Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (17 page)

Pappajohn scowled and his mustache flared. “
You
bother me, young lady. I heard your radio show yesterday.”

“Gee, I didn’t know you were a fan.”

“How could you be so irresponsible?” Pappajohn snapped.

“I think we helped a lot of troubled students.”

The cop continued to glare. “You know what I mean. How do you come off saying Conrad couldn’t have killed himself?”

Sammy held up a hand. “Wait a minute. I didn’t say that. I just said he didn’t fit the profile Reed — Dr. Wyndham — had outlined.” She knew she shouldn’t have blurted that over the air, but Pappajohn’s confrontational approach made her angry.

The cop pointed a beefy forefinger at her. “I’ve known you long enough to understand the way your mind works.”

“And how is that?”

“Devious.” He breathed a white cloud of condensation in her face.

“What does that mean?” Sammy tried to maintain a mask of defensive calm, but she was quickly losing control.

“It means, Greene, you don’t care who you hurt — as long as you get a story — even the wrong one.” He caught her eyes in a hammerlock, held them for several moments, then growled, “Just tell me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“If the good professor didn’t kill himself, who did? And why?”

“How should I know? I’m not the detective.”

“Glad you understand that.” Pappajohn turned his attention to Dean Jeffries signaling him from across the cemetery. “Now keep it that way,” he added coldly, acknowledging the dean with a wave. “Good day, Greene.”

“Same to you,” Sammy muttered between clenched teeth as Pappajohn lumbered off.

“We got the pictures.”

“And the negatives?”

The tall mustachioed man handed them across the desk. “Everything.”

After a moment of inspection, there was a sigh. “A nice likeness.”

The shorter of the two men was clearly embarrassed. “I was caught up in the front. I never saw the camera.”

“Think she’ll remember you?”

Peter Lang shook his head. “Not a chance.”

“You’re sure?” The tone was ominous.

A long pause preceded his response. “No.”

“Well, then, you know what you have to do.”

“We’ll take care of it,” Lang promised.

The man behind the desk nodded. “See that you do. And this time,” he said staring at both henchmen, “don’t leave any loose ends.”

Lucy struggled to relax, but she’d never been a hospital patient before. Everything about this place frightened her — so high tech and sterile. And so quiet. Only the gentle background hum of machinery invaded the silence.

The nurse who’d checked her in had called the private suite a laminar flow room — something about the continuous flow of filtered air passing from one end to the other. Everyone entering wore
masks and gloves. “Just precautionary,” she’d explained, though Lucy didn’t understand why. All she had was a dumb rash, for God’s sake. Even the fever she spiked this afternoon was a mere two points above normal. She felt fine. Why the IV? The nurse said to ask Dr. Palmer. He could answer all her questions.

Lucy sighed. When she saw Dr. Palmer again, she would ask. She wanted to know exactly what was happening to her.

It was just as well that Luther Abbott didn’t know what was happening to him. He’d been comatose since Monday and, judging from his clinical course, it was unlikely he’d last another day.

“— increased cefuroxime. His T cells are down to seventy-four.”

“A most unfortunate situation, Doctor.”

Palmer gently closed Luther’s medical chart and sat staring at the metal cover.

“Letting the baby monkey live was very unwise.”

Palmer flinched. “I had to learn the virulence of the virus in offspring of infected subjects.”

“Obviously, it persists.”

Palmer studied the patient whose only breaths were fueled by the rhythm of the respirator. Snaking plastic tubing connected him to an IVAC dripping a steady beat of clear fluid; the fingers of the boy’s hand fell open like the petals of a fading bloom. Palmer shook his head. How could he have foreseen the demonstration or the fact that the monkey would bite Abbott? “Yes, now I know.”

“Is there anything else to be done, Doctor?”

“No,” Palmer replied wearily, “all we can do is keep him as comfortable as possible.”

“And the monkey?”

“She’s been taken care of.”

The man nodded. “Good. We appreciate effective conclusions.”

Palmer’s eyes remained frozen on the flattening curves of the brain-wave monitor. No question, it would all be over soon.

• • •

Sammy may have had the last word, but she had to admit, Pappajohn’s question was a fair one. Right now, it was instinct telling her Conrad’s death wasn’t suicide, her reporter’s sense of a story within a story. She hadn’t really tried to address the obvious conclusion: if the professor hadn’t killed himself, who did? And why?

