Free The Carbon Murder by Camille Minichino

should be thought of as service equipment, not as monuments.” Besides the couch and coffee table layout in the center of the room, the living room was big enough to accommodate a reading area at one end. We’d arranged two easy chairs and footstools at a slight angle, nearly facing each other, and shared news or ideas across the space.
    “McConachie is playing at Jazz Too next weekend,” Matt, the avid jazz fan, might say, scanning the entertainment section of the Boston Globe .
    “Let’s plan on it. Look here, there’s a new book on string theory by James Bryer, that BU physicist we heard last year.”
    “Sounds good. Want a coffee?”
    “Sure. I’ll find those cookies Rose packed up for us.”
    If married life—not that the phrase had come up—was like this, no wonder people flocked to it.
    This evening’s banter included police matters, however. Matt brought me up to date on the Nina Martin murder—it looked like the body had been dumped in the marsh postmortem, and there was a kind of standoff between the Houston PD, the FDA, and the RPD.
    “The FDA won’t tell us why PI Martin had one of their cards until we share our forensics, and … you know the rest.”
    “Toddlers will be toddlers,” I said, and Matt nodded.
    “There’s a sit-down with us and them on Monday that might get some cooperation on both sides.”
    “How about Wayne Gallen?” I asked him.
    “He hasn’t shown up yet, at home or at work in Houston.”
    “And he never went back to the Beach Lodge once he left the station?”
    Matt shook his head. “No reason to put a lot of effort into finding him, either,” he said. “Gallen’s hardly a suspect in Nina’s murder
just because he also happened to be in town from Houston. Nothing else connects him to that crime.”
    “Except the fact that he acted suspiciously with respect to MC,” I added. “And he did know Nina in Houston. I assume there’s no word from the hospitals about a gunshot victim showing up?”
    “Nope.” Matt wiggled around to read his vibrating pager. “Berger,” he said.
    I turned down the CD player—I was tired of jamming woodwinds anyway—and gave him a pleading look.
    “I know, the speakerphone.” Matt punched in the number and switched on the system so I could hear the conversation.
    Berger’s speaker voice was hard to understand, but it was better than my standing over Matt’s shoulder trying to read his notes.
    “The good news is we got the shooter,” Berger said, his voice sounding muffled. “A pharmacy over in Chelsea called in response to our bulletin. Told us a guy phoned and said he sliced himself with a piece of broken glass, and he wants hydrogen peroxide, antiseptic cream, tape, bandages, extra-strength painkiller.” Matt and I gave each other a thumbs-up. “And here’s the clincher—the guy asks for forceps. Says there’s a piece of glass in his hand, he has to catch a plane, doesn’t have time to go to the ER, et cetera, et cetera, and he wants the package to be delivered to the Beach Lodge.”
    “Where Gallen stayed.”
    “Yeah. ’Course there’s not exactly a hundred places to hole up around here. Anyway, by the time we got there the guy was out cold, bleeding like crazy.”
    Good girl, Nina, I thought.
    “The other good news is that we found two weapons in the room. One is most likely the gun used on the PI woman, the other probably her gun, which he must have kept after dumping the body. We have to wait for ballistics, but it looks like the right ballpark all around.”
    PI woman? Would Berger have said PI man? Never mind, I told myself, that battle’s for another day.
    “Could have been shot by a third party who killed the PI,
planted the gun, and so on.” Matt made twirls in the air as he spoke, as if he were reciting a formula he was very familiar with, but which needed reviewing. “Or, he shot the PI, and someone else shot him using her gun. Handy that her gun was right there, don’t you think?” Matt’s tone