Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (19 page)

“Sergeant, wait.”

He turned and she handed him a piece of paper.

“Message from your office. There’s been a break-in.”

Pappajohn frowned. “Where?”

“Professor Conrad’s house. This morning.”

Pappajohn swallowed a Greek oath. No chance he’d make it to the coroner’s now. Irritated, he walked back toward the secretary’s desk. “Can I use your phone?”

“Try line three. They said the burglar was a young woman. With red hair.”

Pappajohn groaned silently. Greene.
There goes my lunch hour, too
.

• • •

After leaving Karen Conrad, Sammy hurried toward midcampus, her mind in turmoil. The astonishing news of a possible reconciliation between the professor and his wife was an even stronger reason why suicide didn’t fit the picture. Conrad had kept his wife’s bedroom pristine — and ready. Why would a man who obviously still cared about her, who had a good chance of winning her back, go and throw it all away?

He was an angry man, but never the sort to give up.

Karen’s words. If she was right, suicide made even less sense.

On the other hand, Conrad apparently hadn’t felt close enough to share his disturbing concerns about the university. Karen seemed genuinely surprised that her husband might have discovered some campus scandal, and she claimed to know nothing about a brown envelope.

Sammy arrived at the musty campus police office and passed purposefully through the swinging gates to a large wood-paneled desk. On its polished surface was a brass placard that read INFORMATION. The twenty-something bleached blonde seated behind the desk was busy applying a second coat of red nail polish to claw-length acrylics as she chatted on the phone cradled between her neck and shoulder. Sammy couldn’t resist a furtive glance beyond her at the empty glass booth that was Pappajohn’s office. When the cat’s away — she cleared her throat.

“Just a minute,” the blonde whispered into the phone. Placing the receiver on the desk, she tossed Sammy an irritated glare.

Sammy’s voice exuded calm authority. “I’d like to see the file on Professor Barton Conrad.”

The clerk lazily replaced her minipaint brush. “What?”

Sammy enunciated very slowly. “Con-rad, Barton Conrad. He committed suicide a few days ago. I’d like to see the report on his death.”

“Why?”

“It’s public record, isn’t it?”

“Well, now, I don’t know.” The woman stared at a nail as if the answer might be found in the bright enamel.

Sammy pressed on. “You are familiar with the Freedom of Information Act?”

“Listen, Tony, I better call you back.” The blonde hung up the receiver and turned to Sammy. “What are you, a law student?”

“Concerned citizen.”

The woman shrugged. “Everybody’s at lunch. I’ll have to ask one of the regulars. I’m just a temp.”

Sammy took a chance. “I’m sure it’s just in the files.” She nodded at the large black file cabinets that lined the back wall of the anteroom. “I’ll save you the trouble.” She took a few steps toward her goal.

“Maybe I should page Chief Pappajohn,” the clerk said, picking up the phone.

Sammy froze and kept her voice even. “I wouldn’t. Not on Tuesdays. He’s lunching with the chancellor.”

“Yeah, so?”

Sammy examined her watch. “They should be starting on the lobster tails by now. So, knowing the chief as well as I do, I know he hates being disturbed when he’s,” she patted her stomach, “doing important business.”

Sammy leaned closer and spoke conspiratorially. “All I want is a quick look at the report. I won’t even ask for a copy. And you won’t need to fill out a request.”

That seemed to clinch it. The temp replaced the receiver. This was a woman who had better things to do with her time. “Oh, all right, but hurry up.” She waved her freshly manicured hand toward the back wall.

Sammy scurried over to the cabinets and scanned for the “C” drawer. She opened one labeled “B-C” and started rifling through the files. Calley, Canteras, Connors, Conrad. Sammy pulled out a manila folder and spread it open atop the drawer. She caught a glimpse of the clerk’s reflection in the glass, relieved to see that the young woman had resumed her nail repair.

The folder contained only a simple police report of the death, with segments of it still incomplete. Sammy pursed her lips in
frustration as she skimmed the meager data: Barton Conrad, age 42, Professor. Found at home, 8:13 a.m. No sign of forced entry prior to discovery by Sammy Greene, Ellsford University student. Probable cause of death: self-inflicted gunshot wound.