Granted, Conrad may have been iconoclastic, argumentative, and irritating. But so were many of the professors she’d run across — especially those with tenure. So why single out Conrad? What about him could have been so upsetting — or threatening — that someone would want to —

Trudging back toward campus, she wondered if her approach to the mystery had been all wrong. No matter how Conrad died, Sammy was sure he’d been very disturbed about something at Ells-ford. A motive for murder, perhaps?

Sometimes it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie. Stay as far away from this as you can.

What exactly was behind Conrad’s warning? He’d talked about the sacrificial fate of teaching at EU, his disdain for the university — and the Ellsford Teaching Award. And, oh, yes, the death of poor Professor Nakamura. Or rather, he
hadn’t
talked about Nakamura. He’d looked off at something on his desk and switched gears right away. The brown envelope. Gone by morning. Could it have something to do with Nakamura?

She stopped in her tracks. Come to think of it, that was another suicide that didn’t fit Reed’s profile. If the news article was accurate, Nakamura seemed the epitome of happy success and achievement, personally and professionally. Why kill himself? She’d give anything to know what was in that envelope marked CONFIDENTIAL. And where it was? Had the dean lied about not receiving it?

Just ahead, a bluebird perched on a branch ribbed with crystal frost, its sapphire wings and reddish-orange breast a brave splash of color against the gray of early winter. Sammy crept closer, but the bird flew away — as elusive as the answers to her questions. She stepped back on the path, shaking her head. To come so close.

Preoccupied, she hadn’t realized she was within a block of Conrad’s home. Maybe taking a second look at where he lived and worked would provide a clue about the man — and his dangerous secrets. The vintage Queen Anne seemed like an abandoned dowager, her shroud a thin blanket of newly fallen snow. Sammy carefully negotiated the slippery front steps to the wooden entry. Hesitating, she turned the knob, but the door was locked.

Fresh flakes of snow swirled around her as Sammy gave a furtive glance around. Seeing no one, she slipped out her plastic student ID, sliding the card between the door and the jamb. Several attempts to unlatch the door failed. She rummaged in her purse for her Swiss Army knife and nervously aimed for the lock. In a few minutes, the door creaked open to admit her to the musty hall.

She flipped on the light, casting a bright patch across the floor, illuminating the living room where just a few days ago she’d discovered Conrad lying dead on his sofa. Now the room was a mute tableau. Everything remained as she’d found it then, except, of course, for his body. She took several deep breaths, hoping to calm herself.
Get a grip.
A good reporter checks her emotions at the door.

Sammy tiptoed up the wooden staircase to the second floor. Two small bedrooms at the end of the narrow dark hallway were vacant, save for some empty unmarked cartons and a few crumpled blank sheets of computer paper. The large master bedroom overlooking the campus, however, was filled with an antique four-poster, a beautiful armoire, even a writing desk in one corner. Here the old house appeared in better shape than the living room or the outside. All the original oak floors had been stripped and re-stained so they sparkled, the light beige paint on the walls appeared fresh, the curtains and matching bed ruffles, new. Someone had paid attention to detail. Probably Mrs. Conrad before she ran off with her lover.

The layer of dust on the windowsill indicated that the professor did not share his ex-wife’s housekeeping skills. Sammy gazed out the locked window at the expanse of white below. The snowfall had slowed again so that beyond a single path of her own footsteps, she
could see traces of Puhawtney Creek as a brown vein winding through marble. Far in the distance, she could barely make out the university clock tower from which poor Sergio had fallen to his death. Squinting, she could convince herself the clock hands were pointing up to noon.
Ask not for whom the bell tolls.
She waited for the chimes, but heard nothing except the whisper of falling snow.

After a moment, she turned away. The bed was still made, of course. Conrad had taken his last breath on the sofa downstairs. Sammy walked over to a large wardrobe and tentatively opened its creaking door. Only a few pairs of slacks, two corduroy jackets, and several button-down shirts hung on real wooden hangers — the typical professorial uniform. A drawer at the wardrobe’s base contained a jumbled heap of white boxer shorts and cotton socks.

