Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (32 page)

But it did.

Which could only mean one thing: someone else had turned it off.

And if someone else turned it off, it had to be
after
Conrad died.

The implication stunned her. Her instincts had been right all along. Finally, real evidence that someone had killed the professor. Except for one thing. Without that tape, who would believe her?

The plane began its descent into La Guardia as Sammy considered. Through the window she could see that the rain had all but stopped, a few random droplets sliding down the glass like tears.

Tears for whom? Sammy wondered. For Barton Conrad? For Yitashi Nakamura? For Brian McKernan? For Sammy herself?

Without that tape, no one would believe her. She’d have to prove the killing some other way. But how?

“You gonna stay here all day?”

“Excuse me?” Sammy’s seatmate stood over her, his laptop clutched in one hand, his briefcase in the other. The plane was already on the ground and had just taxied up to the gate.

“Sorry.” Quickly, she stuffed her list back in her purse, gathered her raincoat and handbag, and joined the line heading for the exit.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Wyndham doesn’t answer his page.”

Sammy had been on hold for almost five minutes. “Can I leave a message?” she asked, her tone brusque.

“One moment.” The Ellsford General operator connected her
with the resident voice mail. All medical students, interns, and residents on hospital call used it, so it wasn’t private, but Sammy had no choice.

“This is Sammy Greene. I’m calling Reed Wyndham. Reed, I need some information on a third suicide on campus this month. Name, date, where, and why if you can.” She checked her watch. “It’s eight-thirty now. I’ll check back. If you get the information, leave a message on my machine. Thanks.”

Sammy hung up and turned to walk toward the terminal exit, unaware that the Asian man speaking Japanese into the telephone beside hers had just relayed her entire message to his boss.

Dr. Palmer stared at the laboratory analyses, letting the full impact of the results sink in. Since his first study subject had died, the doctor had been desperately searching for an explanation. He’d checked and rechecked each batch for contaminants, certain that by strategically deleting key viral genes, he’d eliminated any risk. But now he understood. The problem was not his genetically engineered vaccine. It never had been. The revelation came crashing in on him with the force of a tidal wave.

He turned back to the first page of the report, reading it through once more just to be sure. The virus isolated from Luther Abbott was the same HIV strain he’d originally used to inoculate the macaques, the same strain he’d used to painstakingly develop his AIDS vaccine. That was no surprise. What was completely unexpected was the fact that tissue samples from Subject #12 and Sergio Pinez were not the same.

The significance was almost too much to accept and yet the report left no room for doubt.

A different HIV strain!

The thought chilled him. The virus infecting these two subjects had somehow mutated!

And if it was different in these two, how many others, including Lucy Peters, might be incubating this new strain? The strain that seemed so rapidly fatal, so resistant to treatment. And to his vaccine.

Palmer’s mouth grew dry. He felt an incessant drumming in his temples. Horrified, he could no longer avoid the real possibility that his work to save lives had created even more death.

9:40 A.M.

One of the delights of Spanish Harlem is La Marqueta on Park Avenue between 110th and 116th Streets. Sammy grabbed a breakfast burrito at the indoor-outdoor food market before hurrying to her ten o’clock appointment on Lexington.

Dr. Ortiz’s office was on the second floor of a graffiti-decorated building. The first floor contained a liquor store whose few windows had been bricked in long before. An ad for cerveza $5.99/6-pack was hung on the front door. Sammy peeked into the shop. Only one wall sported shelves with sandwiches, boxed goods, and nonalcoholic beverages. It was at the far end of the large shopping area, past a gauntlet of wine, beer, and hard spirits.
Clever marketing
. Sammy walked up to the checkout clerk and asked, “How do I get upstairs?”

Without looking up from his girlie magazine, he mumbled, “Around the side.”

“Thanks.” Sammy walked out to search for the entrance to the doctor’s office. She finally found the door, its broken panes of glass repaired with cardboard patches. One flight up, she heard the cries and shouts of children, and used them to guide her to a tiny crowded waiting area. Sammy stepped over a few toddlers and nodded to their young mothers and several seniors seated on uncomfortable looking bridge chairs lined up against the walls.

