Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (18 page)

So Conrad had phoned Dean Jeffries the night he died — apparently on the dean’s private line. Sammy wasn’t surprised. She’d felt Jeffries had been less than forthright when they talked yesterday.
Although her first impulse was to go to Blair Hall and confront the dean, Sammy realized the call itself meant nothing.

Frustrated, Sammy replaced the folder and slammed the drawer shut. She dialed the hospital page number with one hand and slipped the phone under her chin. While she waited for the operator, she flipped through Conrad’s Rolodex absentmindedly, considering several possible scenarios.

If Conrad never mailed the envelope to the dean, and it wasn’t in the house, perhaps he’d stashed it somewhere for safekeeping.

Or, maybe it had been taken. From the tape recording she now knew that someone had been here after her visit Friday night. She recalled Conrad fastening the chain before she left and warning her to be careful. Saturday morning the door had been locked, the chain unbroken. So, whoever had come by, Conrad had let in. Someone Conrad knew and trusted. Who, she wondered. And what had they argued about? Were the contents of the envelope a motive for murder?

“Hello.”

The voice of the hospital operator interrupted speculation. “I’m sorry, Dr. Wyndham doesn’t answer his page. Would you like to leave a message?”

“No. No, thanks.” Sammy hung up the receiver and saw that the Rolodex had fallen open to a familiar name and address: Karen Conrad.

Sammy added the information to her notes, and checking her Swatch, decided to visit the professor’s ex-wife that afternoon. First stop, however, was Conrad’s office at the genetics building.

Sammy flicked off the hall light and slowly nudged the front door open. The snow had tapered to a few sprinkles, so she now had a clear view of the yard to the street. Closing the door behind her, she started carefully down the steps, then froze when she spotted two more rows of footsteps beside the gullies left by her own feet as she’d entered. Both sets traveled up the stairs and ended at the front door. Propelled by fear, she made a dash for the street, hurrying down several blocks before the sight of a group of students frolicking in the freshly fallen snow gave her cover to resume a normal pace.

Still, she couldn’t resist the occasional backward glance to reassure herself that she wasn’t being followed.

The neighbor who called Campus Police never saw the tall man with a mustache. She only reported a frizzy-haired redhead hurrying from the Conrad residence shortly after eleven.

“Thanks for stopping by, Gus,” Coach Grizzard said.

Pappajohn hung his overcoat on a peg by the door. “You had something to tell me?”

“Take a load off,” Grizzard pointed to the chair in front of his desk. He pulled out a cheap American cigar from his top drawer, clenched it between his front teeth, and lit a match to the other end. “Smoke?”

“No. Thanks.” Pappajohn sat down impatiently as Grizzard took a deep puff.

“Probably wondering what’s on my mind.” The coach blew out a curtain of smoky haze.

Pappajohn nodded, trying to keep from grimacing at the stench. The man didn’t know from good cigars.

“Bud Stanton.”

Pappajohn acknowledged the name. But the connection? “Yeah.”

“It stinks. Something stinks.”

Pappajohn couldn’t hide a look of amusement as he eyed the foul cigar. He resisted the obvious comment and returned a noncommittal “What?”

“Stanton’s an A-one forward. But, let’s just say he’s not the best in the brains department.”

“So? You’re going to the finals this year.”

“With him. But if he hadn’t passed his courses —”

“He passed?”

Grizzard shrugged. “We’ll never know. Dean Jeffries waived most of his midterms. Of course,” the coach added, “I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Pappajohn waited.

“Maybe I’m off base, but Stanton was having a real hard time in bio.”

Pappajohn raised an eyebrow. “Conrad’s bio?”

“Yup. Dean couldn’t budge the professor.” He waggled his hand sideways. “So, the big exam’s Monday. Three to one, it would have been a knockout. Now, all of a sudden, Conrad croaks and everybody gets to sail through — even Stanton.”

“You suggesting the kid had something to do with Conrad’s death?”

“I ain’t suggesting nothing. I just know that Stanton was parading his ass around here Saturday like the fix was in. Before any of the rest of us even knew the guy was dead.” The coach launched a few more cloudy puffs to underscore his point.

First Greene, now Grizzard. Paranoid imaginations. Pappajohn did not hide his irritation. “Seems to me that Stanton could’ve maybe worked out something with Conrad. You know, extra credit, a paper, maybe even tutoring. The faculty bends over backward to help our athletes.”

