The Love Potion Murders in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [54]
She lists another hiatus devoted to research in exotic realms, including, of all places, Nepal, where she studied spirituality. And for the past six months she has been working as a laboratory assistant for the Ponce Institute, “helping the best scientists in the world make really great discoveries.”
I put in a call to the lieutenant. He wasn’t available, but he called back a few minutes later.
“Ms. Tangent’s CV,” he said as a greeting.
“Thanks for sending it along. Tell me, Richard, do we have any background on the organizations she’s been associated with?”
“Not a whole lot. My sources in New York say there’s a good chance that both the escort service and the restaurant were mob-connected. But it will take them some time digging to find out exactly what mob because both of those establishments are out of business now.”
We discussed the obvious incongruence of Ms. Tangent’s current employment given her background. “But if she’s a plant,” I said, not entirely comfortable with the jargon, “it implies there is something going on in the lab that’s of interest to organized crime.”
The lieutenant smiled. “Elementary, dear Watson.”
“Too elementary, perhaps,” I conceded. “But how would ‘the mob’ know enough for them to want to infiltrate the lab? The research really is quite sophisticated, and the bureaucracy formidable. I mean it all seems a bit far-fetched.”
“You’re right, Norman, to a point. But people talk. They get a few drinks on board. They brag. They exaggerate. Someone down the line or up the line hears about it. Criminals are businessmen, they’re opportunistic. They do some checking. The scam gets rolling. I’ve decided to make Ms. Tangent the object of some light surveillance. Find out where she hangs out and who she hangs out with, that sort of thing.”
I said I thought that was a good idea and then brought the lieutenant up to date on the Sigmund Library incident. I told him that after waiting several days and finally deciding that the proper channels were clogged — as usual — I called Ms. Spronger and Mr. Jones directly. It seems both have retained lawyers. They said they would get back to me. “One wonders, Lieutenant,” I said, “what the world did before lawyers insinuated themselves into every aspect of our lives.”
The lieutenant said to give him a call if lawyers continued to get in the way. “I have to admit I was somewhat dubious at first. But I think what happened there is strange enough to warrant closer investigation.”
We chatted awhile longer and ended agreeing that, while we had nothing definite to go on, there were some promising leads opening up.
I may be mistaken, but I think I detect strains in the Diantha-Sixy arrangement. It was noticeable on Friday when she brought him by to show him the museum. I was in the midst of evaluating and commenting on the quarterly reports of the curatorial staff when they appeared in the doorway, seemingly disoriented by a wholly new milieu. I was delighted, of course, to see Diantha. She is so demonstrative, coming around the desk to give me one of those full-length hugs I find so unnerving, especially when they come with a big kiss on the lips.
Mr. Shakur, as usual, didn’t just shake my hand, but went through a whole routine after a “gimme five, bro.” Then, instead of sitting down like an ordinary person, he paced around like a caged cat with a bald head and earrings, jabbering away in that argot of his. “Too f*cking, spanking real, man. I mean real like ozone, out there, man, orbit. I didn’t know they had places like this, man. I mean cool with a capital K. That African gear downstairs