Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (30 page)

“Suit yourself,” he said, patting a space on the bed, “there’s room.”

“No thanks.” Sammy eased into a bedside chair. “I’m here on business.”

“We have to go, Buddy.” One of the girls planted a moist kiss on his lips.

Her companion nodded and kissed the athlete even more passionately, while Sammy studiously fiddled with her reporter’s notebook. “Bye-bye, Bud,” she breathed as she pulled herself away.

Stanton gave them each his most charming smile, lifting up a free right arm to wave. “Okay, babe.”

His smile faded as the women left, and he turned to Sammy. “Looks like
you
survived all right.”

“That’s for sure. I guess you’re feeling pretty lucky, too.”

“Yeah, right.” Stanton held up his left hand. “Call this lucky?”

To her shock, Sammy saw three fingers were missing. “Oh my God.”

Stanton stared off at a corner of the room. “Yeah.”

“Can you still play?”

“Sure. In the Special Olympics.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“You know, I had three pro teams after me. You should’ve seen the offer I got from the Celtics.”

“You didn’t take it?”

“I was holding out for a better deal. Now I’ll be lucky to play in the junior varsity at St. Charlesbury High.” Stanton’s voice cracked.

Sammy felt uncomfortable. “I could come back.”

Stanton’s voice returned to normal. “Nah. Ask away.”

“About Professor Conrad? Do you think — ?”

“Not again,” Stanton exploded. “First the coach, then the feds. I even got the third degree from our very own chief of campus cops, and now you.” He turned and faced her squarely. “Trust me, I didn’t have to hurt the guy. The fix was already in.”

“But Conrad wasn’t going to pass you if —”

“I have friends over his head. Way over his head. Okay?”

“Oh.” Sammy doubted any names would be forthcoming, but asked, “You wouldn’t — ?”

“You got it. I wouldn’t.” Stanton’s mouth set in a hard line. “Next.”

Sammy looked down at her notebook. “Uh, what do you think of the Reverend Taft?”

“Taft? I checked him out. Maybe some of his stuff made sense, but man, he was over the edge.” Stanton rolled his eyes. “Not my scene.”

“Then why attend the rally?”

“Senator Joslin invited me.”

Sammy was stunned. “Why?”

“Next year’s elections. Thought I’d make a good physical-fitness spokesman during the campaign. Funny, isn’t it? The guy wasn’t even there. And now —” His eyes fell on his injured hand.

“I’m really sorry, Bud,” Sammy repeated.

The athlete’s famous confidence was nowhere in sight when he answered, “Yeah. So am I, babe, so am I.”

Pappajohn was about to try the last number on the list when Sammy walked into his office.

“Okay, I’m here. Only five minutes late.”

The police chief hung up the phone before the connection was made. His expression hardened and his voice was icy. “Sit down.”

“Thanks.” Sammy pulled up a torn leather chair. “How did you know where to find me?”

“Let’s just say the subject came up.” He nodded at Sammy’s bandage.

Nurse Matthews. Pappajohn must have tracked her down to Student Health. If only the old guy was as good at investigating murders.

“All right, I’ll come straight to the point. What was on that tape?”

Sammy squirmed. “Nothing.” Best not to mention the computer sound.

“Ms. Greene.” Pappajohn gave her a fierce stare. “Do you realize that you can be prosecuted for withholding evidence?”

“Evidence? I thought you said it was a suicide.” Sammy shrugged, affecting nonchalance.

“Don’t change the subject. The information on that tape belongs in our investigation. Thanks to your irresponsible negligence, it seems to be lost.”

Sammy threw up her hands. “I don’t remember.”

“Let’s see if I can jog your memory.” Pappajohn’s smile was cold. “Trespassing. Breaking and entering. Lying to my clerks and tampering with documents under false pretenses.”

“You going to have me arrested?” Sammy asked with an edge of sarcasm.

“Worse. I’ve got enough here to bring you up before the university disciplinary board. Guilty on any one of these charges and you’ll be out on your . . . own. So, if you want to graduate from Ellsford, you’d better start talking.”

Sammy seemed to have little choice. “Look, there really wasn’t much. Like I told you yesterday, the recorder was in my purse. It’s mostly static.”

“Well, what
did
you hear?”

