Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (29 page)

Before Sammy had a chance to finish her story, Nurse Matthews was out the door and onto the next patient.

Outside the clinic, Sammy pulled her peacoat tight to shelter her from the blistering cold. Her chest ached and her windpipe burned in the frosty air. Her gait was still unsteady, and she had to stop every few minutes to rest on one of the park benches.

After almost an hour, Sammy arrived at the institute’s modern entrance. She looked back down at the grassy area fronting the
glass-and-steel structure. Hardly a trace of yesterday’s events remained. Every piece of trash and debris had been picked up. Even the chairs and what had been left of the podium had been removed.
How pristine
. The Nitshi people should be subcontracted to do the rest of campus.

“You coming in?” A security guard addressed her from beyond the electronically open doors.

“Uh, yeah.” Sammy strode into the comfortably warm lobby as the doors glided shut behind her. “Dr. Palmer’s lab?”

“Sorry, miss. No one’s allowed on the fourth floor without clearance.”

Surprised, Sammy said, “I just wanted to see Dr. Wyndham.”

Frowning, the guard turned to a computer screen on his desk. “Wyndham?”

“Yes, he’s a medical student from —”

“Immunogenetics lab. That’s where they work.” He pointed to the bank of elevators. “Third floor. Then turn left.”

“Thanks.” Sammy waved as she eased over to the elevators.

“Just a minute,” the guard called. “You’ll need to sign in and get one of these.”

Sammy returned to his desk, signed her name on the daily roster, and collected a visitor’s badge. You’d think she was entering Ft. Knox.

“Return it before you leave,” the guard said, time stamping her entry.

“No problem.” Sammy hurried into an empty elevator just as the doors automatically opened. Scanning the buttons, she punched “three.” It lit up in a warm orange. As soon as the door closed, she reached over and pressed “four.” Nothing happened. The button remained dark. She tried again, but it still did not light up. Probably burned out, she figured, as the elevator arrived at the third floor.

Sammy stayed on board and waited for the doors to close. The elevator immediately started its descent. Sporting a sheepish grin, she edged to one corner, out of sight of the security guard as the door
opened once again on the ground floor. How did anyone get to “four”? Shrugging, she pressed “three” anew and made a second trip upstairs.

This time, Sammy exited on three and immediately felt as though she’d entered a hall of mirrors. Polished metallic walls reflected her somewhat disheveled figure in wavy rainbow colors. The mirror images followed her like guardian shadows as she walked down the hall on her left. Otherwise, she was alone.

Within a few yards, she passed what appeared to be doors on both sides of the hall, each labeled: V
IROLOGY
, B
ACTERIOLOGY
, C
HEMISTRY
, S
EROLOGY
. Beside one marked IMMUNOGENETICS, Sammy paused and pressed a small security lever. The door whooshed open to reveal a huge, high-tech laboratory brightly lit by midday sunshine filtering in through wall-to-wall windows. Several white-coated technicians were quietly bent over microscopes.

Across the spacious room, Reed glanced up from his work and smiled. “What a pleasant surprise!” He pointed to the neatly wrapped fresh bandage on her forehead. “You actually took my advice and went to Student Health.”

Sammy walked over and planted a quick kiss on his lips. None of the techs bothered to look up from their stations, she noticed. Shrugging, she reached for the nearest stool and sat down wearily. “I did, but I missed your Dr. Palmer. Nurse Matthews did the dressing. Some kind of an emergency here, she said.”

“Really? I haven’t seen him,” Reed stood, surveying the room.

“I guess he’s on the fourth floor,” Sammy suggested.

Reed hesitated. “Maybe.”

“Good. Can we go up and talk with him? I have a few —”

Reed’s expression reflected disappointment. “And I thought you came to see me.”

“Of course, I did,” Sammy said. “I just thought while I was here, I could ask him about —”

“Absolutely not!” Reed raised his voice just enough for a few of the techs to look up from their work. He quickly reduced the volume
to a bare whisper. “If he’s got some kind of emergency, he can’t be disturbed by a —” He turned to the nearest tech. “Slides are all cooking. I think that’s it for me this morning.”

The Asian nodded. “You go to lunch now?” he asked in a thick accent.

Reed checked the wall clock. Quarter to twelve. “I’ll be back before one.” He turned to Sammy. “How about grabbing a bite to eat?”

