Nondisclosure

by Geoffrey M Cooper

  “Sorry,” he said. “I know it’s a bit cramped. But it’s tough getting by on what I can scrape together these days as an adjunct. And I don’t usually entertain. Mostly it’s just me here.”

  “It’s fine,” Karen said. “Looks perfectly comfortable. So you aren’t at Farmington anymore?”

  “No, I couldn’t stay after what happened to Martha. I quit and started drinking too much. And some other stuff.” He looked at us warily. “Pot and some pills, I mean.”

  Karen nodded, and I shrugged. Our acceptance seemed to make him relax, and he continued. “Anyway, I went downhill for a while. Finally, I got into AA and pulled myself together enough to get a couple of adjunct teaching gigs. Then I moved here to make a fresh start.” He gave us a wry half smile. “The idea of putting things behind me didn’t work, of course, and I haven’t been able to find another permanent position. But at least I earn enough as an adjunct at a few of the local schools to pay for food and rent.”

  I nodded sympathetically. “The adjunct business is tough.”

  We were quiet for a moment. Then Karen brought the conversation back on track. “We’re so sorry about Martha. How long had the two of you been together?”

  “Two years, more or less. We started seeing each other soon after she came to Farmington, and we really meshed. We were talking about living together, maybe even getting married, but she was never quite ready to take the leap.”

  “As I mentioned on the phone, we’re particularly interested in something that she was involved in at Yale, before she came to Farmington. Did she ever talk about her time there?”

  Lawton nodded. “Yes, something happened back then that left her bitter and angry. That’s the main reason she wasn’t ready to make things more permanent between us. She was unsettled—wasn’t sure if she wanted the kind of life we had at Farmington or if she wanted to be at a big research university. When I asked her why she’d come to Farmington in the first place, she’d say that Yale had screwed her over.”

  “What’d she mean by that?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. She never wanted to talk about what happened. She’d just say stuff about damned big-shot faculty members doing whatever they wanted. Whatever it was, something back then derailed her career and left her bitter and angry. So much so that she couldn’t even pursue a life together for us.”

  “I’m sorry,” Karen said. “Did she ever say anything about what it was that hurt her? Or mention any names?”

  “No names, but she’d sometimes go on a rant about how she could destroy their careers with her story. Bring some men at the top all the way down to the bottom of the pit. But that kind of anger would only come out if she had too much to drink or something. The next morning, she’d blow it off and say she couldn’t talk about it.”

  We thanked him and started to leave. Then Karen said, “Sorry, but I need to ask you one more question. Do you think her anger about whatever happened back then contributed to her suicide?”

  Lawton slumped back into his chair and put his head in his hands. “I’m sure it did. We had a fight that night, about getting married. As usual, she said she couldn’t make a commitment until she knew what she was doing with her life, and those bastards at Yale had screwed her all up. She went home alone, and they found her the next morning.”

  He stood up again. “I can’t talk about this anymore. I couldn’t believe she committed suicide at first. Now I guess I’ve accepted it, although I still can’t see why. I guess you can never really tell what’s in another person’s head. Even someone you love.”

  His eyes filled with tears as we left.

  Karen pulled out of the parking lot.

  “Not sure we learned much,” I said. “Except something bad happened to her at Yale. Bad enough to drive her to her death.”

  “Yes,” she said. “And whatever it was, it involved some powerful men. The way she kept quiet while being so bitter and angry smells of a nondisclosure agreement. Implying that Mike Singer was involved. We just don’t know what happened or who else was part of it.”

  “Okay, I guess that’s a bit more than we had. At least confirmation for what I already suspected. But what went on ten years ago in New Haven is still a blank.”

  “There must have been some connection between her and Singer. I think we have to look back there to find it.”

  “I already checked her publications. There’s no connection to Singer. Or to Sally Lipton, for that matter.”

  “Yes, but publications would only reveal a major research tie, right? Maybe she took classes from Singer, or maybe he was on some faculty committee that evaluated her work. Something a little less direct than what you would have found.”

  I nodded. “You’re right. There are lots of possible connections that I would have missed by just looking at published papers. What I need is her full academic record.”

  “Can you get it?”

  “No, I can’t access Yale’s systems. But Martin Dawson can.”

  “The friend who got you into the record vault?”

  “Yep. And this’ll be a lot easier than that was. All he needs to do is pull her records from their graduate school files, which should be online.” I pulled out my phone. “I’ll email him now.”

  “Hold on,” she said. “You probably both use university accounts, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then don’t use email. Just in case something gets weird, it’d be safer for BTI and Yale not to have access to your messages. Call or text him instead.”

  She was right. Martin and I had already pushed things with our illicit records gathering. I looked at my watch. “It’s almost six now. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good,” she said. “And if we’re done detecting for the day, I think we deserve a little reward.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “There’s a country inn I know close by. Great place on the lake with a fabulous restaurant. Let’s stay over and go back to Boston tomorrow morning.”

  I lit up with a thrill of anticipation. But a warning light started blinking in my head. “That sounds great. But I have to ask, what comes after? I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can take any more roller-coaster rides.”