“Most of the tape was my interview with the professor from Friday night. But after I left, he had at least one visitor.”

Pappajohn sat up in his chair. “Who?”

“I couldn’t make out the voices,” Sammy replied. “From the tone, though, they could have been fighting.”

“About what?” Pappajohn demanded.

“All I could tell were a few words here and there. Nothing that made sense.”

Pappajohn banged his fist on the desk. “And that’s it?”

“That’s why I asked Brian to help.”

Pappajohn eyed her dubiously. “Did you touch anything else?”

Sammy hesitated. No way could she risk telling him about the pill bottle now. If she survived his explosion, she was sure she’d end up on the receiving end of a court date. “Not that I remember. No.”

“All right.” He fixed his brown eyes on hers. “I have just one more thing to say. And let me say it in no uncertain terms. Stay out of my way. Or you’ll be sorry.”

Sammy had never seen Pappajohn so aggravated. She offered him a conciliatory smile. “Can I go now?”

He nodded. “And I don’t want to see you again for a while.

A long while.”

“For once, Sergeant, you and I agree.”

While Sammy had every intention of staying out of Pappajohn’s way, she never planned to stop her own investigation of the Nitshi bombing. After striking out with Bud Stanton, she tried to locate and interview a few of the students she’d photographed from the animal rights protest. Poor Katie Miller’s picture was the only one she’d given to Reed. The rest of the shots were still stashed in the bottom of her purse. It took two hours to match them up with the out-of-focus ID card images in their records at the Registrar’s Office, but by late afternoon Sammy had tracked down the names and addresses of three members of Taft’s Youth Crusade.

One refused to talk at all — literally slamming the door in her face. One had left the university for what her roommate termed a
sudden “leave of absence.” The third answered Sammy’s questions with one irrelevant Bible quote after another. Sammy wasn’t sure if the Scripture review was intended to hide information or ignorance about Taft and his motives. In either case, the student’s loyalty to his “mentor” was unshakable.

By five-thirty, Sammy was convinced that if she wanted any information on the Reverend, she’d have to get it straight from the horse’s mouth. Fifteen minutes later she was in St. Charlesbury, standing in front of Taft headquarters. She entered the brick building, knocked on the door to the Reverend’s office suite, and walked into the reception area. Except for the thirty-something secretary seated at a desk in the middle of the room, the place was empty. Quite a change from Sammy’s last visit. A year ago it was packed with anti-abortion protesters and press.

The woman rose and slipped on her coat. “Sorry. We’re closed.”

“But she may not be with us tomorrow,” Sammy said.

“Sorry?”

“Edith. My great aunt Edith. She’s very ill,” Sammy improvised. “Surely the Reverend can spare a moment to pray for my dear sweet auntie. She never missed him on TV — gave him more than five hundred dollars last year for his Crusade. And now,” Sammy manufactured a single tear and a sad smile. “And now we could lose her.” Sammy hoped she wasn’t laying it on too thick.

The secretary seemed torn. She looked back and forth from Sammy to Taft’s inner sanctum. “I don’t know. He’s really not — Just a minute.” The woman reached for her telephone and pressed the intercom button. “Reverend, can you squeeze in a fifty-eight?” She listened, nodded, then added, “Okay” before hanging up. “God has answered your prayers. The Reverend will see you right after he’s done with his meeting.”

The secretary picked up her purse and headed out the door. “Have a seat over there,” she said, pointing to a folding chair along the wall. “He’ll be out in a minute.”

Alone in the reception area, Sammy wandered over to the secretary’s desk, intent on some snooping. She was reaching for the
center drawer when the door to Taft’s office opened. She moved out of the line of sight, into the shadows. Two men in dark suits emerged, followed by an effusive Taft. Though not facing her, something about their profiles seemed vaguely familiar to Sammy. She wasn’t sure, but they could be the same men she saw trying to get into Stanton’s hospital room yesterday.

“It’s all taken care of, no problem at all.” Taft patted one of them on the shoulder, and Sammy saw him pull away as if in pain. “Sorry. Let’s finalize things tomorrow. Call me by noon.”