“Not Conrad. Stanton was up against the wall. That exam was going to kill him.”

Pappajohn eased up from his chair and slid on his overcoat. “Well, thanks for letting me know.”

“You gonna look into it?”

Do I have a choice? Pappajohn mused, nodding toward the coach. “Yeah. I’ll look into it.” He gathered his scarf and headed for the door. “I’ll get back to you when I get something.”

If I get something
.

The door to Conrad’s campus office was unlocked. Sammy stepped inside, quietly shutting it behind her. Last time she’d been here, she’d focused on the grumbling professor. Now she took a moment to study the room itself. If not for the rainbow of light streaming through the stained-glass window just behind the wooden desk, the
spartan cubicle would have been stifling. The furnishings were Victorian and austere, the room was dark and devoid of personal touches. Sammy saw no photographs, posters, or
chatchkes
among the dusty books and papers.

Propped on the floor in one musty corner were Conrad’s diplomas and certificates. Sammy stooped down and flipped through the frames: B.S. in biology from Wisconsin, Ph.D. in biology from Berkeley, Member of the American Association for the Advancement of Science, Phi Beta Kappa. Barton Conrad was brilliant and accomplished. Standing, she noticed the Ellsford Teaching Award, still posing on the windowsill. Dear God, why did he throw his life away?

Abruptly, she turned from the window and back to Conrad’s desktop. Unlike the one in his living room, this was uncluttered — only a few recent genetics journals stacked neatly beside the Macintosh — an identical twin to his home computer. Except for some loose paper clips and a couple of Bic pens, the two drawers were likewise devoid of disorder. Unless someone had cleaned up, it seemed that Conrad did his serious work at home.

Sammy sat down in the swivel chair behind the desk and flipped on the computer switch at the back of the monitor. The familiar ping sound came on; the computer started whirring as it booted up and the screen took on the familiar gray glow.

A look at the hard disk directory was not particularly illuminating. Sammy scrolled up and down, examining the file titles. Most referred to Ellsford administrative subjects, lecture summaries, course outlines, and research papers.

Sammy stopped and double clicked on a folder labeled “Nakamura.” The window came up empty. Apparently, Conrad had erased its contents.

Continuing to explore the files, her attention was drawn to a folder labeled “Osborne.” Not surprising, she figured, given that they were friends. Inside the folder was a single document, which appeared to be random notes: a few dates and times — perhaps when he’d met with the psychologist — and a list of scientific articles. No
titles, just journals, volumes, and pages. Next to one he’d asterisked “see Darsee and Summerlin.” Sammy had no idea what that referenced, but she copied the names down anyway.

“What are you doing?”

Startled, Sammy looked up to see a young, neatly dressed woman leaning against the door. She was carrying several manila folders filled with blue memorandum paper. Must be a departmental secretary.

Sammy adopted her most convincing smile. “I, uh, Dr. Osborne asked me to pull up references for a project he and Professor Conrad were working on.” Smoothly, she reached behind to turn off the computer.

“Not there!” the secretary snapped. “You turn it off from the master switch.” She pointed at a row of plugs on the floor. “Down there, by your feet.”

“Oh.” Sammy pushed the floor switch off with her toe. “I didn’t know.”

“Professor Conrad would’ve killed you,” the secretary explained. “He always used the floor switch. Said he hated wasting time with the individual switches, turning them on one by one. This way, zap, and everything was ready to go.”

“Sorry, I forgot.” Sammy stood and folded her notepad into her purse. “Anyway, I got what we needed. Thanks.” Shaking her head, she walked out of the room alongside the woman, “Sad, isn’t it?”

The secretary agreed. “Yeah. I mean, he wasn’t exactly Mr. Nice-to-be-around, but it’s not like we wanted him gone, you know? At least I don’t think so,” she added in a half-joking manner. “You’re lucky, you know.”

“Yeah?” Sammy cast a glance toward the outside door in the distance. Only a few more steps. “How come?”

“You work for Osborne. Now there’s a nice guy.”

“Yeah.” Sammy waved and made her way quickly to the door.

The door cracked opened with Sammy’s first knock.

“Yes?” Karen Conrad had changed from her dark suit into a pair of gray wool slacks and a light blue silk blouse. Framed in the doorway with her long brown hair unclasped, falling in waves on her shoulders, she looked more like the happy woman in the photos Sammy had seen in her ex-husband’s home. Her tears were gone, her makeup reapplied. Her smile, however, was tentative. “Can I help you?” she asked in a soft English accent.

