Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (39 page)

“What about Brian? He was killed because I gave him the tape. It would have proved —”

Reed held up his hands. “Facts don’t seem to matter to you at all, do they? The fire chief said it wasn’t arson.”

“I don’t care.”

“That’s right! You don’t care — about me, about us, about anything.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Sammy, right now all I know is that I’m exhausted. I’ve been on call for two out of the last three nights. The third I spent waiting for you at the airport. I’ve got to get some sleep.” He headed for his bedroom. “You — you do what you have to do.”

Those calls never get any easier, Pappajohn thought as he hung up the receiver. Loss was a lousy part of life, but he couldn’t imagine a harder one than losing a child. He thought of his own daughter. Far away. Who knew how safe? He dreaded someday receiving a call like the one he just made to the parents of Lucy Peters.

Pappajohn donned his bathrobe and slippers and shuffled into the kitchen. Maybe a cup of warm milk would help settle his acid stomach — not to mention his headache — and let him get back to sleep. Somehow he didn’t think so.

Standing at the stove, waiting for the milk to heat, he gazed out the window at the moonlit driveway, covered with pristine white snow. The Land Cruiser resting against a snowdrift reminded him that it was Sammy who had driven him home from Boston, the reason confirmed by his aching head. They had had rather a good time — even if it
was
the ouzo that loosened his tongue. Pappajohn was glad he’d gotten to know her a little, had a chance to talk. Maybe the kid wasn’t so bad after all. A lot like Ana.

Pappajohn took out the cocoa mix, added some to his milk and poured a second cup for Sammy. Cups in hand, Pappajohn walked into the living room. To his surprise, the room was empty, the pillows on the couch seemed undisturbed. Frowning, he looked up to see the light was on in the den. What the —?

He moved over to the den. Once again, he found the room empty. He set the cups down on his desk and looked around. Nothing seemed different or out of place. As he reached for his cocoa, his hand brushed against the computer. It was warm. Pursing his lips,
he pulled up his chair and powered the computer on. Sure enough, Greene’s footprints were all over his disk.

“Damn,” he cursed. “God damn it to hell.”

Peter Lang began to panic. Forty-five minutes had passed since he’d watched Sammy enter her apartment building and still the lights burned in her bedroom. What the hell was she doing? Pulling an allnighter? College kids!

Standing in the cold, his hands and toes tingled, the tips of his fingers grew more and more numb. At this rate, he’d develop frostbite before morning.

After several moments of indecision, he walked down the path to a pay phone just outside the building. Checking with St. Charlesbury information, he dialed Sammy’s number and waited. It took three rings before her answering machine kicked on. “This is Sammy Greene, I’m not in right now.”

Not in!

How’d she —?

Lang looked up toward the building. From where he stood now he couldn’t see Sammy’s apartment, but he did have a clear view of the entrance. Unless she’d gone through a window or out the back, she was still inside.

Lang checked his watch. Quarter to two.

She was probably sitting in her bedroom with the lights on, scared to death or, better yet, fast asleep. Time to make a move. Without a particular plan in mind, Lang trudged up the steps to the front door. Looking over his shoulder to make sure he was alone, he jimmied the lock with a credit card and slipped inside. Fortunately, at this hour no one was wandering about the brightly lit lobby area. Taking the stairs two by two, he quickly reached the third floor and found Sammy’s apartment. For several moments he stood outside her door and listened. Not a sound.

He picked the lock in seconds and stepped inside. The tiny foyer and living room were dark, but light seeping from beneath the
bedroom door helped guide him to where he expected to find his quarry. Heart pounding and breath coming in rapid bursts, the stocky man inched toward his goal, a .357 magnum in hand.

With one smooth motion he turned the knob, threw the door open, and pointed his gun toward the bed.

Sammy was not there!

Stunned, Lang scoured the apartment before convincing himself that she had indeed disappeared.

Goddamn that redhead. Defeated once again.

Recognizing he had no choice, Lang found the phone in Sammy’s living room and began to dial his boss.

4:00 A.M.

Eureka!

