Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (20 page)

Almost.

The doors and windows were all locked now. He’d used his master key to enter and survey the inside. Nothing appeared touched. The neighbor wasn’t much help either. She’d only seen a redhead walking down the front stairs.

“I’m not a busybody, officer. I couldn’t tell you if the girl went inside.”

So even if it had been Greene — and Pappajohn had no doubt that it was — he had no evidence a crime had been committed.

Still, the trip had meant putting off his stop at the medical examiner’s office. The afternoon was already shot with meetings for Nitshi Day security. Now he’d have to see the coroner after the Nitshi event tomorrow.

Frustrated, Pappajohn decided to use the remaining ten minutes of his lunch hour to review Conrad’s computer files again. The registrar never questioned his need for the professor’s code and password and once inside the Macintosh system, he’d located the E-net folder, this time typing in “21,8752” and “gene?human” following the prompt. After a moment, the computer screen flashed up the message: “File deleted.”

As an amateur hacker, he was surprised, but not stymied. As long as new data had not been overwritten on the same sector, there was still a chance to recover the old file. He scanned the
applications folder until he located “Guardian,” a data-recovery utility. Following the “help” menu, step-by-step, he slowly restored the original to the hard disk. The process took longer than he expected. He was twenty minutes behind schedule before he finished. He would barely make it to the Nitshi offices in time.

Quickly, he grabbed a blank floppy from Conrad’s messy desktop, copied the file, then raced outside to his rusty Land Cruiser. After work he could peruse the data at his leisure.

Sammy rushed to her desk phone and lifted the receiver on the fifth ring.

“Miss Greene?”

“Mrs. Conrad?”

Karen responded in her soft English accent. “You asked me to ring you up?”

“Yes, thanks. I had one more question.” Sammy settled into her chair and caught her breath before continuing. “Did Professor Conrad keep a gun at home?”

Karen gasped. “I didn’t know he had any ammunition.”

“So he had the gun. From Professor Nakamura.”

Clearly shaken, Karen’s voice was unsteady. “Look, you must understand. Barton was a strict proponent of gun control. After Yitachi killed himself, Barton was a different man.”

“That must have been so hard.”

“It destroyed him almost as much as it destroyed Yitachi’s family.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I think it was Mimiko — Mrs. Nakamura — who ended up giving him the gun.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I guess she didn’t want it around. Would you?”

“And he kept it?”

Karen’s voice was tinged with anger. “Yes. Some kind of perverse memorial for the death of his mentor and friend.”

“Did he ever use it? Play with it?”

Karen was vehement. “Never. He never touched it. Always kept it sitting on his bookshelf, propping up one of his books. Said that was the perfect place for it.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Holding up the Bible.”

Sammy said nothing for a moment. Then, she asked, “Um, would you know how I might reach Mrs. Nakamura?” Sammy recalled the newspaper article reporting her move to Kyoto.

“As a matter of fact, she’ll be in New York this weekend. If you call me on Thursday, I can get you the name of the hotel where she’ll be staying.”

Sammy brightened. She’d been considering a trip to the Big Apple. If she could meet Mrs. Nakamura in person, perhaps she could learn something to tie the two deaths together. “I’ll do that. And thanks for taking the time to tell me what you know.”

Sammy barely heard Karen’s tearful whisper, “I didn’t know he had ammunition.”

Taking a giant bite of cold pastitsio, Pappajohn waited for his computer to boot up. The food landed like a lump of coal into his empty, churning stomach and he reached for an antacid chaser to ease the burning. All he’d had all day were too many cups of coffee. Absentmindedly, his eyes fell to his bottom right desk drawer and the unopened box of expensive Havana cigars he’d secreted there when he’d quit smoking.
That’s
a real cigar, he remembered fondly.

Forcing his eyes back to the screen, he watched the directory unfold to a list of recently created files. Wiping an oily hand on his slacks, he grabbed the floppy disk, keyed in a few instructions, and waited for the data to be converted from Mac OS 7.1 to IBM DOS. The cigar box beckoned, and he found himself reaching for it before stopping himself and kicking the drawer shut, disgusted. Another bite of pastitsio would have to do.

