Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (10 page)

The assistant stuffed a few papers from the out-box under one arm and ambled out with the coffee pot in the other, loitering only for a moment to attach a beetle-sized eavesdropping device to the undersurface of Taft’s desk. At the door, he stopped to wave to his boss who was too busy talking to notice.

• • •

From the music building, Sammy headed straight for the phone booth on the quad and dialed Bill Osborne’s campus office. She needed a clearer picture of Sergio and his problems. On the record.

The line was busy. Irritated, she hung up, then dialed again. A sudden thought occurred to her. Since this Osborne was a shrink, maybe
he
would come on the show and talk about suicide. If so, she wouldn’t have to eat crow and ask Reed.

After five rings, a recorded message told her the psychology professor was attending a conference in New York until Tuesday; anyone with an emergency should contact Student Health. Sammy dropped the phone back in the cradle, disappointed.

Her second call was equally unproductive. In no uncertain terms, the medical examiner’s clerk informed her that only physicians or authorized family members could access autopsy reports. Hanging up, she realized that if she wanted the official cause of death for Sergio and Conrad, she’d better figure out a less direct way to get the information.

She checked her Swatch. Almost five. She’d never make it to the campus photo shop before closing. The roll of film from Friday’s demonstration was burning a hole in her pocket. Maybe someone she shot could finger Taft as the instigator. Doubtful, she knew from her experience last year, but certainly worth a try. Now, she’d have to wait until after the show on Monday to drop off the pictures.

The show. A whole day’s work for nothing. The little she got on Sergio was off the record. And Larry would never buy filling the whole hour with the poor kid’s music. She could get away with ten or fifteen minutes maybe, but then she needed some hard news and commentary. About suicide prevention. Not music. And she didn’t think that Reed would be in a forgiving mood. Frustrated, she inhaled deeply, and trudged off, away from the music building, toward her apartment.

Bud Stanton wrapped his towel tightly around his buttocks and
stepped into the steamy main locker room. He winced as the lingering odor of ammonia and wintergreen assailed his nostrils.

“Hey, dude, quit dripping on my ass,” chided left guard Lamar Washington when the star hoopster ambled by.

“Thought you were used to it,” Stanton snickered, flipping off the towel and flicking it at his teammate.

Washington grabbed a damp sweatshirt from the bench and went after Stanton. The two men sparred like dueling swordsmen, spurred on by the gathering cheering squad of basketball players drawn to the fight.

Stanton seemed to be losing the advantage when the gravely voice of Coach Lefty Grizzard echoed through the cavernous locker room.

“All right, girls, party’s over.” He clapped his hands and the group scattered. “Stanton, get your bare-assed butt over here now.” He waved toward a small windowed cubicle behind the lockers.

Stanton rewrapped the towel and, tossing a final glare at Lamar, sauntered over to the coach’s office.

Grizzard shut the door behind his star forward and walked casually to his tattered armchair. He sat back, struck a match, and lit a thick cigar, all the while studying Stanton through narrowed eyes.

The player leaned against the back wall, conscious of his minimally clothed condition — and proud of it.

Finally, Grizzard spoke. “You’re lucky, ain’t you, boy?”

“Sometimes,” Stanton answered warily.

“Here you were, about to say good-bye to,” the Coach waved a hand “all this. And now, everything turns out just the way you wanted.”

“Excuse me?” His tone was innocent.

Grizzard pulled another puff from his cigar, slowly rolling the smoke on his tongue. “Professor Conrad is dead,” he announced, waiting for a reaction.

“Dead?” No surprise appeared on the hoopster’s face.

“Police found him this morning. Killed himself.”

“Suicide.” It was not a question.

Grizzard sent another smoky cloud into the air. “That’s the word.”

“How ’bout that.” Stanton spoke too softly for the coach to hear.

“So, looks like you’ll be able to play out the season after all.”

“Yeah.” Stanton allowed himself a broad smile. “I told you not to worry.”

Grizzard arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, you did.” With a suspicious glare, he added, “You want to explain how you knew not to worry?”

Stanton shrugged. “Like you said, Coach, just lucky, I guess.” He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

Grizzard looked up to see only cracked plaster, then back to the athlete with a frown.

Stanton stood up, rubbing his hands. “Listen, it’s kinda cold. Could I get dressed?”