  She reached over and put her hand on my leg. “I know. No more roller coaster, I promise. I’m all in now.”

  I beamed at her as I felt her hand move to my growing erection. “Can you hold that thought for half an hour?” she asked.

  “Drive fast,” I said.

  It only took twenty minutes to reach a side road with a carved wooden sign marking the turnoff for the Lakeside Inn. The wooded road led down to a large, colonial-style building with gray shingled walls accented by dark green shutters. We pulled the car into a guest parking area with a dozen or so spaces. Karen grabbed an overnight bag from the back seat, and we went inside to the registration desk.

  “Reservation for Richmond,” she said.

  My jaw dropped, and I broke into a huge smile. “You planned this ahead?”

  She squeezed my arm in response as the receptionist checked us in and directed us to a room on the second floor. It was furnished in traditional country style and featured a picture window with a striking view of Squam Lake.

  “Beautiful,” I said, looking out the window.

  “Mmm, nice.” I felt her snuggle in behind me, and I turned to take her in my arms. Our mouths met, and we kissed deeply before she led me to the canopied bed that dominated the room.

  We made love twice, once fast and furious and the second time slow and tender. Then we dozed off for a bit. When I woke, she was lying in my arms, looking at me with a smile.

  “About time you woke up. I’m starved.”

  I kissed her. “Want to get dressed and go down to the restaurant?”

  She shook her head. “I’m good right here. Check out room service.”

  I called the restaurant. No room service, but they could bring something simple up. We settled for lobster rolls and a bottle of
Sauvignon Blanc. Not a big hardship. We ate sitting in front of the window, wearing terrycloth robes we found in the bathroom. When we finished, Karen raised the bottom of her robe and moved onto my lap. “Time for dessert,” she said.

  This time we slept soundly afterward.

  21

  The clock on the bedside table said six when I opened my eyes. I hoped that meant we had time for a leisurely morning before heading back to Boston. But when I turned over and reached for Karen, the bed was empty. I was surprised by the wave of panic that came over me. Had she left during the night?

  I sat up and called out—and felt an enormous sense of relief when she emerged from the bathroom. All of which must have shown in my face because she came over, sat next to me, and took my hand. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  I smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I feel like an idiot. I was afraid you’d left.”

  “I understand. We’ve had more than our share of ups and downs. But I told you—I’m all in now.”

  I reached over to her, and she came into my arms. Our mouths met, but then she squeezed my shoulder and pulled away. “I’m afraid we do have to get home, though. I have a nine o’clock staff meeting, and it’s one of those that I can’t miss. How about picking this up tonight?”

  Karen dropped me at my office, having made arrangements to meet at my place for dinner. All seemed well with the world, until I opened the door and was greeted by a whirring, grinding noise that made me think I’d gone to the dentist’s by mistake. “Kristy,” I yelled. “What the hell’s going on?”

  She turned off the source of the noise and looked up from the piles of paper on her desk. “Sorry, just shredding some sensitive stuff.”

  “Sounded like you were taking down the walls,” I said. “What is it?”

  “Good news for a change. Research accounting called yesterday to say they’d closed the audit. The auditors decided the consulting claims were appropriate, and they’re giving us our money back.”

  “That’s great. What was it all about?”

  “I asked, but they said it was highly confidential. Just said to forget about it and destroy any related paperwork.” She used her chin to point to the shredder. “So I’m being a good girl and enjoying the prospect of having our accounts balanced again.”

  I went through to my inner office and shut the door. It was nice that the auditors had resolved their problem, but why the insistence on secrecy? I’d never heard of orders to destroy files before. It was like someone was hiding something. And it only made me more curious. Even if the payments to Sally Lipton were legit, I still wanted to figure out what had gone on between her and Mike Singer back in New Haven. And what had happened to Martha Daniels.

  I started by making the call to Martin Dawson that Karen and I had talked about yesterday. He answered on the second ring. “What’s up, Parker? You must want something to be calling first thing in the morning. Or are you ready to come across with that dinner you owe me?”

  I laughed. “Afraid you were right the first time. I need you to look up a former student’s record for me. Martha Daniels, got her PhD in chemistry about ten years ago. Can you pull her transcript?”

  “Sure, that’s easy. Is this related to your interest in Mike Singer?”

  “Yeah. Her name came up in his file, and I’d like to know more about her.”

  “What’s the deal? What was in that file we hunted up anyway?”

  I hesitated. Better not to tell him too much. “Sorry, but I really can’t get into it on the phone. Could you just pull her file? I’ll tell you all about it over the dinner I owe you. Maybe dinners after this.”

  “All right, all right. I’ll download the file and email it to you.”

  “Not over university email. This isn’t exactly legit, and I don’t want there to be a traceable record in either of our accounts. Do you have a personal email, Gmail or something?”

  “Sure. Want me to use that?”

  “Please.” I gave him my Gmail address.

  “Okay, spymaster,” he said. “I’ll get it off to you shortly. You owe me big for this kind of cloak-and-dagger shit.”