As the Reverend shook hands with each man, Sammy slipped into his office. She looked around the traditional New England study. Its wood paneling, leather chairs, cedar desk and bookcases sported a collection of texts on religion, history, and philosophy. Judging from the variety of titles, Taft’s taste in literature was broader than she would have expected. Even more surprising, a high-tech media center with TVs, computers, and other communication devices filled the entire far wall. Some of the bank of television monitors were tuned to local news stations; others broadcast more international fare. Taft’s ministry might preach nineteenth-century values but used twenty-first-century tools.

“God’s word often needs man’s voice. How may I help you?” The words resonated behind her.

Sammy turned to face the preacher whose plastic smile dissolved as soon as he recognized his visitor.

“Oh, no. Not you! What the hell do
you
want?”

Sammy struggled to keep her voice light. “Tsk, tsk. Language, Reverend, really. I’m here about the Nitshi bombing, of course.”

Taft remained impassive as he walked over to a high-backed leather chair behind his large cedar desk. He gestured toward the armchair facing him. The minister sat down, placing his hands on the desk, fingertips together as if in prayer, and produced an ironic smile. “I assume you’re not planning to confess.”

Seated, Sammy realized she had been forced by subtle positioning to look up at Taft in his throne of power. “I’m Jewish. I only confess to my shrink,” she admitted wryly, adding in a more serious
tone. “What about you, Reverend? Do you have any idea who’s responsible for the misfortune?”

“I’m afraid only Satan can be blamed for such tragic events,” Taft said. “Terrible incident. Terrible.”

“I’d call it more than an incident,” Sammy said. “Tell me, Reverend, were you or your people responsible?”

Taft’s eyes flashed anger, though he maintained his composure. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten you, young lady. Trying to discredit me at every turn. You’re no different than any of the damned media — printing or saying the foulest poison about the Traditional Values Coalition and my ministry.”

“Look, I know you’ve been fighting the Nitshi Corporation from the beginning. You led the campaign against building the institute on campus.”

“Ours is a holy crusade,” Taft stated. “With only one goal. America for Americans. To recover the old-fashioned morality this country once stood for.”

“Old-fashioned morality,” Sammy observed. “That’s your code for pro-life, anti-women, anti-gay, anti-foreigners.”

“If you mean that we’re against single people living together in sin, against women murdering their unborn, against the abomination of homosexuality, and, yes, against allowing foreign companies like Nitshi to take over our universities and businesses — you’re absolutely right.”

“How can you set yourself up as a one-man morality board? Our country was built on diversity of opinion and choice.”

“Our country is dying and we have to save it. A smart girl like you should understand that.”

“A smart girl like me understands that you’re dangerous, Reverend. And I suspect you’d stop at nothing — including violence — to achieve your noble goals.”

“Our sense of morality — despite your prejudiced impressions, Ms. Greene — would never condone violence. Something which, judging from your exposure to our pro-life counseling, I would have expected you to understand.”

“Maybe violence isn’t a part of your religion, Reverend,” Sammy responded. “But can you guarantee that it isn’t for some of your followers?”

“God speaks to us in different ways,” Taft said. “Perhaps some misinterpret His word.”

“So you admit it’s possible that your people might be behind the —”

“I admit nothing of the kind!” Taft erupted. “Our mission is salvation. To rescue the unborn, to redeem the sinners. We give of our bodies, hearts, and minds. But we would not sacrifice the lives of our young people to do it!” He pointed to the door. “This interview is over.”

“You’ve said enough.” Sammy remained seated, slowly thumbing through her reporter’s notebook. She added almost casually, “Then you deny that you’ve been targeting professors who are doing AIDS-related research as part of your anti-gay crusade?”

Taft appeared surprised. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the deaths of Dr. Nakamura and Professor Conrad. Could your battle plan have included getting them out of the way?”

Taft jumped to his feet. “Out of my office now, or you’ll be hearing from my attorney. Again.”

“Is that your answer?”

“Would you like me to call security?” Taft’s finger was poised over the intercom button on his desk.

Sammy rose. “Thanks. I don’t need an escort. I was just leaving.” She sauntered toward the door, then turned. “One last question, though, Reverend. What did you do with Luther Abbott?”

The moment Sammy left his office, Taft picked up the phone. But he didn’t dial his lawyer’s number. Instead, he called the private line of the Republican Senator from Vermont.

“God dammit, Joslin,” he shouted when the line was finally answered. “You’re going to pay!”

• • •