Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (26 page)

“She’s supposed to be,” Reed said.

“I had to see Brian,” her voice was quivering. “He was working on a tape.”

“He didn’t mention any tape to me,” Larry stated.

“It was a favor.” Sammy could barely control her emotions. “You said you needed proof that Professor Conrad didn’t kill himself,” she told Larry. To Reed she added, “Remember, I left you a message last week? I’d forgotten my purse at the professor’s house.”

Reed frowned. “Yeah.”

“Well, my tape recorder was in it. I’d brought it for the interview. It’s voice activated.” She paused before admitting, “It was there overnight.”

“You mean you had a tape of what happened when Conrad died?” Pappajohn exploded. “And you never said anything?”

“I didn’t know. I didn’t remember. I mean, I didn’t have very much. Not much of anything.”

Pappajohn lowered his voice, but couldn’t hide his fury. “What was on the tape?”

She shrugged. “Just my stuff on there and —”

“And what else?” Pappajohn demanded.

“Most of the rest was static. The recorder was under the couch, in my purse.” Sammy tried to explain. “I couldn’t make out much, so I gave it to Brian. He was going to enhance the sound and see if we could get anything more.” She burst into tears once again. “And today, just before the Nitshi remote, he told me he’d learned something.”

Osborne, who had been quietly observing the drama until now, asked, “Did he say what?”

“No, he never got a chance.”

Two firemen emerged from the rubble, carrying a body bag. They began loading it into the ambulance.

Pappajohn shook his head, anger mixed with frustration. “Looks like he never will.”

“It’s my fault.” Sammy’s despair was uncontrollable now.

“Might want to check these out, Chief.” A fireman held out several cigarette butts in the palm of his hand.

The fire chief turned to Sammy. “Did your friend smoke?”

“Yes, but —”

“Where’d you find them?” the fire chief asked his man.

“All around the engineering room. On the floor. On the shelves. Ashtrays were full.”

“Place was an accident waiting to happen,” another fireman declared. “I figure the fella tossed his cigarette. Probably thought it was out. It burns a while, then poof. All this wood — up like a tinderbox.”

“We’ve been trying to get a new building for years.” Larry’s voice broke. “Ah told Brian he was more likely to quit smoking —” He stopped himself abruptly.

“He wouldn’t be dead if it wasn’t for me,” Sammy whispered again.

“That’s not true.” Osborne tried to soothe her. “You heard the fireman. It was an accident.”

“We won’t know anything about anything until the fire chief completes his investigation,” Pappajohn said. He turned to Sammy. “I want to see you in my office, Greene.”

Osborne draped an arm around Sammy’s shoulder and tossed Pappajohn a pointed look. “She’s been through enough for one day. Sergeant.”

“We all have,” Pappajohn conceded.

“She should be in the hospital,” Reed added. “She’s had a severe concussion.”

“Come on, Sergeant,” Osborne suggested. “I’m sure that under the circumstances you could postpone your interview.”

Pappajohn gave a grudging assent.

“I’ll see that Ms. Greene makes it safely home,” Osborne promised.

“And I’ll see that she stays there,” Reed said firmly. “I’m off duty now.” There was nothing more he could do for Brian. The ambulance driver would take the body to the morgue.

“That settles it then,” Osborne replied. “I’ll drop you both off.”

Like most parents of Ellsford students who’d seen the Nitshi Day bombing on the evening news, the Peters turned off their TV set and immediately called their daughter’s sorority. They prayed that she was not among the students injured. Or worse. But with so many calls flooding the switchboard, Lucy’s father didn’t get through until almost nine p.m.

Anne Sumner finally picked up the phone. She greeted him warmly. “Hi, Mr. Peters, how’s Lucy?”

Frank Peters was stunned. “She’s not there?”

“Here? No. I thought Dr. Palmer sent her home,” Anne explained. “I haven’t seen her since Monday.”

“Oh my God,” Lucy’s father said, his heart pounding as he realized the implications of Anne’s response. “Dr. Palmer?”

“What’s happened, Frank? Tell me what’s happened.” A woman’s voice in the background, high, tremulous with fear.

Lucy wasn’t home, Anne realized. Well then, where was she?

A few seconds later, Frank Peters came back on the line. His voice, though calm, betrayed profound anxiety. “Why did she go to the doctor? What happened?”

