Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (33 page)

“The spirits of one’s ancestors require that they be remembered and honored by their descendants.” Mimiko spoke softly. “It is that way for us, too.” She looked off to one side for a moment, then quickly turned to face her guest. “Now, Sammy, how may I help you?”

Sammy put down her cup and took her notepad from her purse. “Professor Conrad was one of the best teachers on campus. The students respected him — even though they didn’t always like him.”

“That is usually true of the good teachers.”

“I’d started interviewing him the day he received the Ellsford Teaching Award. Unfortunately, he —” Sammy searched for the right word, refusing to say suicide, “unfortunately, he passed away before I could finish the piece.” She looked at Mimiko. “One of the things I’ve since learned was how much he admired your husband.”

“Barton was like family in a way. Yitashi loved him as a son.” The widow’s eyes drifted over to several family photos placed on an end table beside the loveseat, focusing on one of a young Yitashi Nakamura with his wife and two children: a girl and boy. “Perhaps even more than a son,” she added before turning back to Sammy.

“I understand your husband was responsible for bringing Professor Conrad to Ellsford.”

“Yes. He offered him a position after Barton failed to gain tenure at Stanford.”

Sammy started writing. “I thought Professor Conrad’s research was considered top caliber. And he brought in grants. Why do you think he didn’t get tenure?”

“The ways of universities are not always understandable to outsiders, but when it comes to tenure, there is often more than just academic talent to be considered. In Barton’s case, I believe, the talents that made up his remarkable character may have led to his downfall.”

“How do you mean?”

Mimiko took time to formulate her answer. “As you yourself have said, he was a brilliant teacher and researcher. Unfortunately, his enthusiasm was often misinterpreted.”

“Passion over politics,” suggested Sammy.

“There were some with whom he fell into disfavor, I’m afraid. It is an old story.”

“Apparently about to be repeated. Professor Conrad wasn’t a shoo-in for tenure at Ellsford, either.”

Mimiko poured herself another cup of tea.

Sammy asked, “Any idea who his friends were at Ellsford?”

“It has been over two years since I visited St. Charlesbury. I have had no wish to return since my husband’s death.” Mimiko paused for a moment, eyes misting. When she spoke, her voice was
barely a whisper. “I suspect Karen — his wife — was his best friend. It must have been difficult for him when they moved apart.”

She narrowed her eyes, thinking. “And Dr. Osborne, the psychologist. From our Stanford days. Of course, Dr. Chandra, in biology, I believe — part of our evening discussion group — a very literate man. He had done a study of Hindu architecture and the Tamil influence that we found so intriguing. We would meet on Friday evening, you know, to talk of . . .” She waved a hand, searching.

“Yes, I know,” Sammy said. “Karen told me. It must have been a really awesome group.” Looking down at her notebook, she tossed out a casual question, “Did Professor Conrad have any enemies?”

“I fear Hamilton Jeffries was never very fond of Barton. At least that’s what Yitashi always believed.” Mimiko took a sip of her tea. “As chairman of his department there and a graduate of Stanford himself, Jeffries would have influence over the tenure committee.”

Hamilton Jeffries? Sammy thought back to her conversation with the dean, recalling how deftly Jeffries had sidestepped her questions about tenure at Ellsford by saying that Conrad’s death made the whole issue moot.

Was the dean, as Mimiko suggested, Conrad’s enemy? Sammy contemplated a new scenario for a moment. Conrad had dialed Jeffries the night he died. He’d also had something ready to send him — in the brown envelope. Was Jeffries in when Conrad called? Did he ever get the envelope? If he did, and if it contained information exposing a scandal on campus — one that could destroy careers or even the reputation of the university itself — what wouldn’t Jeffries do to stop Conrad? Hard to believe that such an eminent academician would resort to murder. Still, it was another piece to an already jumbled puzzle.

“All you all right?”

Sammy looked up, embarrassed. “Sorry, I was just thinking there’s so much about Professor Conrad’s death that doesn’t make sense.”

Mimiko raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“Well, to be honest, Mrs. Nakamura, suicide just doesn’t fit.” Sammy shared her impressions of Conrad during their interview. She related the disparities between Conrad’s circumstances and the typical suicide profile, mentioning Karen Conrad’s assertion that her husband seemed incapable of killing himself.