Pictures, fingerprints, and paraffin testing were pending. Okay. But no ballistics confirmation. Just a description of the weapon printed sloppily at the top of the second page: 22-caliber semiautomatic. The gun’s registration number 72674. Sammy’s eyes widened. What a horrible coincidence. 7-26-74 was the date of her birth. Shuddering, Sammy quickly closed the folder and replaced it alphabetically among the files.

Her eyes fell on the adjacent drawer labeled “N-O.” The letters reminded her of another suicide — Dr. Nakamura. Sammy glanced back at the clerk who had now turned away to dry her nails at the window heater vent. Taking advantage of the woman’s distraction, Sammy opened the drawer. Finding the folder, she pulled it out and opened it to the first page.

Sammy skimmed the death report, a standard printed form, dated September 6, her freshman year. Its edges were already yellowed. Most of the
e
’s looked like
o
’s, Sammy noted, the
n
’s like
r
’s. The information must have been typed in by an inconsistent typewriter. Or typist.

Decedent: Yitashi Nakamura

Age: 67

Occupation: Professor

Circumstances of death: found in his campus office, 8:21 a.m., single .22-caliber bullet to the right temple

Cause of death: Suicide (self-inflicted gunshot to head)

Sammy stood there for a few moments, disappointed. Nothing she hadn’t already learned from the newspaper article. No witnesses. No doubts. Cut and dried. Case closed.

Appended to the report were two pages. One listed Nakamura’s
personal belongings, returned to his family. Nothing of note — a watch, his suit, underclothes, loose change.

The other sheet was an official descriptive report of the suicide weapon: .22-caliber semiautomatic, registered to Nakamura. Sammy froze, staring numbly at the report. The serial number for the gun was also 72674. The same number as the gun that killed Conrad. Same gun?

The jangling ring of the phone startled Sammy. She checked the clerk’s reflection in the glass.

“Campus Police,” the woman answered wearily. After a brief pause, Sammy heard a brisker, “Uh-huh. Sure. I’ll hold.”

The clerk’s staccato rhythm of nails clacked on her desk, echoing through the empty office. Sammy frowned. The call sounded official. Better not press her luck. She started to close the folder when her eyes caught the signature at the bottom of the page. The investigating officer on the case was Chief Costas Pappajohn. Very interesting.

“Hello, Chief.”

Uh-oh. The clerk’s voice jarred Sammy into action. She stuffed the file back into its place and pushed the drawer shut with one hand, then hurried toward the door.

“Sure, right away. It’ll be ready.” The clerk’s phone demeanor was now all business.

Sammy didn’t stop to listen. She waved a casual thanks to the woman, as she strode through the gate, trying to keep her pace even and relaxed. She was pushing open the exit door when she heard the clerk add, “By the way, there was somebody here who wanted to see one of your files. Connors or something.”

Sammy didn’t stop to hear the rest of the conversation. She broke into a run the moment she stepped outside. The freezing wind led her to turtle into the upturned collar of her peacoat, a vain attempt to keep warm. Bundled and buried with her collar blinders, she missed the mustachioed man who came around the building corner and headed inside.

• • •

Sammy knocked on the thick door and eased it open. It gave a piercing screech as its lower edge scraped the uneven linoleum floor. With an apologetic “sorry,” she tiptoed into the smoky room.

Brian flipped off his headphones and turned to her with a broad smile.

“It’s my do-it-yourself alarm system,” he joked. “That way nobody catches me by surprise.”

Sammy surveyed the shabby engineer’s studio. “And to think the Athletic Department just got a new gym.”

Brian shrugged. “We don’t bring in millions of dollars in alumni donations.” He reached for a half-smoked cigarette and took a few quick puffs in succession. Tapping her cassette tape, which rested at the top of one of the many piles on his counter, he added. “Nothing yet. Haven’t had too much time.”

“That’s okay,” Sammy said, her sincerity feigned.

Brian wasn’t fooled. “The new wiring took a lot longer than I figured,” he explained. “Then Larry hit me up to do these promos. I promise I’ll get to it tonight. Okay?”

Sammy produced her warmest smile, as she waved a good-bye. “Okay. Call me when you’re done.” Out the door, she stuck her head back in, and added, “Thanks.”

Sammy walked down to her desk and plopped into her chair. Reaching for her pocket notebook, she opened it to a middle page where she found Karen Conrad’s phone number.

