notebook. She’d maintained a neutral expression through my attempt to bring Amber into the conversation.
“I’m thinking of doing only the ozone workplace exposure issue and not the CFCs this time around, but I’d still like to go over what happens with CFCs. They’re tougher for me to understand.”
“An excellent idea, to stay with one issue at a time. People can get mixed up otherwise.”
“I’m glad you agree,” Lori said. “Show me the CFC problem anyway.”
“In case I’m not in New York City when you do Part Two.”
She smiled. “Right.”
“It’s the chlorine atoms in the CFC molecules that cause the damage. When the CFCs reach the stratosphere, the ultraviolet radiation from the sun causes them to break apart, into two separate atoms, which then are free to react with the ozone. This starts the chemical cycle of ozone destruction.” I made rolling motions with my arms. “One chlorine atom can break apart tens of thousands—I don’t know the exact number—of ozone molecules.”
Lori looked up from notes she’d been taking while I talked. “Wow. That’s as clear an explanation as I’ve ever heard.”
“Thanks. Of course, it’s more complicated chemically. The meteorological conditions have to be just right—or just wrong, I guess—for ozone depletion to occur. It has to be very cold, for one thing, which is why the worst cases are near the poles. But, generally speaking, the mechanism is that simple.”
Lori grew quiet, and I thought I’d lost even a student who started out eager to learn.
“I know you want to talk about Amber,” she said. “Uncle Matt’s told me about you.”
I straightened my shoulders. My stiff “He has, has he?” brought a laugh.
“In a good way,” she said. “How you love to investigate and all. But it’s just too soon for me.”
“I understand.”
“Amber and I—” Lori stopped and stood suddenly. She kissed my cheek. “ ’Bye, Gloria,” she said, and was gone in a flash, leaving tufts of red and orange yarn behind her on the table.
I sat, skimming a tiny spoonful of foam from my cappuccino. I felt like a failure, unable to find out anything useful about Amber.
Except that Lori seemed to know a lot more about Amber than she’d let on to us yesterday. Not close, she’d said, just colleagues. Yet she’d been to the Keenan farm and had
a thing
for Amber’s brother?
I swallowed the rest of my cappuccino, put on all my layers of outer clothing, and headed out into the cold.
Maybe the meeting hadn’t been a waste after all.
C HAPT S EVEN
A fter a ride in a mercifully modern elevator—no wobbly accordion door, no worn-out, sticky buttons—I found Room 903, with TINA MILLER, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR stenciled on a frosted glass window.
I opened the door to a young woman in stiletto-heeled boots, bent over a low file credenza. From the bottom drawer she’d just pulled a snazzy, sequined purse—not just for formals anymore, I knew from my thirty-something goddaughter.
I thought of my file cabinets in my old lab. They were chiefly a storage place for small equipment, meters, calipers, cables, and a general assortment of spare parts. No purses, and very few files.
“Dr. Lamerino? Dee Dee Sanders,” she said, extending a hand. Close up, I saw that Dee Dee’s purse had a sparkly outline of a horse-drawn sleigh bearing Santa and a pile of gifts.
“I’m glad you could fit me in,” I said.
She waved her hand and clicked her tongue. “No problem. Have a seat—there’s some brochures right in that rack—and Ms. Miller will be with you in a sec. And help yourself to some candy.” Dee Dee pointed extravagantly first to the row of dull, padded chairs, then to a stack of pamphlets, and finally to a candy dish on her desk. “And if you don’t mind? I’m leaving to have lunch with my boyfriend.”
“Thanks, I’ll be fine,” I said.
“Oops, here he is,” she said, fluttering toward the doorway, where a dark-haired young man in
Freya Barker
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Whisper His Name
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