The adjacent bathroom was also devoid of female paraphernalia. Sammy found a worn toothbrush in a stained water glass on the cracked sink, a rusted razor, a nearly empty shaving cream can, and several shards of soap by the bathtub. The medicine cabinet contained only a leather dop kit, a box of Actifed, a bottle of Motrin, and some Band-Aids. Shaking her head, she had to acknowledge that she’d found nothing unusual in any of these rooms.

Back downstairs, she wandered through a sparsely furnished dining room and a bright country kitchen with wood countertops and appliances in the off-white manufacturers call “almond.” The sink was filled with dirty dishes — strings of red sauce and spaghetti. Remnants of Conrad’s last meal, she guessed, looking away. Privacy destroyed as completely as life. Feeling guilty, she took a quick peek in the refrigerator where she found the spaghetti moldering in a plastic container along with several unopened bottles of beer and wine. The professor obviously kept himself well supplied, she noted sadly.

A squeal. Or was it a squeak? Startled, she bumped the back of her head on the freezer door as she pulled out of the fridge. It sounded like the stairs. Or even the front door. She froze, afraid to take another breath.

Did I close the front door? Is someone in the house
?

Heart hammering, she gently shut the refrigerator and remained perfectly still, straining to coax sound from the silence. For several seconds she waited, but there was nothing. Nothing except the wind and snow. She breathed normally again.

Must’ve been my imagination
.

Trepidation mixed with curiosity as she crept into the lit hall, half expecting to see a figure among the shadows. The front door was shut.

I’m sure I closed it
.

She paused. Again silence.

Before her was the living room. She shuddered, recalling the scene she’d stumbled into last Saturday. The clutter of books, journals, and papers scattered through the room and on Conrad’s desk had already begun to accumulate a thin layer of dust.

Sammy walked over to the large desk and slumped into the rickety chair. Almost mechanically, she opened each of the drawers. No sign of the brown envelope. The left lower drawer was still locked. Sammy leaned forward as she reached for her Swiss Army knife. Despite being careful, her tugging produced two bright scratches on the drawer’s lock. Inside she found a thick manila folder containing more journal articles, all dealing with arcane aspects of molecular genetics. Sammy jotted down the references, noting that Conrad himself was co-author on two. Most of the papers were several years old and, many, she observed, had Yitashi Nakamura as the final name. That meant something, she remembered. She’d have to ask Reed.

Then she struck her forehead with the flat of her hand.
Oy gevalt
— Reed. She’d promised to call him this morning. He’d be furious.

Concerned, she picked up the cordless phone from its cradle. He was probably at the hospital by now. She’d have to beep him. About to punch in the number, her eyes fell on the redial button. She knew Osborne had called the professor Saturday morning, but what if Conrad had phoned someone Friday night? It was worth a shot.

She hit the button. Seven pulses indicated a local number, and
seconds later, she was listening to the greeting from a familiar voice: “This is Hamilton Jeffries. Please leave your message.”

H
ARLEM

The entire church community packed the tiny Iglesia de la Santa Maria. Most had watched Sergio Pinez grow from the shy little
papi
to a handsome nineteen-year-old with musical talent that promised to be his ticket to a better life.

Now all their hopes for him were buried in the closed pine coffin that lay before them. Father Campos struggled for reassuring words about his former altar boy, but was unable to console Sergio’s family who sat, shoulders sagging, faces streaked with tears, in the front pew.

At sixteen, Maria Pinez was the closest in age to her brother. In her arms, she clutched Sergio’s first flute, as if willing it to play a comforting tune. José Pinez sat stiffly, stone faced, his fourteen-year-old hands fingering the knife hidden in his pocket. The younger children seemed equally shaken, little Felicia stroking the hair of her doll with a comforting pat. As the priest began talking about eternal life in heaven, Lupe Pinez burst into loud sobs. Raoul Pinez turned from his children and pulled his wife closer into his arms. “¿
Parqué, dios
?” she wailed. “¿
Por qué m’hijo
?”

In the back of the crowded church, Dr. Ortiz stood off to one side, alone, knowing that no answer would ever really satisfy the grieving woman. Still, as the boy’s family doctor, he felt a duty to try to ease her pain. When all the services and prayers were over, Lupe would come to him once again with her questions. This time, he needed to be ready with some answers. The university promised to send a copy of Sergio’s medical records this week. As soon as they arrived, he’d study them, and hoped he’d discover
porqué
.