Pappajohn had been studying Sammy’s written list since he’d found it crumpled in his trash can almost two hours earlier. He only now recognized the pattern.

Padding into the kitchen, he poured himself a cup of strong black coffee with a three TUMS chaser. It had been a long night and would get longer still, he thought as he carried the steaming brew back into the den. Pappajohn yawned as he reached for the desk phone. “California information? Get me the number for Berkeley. Campus Police.”

It took forever to reach his party. Bypassing voice mail to the night switchboard was an irritating obstacle. They said they’d get back to him soon, but Pappajohn knew better. The search would take at least an hour. As he waited for the call, he rebooted his PC, switched on his modem, and got on the university E-net site.

6:30 A.M.

Sammy sat bolt upright from a fitful sleep. Her eyes flew open, searching the not-so-familiar room for an orienting clue. She’d been
lying, twisted like a pretzel, on a couch. Reed’s couch, she thought as she rubbed the waffled pattern the cushion had left on her cheek. The memory of their argument swept over her now. Reed’s storming into his bedroom, refusing to talk, her decision to stay in his apartment until morning, hoping to patch things up after he’d had a good night’s rest.

She did a few arm and neck stretches as she walked over to the living room window. Outside, the snow had stopped. Dawn’s first light revealed the kind of dazzling winter landscape Mr. Brewster captured in the scenic photos hanging in his shop.

Sammy tiptoed to the bedroom and peered in. Reed lay on his back, one arm covering his forehead, the other dangling off the bed. She smiled as she studied his peaceful repose, his mouth sagging in a soft snore. He’d be out for a few hours more.

She noticed Reed’s lab coat thrown carelessly on the floor. As she stooped to pick it up, his Nitshi Research Institute ID badge fell from the pocket along with an unsealed envelope addressed to Reed. The return address read “Marcus Palmer c/o the NRI.” Sammy opened the flap and found what looked like a folded letter inside and —

She frowned. Along with the letter was the picture of Katie Miller at the animal rights demonstration!

A spider of anxiety crawled up the back of her neck.

Reed never turned the photo over to the police! He’d promised to notify the FBI.

So why was the picture still in his pocket?

Maybe he just forgot.

Or maybe —

No, impossible. Reed?

Now she recalled her words
: I just wish I knew what Brian learned from that tape
.

And his.
Maybe you don’t
.

And why not?

Because if you are right, that kind of curiosity might have killed your professor
.

Could Reed,
her
Reed, be part of the conspiracy? Was that why Reed seemed to reject her theory, why he insisted that Brian and Conrad hadn’t been murdered? Because he knew she was telling the truth?

I ran into your friend Reed Wyndham . . . he seemed troubled —

Osborne’s words.

Troubled? By what? And yet Reed hadn’t seemed so much troubled as annoyed when she’d arrived at his place in the middle of the night. Granted, he’d softened up when he heard why she was late, but —

Suppose he’d just made a show of his surprise and concern for her. Maybe he already knew.

No. Sammy shook her head. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t —

Six deaths. And she was almost number seven.

A thought nagged and tugged at the edges of her consciousness until finally it struck her. All along she’d assumed Taft was the link, that he had to be the villain.

But what if all of the Reverend’s denials were true and he had no involvement in this conspiracy?

Who then could be responsible?

Sammy recalled Yoshi Ishida saying that he too had considered Taft a suspect —
Actually, Dr. Palmer first alerted me to the possibility that Taft might be dangerous.

Dr. Palmer. Trying to throw them off the scent?

Sammy looked down at the folded paper she still held in her hand and opened it. It was a letter of recommendation to the chief of Internal Medicine at Mass. General.

Dr. Wyndham is not only an excellent clinician, but also an outstanding researcher. He would make a fine addition to your residency program.

Sammy realized with a sinking feeling that her conspiracy theory could just as easily implicate Palmer as Taft.

Palmer was conducting some sort of AIDS study for Nitshi. That much she knew.

And Palmer’s patients were dying or disappearing.

She remembered what she’d overheard the nurse at Ellsford General say.
Once they go to Nitshi —

They were gone.