The computer finally signaled “Task Completed.” With his free hand, he typed in two words and sat back once again to wait. The response was immediate. The screen filled with data. Pastitsio and cigars
forgotten, he leaned forward to scroll and review with a sense of urgency he hadn’t felt this morning. After ten minutes, he switched on his printer and instructed the data transfer to begin. Within seconds, the file contents began filling the paper.

When the grating noise ended, he severed the connection and shut down his computer. Satisfied, he tore the printout off the roll and stuffed it in his pocket, pausing only to grab the last dripping piece of the casserole with his free hand before speeding out the door.

“Sorry, Miss Greene. I gave those pictures to your boyfriend.”

Sammy looked at Mr. Brewster with surprise. “My boyfriend?”

Why would Reed pick up the pictures?

“Eh yup. And if you don’t mind my saying so,” the shopkeeper quipped, “he’s quite a rude young man.”

That didn’t sound like Reed at all. Sammy frowned, “What did he look like?”

Brewster thought for a minute. “Can’t say that I really noticed. Had a busy morning. Fellow didn’t want to wait his turn. I remember that.”

Sammy grew impatient. “A tall sandy blond with dark blue, almost purple eyes?”

“Tall, I think so. I didn’t catch the eyes, mind you, but this one definitely did not have light hair.” The old man rubbed his stubbly chin. “Matter of fact, it was black — same as his mustache.”

“Mustache?” Sammy’s heart began to pound as fear squeezed her chest. The man in her dream. “Oh my God.” The man who tried to run her down! Feeling lightheaded, she grabbed onto the counter for support.

“You all right, Miss Greene?” Brewster had started to come around to her side, but she held up a hand.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” Despite her attempt at bravado, she was shaking.

“How ’bout a glass of fresh apple cider?” Brewster filled a mug from a pewter pitcher and held it out for her. “I can warm it up.”

“No, thanks. This is fine.” She took a sip of the tart drink. It was
smooth and soothing. She looked at the shopkeeper, “Mr. Brewster, that wasn’t my boyfriend.”

A frown crossed his furrowed brow. “He wasn’t? Why’d he pick up the pictures then? And how’d he know they were here?”

“Because he saw me yesterday. I think that’s the guy who tried to run me down.”

The old man registered surprise. “The accident?”

“That’s what he wanted it to look like,” Sammy theorized. She’d finally stopped shaking. “But, believe me, Mr. Brewster, that was no accident.”

“Why would someone try to hurt you?”

Why? Now that was the million-dollar question. Sammy had no idea. But since the pictures were of Taft and his protesters, she felt certain the good Reverend had to be involved. “I don’t know,” she responded.
But I intend to find out
.

Who’s there
?

Silence, then static.

Brian McKernan’s nicotine-stained fingers skittered over the keys and levers of the graphic equalizer. Earlier he’d transferred Sammy’s cassette to quarter-inch tape. Now he adjusted each frequency bandwidth, attempting to minimize the hiss and enhance the quality of the recorded conversation. He replayed the tape and the static became:
It’s —

Brian couldn’t make out the next word. He ran the tape back and forth a few times, to no avail. Frustrated, he moved forward, planning to return and enhance the dialogue later.

I said, who’s there
? This voice was easy to hear.

Brian recognized rustling sounds — movement? — and then a door opening.

Wadda ya want
? The loud voice again. Slurred. Someone had been on quite a bender, Brian thought as he moved on to another stretch of static. By adjusting the tracks, he was able to identify the words.

Then —
need to talk
.

After a few beats, the door slammed shut.

The engineer stopped the tape and removed his earphones. He rubbed his temples with two fists. His shoulders were aching. He’d been sitting hunched over the board for more than two hours and was only a third through the recording. No way he’d finish today. And he still had several commercials to put on carts for this week’s radio shows.

He pulled a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket, removed the last one, and lit it. Drawing hard on the cigarette, he blew smoke into the air. What the heck was Sammy up to now? He liked the feisty redhead — even when she handed him assignments he hardly had time for. Still, after hearing only part of the tape, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this time she might be sticking her nose into something sinister. Whoever she’d been talking to at the start of the conversation had been very specific.

I’ve learned that sometimes it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie. Stay as far away from this as you can.

Rewinding the reel, he shook his head. No question. Those words came through loud and clear.

