The Oxygen Murder Read Online Free PDF Page A

the image. “You probably already knew that.”
    “I didn’t.”
    I reached for the pen and pad of paper by the phone and started a sketch, severely handicapped by the unavailability of PowerPoint. A wiggly circle for the earth. Four more or less concentric rings around it for the layers above the surface: our atmosphere. I shaded an area. “The ozone layer is in the second layer, the stratosphere.”
    Matt scrunched his face. Thinking. Remembering. “Let’s see, ninth-grade science—Mr. Russo, who was really hired to be our field hockey coach. We went to the finals that year. Beat Winthrop, as I recall.”
    I poked my index finger into Matt’s chest. “Well, therein lies the problem. Mr. field-hockey-coach Russo. We ought to be hiring teachers who know science and let them wing their way through sports coaching, instead of the other way around.”
    Matt grinned. I knew he agreed.
    Matt was perched on the heating/cooling unit, while I sat on the chair in front of him. I had the superior view. Outside our window was a dense group of New York buildings, their floors and windows lit in a random fashion. Some windows were dark; others offered a bright look into an office or hotel room. I loved the geometry of the view: thousands of rectangular windows, with fire escape ladders slashing diagonally across them at intervals; at street level, an array of conic-section awnings decorated with a street number or the name of a restaurant. In this holiday season, more than the usual number of lights flickered at the tops of skyscrapers.
    I stared at small office Christmas trees and festive lighted garlands strung around rooftop gardens.
    A mesmerizing scene.
    But I had a student in front of me. I picked up where I left off. “The ozone layer acts like a blanket, absorbing the harmful ultraviolet rays from the sun.” I drew the sun at the edge of the paper. The completed drawing looked like one that could adorn the refrigerator of a familywith a six-year-old. “Without this ozone cover, when the ozone layer is depleted, in other words, we’re exposed to serious sunburn and potential risk of skin cancer.”
    I saw Matt’s attention drift. I needed to remember to limit the length of science sentences.
    “That was nice today, by the way, getting Lori to talk about oxygen,” he said.
    I waved my hand in the air. “Science cures.”
    “So you say.” He leaned forward and kissed me. “I’m trying to compliment you. You put Lori at ease, and that was important.”
    I nodded and whispered a thank-you. The best I could do—I hadn’t had a lot of training in accepting praise.
    “Were you able to find out what Lori did
not
tell the police? Whatever it was that Amber was too deep into?” I asked, putting quote marks in the air around the last phrase.
    “ ’Fraid not. But we’ll see her again tomorrow.”
    Matt stood, came behind me, and put his arms around me. I leaned back, my ear at his heart.
    We looked at our watches. Almost ten to eight.
    In our immediate future, for the Galiganis, Matt, and me, was dinner again in Little Italy. Sure, New York City was known for a wide variety of ethnic restaurants, and you might think we’d try a different neighborhood on our third night. But not two Galiganis (one née Zarelli), a Gennaro, and a Lamerino (me, joining the 17 percent of New England brides who did not adopt their spouse’s name). We were drawn like iron filings to the magnetic Italian neighborhood just east of SoHo.
    Frank Galigani had the idea that trying a new Italian establishment each night was diversity enough. He’d ticked them off on his fingers. “You’ve got your Sicilian, your Neapolitan, your Abruzzese . . .”
    I guessed that Lori, who’d told us that on Saturday she’d feasted on a Bavarian breadbasket for breakfast at the Neue Galerie off Fifth, and sushi for lunch in Chelsea, would have laughed if she’d been there to hear it.
    “Too bad we have to leave,” I said.
    Matt squeezed my shoulders.