Behind a makeshift counter, Sammy spotted a gray-haired man dressed in a white lab coat as wrinkled as Reed’s. He was probably close to seventy, she guessed, his face full of creases caused by years of worry over families who had more problems than money. Still, José Ortiz had a warm smile, and if the schedule posted on the front entrance was accurate, apparently enough energy to see an army of patients nine hours a day, six days a week.

“Dr. Ortiz? I’m Sammy Greene. I called —”

“Come.” The general practitioner pointed to a side door. “I only have a few minutes,” he apologized. He ushered her into an empty exam room. “I’m afraid I don’t have a real office anymore. I needed all the space for patients.”

He pointed to a counter attached to the wall. “Actually it’s more efficient. I can see my patient, write my notes, and go on to the next case without breaking stride.” He motioned to Sammy to take a seat on the exam table while he leaned against the wall. “Mr. Pinez said you were a close friend of Sergio’s — from the university.”

Sammy hesitated. Friendship was the ploy she’d used to see the doctor, but now she felt she had to qualify her association with Sergio. “I was a classmate. We took Intro Psych together.” That certainly was true enough. “Unfortunately, I really didn’t get to know Sergio better,” she admitted. “He was a wonderful musician.”

“We all thought the boy would be a star.”

Sammy nodded. “I played one of his concerti on the air. We got more calls —”

“So where is this radio station, Miss uh —?”

“Greene. Sammy. At Ellsford.” Sammy explained about her radio show and the impact of her recent program on suicide. “Actually, Dr. Ortiz, one of the reasons I came to see you was because Sergio’s death has upset so many on campus. I’m trying to understand more about Sergio and what made him do what he did,” she said. “Maybe keep others from following the same road.”

“What is it you want to know?”

“Well, our guest expert said that people often visit a doctor shortly before committing suicide. I wondered if Sergio had come to you.”

“You really think knowing that could help others?”

Sammy sensed that the doctor was uncomfortable. “I really do,” she said.

“I’m in a difficult position,” Ortiz finally answered. “Patient confidentiality, you understand.”

“But didn’t Mr. Pinez say you could talk to me about Sergio?”

“We spoke. Juan also wishes to prevent other such tragedies.”
Abruptly he nodded, slapping his thigh. He left the room and returned shortly with two thin manila folders.

He flipped through the yellowed pages of the first. “Up to date on his shots. Chickenpox. Flu. Ear infections. Typical childhood illnesses. Hadn’t really seen him much the past few years.”

He moved to the end of the folder. “Fact is, the last time he was here was for his college physical. June twelfth. Everything checked out okay. He —” Ortiz seemed lost in thought for a moment, then snapped back to attention and pulled over the second folder. “A copy of Sergio’s Student Health chart just came this morning. I haven’t had a chance to look.” He opened the record to the last few pages. “Let’s see. There are a number of visits here. Most of them to Dr. Palmer. July fifth for immunizations. That’s funny, we had him up to date on his shots.”

Ortiz scratched his head. “Then twice in October, Palmer again. Sergio saw a Dr. Osborne in Student Counseling Services several times, too, but there’s no doctor’s note written. I guess they don’t write much about counseling visits.”

Sammy shrugged.

“More Dr. Palmer. Headaches, cough, and a rash. The last visit was in November. ‘Chief complaint, severe headache’ and,” Ortiz said, turning the page, “Palmer states that Sergio was depressed about a girlfriend.” Looking puzzled, he stared off at the corner of the room.

“Something troubling you, Doctor?”

Ortiz hesitated.

“Off the record.” Sammy flipped closed her notebook. “I know that Sergio was gay.”

“His family would be devastated if they knew.”

“I promise to keep this between us, doctor. But I
am
curious. Did he talk with you about it?”

“At his last appointment. Sergio admitted to me that he was struggling.”

“What did you say?”

“What could I say? We talked about safe sex. I wanted to be sure the boy would not get AIDS.”

“Did he ever go out with girls?”

“He said no. But,” the doctor chuckled, “it was hard to avoid them, since his sisters were always bringing friends around. The girls were crazy about him.” Ortiz pulled out a photo from a manila folder: Sergio at fifteen. “He was a very good looking boy.”

Sammy agreed.

“Such a tragedy.”