Afraid to upset him further, Sammy agreed. “Sure. Luigi’s?”

“Fine with me.” Reed led her to the door, and they exited to the sterile hallway toward the elevator.

“Look, I didn’t mean to —” Sammy blurted. “I’m sorry if —”

Reed stared at her for a long beat as if trying to judge her sincerity. “It’s okay,” he finally said. “Maybe I overreacted. It’s just that Dr. Palmer is very private about his research. When he’s on four, he doesn’t tolerate interruptions.”

“The security guard said you need some kind of clearance to get upstairs?”

“There’s a special elevator that goes straight to the fourth floor. And you have to have an access card,” Reed explained. “Dr. Palmer has the lab for his AIDS vaccine up there. It’s amazing. If you think these are high tech,” he said, pointing to the labs on either side of the corridor, “you should see that place. Deep Space Nine.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“Once. I helped with a case last week —”

“So he’s got patients up there?”

“Patients? Uh, no.” They’d reached the elevator. Reed pushed the “down” button. “It’s just a lab.”

“Then why all the cloak-and-dagger?”

“Synthesizing and testing new drugs is a multimillion-dollar business. A lot of companies out there wouldn’t mind making a profit off Nitshi’s discoveries.”

“Industrial espionage?”

Reed nodded. “The stakes are high. That’s why Nitshi’s got such
a high-powered security system. Human and technical. Protects trade secrets.”

“I’m impressed. So they develop all their new drugs here?”

“Some. This site is the nidus of their antiviral research. But they’ve got labs, partners, and subsidiaries in Asia, South America, and Europe. And their corporate headquarters is in New York.”

“Is this where they keep the animals?”

Reed raised an eyebrow. “What animals?”

“The chimps. You know, for experiments. When I was at the animal rights riot, the tech mentioned some of the chimps were from Nitshi.”

Reed scratched his chin. “Must’ve meant Nitshi funded them or something. Gave them grant money to buy the chimps. All the animals are kept over in the Biology Building.”

“I know,” Sammy said, confused, “but somehow I was sure he meant something else. They’re not doing any experiments with animals here?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Nothing with infections or anything?”

“I don’t know, Sammy.” Reed sounded irritated again. “Why do you ask?”

“There’s this guy. He was at the rally. One of Taft’s kids. He got, uh, a little excited and tried to let the monkeys out of their cages.”

“So?”

“Well, one of them bit him.”

Reed didn’t look surprised. “Is he all right?”

“That’s the funny thing. Actually, he got sick.”

“That can happen with animal bites,” Reed explained. “Wasn’t rabies, was it?”

“I don’t think so.”

His tone was casual. “Then all it takes are some antibiotics and he should be fine.”

“But, Reed, I’m trying to tell you. He’s disappeared. Luther Abbott’s disappeared.”

Reed frowned.

“Matthews told me he’d been admitted to Ellsford General, but when I was there yesterday, I heard a nurse say he’d been transferred to Nitshi.”

Reed shook his head. “I think that concussion has made you delusional.”

“I know what I heard.”

“You know what you
think
you heard, Sammy. I can assure you there are no patients here.”

“I suppose you don’t know about Lucy Peters either?”

Reed looked totally lost. “Sorry?”

“Freshman. She got this rash. It was supposed to be chicken-pox, but her roommate says she never went home. Now she’s missing, too.”

“And how are these two kids related?”

“I’m not sure. But they’re both patients of Dr. Palmer.”

Reed’s expression darkened. “Yesterday you were sure Professor Conrad and your friend Brian had been killed by Reverend Taft. Now you think Dr. Palmer is kidnapping students?” Reed’s voice was tinged with anger. “I’d be very careful about making such accusations if I were you. Maybe you don’t give a damn about
your
ass, but I’ve got a career to think about.”

“I never said Dr. Palmer did anything,” Sammy protested. “I don’t know what happened to these students, but if there
was
foul play —”

“Foul play?” Reed tapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Sammy, this is getting totally absurd. You’re starting to see sinister plots and evil forces everywhere you look.”

“Fine. Just forget it.” Reed did have a point. Without proof of any wrongdoing at Nitshi, she had no right to threaten his relationship with Dr. Palmer, or his career. “I’m sorry. I guess I
am
overtired.”

Reed gave her another long silent appraisal. “You mean that?”