“Well, we didn’t think it was anything serious,” Anne said. “Just a rash. She went to Student Health on Monday, that’s all. Dr. Palmer said it was chickenpox, and he didn’t want anyone else to catch it, so he told her to go home for a couple of weeks.”

“Did she say when she was coming? What flight she was on?”

“No, sir, I didn’t see her before she left.”

“We’re snowed in here since yesterday. But a few flights must’ve gotten in on Monday. Look, I’m going to call the campus police and report Lucy missing. As soon as the airport reopens, I’ll catch the first available plane out. Meantime, can you call us the minute you have news? Any time, day or night, it doesn’t matter. Okay?”

“For sure, Mr. Peters.”

After he hung up, Frank Peters turned an agonized gaze on his wife’s tear-stained face. She could barely whisper the words, “My baby.”

“Don’t worry,” Lucy’s father forced himself to say. “I’m sure she’s okay. She must have missed the flight Monday and got caught in the snow. She’s probably someplace like Chicago waiting ’til the weather clears.”

“Then why didn’t she call?”

Frank searched for a reason. “Obviously, she thought we’d worry, and she didn’t want to upset us.” He put one arm around his wife, giving her shoulders a squeeze of reassurance. With his other hand he dialed Vermont directory assistance. The answers didn’t seem obvious at all. “Operator, in St. Charlesbury, can I have the number for Ellsford University’s Campus Police.”

Sammy was strangely subdued on the ride home. When the Lexus finally stopped in front of her building, Osborne suggested she see him in his office the next morning. “I’ll call with a time.”

Sammy merely nodded as she and Reed stepped out of the car.

“Take care of her,” Osborne called to Reed before waving goodbye.

Sammy walked to the entrance trancelike as she fumbled in her purse.

“Here,” Reed said, coming up behind her. “Use this.” He stuck his spare key in the lock and opened the door, then followed her upstairs and once again used his key to let her into her apartment.

Sammy entered and stood, silently, in the middle of the living room. She veered numbly between belief and disbelief, between wanting to think about what was happening around her and wishing she could shut it all out.

The pulsing beep of her answering machine intruded on these thoughts. She walked over to it and pushed “Play.”

“Sammy, this is Brian. I’m so glad you’re okay. Listen. Some good news. I’m almost done with the tape. Call me tomorrow and we’ll go over it. You won’t believe what I found.”

Beep
.

The second message was also from Brian. “Me again. I figured out that ‘ping’ at the end of the tape. It’s the sound of a computer being turned off.”

Beep
.

That was it. Brian’s last words to her. So alive and yet — She closed her eyes, willing the horror of his death away.

“Dr. Osborne is worried about you,” Reed said softly. “And so am I.” He came around to face her. “Sammy, I really care about you.”

Sammy opened her eyes and stared at him for a long moment, her expression impassive. “But you don’t believe me.” Her words were spoken in a monotone.

“Believe what?” Reed tried to keep his exasperation in check. “That there’s something diabolical happening around here? That Reverend Taft is killing professors and students — right under the noses of the university police?”

“Brian’s death was no accident.”

“You told me the guy was a chain smoker. The fireman said —”

“I don’t care what the fireman said,” Sammy insisted. “And Conrad’s death was no suicide,” she added.

“The medical examiner’s report confirmed a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”

“Couldn’t someone else have shot him?”

“The paraffin test was positive.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he fired the gun.”

Sammy mulled that over for a moment. There had to be another explanation. “Well, maybe the murderer put the gun in Conrad’s hand and forced him to shoot it,” she suggested.

Reed groaned. “He wrote a suicide note for God’s sake.”

“It was typed on his computer. Anybody could have done it.”

“Why? For what possible motive?”

“Listen to me, I know you’ll think I’m crazy, but after today’s bombing, I started thinking. What if Taft targeted Nitshi people because they fund AIDS-related research.”

“Huh?” Reed shook his head. “That’s carrying homophobia a little far, don’t you think? Anyway, we don’t know Taft was responsible for the bombing.”

“Well, I’m sure his nose is in there somewhere.”

“Even if you’re right, what’s all this got to do with Conrad?”

“Those articles I found. They had to do with DNA and virus infections. Couldn’t somebody use his research to help fight AIDS? Then Taft could —”

“Sammy, molecular genetics is a huge field. Conrad’s work was really peripheral to AIDS.”