“Sometimes we don’t always know the men we love as well as we think we do,” Mimiko said, her eyes welling up with tears.

Sammy realized she must have been referring to her own husband. “I’m sorry. It must be very difficult.”

“Yitashi was a remarkable man.” Mimiko’s soft voice was filled with obvious sadness.

“It must have been quite a shock,” Sammy said.

The widow stared straight ahead for a moment, then answered, “I had no idea that he was so depressed.”

“He seemed normal to you?”

“Well, no. He was concerned. Worried about something. But I never imagined that he would —”

“Forgive me, but I read that he’d been interned in a camp during the war. Maybe — ?”

“Posttraumatic stress syndrome? That’s what they said, but it wasn’t so,” Mimiko insisted. “After such a terrible experience, we were stronger, not weaker.”

“We?”

Mimiko lowered her eyes. “We met in the camps. I had recently been widowed. We helped each other get through those difficult years.”

“I didn’t realize you —”

“It’s something neither of us spoke about. We went on with our lives.”

Sammy looked over at one of the photos: Mimiko carrying a bouquet of flowers standing next to a smiling Yitashi. There was a small boy, maybe four or five, beside them. Sammy now recognized him as a younger version of the child in the other family portrait. Obviously, Mrs. Nakamura had a son before she married the professor. Another photo showed the older boy, his arm around his little
sister and his parents at the beach. Seemed like an idyllic family. Why would Nakamura want to leave?

“Mrs. Nakamura,” Sammy asked, “why do you think your husband —?”

The widow looked down at her hands and barely whispered, “Shame.”

Sammy was confused. “What?”

Mimiko abruptly stood, her face impassive. “I’m afraid I must get ready for another appointment.”

Sammy rose. “I’ve overstayed my welcome as it is.”

The Japanese woman walked her to the door.

Sammy flipped her notebook closed as she followed. “One last question, if you don’t mind?”

“Yes?”

“Do you have any idea why Professor Conrad didn’t get any grants from the Nitshi Corporation or its subsidiaries after your husband died?”

This time Sammy caught the flash of hesitation. “I’m afraid I don’t. As I said before, linguistics was my field, not immunogenetics.” She opened the door, making it clear that she preferred to end the conversation.

The moment Sammy was gone, Mimiko Nakamura wondered whether she had said too much or whether she should have said more. Finally, she decided she’d made the right choice. No turning back now.

At two fifteen Sammy found a phone booth in the lobby of the Plaza Hotel and paged Reed at Ellsford General. After several minutes, the hospital operator announced that he wasn’t answering his beeper. Busy with an emergency, Sammy guessed. Falling back on her contingency plan, she tried her answering machine.

Sure enough, Reed had left a message, “Sammy, I don’t know what you’re up to, but I hope you’re being careful.”

Sammy smiled to herself. Just like Reed to worry about her.

“There was a third suicide on campus this month,” his message continued. “A psych grad student named Seymour Hollis. I remember him because he was admitted on my ER shift. The guy had AIDS and apparently was pretty depressed. He OD’d on barbiturates. Ironically enough, I just got a call from Harvey Barnes.”

Sammy knew Reed’s friend, Harvey, was a hospital pharmacist.

“About those tablets you wanted me to check out. Seems that Professor Conrad brought one to Harvey’s boss two weeks ago asking the same question.”

That
was interesting.

“Turns out it’s a new drug being tested for AIDS — developed by Nitshi. Dr. Palmer is the principal investigator. What’s weird is number twelve on the label refers to the twelfth patient in the study — Seymour Hollis!”

Sammy did a double take. Nitshi again. And Palmer.

“And the strangest thing,” Reed added, “was that —” Beep!

Oh no! Reed had run out the two minute message limit. “Reed!” Sammy banged on the pay phone. “Reed. Reed. Call back.” Damn.

The machine had clicked off. That was it. No more messages. Frustrated, Sammy redialed Ellsford General, but got the same response from the operator. Reed was off beeper, although this time, the voice on the other end was less polite. Hanging up, Sammy considered the significance of what she’d just learned. The third suicide was someone with AIDS, someone receiving a drug produced by Nitshi.

Nitshi and Palmer and AIDS research.