  Martin’s email came in a few hours later. Martha Daniels had no apparent involvement with Mike Singer—no classes or seminars with him, and he hadn’t been on any of her thesis advisory committees. But she had taken a seminar course in her final year with Sally Lipton.

  In the absence of any other connection, it looked like I’d have to take another go at Sally. Not a particularly pleasant prospect.

  Dinner was Chinese takeout at my place. Karen had come prepared with a bottle of wine and, more importantly, a bag of treats from Polka Dog Bakery for Rosie. That won Rosie’s heart, and she was sitting expectantly at Karen’s feet as we unpacked an assortment of cardboard cartons on the dining table. Anyone who brought goodies from Polka Dog had to be a good prospect for a surreptitious treat at dinner.

  Karen dipped a Peking ravioli in the ginger sauce. “Can she have some of this?”

  “Sure, Chinese is her native food. But don’t give her the sauce—it might be too spicy for her.”

  Karen tore off a sauce-free corner, which Rosie gratefully accepted. “They were bred as companions for Chinese royalty, weren’t they? But they’ve evolved since then.”

  “Yes, they’re an ancient Chinese breed. Professional lapdogs. How do you mean evolved?”

  Karen grinned and gave Rosie another piece. “I’d say she’s the royal one in this household, wouldn’t you?”

  I laughed. “Guess I can’t argue with that. Anyway, how’d your day back at work go?”

  “Lousy, to tell you the truth. The case is now officially cold. Everyone agrees on Upton, but he’s left us nothing to go on.”

  I sighed. “Shit. What more can you do?”

  “I wish I knew. To be honest, I’m afraid all we can do is hope that he somehow makes a mistake down the line and gives himself away. Sometimes killers like this will inadvertently say something to someone or play cat-and-mouse games with the cops. Without that, I’m afraid we’re stuck. And he’s already looking at a job at Berkeley.”

  I kept my lingering doubts about Upton to myself. No point getting into that argument tonight. Instead I served us some Kung Pao chicken. “Well, I had kind of an interesting day. I got into the office and found my administrator shredding all the files on our missing money. She’d been told that the auditors had resolved the problem with our accounts and to get rid of all her paperwork.”

  Karen raised an eyebrow. “What do you make of that? A rush to dispose of things always feels odd to me.”

  “Me too. Like someone has something to hide. Anyway, it reminded me to call my friend at Yale about Martha Daniels.”

  “And what’d your friend have to say?”

  “He was happy to check out her transcript. No connection to Mike Singer, but she’d taken a seminar course taught by Sally Lipton.”

  Karen sipped her wine. “So an indirect link?”

  “Maybe. I’m going to have to make another trip down to New Haven. Talk to Sally Lipton again and also look up Martha’s thesis advisor. He’ll at least know the story behind her going to the community college.”

  “That’s a good idea, except I doubt if you’ll get any further with Lipton than you did the first time.”

  “You’re probably right. She seemed pretty determined not to talk to me. But what else can I do?”

  “How about I go with you?”

  “Why? You think she’ll open up more to a woman?”

  “I doubt it.” Karen reached into her pocket and held up her badge. “But you’d be surprised how this gets people to talk.”

  22

  Sally Lipton was in her office when we got there a little before eleven the next morning. She recognized me immediately. And didn’t look happy about it.

  “What do you want now? I already told you I don’t have time to chitchat about Mike Singer.”

  I tried being nice. �
��I’m sorry to bother you again, but this’ll just take a minute. We wanted to ask you about a former student, Martha Daniels.”

  “I don’t know any Martha Daniels.” She reached for the phone. “Get the hell out before I call security.”

  Karen held up her badge. “I’m Detective Karen Richmond. We just need a minute of your time.”

  The badge had the effect that Karen had predicted. Lipton scowled but put down the phone. “All right. What do you need to know?”

  “Martha Daniels was a student in a course you taught ten years ago,” Karen said. “Does that jog your memory?”

  “A student from ten years ago?” She shrugged. “I’ve taught lots of students over the years. The name Martha Daniels doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “The course was called Advanced Topics in Research,” I said. “You still teach it, according to the course catalog. How many students are usually in it?”

  Lipton rolled her eyes. “Just a dozen or so. It’s an upper-level graduate course. Why do you care, for Christ’s sake?”

  I ignored her question. “Do you teach it yourself or with guest lecturers?”

  “Damn it, I’m tired of this. What do you want from me? Get out of here!”

  “Just answer the question.” Karen’s tone was harsh, accompanied by a cop interrogation look. “Unless you want us to make this more formal.”

  Lipton stared back at her. Then she said, “All right, fine. It’s taught by multiple guest lecturers, each talking about the area of their research specialty.”

  “Do you have the roster from the year Martha Daniels took it?” I asked.

  “From ten years ago? I doubt it.”

  Karen cleared her throat and ostentatiously looked around the office. “You seem to have an office full of filing cabinets. Well organized. I’m impressed. There’s even one labeled courses. Think there might be a syllabus in there somewhere?”