“Sure.”

The elevator doors finally opened. This time the car was packed. Reed and Sammy barely managed to squeeze on board. They
stood silently staring at the floor number display as the car rode smoothly down to the lobby.

At the main desk, Sammy handed over her visitor’s badge and signed out.

“So, what do you want on your pizza?” Reed asked, draping his arm around her shoulders and guiding her toward the exit.

“Excuse me,” the security guard called after them. “Sammy Greene? There’s a message here for you.”

Sammy walked back to the desk. “A message for me?”

“Call from Police Chief Pappajohn.” The guard checked his notes. “It says to be at his office at one. Or else.”

Pappajohn? How did he know where to find her? Sammy turned to Reed with a shrug. “Guess this takes care of lunch.” Not that she’d been hungry to begin with, but now she’d really lost her appetite.

For Pappajohn, the day so far had been a total wipeout. He had already talked with Chris Oken, Lucy Peters’s boyfriend, and Anne Sumner, her sorority sister. Neither could provide any new leads. It was as if the girl had not only disappeared from Ellsford, but dropped off the face of the earth as well.

Edna entered his office carrying a sheaf of curly papers. “The ME’s report on the Conrad autopsy.”

“I thought we’d ordered that plain paper fax,” he muttered as he accepted the unruly bundle.

“Budget cuts. Purchasing says we have to wait until next fiscal year.”

“Funny how those university cuts never affect Chancellor Ellsford’s salary.”

“That’s because Reginald Ellsford
is
the university,” Edna said. Not waiting for a reply, she returned to her desk, leaving Pappajohn to sift through the material. From a cursory review, the medical examiner’s findings seemed to support the prevalent theory. “Single gunshot wound, through the mouth. Twenty-two caliber. Death instantaneous from brain trauma. Consistent with suicide. Powder burns on left hand.”

Was Conrad left-handed? He made a mental note to check.

The report on the site analysis yielded little more information. Blood on the sofa and adjacent floor matched that of the decedent. Number of prints in the house, some ID’d. Of course, the majority belonged to Conrad. They also found, surprisingly, Karen Conrad’s prints. And, not so surprisingly, Sammy Greene’s. Fine. There were also a few others that, so far, could not be identified. A crosscheck with the Tafties was negative. But, not everyone from the group was on file. Maybe the FBI report would be more helpful.

He read on. Only Conrad’s prints were found on the gun. Now, this was unusual. Pappajohn frowned. There were no fingerprints on the suicide note.

Pappajohn leaned back in his chair and looked up at a corner of the water-stained ceiling. Why in hell not? Conrad’s prints should’ve been on the note — unless he wore gloves. But, why would anybody wear gloves to commit suicide? They wouldn’t care if their prints were on the note. The only person who’d care would be —

Much as he wanted to, Pappajohn could not deny the implication.
Damn
. He reached into his desk drawer for a new pack of antacids. Someone else was there that night. Someone who wanted to make sure it looked like suicide. Someone who helped Conrad. Or someone who killed him. Damn it to hell.

His eyes fell on the Taft flyer he’d lifted from Bud Stanton’s apartment. He almost felt sorry for the boy. It’d be a shame to ruin his career. Fire and brimstone coming home to roost. He flipped over the paper and saw the list of phone numbers that had been posted on the athlete’s refrigerator. Almost absentmindedly, he started to dial the first number.

“Hi, this is Tiffany,” a breathy voice answered. “I’m not in, but I’d love to hear from you. Leave me a message, and I may even call you back.” The message ended with the sound of a kiss. Shaking his head, Pappajohn continued down his list.

“Hi, this is Michelle and Jennifer and Shannon and Jessica. We’re out and we love you.” This message dissolved into peals of laughter before the abrupt beep.

The next three or four numbers also led to giggly, barely articulate young women. This guy had the bimbo concession for the entire university. Pappajohn debated not calling the last two numbers, but wearily decided to get it over with, and began punching in the digits. True to form, he got yet another answering machine. However, he was stunned by the name of its owner. Dean Jeffries. Pappajohn sat frozen for a moment before starting to dial the last number.

Sammy made a detour to Ellsford General on her way to Pappajohn’s office. “May I come in?” She leaned into the spacious hospital room where Bud Stanton, bandaged from head to toe, lay against pillows, bookended by a pair of beautiful young women.