It hit her like a lightning bolt. Would Taft stop at nothing to discredit the Japanese? Conrad must have made the same connection. A connection that cost him his life.

Someone tapped on the door of the booth. Sammy turned to see an impatient man pointing to his wristwatch. She held up one finger to indicate she’d just be another minute, then pulled the phone from its cradle and furiously punched in Manhattan information. “Nitshi Corporation. Please hurry.”

• • •

Fifteen minutes later, a taxi deposited Sammy at Forty-fifth and Park, just in front of the Nitshi Tower. The company’s corporate headquarters was housed in a building that looked even more high-tech than the Research Institute at Ellsford University. The fifty-five-story bronze mirrored-glass building was as sleekly contoured as a rocket ship. Sammy entered the lobby through hand-carved ebony doors and was immediately impressed with the chic blend of glass, black furniture, textured concrete, and a gurgling koi-filled stream. Only the tailored-suited men and women striding through with briefcases in hand gave an inkling of the intense activity on the floors above.

Unlike the Research Institute, there was no central island with camera monitors. Instead, Sammy noticed several uniformed guards strategically placed at various posts around the perimeter of the lobby — each with a handheld device that resembled a Sony Watchman. In fact, it was a combination walkie-talkie and sophisticated multistation TV network that played off of remote control video cameras throughout the building, allowing them to observe the comings and goings of anyone inside. Nitshi’s security was just as strict, Sammy thought, observing that no one entered the elevators without a badge.

She searched the spacious lobby until she located an information area where a well-dressed Japanese woman was seated. “May I be of assistance?” the woman asked with a practiced politeness.

“Where is Mr. Ishida’s office?” Sammy spoke with all the confidence she could muster.

“Suite fifty-two ten.” The woman raised a sculptured eyebrow. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” Sammy admitted. “But I need to see him.”

“Without an appointment, I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“If you could just call Mr. Ishida, I’m sure —”

The receptionist cut her off again. “I’m sorry.” She quickly turned her attention to a bespectacled older man who’d just walked over and handed her his business card. “Yes?”

“Hal Winfield, Dean of Natural Sciences, L.A. University. I’m here for the presentation.”

The receptionist checked the small pile of nametags on her counter. “Of course, Mr. Winfield.” She handed him his badge and held up another one. “Is Miss O’Malley with you?”

“No, I’m afraid my assistant couldn’t make it this trip.”

The Japanese woman returned the assistant’s badge to the pile. “The academic group will be assembling in the third-floor conference room in —” she checked her watch, “five minutes. Take the first set of elevators in the corner.”

He hurried off in the direction she’d pointed.

The phone behind the receptionist rang, forcing her to turn away from the counter. Taking advantage of the woman’s momentary inattention, Sammy grabbed Margaret O’Malley’s nametag and clipped it to her dress. Seconds later, she had followed Dean Winfield across the lobby into the crowded elevator.

The guard posted near the lift waved her in when she flashed the fake badge. Once inside, she covered it with her coat and wedged herself in the back behind an overweight couple so that Winfield wouldn’t notice her. At three, the group stepped off and headed down the corridor. Sammy came too, but lingered until they had all entered the conference room before taking a seat near the exit — just in case she had to make a quick escape.

Without any sign, the room darkened and on the wall opposite where everyone sat, a film began to roll.

“Good morning,” boomed the anonymous announcer. “Welcome to Nitshi Corporate Headquarters. You’ve been invited here this morning to learn about how our company has grown in less than fifteen years, from a small chemical manufacturing firm to a sophisticated global multinational pharmaceutical conglomerate.”

The screen filled with a black-and-white shot of the original plant in Kyoto where inside, industrious looking Japanese scientists were shown working in spacious, well-equipped labs. “Today we have factories and holding companies in over a hundred countries.” A
world map located each of sixty factories and a dozen research centers including Malaysia, Singapore, Sydney, Brussels, Johannesburg, Montreal, and Buenos Aires. The audience of academics couldn’t help but be awed. Even Sammy was impressed.

“Most of you represent universities that have been the recipients of generous Nitshi grants. We believe that through these collaborative research alliances between academia and private industry, we can determine the etiology of Alzheimer’s disease or the immune mechanism causing AIDS and develop new and more effective treatments and cures.”