Everything Ortiz told her jibed with Lloyd’s recollection of his roommate. Lloyd had referred Sergio to Dr. Osborne to deal with his gay identity. So why the note about a girlfriend? Maybe Sergio was trying to go straight. Or, maybe he just didn’t feel comfortable confiding in Palmer.

“Here’s the autopsy report.” Ortiz handed Sammy the typed sheet. She skimmed the data. Death was due to multiple trauma and massive hemorrhage. Toxicology negative. Slides of brain tissue had been sent to pathology for analysis, results pending. A shame that analysis couldn’t show what Sergio had been thinking in his last few days as well, Sammy reflected. His chart had made the picture even more confusing.

“Could I have a copy of this, doctor?”

“I don’t know how it will help other students, but I suppose it’s okay.”

Sammy again promised to keep that information confidential.

“If you can wait, I’ll have my nurse make a Xerox.”

Twenty minutes later, Sammy was back outside hailing another cab. When the driver pulled up, she directed him to the corner of Central Park South and Fifth Avenue.

1:00 P.M.

Originally built in 1907, the Plaza Hotel is a legend in its own time, a landmark that has hosted, among others, Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald, Teddy Roosevelt, and the Beatles. Solomon R. Guggenheim lived for years in the State Suite surrounded by fabulous paintings. It was Frank Lloyd Wright’s New York City headquarters. Sammy hurried inside, stopping only for an instant at the entrance to admire
the international flags representing the many countries of important foreign guests. Today, Japan’s flag was among those waving in the breeze.

At the registration desk, a hotel clerk informed Sammy that Mrs. Nakamura was expecting her. “Room fourteen thirty-six.” The young woman directed her to the far end of the lobby where she stepped onto an elevator filled with out-of-town tourists loaded down with shopping bags and cameras.

At fourteen, Sammy got off and wandered down a long hallway until she found Mrs. Nakamura’s room and knocked. It was on the corner — probably had a great view.

A tiny Japanese woman in a blue silk Chanel suit opened the door. Her short black hair was streaked with gray and stylishly coifed. Her face was smooth skinned, almost creaseless, her eyes bright ebony. Sammy guessed her age to be a very well-maintained eighty. “Miss Greene?” she inquired.

Sammy nodded. Mrs. Nakamura’s features looked surprisingly familiar. Sammy surmised she must have seen her photo in the
Ells-ford Eagle
.

Mimiko Nakamura bowed her head. “Please come in.” She ushered Sammy into a large sitting area with a floor-to-ceiling view of Central Park. The light morning drizzle had left the city with a scrubbed and shiny look — at least from this height.

“How beautiful,” Sammy proclaimed. “And far above the madding crowds.”

“Actually, crowds do not bother me. Like all Japanese, I am used to being surrounded by people.” Mimiko spoke in flawless, lightly accented English. “If I’m not mistaken, you’ve spent many years among the crowds here in New York. I’d guess at least some in the Lower East Side.”

“How did you —?”

“I received my master’s degree in linguistics from Berkeley. Studying the American accent became a fascinating hobby. Or, should I say, accents?”

“Like Henry Higgins.”

“Except I avoid the social judgments,” she replied diplomatically. “My interest is purely academic.” She waved at a lemoncolored loveseat opposite her own cushioned chair. “Please, have a seat.”

A silver tea service had been laid out on the table between them. “I took the liberty of ordering tea,” Mimiko said as she poured Sammy some of the steaming brew into a china cup. “It’s not green tea, but it is pleasant enough.”

“Thank you.” Sammy waited for the older woman to serve herself, then both drank at once in a kind of ceremonial silence. Sammy found the taste of the tea a bit strange, but felt herself soothed by its warmth. Pleasant indeed, she thought, taking another long sip of the beverage. A “magic brew.”

“How long have you studied at Ellsford University, Miss Greene?” Mimiko finally spoke.

“I’m a junior. And, please, call me Sammy.”

“That is an unusual name, is it not?”

“I was named after my grandfather — my mother’s father. He had a heart attack just before I was born. In the Jewish religion, children are often named after those who’ve died — so they’ll live on through us.” Sammy was surprised at herself. It was the first time she’d ever told anyone the real reason for her name. She’d usually make a flip remark — that her parents wanted her to be different, for example — probably because she’d always felt different. For the first time, as Sammy relaxed in the spacious hotel suite, she felt as if her name actually suited her.