“My name is Sammy Greene. I’m a student at Ellsford,” Sammy explained. “I also work for the campus radio station W-E-L-L. Would you have a moment.”

“This really isn’t a good time.” Karen moved to shut the door.

“I know. I’m sorry. I saw you at the funeral.” Sammy’s smile was full of sympathy. “I took Professor Conrad’s bio class. He was a wonderful teacher.”

Karen nodded. “Yes. He was.” She paused, then opened the door wider to let Sammy in. Stepping aside, she waved her hand toward the brightly lit foyer. “Come, I was just about to have tea.”

She led Sammy to a sunny sitting room filled with potted plants and comfortable pastel-colored furniture. Sammy settled on a loveseat while Karen poured brewed Darjeeling from a white china pot. Her hand — and her voice — were steady.

“I was one of his students myself, you know,” Karen said, taking a seat opposite Sammy. “I came to Berkeley after my third year at Christchurch.”

“Christchurch?”

“Christchurch College, Oxford. Barton was one of my first American professors. Rather different than what I’d expected.” Karen sipped her tea. “Still, I took a fancy to his unusual approach. Science as politics — the politics of science.”

Conrad hadn’t changed much over the years, Sammy thought.

Karen leaned back on the sofa, her eyes twinkling. “Barton would get particularly passionate on Friday nights.”

Sammy’s eyebrows shot up at the unexpected admission. “Uh, with you,” she stammered.

“Oh, dear, no.” Karen laughed gently. “I meant Friday night discussion sessions at Yitashi’s house.”

“Yitashi Nakamura?”

“A group of us would gather at his home each Friday and chat.”

“About science.”

“World affairs, politics, movies, music, philosophy.” Karen smiled at the memory. “Barton and Yitashi used to go at it like two samurai. Fight to the death.”

In response to Sammy’s raised eyebrow, she added. “Figuratively speaking. But, they were quite close in their own way. Wise father and prodigal son. I recall once they were talking about individual rights versus family obligations. Barton was ever the cowboy, stridently in favor of a self-based ethical system. Yitashi argued about the moral virtues of family loyalty over individualism.”

“Who won?”

“We all did. It was a most stimulating evening.”

“You sound as if you still —” Sammy searched for the right word and tense, “care about him.”

“Life with Barton was always a challenge. An adventure.”

“So what happened?”

Karen gazed off in the corner. “When Dr. Nakamura died, Barton was devastated. As if he had lost his father all over again.” She looked back at Sammy. “Not long after that he began drinking. Barton needed a full-time nurse and mother more than he needed a wife and lover. I simply couldn’t do the job any longer.”

Sammy asked, “How long have you been divorced?”

“Separated, six months. I guess it’s not a secret. The EU grapevine is better than the tabloids. I had a brief . . . relationship . . . with a sociology professor.”

The man with the Volvo, Sammy speculated.

“The affair was over before it really began. Foolish,” Karen admitted. “I suppose it was my way of letting Barton know we had a problem. Otherwise he’d just bury himself in his work. He hated confrontation.” She paused a moment before adding, “at least with me.”

“Uh, you’ll have to excuse me for this question, but did Professor
Conrad ever seem like . . . did he ever talk about wanting to . . .” Sammy struggled, “to kill himself?”

Karen took a long sip of her tea before answering. “Intentionally? No. Yes. Maybe. Not when he was sober.”

“And when he wasn’t?”

The pause was even longer until Karen whispered “Yes.” She forced a smile. “But, I never believed he’d truly do it. He was an angry man, but never the sort to give up.” She looked down at her empty teacup. “It’s funny. If anything, I would’ve thought he’d have something more to live for.”

“What do you mean?”

Sammy could see the start of tears as Karen fumbled in her pocket for a tissue. “Sorry. It’s just that we’d been talking — seeing each other once in a while, now and then. Things were going well enough between us that we were planning a joint Thanksgiving holiday to —” Karen spoke between sniffles, “to see if we could get back together.”

Pappajohn exited Dean Jeffries’s office and consulted his watch. He still had a few minutes to swing by the medical examiner’s office before lunch. Time to get a few answers. Unfortunately, the dean’s secretary flagged him down as he headed for the outer door.