“Go on,” Grizzard snapped. “Get outta here.”

As Stanton headed back to the locker room, Grizzard leaned back in his chair and, brows knitted, watched a ring of smoke rise up to the flaking ceiling.

Blue deepened against a descending sky. The sun set over the treetops on West Campus, casting figurelike shadows along the university walkways. The afternoon’s breeze had turned into an evening chill, and Sammy bundled her peacoat tightly around her.

Wandering past a kiosk plastered with posters announcing campus activities, one caught her eye. A notice about Sunday’s eight a.m. sermon at the St. Charlesbury Church of God proclaimed: “The Very Reverend Calvin Taft discusses Sin, Suicide and Family Values.” Sammy made a mental note to set her alarm for seven the next morning. A title like that would certainly pack them in. She intended to get a good seat for that show.

So complete was her concentration at that moment that she had no idea she was being observed. Had been followed, in fact, since she’d left her apartment that morning.

• • •

Pappajohn half-listened to the six o’clock news while dining on two-day-old moussaka from a scratched plastic container. Bits of ground lamb crumbled onto his shirt and lap, a few eggplant particles clung to the bristles of his bushy salt and pepper mustache. He made no effort to brush them off as he chewed. His own cooking couldn’t compare to Effie’s magic with food, but in the five years since her passing he’d learned some of her recipes well enough to get by. On the arm of his naugahyde lounge chair was a plate containing a few sugar-drowned slices of baklava that had begun to stiffen around the edges.

His beer was warm, but he didn’t care. He barely tasted it. Since the discovery of the professor’s body that morning, Pappajohn had been in foul spirits. The third suicide in two months. So much for a quiet retirement. Things were getting a bit too hot for his liking. Dean Jeffries had his dander up, and the board of regents was breathing down his neck. And to top it off, he had that radio reporter snooping around. Nosy college kid stirring things up. She was gonna be trouble. He could just feel it. Deep in his gut.

He grabbed a couple of Rolaids, washed them down with the beer. The leftover moussaka went into the trash. Damn that girl. Reminded him of his own daughter. Anastasia was also capable of bringing out the worst in him. Always challenging, never content to leave things be. Maybe that’s why they hadn’t talked in over a year. He plopped back in his chair and turned back to the TV.

“We’ll go live now to Cambridge with Nolan Rickey.”

“Thank you, Tim. The death toll on our streets hit a record high today. An off-duty, twenty-year police veteran, Jermaine Lavond was shot and killed by two armed robbers. Lavond was shopping next door in Kim’s Market when he saw the alleged felons running from the Harvard Street branch of the Bank of Boston. Though he didn’t have his gun, Lavond still went after them. Both men fired at him. Two bullets hit Lavond in the chest. He died at the scene. A bag of stolen money was later recovered several blocks away with about five thousand dollars in it. The good samaritan leaves a wife and three children. He was forty-five years old. Back to you, Tim.”

The anchor’s tone was somber. “That makes sixteen peace officers killed this year. Mayor Hamel has appointed a police commission to look into this new wave of violence.”

Jermaine Lavond.

Pappajohn remembered the boy — that’s what he was then — fresh out of the academy. Bright, hard-working kid. First in his family to go to college. First in his family to be a cop. Getting on the force back in those days was almost impossible for a young black kid. Getting out alive was even harder. But Lavond was a good man and a good cop. Shit.

Pappajohn took a hefty swig of his beer, closed his eyes and tried to picture himself thirty years before when he’d first put on his uniform. That tall, black-haired, swarthy young man had cared back then — actually wanted to change the world. It didn’t matter that the pay was lousy, the hours worse. The work had been its own reward — the good feeling that came when he’d dropped exhausted into bed each night, knowing that he’d given it his best.

With the idealism of youth, Pappajohn had volunteered for the toughest assignments in Boston’s South End. He was what they called a “street dog” — out there pounding the pavements — getting rid of the pimps and pushers, the addicts, the johns, cleaning up the neighborhoods so kids like Ana could have a future. He’d received many awards and commendations by the time he started going undercover. He moved Effie and Ana from the city to Newton, but thugs and scum were still there.

