Free The Helium Murder by Camille Minichino Page A

open that late—extended hours in December.We’re looking into some witnesses who can place him there. Says he didn’t buy anything, was just looking.
    “Buddy was playing cards in a clubroom with a group of buddies, pardon the pun. And they were surrounded by about a dozen people playing pool and drinking. His alibi is the most solid at the moment.
    “And that about covers the money, passion, domestic discord trio of motives. Mrs. Whitestone, who’s not exactly a prime suspect anyway, was at home waiting for Margaret. She’s making a fuss because we still have Margaret’s personal effects, including the luggage and the bags of Christmas presents. She thinks we should release everything that’s personal, but of course we can’t do that yet.”
    “She’s not even a relative,” I said. “But she looks like a woman who’s used to getting her own way.”
    “Seems so,” Matt said, sticking his notebook into his back pocket. “The Whitestones have dominated politics around here for a long time.”
    I cleared my throat, ready to change the subject.
    “What about Buddy’s friends?” I asked. “He came in tonight with an entourage of strongmen.”
    “You mean maybe he hired someone? Always a possibility. With luck that would turn up in his bank records.”
    “Unless he paid him cash.”
    “You sound like you have someone in mind,” Matt said.
    “One of the men there tonight impressed me as capable of making such a deal,” I said, wondering if my voice sounded as shaky to Matt as it did to me.
    Matt took out his notebook again.
    “You have good instincts,” he said. “Do you have a name for this man?”
    “Rocky Busso.” I neglected to say that I had his telephone number, too, and perhaps his weekly salary as a teenager in 1962.
    “I’ll check with Berger, too,” Matt said. “Maybe he noticed something. Did you see Berger there tonight?”
    “I did.”
    “I’m glad you two are getting along,” Matt said, getting up and stretching his arms out to the side. His jacket fell open, putting his hefty middle at my eye level. It was still tight enough not to creep over his belt, I noted, sucking in my own middle. Matt wandered around the room, rubbing his temples and rolling his head around his neck. I had the feeling I’d been invited to his warm-up routine. I almost invited him to use my exercise bicycle, which was still as good as new.
    I found myself following him around with my eyes, trying to see my apartment as he saw it. I hoped he liked my set of California posters, framed in a light wood, a present from my West Coast friends when I left my Berkeley lab. I also hoped he wouldn’t lean on a dusty surface. I was sure he cared that I hadn’t done any housework in days. Fortunately, at five-six, he was too short to lean on the top shelf of my bookcase.
    “I know George can be tough,” he said, coming perilously close to the tiny gray dustballs behind mycomputer monitor, “but I hated seeing antagonism between my partner and my ...”
    I could hardly wait for the next word, hoping for the middle-aged equivalent of “girlfriend,” willing to settle for anything more personal than “consultant.” What I heard was neither.
    “What’s all this?” he asked.
    Matt had exercised his way over to my kitchen table, where my Al Gravese research project was spread out. He fingered the articles and looked at me, his tone changing to one of minor disapproval.
    “A little investigation of your own, I see,” he said.
    I went over to the table and picked up the articles, tapping them on the table to line up the sheets of paper, as if they represented a completed term paper I was about to hand in to the teacher. Is this the moment I’ve been waiting for , I asked myself— do I ask Matt for the help I need from him, or do I cover this up and pretend I’m into nostalgia? One thing I didn’t want was to anger Matt. He’d been angry with me before when I overstepped my “limited basis” contract, and