Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (43 page)

Reed read the latest buzz from a copy of
The Vermonter
magazine. “Lang plea-bargained murder one down to second degree in exchange for his testimony. Looks pretty bad for Osborne and Ishida. Lots of lawsuits down the road. Preliminary trial date is set for March.”

“There go spring midterms,” Sammy said.

“You don’t have to cover the trial,” teased Reed.

“Neither snow nor hail nor midterms —” Sammy retorted. Nothing could keep her from that story.

Pappajohn pointed to the eggplant casserole heaped up on his plate. “Not bad, Greene.”

“Thanks, you should try the tiropites.”

“Since she ate your sister’s food, Sammy’s really gotten into Greek cuisine,” Reed patted his stomach. “I’ve gained five pounds.”

Pappajohn brushed crumbs off of his own ample gut. “I didn’t get this from doughnuts.”

The ER doctor who’d treated Reed walked over to say hello. “By the way, regards from Bud Stanton.”

“I heard he’d withdrawn for the semester,” Sammy said. “Where’d you see him?”

“He had a follow-up with our hand surgeon. Bud’s doing really well in rehab.”

“Think he’ll be able to play?” Reed wondered aloud.

“Probably not pro, but apparently he’s gotten into something new. He wants to be a physical therapist.”

“If only Reggie Ellsford could see his star forward now,” Sammy said. “The chancellor had been strong-arming Conrad to pass Stanton. Didn’t want to lose those generous alumni donations.”

“How do you know?” Reed asked.

Sammy gestured to Pappajohn who told them how he’d found Ellsford’s private phone number in Stanton’s apartment. “When I dialed, the chancellor answered. It didn’t take long for the old man to break.”

“Whoever thought the great-great-grandson of our university’s founder would resign in disgrace?” Sammy asked. “Though I hear Ellsford’s niece is a straight arrow.”

Pappajohn nodded. “The new chancellor has promised to clean house. Full disclosure from here on out. She’ll be working closely with the feds and the CDC on their investigations of the whole affair. The Nitshi Institute will become a university-owned-and-funded facility.”

“Not such an easy task,” Reed observed. “Good research costs big bucks.”

“Reginald Ellsford brought in millions from all kinds of questionable sources, including Nitshi,” Sammy said

“Think he knew what Ishida was up to?” the ER doctor asked.

“Not according to Lang’s sworn statement,” Pappajohn reported, “though Ellsford did admit to burning the brown envelope. Claims he had no idea Conrad had been murdered for it.”

Sammy shook her head. “At least Conrad’s message got through in the end.”

“Hey, did you see this?” Someone in the crowd held up a page of the magazine. “An ad for Taft’s Senate campaign.”

“I’ll bet Joslin’s pissed his old ally’s running against him,” another chuckled at the irony.

“Serves him right,” Sammy said. “Senator Joslin was playing both sides. He convinced Taft he opposed foreign investment, at the same time he collected huge campaign contributions from Nitshi.”

“Is it true Peter Lang used to be a Joslin staffer?” the ER doctor asked.

“That’s how Lang came to work for Ishida,” Pappajohn explained. “He was paid to keep tabs on the Reverend. Lang even set up the bombing. Tried to point the finger at the Traditional Values Coalition.”

“Taft running for Congress?” someone else piped up. “That should be a religious experience.”

Much of the humor rippling through the room was tempered by fear that the man might win.

“Seriously, if an actor can become president, why not a televangelist, senator?” Reed asked.

Sammy rolled her eyes. “Heaven forbid.”

“Good news!” A breathless Larry Dupree burst in with Dean Jeffries. “Ah just came from the new chancellor’s office. Looks like we’re going to get that new building.”

“To start off her tenure, Eunice Ellsford has earmarked construction funds for the new station,” Jeffries announced.

“All right!” Sammy punched her fist up in the air. “Not Nitshi money, I hope.”

Larry smiled. “Nope. These funds’ll come the traditional way. Rich, vain, alumni donations.” Even Dean Jeffries laughed.

Amidst the chuckles, Larry produced a serious look. “The building is going to be the cornerstone of a new communications program. And,” he paused, his voice cracking, “we’re going to name it after Brian.”

“Mazel tov.” Sammy’s eyes filled with tears.

“And,” Jeffries continued, “we wanted to let you know that we have established two scholarships remembering our students in the Departments of Music and Natural Sciences. The Sergio Pinez Performance Award will provide opportunities for students from underrepresented minorities to pursue studies in music, and the Lucille Peters Honors Grant will offer full tuition for an outstanding student in Biology.”

Sammy let the tears fall without restraint.

“All right, gang, it’s almost six,” Larry announced. “We gotta get on the air. Don’t want to be late for our grand reopening.” The entire crew followed him into another small room set up as a makeshift studio.

From one corner, Larry powered up the temporary transmitting equipment. Across the room, Sammy sat down in front of the microphone. As the clock struck six, the program director smiled and delivered Sammy’s cue. Sammy flipped on her mike switch, grinned at her studio audience, and began:

“Hello, I’m Sammy Greene. Corruption, Greed, Murder. Wall Street? Washington? No, right here at Ellsford University. That’s tonight’s topic — on
The Hot Line
.”