He swiveled the end table photo of his wife to face him. Her brown eyes twinkled up at him. Her smile still warmed his heart. Effie had always been supportive — even though it meant rewarming his dinner most nights. Like many cop wives, she learned to go it alone — even the day she drove herself to the hospital to hear the news that her body was riddled with cancer, had six months at most to live. She had the moussaka waiting for him when he came through the door at ten p.m., smiled as she relayed what the doctor had said, insisted he continue his work, no matter what. His eyes filled with tears as he kissed the photo and whispered softly, “
S’agapo
.”

She’d been gone less than three months when he began his last investigation. He’d discovered a couple of narcotics officers squirreling away part of the take from their drug busts, then selling the stuff on the street. He and Chief Donovan set up a sting to catch the bastards. But this time his gut failed him. Maybe it was Effie’s death.

Chief Donovan was in it up to his eyeballs. The sting was a setup that caught Pappajohn unaware. He could still taste the fear as he stood cornered in the alley, staring down the barrel of his own revolver.

“It’s a new world. Honesty doesn’t pay the bills these days,” Donovan had growled. “You’re a shmuck if you think you can change the way it is. You gotta look out for yourself.”

Even now, Pappajohn remembered the hopelessness, almost welcomed the two bullets exploding in his gut. But as Donovan turned away, leaving him for dead, Pappajohn found the strength to kick the chief’s leg, throwing him off center just enough to make him drop the gun. Pappajohn grabbed it and got off three rounds before passing out. Weeks later, an Internal Affairs investigation had cleared Pappajohn of the chief’s death, calling it “a righteous shoot.” A grand jury brought indictments against the two foot boys on the take, but Pappajohn’s protests that the corruption may have spread even further fell on deaf ears.

Pappajohn wasn’t surprised when the commissioner himself stopped by his hospital bed and urged him to consider early retirement. The force would no longer be safe for a “stool-pigeon” with “sharks” still at-large. Pappajohn agreed. The job would never have been the same after that. He’d had enough. Besides, there was nothing to keep him in Boston. Ana always blamed him for “abandoning” her mother when she was sick, and had left for California soon after Effie’s death.

A month later, he spotted the ad in the
Globe
: “Chief of Police for small Ivy League college in quiet Vermont village.” Perfect for him to escape and recover. Two months after his hospital discharge, he closed up the house, packed a few belongings in his Chevy Nova, and drove the 180 miles to St. Charlesbury, Vermont.

His new home was a tiny cottage in town, next to the campus. A simple wooden structure built almost a hundred years ago and largely unmodified since. The landlord was one of the “summah people” who’d bought several places to rent out, keeping the nicest for himself and his family. Pappajohn mailed his rent check to an address in Connecticut every month and expected nothing in return but running water and a roof over his head.

“— precipitation.”

The TV weatherman was waving his arms over a satellite map of the northeastern United States, New England’s outline hidden by white cloud formations. “ — light flurries tonight, but we could get up to five inches accumulation by mid-morning.”

Terrific, Pappajohn thought. He’d have to get out the chains for the car. Couldn’t remember exactly where he’d stowed them in the cluttered shed in the back. He rose from his chair, clicked off the TV, then walked to the kitchen and dumped the empty beer bottle into the trash can.

As Pappajohn reentered the den, the screen saver on his computer was throwing up an intriguing pattern of shapes and colors. Random regularity. There was a beauty and logic to that world.

Reluctantly, he clicked his mouse and the magic world disappeared.

Replaced by a file named “Taft.”

Whitney Houston sang softly in the background while Sammy worked at her desk. As the announcer came on with the news brief, Sammy checked her watch. Eight p.m. She’d skipped dinner to review her interview notes from that afternoon. Stretching, she suppressed a yawn, drained by the emotional twists and turns of the horrible day. Finding Conrad, sparring with Pappajohn, and then fighting with Reed. It was all too much.

Recalling Reed’s pained expression, she felt a rush of guilt. She should’ve called, she knew, but everything had happened so fast. If only he’d let her explain, maybe for once he’d understand. About her work. About her life.

When they’d first met at a party last spring, she’d assumed the differences in their background and upbringing made any notion of a relationship a non-issue. “Let me guess,” she’d said, trying to size up the blond-haired, New Hampshire native, “you attended boarding school somewhere in New England, spend summers in Hyannis, buy drawers of cashmere sweaters from Brooks Brothers. Your father’s a senior partner in a fancy downtown law firm. Am I right?”