“Well then, how about the list of grants I showed you? If Conrad took money from Nitshi — Taft’s latest campaign is ‘America First.’ ”

“First of all,” Reed said, “so what? Protesting is one thing, but why in the world would they kill somebody over protectionism?”

Sammy didn’t have an answer.

“And secondly,” Reed continued, “Conrad’s most recent work was supported solely by government grants. U.S. government grants. I did a little research. He only accepted money from corporations while he was working with Nakamura.”

“Well, now that you’ve brought up Nakamura, doesn’t it seem funny that both men died the same way — by ‘suicide’?”

“A coincidence. You don’t know how demanding research work —”

“But Reed, it was the
same
gun.”

“I thought his wife explained that. He had the gun around. It makes sense.”

Sammy threw up her hands. “You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?”

Reed mollified his tone, diagnosing the shrillness in her voice as a sign of hysteria. “Sammy, I’m just worried about you.” He put his arms around her, but she resisted when he tried to pull her close. “You’ve been through one hell of a trauma today. I wanted you in the hospital to rest. Then you go sneaking out, and now there’s been another death.”

Her temper was skidding dangerously out of control. “Are you going to suggest I had anything to do with it?”

“Of course not!” Reed spread his hands in a gesture of mock helplessness. “I’m suggesting that you’re on overload. What happened to your friend Brian is tragic. A tragic accident. If you weren’t so exhausted, you’d see that.”

Sammy fell silent for a moment and drew a deep breath. “I guess you’re right,” she acknowledged in a whisper, the last of her energy drained by her outburst. “It has been one
farkakte
day.” Reaching forward, she pressed herself into Reed’s welcoming embrace.

“Maybe a good night’s sleep will put things into perspective.”

“Maybe.” She didn’t sound convinced. “I just wish I knew what Brian learned from that tape.”

“Maybe you don’t.”

“And why not?”

“Because if you
are
right, that kind of curiosity might have killed your professor.”

Pappajohn’s broken arm made finding a comfortable sleeping position difficult. He had just closed his eyes when the on-duty clerk transferred the long distance call from Sioux City, Iowa, to his home.

“Sergeant Pappajohn?”

“Yeah.”
Unbelievable. Now what?

“I’m Frank Peters. My daughter Lucy is missing.”

Pappajohn sat up, turned on his bedside lamp, and tried in vain to clear his head. “What did you say?”

“My daughter, Lucy Peters. She’s a freshman. There at Ellsford.” Frank Peters quickly explained how he’d called Lucy’s sorority house after hearing news of the Nitshi bombing. “My wife and I wanted to know that she was okay. But,” the man’s voice cracked, “her sorority sister says she was sent home on Monday.”

“Sent home? By whom?”

“A Dr. Palmer. In your Student Health. She had the chickenpox.”

Chickenpox. What the hell is this, a joke? Pappajohn looked at his bedside clock. Almost midnight. When was this day going to end? “I’m sorry, Mr. Uh —”

“Peters.”

“Mr. Peters. I don’t understand. What are you worried about again?”

As Peters related what he knew about his daughter, Pappajohn grabbed a pen and wrote down all the particulars. After asking a few more questions, he tried to reassure the worried parents. “All right, Mr. Peters. I’ll check on this right away. It’s probably just some mixup. I’m sure she’s just fine.”

Adding a few more encouraging words, he replaced the receiver, feeling anything but reassured himself. A stab of pain shot through his arm and his stomach burned. He shook out a couple of antacids from the bottle by his bed and chewed them as he stood and walked over to the window.

Staring out into the clear, dark night, he experienced a disturbing sense of dread. Ellsford University was a quiet campus in a sleepy New England town where parents sent their beloved children, secure in the knowledge that nothing extraordinary was supposed to happen to them. Yet that serene image was being undermined by suicide, bombing, fire, and now, missing students.

Why now?

Why indeed.

He turned away from the window knowing only one thing for sure. The possibility of sleep tonight was out of the question.

T
HURSDAY

“Good morning.”

Sammy opened her eyes. “Have you been sitting there all night?”

Reed stretched, uncoiling his long legs from the uncomfortable wicker chair he’d pulled near the bed. “Most of it.”