but you can bet Houston PD will be all over this, and the FDA, too, if she was connected to them at all.”
“But it’s our jurisdiction, isn’t it, if she was murdered here?”
“Yes and no. If they think she was killed while on a job out of Houston, they’re going to want in on it. Lots of places, cops and PIs work together. She wasn’t just an ordinary citizen touring Revere.”
“Maybe she was. On vacation, I mean.” Not that I believed it.
“You don’t believe that,” Matt said. My soul mate.
“Someone should find out who hired her and why.” Gloria, the master detective.
Matt nodded. “For now Berger is working this, and I can probably get on board by tomorrow.”
I frowned.
“What?” he asked. “I’m not going to sit around here and wait.”
I’d gotten used to equating DOAs with consulting contracts for me, formal or
Similar Books