Sammy thought for a moment. Suppose Taft somehow learned that Palmer’s research was going wrong. He could use that knowledge to advance his anti-AIDS agenda. It would devastate the doctor’s position and his career.

If so, Palmer just might be desperate enough to arrange the Nitshi Day bombing to discredit Taft and destroy his organization.

Was that the plan? And who else was in on it?

Palmer’s assistants? His students?

From the doorway, Sammy watched the gentle rise and fall of Reed’s breathing, trying to shake her growing paranoia.

Answer me, Reed? What part did you play?

I can assure you there are no patients here.

This man she’d held in her arms. And almost loved.

I helped with a case last week.

If Palmer was up to something, Reed might be willing to cover up for a man he admired. Especially with the promise of a prime residency and a successful future research career. Sammy knew Reed wanted that future more than anything. What price was he willing to pay for it?

The system is skewed to reward research, Conrad had said.

Disguised in the garb of academic excellence is a community of malcontents and thieves.

Palmer and Reed?

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

No patients at Nitshi? Sammy was suddenly filled with doubts about Reed.

She examined the picture and ID in her hand. Exactly what kind of research study was Palmer conducting at Nitshi? She needed to know. Quietly, Sammy turned and tiptoed back into the living
room. Clutching her purse and jacket and the lab coat, she left the apartment, careful not to slam the door.

It was only later that she realized she’d forgotten to bring along the Nitshi brochure with Lang’s picture.
Wonderful
. A piece of hard evidence and she’d probably never see it again.

S
UNDAY
7:28 A.M.

It was almost seven thirty when Sammy reached the Nitshi Institute. She left her jacket on a bench outside and threw Reed’s white lab coat over her jeans and sweatshirt. Hoping to pass for one of the researchers, she strode confidently over to the information desk. An armed guard sat facing a large U-shaped bank of TV monitors. She flashed Reed’s plastic ID badge.

“Dr. Wyndham,” she said. “My boss, Dr. Palmer, asked me to check on some slides.”

The guard, head buried in the Sunday sports section of the
Vermont Post
, barely looked up. “Just sign in, Doc.”

Sammy clipped the ID badge onto the lab coat’s breast pocket and scribbled “Reed Wyndham” on the roster, surprised to find a half dozen names already there. Reed was right on one count. Researchers were a dedicated group. She hurried past the guard and headed for the elevators, her heart racing. When the steel doors glided open, she stepped in and pushed “four.” Just as the other day, nothing happened. The button remained unlit.

Afraid the guard might notice if she stayed on the ground floor too long, Sammy quickly punched “two.” Seconds later, she was padding down the plush maroon carpeted halls of the second floor past several rooms marked as laboratories or faculty offices. Near the end of one wing she found an auditorium with a multimedia display
center. Frustrated, she turned around and followed the same path back, pausing every few steps to listen for sounds of activity. The floor was as quiet as a mausoleum.

Sammy was trying to figure out a plan for getting up to “four” when she almost collided with a middle-aged woman wearing a blue cotton uniform and pushing a cleaning cart.

Don’t blow your cover, now, girl!
Concealing Reed’s ID badge with her lapel, Sammy drew in a deep breath and offered her most officious smile.

“Sorry, Doctor,” the woman apologized in a guttural accent.

“My fault.” Sammy replaced a dustpan that had fallen from the cart.

The cleaning lady responded with a noncommittal grunt, then shuffled over to an elevator just a few feet away and punched the “down” button. Sammy watched her disappear into the arriving car, breathing a sigh of relief when the doors closed. It was only then that she noticed the elevator was marked PRIVATE. That’s it. Now

she remembered Reed said he’d taken a private elevator to the fourth floor.

Sammy glanced up and down the empty corridor, before strolling over to the elevator and pushing “up.” When the car appeared, she stepped inside and tried to insert Reed’s plastic ID badge in the card slot above the buttons. The badge was rejected. Damn. Reed did mention some sort of special card. Now what? She had to move quickly or risk being caught. On impulse, she pushed “three.”