The widow didn’t answer. Sammy left an urgent message for Karen to call her. Maybe she would know how Barton Conrad had gotten hold of Yitashi Nakamura’s gun.

2:00 P.M.

“Join us tomorrow on
The Hot Line
. This is Sammy Greene.” Sammy clicked off her microphone switch and leaned back on her stool. Her moment of rest was brief, as Larry entered the studio from the engineer’s booth.

“Not bad. For a five thousand watt station.”

Sammy smiled. “Damned by faint praise, eh?”

Larry studied his hands for a moment.

“Uh-oh. What’s up?”

“You tell me.”

“I know that tone. Evidently, I’ve done something I’m supposed to be sorry for.”

Larry remained silent.

“Really, I haven’t had time to get into mischief today. Unless you call attending a funeral a problem.” Of course, she didn’t mention breaking into the professor’s home and office, her scam at the campus police station, or her visit with Mrs. Conrad, but it was hardly possible he’d found out about any of that. Yet.

Larry sighed. “Actually, it was yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“Your conversation with Dean Jeffries.”

What in the world? “I just asked for a few quotes about Professor Conrad. What’s wrong with that?”

“You never said you planned to broadcast the fact that special interests influence academic decisions at Ellsford?”

“Well, sure, I might have said something like that to his secretary,” Sammy acknowledged. “But she wouldn’t let me see him without an appointment, and I needed an in.”

“That got you in, all right. In his craw. Last night ah had to listen to a twenty-minute lecture on our journalists making unsubstantiated allegations.”

“You’d be surprised what’s going on.”

Larry held up a hand. “Got the proof?”

Sammy hesitated. Should she mention the tape?

The lanky southerner sighed. “Ah have told y’all before, never leave your tookies flapping in the breeze.”

“That’s
toochas,
and I’ll thank you not to cast aspersions on my body parts.”

Larry threw up his hands and paced the room. “Look Sammy, you know as well as ah that this station is subsidized by the university. Why go out of your way to antagonize the hand that feeds us?”

“Okay, so I was fishing a little yesterday. But the way Jeffries reacted, you know I must have touched a nerve.”

He stopped pacing and faced Sammy once again. “All ah know is that you irritated a very important advocate. The dean’s always been on our side.”

“Well, doesn’t that tell you something?”

Larry’s expression was a mixture of pain and frustration.

Sammy decided she should play some of her hand. “What if I told you that Conrad had placed a call to Jeffries the night he died? On the dean’s private line no less.”

An eyebrow went up. “Where’d you learn that?”

Not eager to add trespassing to her growing list of sins, she shook her head and merely said. “I’m protecting a source.”

Larry appealed to the ceiling for relief. “Fine, okay, so he called the dean. What does that prove?”

“You know Conrad was onto something, Larry, and it had to do with special interests right here. The last night I saw him, the man was afraid for his life.”

“The man was drunk as a skunk.”

“He was sober enough to warn me away that night. But not before I saw an envelope addressed to the dean lying on his desk. Next morning, the envelope was gone. When I interviewed Jeffries yesterday about Conrad, he said he never got it. And he never mentioned that he’d talked to Conrad Friday night.”

Another sigh. “Maybe he didn’t.”

“How’s that?”

“Your source said Conrad placed a call to the dean. Maybe he didn’t actually talk to Jeffries. Doesn’t he have a service, a machine?”

That stopped Sammy cold. She hadn’t considered the possibility that Conrad hadn’t gotten through.

Larry began advancing a possible scenario, “Here’s a guy who’s four sheets to the wind, paranoid, and self-destructive. He starts tossing off crazy thoughts to a journalist, so why not to the dean? Two hours later, he wakes up and changes his mind. He destroys the envelope himself.” Larry shrugged. “What’ve you got?”

Without the envelope,
bupkas
, Sammy thought. Nothing. If only Brian could finish working on that tape. She shuffled the papers in front of her, gathered them under her arm, and rose.

“Look, Sammy, ah have stood behind you as much as ah can. But if ah have to choose between supporting our shows or you, you know which way ah have to go. Y’all may have a death wish, but ah don’t.”

Sammy eased her way to the door, her expression weary. “I don’t have a death wish, Larry.” She added, before leaving the room, “And I don’t think Conrad did either.”

Pappajohn’s detour to the Conrad home had been a waste of time.