Free The Oxygen Murder by Camille Minichino Page A

classmates turned out, but she couldn’t get rid of the investigative bug.
All the President’s Men
had unduly influenced her, Uncle Matt used to tell her.
    Lori ducked into a store, found a quiet spot in men’s shoes, and checked her BlackBerry. She scrolled through dozens of e-mails, mostly junk, but stopped at one that was only a half hour old, from an interviewee on her list for the ozone video. Rachel Hartman, the public relations officer for Blake Manufacturing, had agreed to see her ASAP at Rachel’s West Forty-sixth Street apartment, to spare Lori a long subway ride downtown to where the facility was. ASAP was fine with Lori, who was only a few blocks away and in need of a distraction.
    Rachel’s apartment was on the corner of Ninth Avenue, on a block called Restaurant Row, and above a bistro that was one of Lori’s favorites. As she climbed the steps to the third-floor, Lori could smell the vinegar peppers, the garlic bread, and the salami and cream cheese rolls they served on their antipasto plate. She’d had nothing but a couple of sips of coffee and two nervous bites of a croissant with Gloria this morning, and she was hungry. After the interview, she’d treat herself to a late lunch at the bistro.
    Rachel led Lori into her spacious, well-appointed living room. Lori gave a fleeting thought to switching careers, except she doubted PR paid this much, either. A benefactor, Lori figured, or a rich husband was behind this. A beautiful Tiffany-like (or was it genuine?) tulip vase on a low glass coffee table was one of many lovely objects of art in the room.
    Tall and strawberry blond, with legs long enough to fill one of those five-story ads for lingerie, Rachel could have had her pick of sugar daddies.
    “I’m home sick today,” Rachel said, with the slight lisp that came with an overbite. “But don’t worry. I’m not contagious. I’m taking a mental health day. Translation: Christmas shopping. My sister’s in town from Los Angeles. Anyway, I thought if we did this interview, I wouldn’t feel quite so guilty.”
    Rachel turned to give Lori a conspiratorial grin. The way her hair bounced, she could have been posing in a photo shoot in front of Macy’s.
    Lori smiled and took a seat as Rachel indicated, on a beige leather couch. A tea service was already on the coffee table. Rachel poured a fruity-smelling brew from her seat across from Lori. Rachel, who was dressed in a light brown that complemented her décor, was either well organized or well staffed, Lori thought.
    “I’m sure this won’t take long, and Bloomie’s is open late for the holidays,” Lori said.
    Rachel pointed to a handwritten list of stores and times, on the light oak end table next to her. “Believe me, I know, but my sister likes to hang around the Village. She’s staying down at one of those places with arty suites. She thinks midtown shopping is too upscale.”
    This apartment surely is,
Lori thought. “The Village is a great place to stay,” she said, playing it safe.
    Rachel rubbed her hands together as if the apartment were chilly, which it wasn’t. “So. Questions?” Rachel asked.
    Lori was happy the schmoozing was over. “We already have the footage from your Tenth Street facility,” she said. “I just need to clear up some points for the narration.”
    The footage was from Amber, of course. Lori remembered the day Amber had left the studio and headed to Blake Manufacturing. She’d made some comment about how boring it was to shoot scenes of guys in Darth Vader helmets and thick, fireproof aprons.
    “They made me take a picture of some drawing they’ve done showing a close-up of stuff welded together, like on a valve or a wheel. How exciting.” Amber had stopped to mimic yawning. “Who’s going to stay awake during those scenes?”
    “I guess you don’t get the same thrill as when you’re crawling in the bushes snooping on some guy who has a wife and two mistresses on the side,” Lori had