5:45 P.M.

At five forty-five, Sammy slipped into the psychology conference room and took an empty chair at the oak table. Dr. Osborne acknowledged her entrance with a nod, then returned his attention to the young man seated to his left.

“Mr. Stevens brings up a very interesting question,” Osborne continued. “Why should scientific fraud be any more immoral than fraud in industry, politics, or even marriage?” The psychology professor searched the faces of the five young men and three young women attending his graduate seminar. The students all wore jeans and sweatshirts. Osborne, however, was nattily dressed in a three-piece suit and Gucci loafers.

“Because,” an attractive Hispanic student was ready with an answer, “fraud in the other areas isn’t as critical to our lives.”

Osborne raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“Well, scientists confirm theories by setting up tests.”

“Experiments,” Osborne suggested.

The Hispanic student nodded. “If the theory is wrong, the tests won’t work, so you develop new theories. But when experimental results are faked, you won’t find out if a theory is right or wrong, maybe for a long time. If a medicine will cure, if a power plant is safe, if a plane will fly.” Her face reddened with passion, “People could die.”

“She’s right,” another student remarked. “Fraud in science kills the meaning of science.”

“If that’s true, why would scientists betray their principles?” an earnest blonde in a tight turtleneck challenged.

“Come on,” a long-haired young man sitting beside her responded, “The three
F
’s: Fame, Fortune and Faculty appointments.”

Another student broke in through the chuckles. “We all know how competitive scientific research is; the pressure to produce so many papers in so many years. Publish or perish. The system’s bound to tempt some of us.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” still another agreed. “In academia at least, cheating is an evolved and often highly adaptive trait.”

The comment evoked a round of appreciative laughter from her classmates.

“Psychology meets anthropology,” Osborne summarized. “Sounds like a good way to end class for the day.” He checked his course syllabus. “Next time, let’s review the Solomon Asch experiment. Oh, and by the way, anyone who wants to submit final papers on disk is welcome to do so. No sense in wasting trees.”

“PC or Mac?” someone asked.

“Either. I’m bi-literate.” Osborne shrugged good-naturedly. He waited for the group to file out before joining Sammy.

“Lively discussion,” she remarked.

“Yes, grad seminars tend to develop a life of their own.” He shifted his weight slightly and scratched his chin, apparently lost in some deep thought, then abruptly turned to her, “How about
adjourning to Rodolfo’s? I’m starved, and we can have that chat you requested. My treat.”

“Sounds great.”

They left the office and walked the three blocks from the Psych building to the only serious Italian restaurant in St. Charlesbury. The owners were third-generation Romans whose flair for risotto and saltimbocca more than made up for their restaurant’s utilitarian atmosphere. And Rodolfo’s was just pricey enough to guarantee that EU students didn’t frequent the establishment — especially on week-nights. The few patrons present when they walked in were university staff and St. Charlesbury locals who sat in cozy, candlelit booths and spoke in soft tones.

“So nice to see you again, Professor Osborne.” Rodolfo himself escorted them to their seats, then rattled off the evening’s specials.

“Can you order?” Sammy asked. “I’m afraid anything beyond basic pasta and pizza is out of my league.”

“Sure.” Osborne quickly scanned the menu. “For the lady, the nodino di vitello. For myself, the risotto con porcini and a small carafe of your house red wine.”

Rodolfo nodded his approval and disappeared into the kitchen. Seconds later he reappeared with a big bowl of pinzimonio. Osborne offered Sammy the Italian crudités with balsamic vinaigrette, then took a few for himself. Between bites, Sammy found herself sharing her feelings about Sergio’s death with the psychologist.

“I guess I took it as hard as anyone, and I never really knew him. He was so young.” She fidgeted, trying to articulate her thoughts. “I know I’m overreacting — being unprofessional. I mean, if you want to be a good journalist, you can’t get involved.”

Osborne stopped chewing and stared at her. His eyes softened as he seemed to search for an appropriate response. “You’re a human being. You can’t help but get involved.”

“I suppose. But it’s even worse when you get involved and you can’t do anything.” Sammy took another bite of her antipasto. “Like Professor Conrad. If I’d only realized that he was in that much trouble. I keep thinking, I might’ve been able to help.”