Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller)

by Deborah Shlian

  Sometimes it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie. Stay as far away from this as you can.

  What exactly was behind Conrad’s warning? He’d talked about the sacrificial fate of teaching at EU, his disdain for the university — and the Ellsford Teaching Award. And, oh, yes, the death of poor Professor Nakamura. Or rather, he hadn’t talked about Nakamura. He’d looked off at something on his desk and switched gears right away. The brown envelope. Gone by morning. Could it have something to do with Nakamura?

  She stopped in her tracks. Come to think of it, that was another suicide that didn’t fit Reed’s profile. If the news article was accurate, Nakamura seemed the epitome of happy success and achievement, personally and professionally. Why kill himself? She’d give anything to know what was in that envelope marked CONFIDENTIAL. And where it was? Had the dean lied about not receiving it?

  Just ahead, a bluebird perched on a branch ribbed with crystal frost, its sapphire wings and reddish-orange breast a brave splash of color against the gray of early winter. Sammy crept closer, but the bird flew away — as elusive as the answers to her questions. She stepped back on the path, shaking her head. To come so close.

  Preoccupied, she hadn’t realized she was within a block of Conrad’s home. Maybe taking a second look at where he lived and worked would provide a clue about the man — and his dangerous secrets. The vintage Queen Anne seemed like an abandoned dowager, her shroud a thin blanket of newly fallen snow. Sammy carefully negotiated the slippery front steps to the wooden entry. Hesitating, she turned the knob, but the door was locked.

  Fresh flakes of snow swirled around her as Sammy gave a furtive glance around. Seeing no one, she slipped out her plastic student ID, sliding the card between the door and the jamb. Several attempts to unlatch the door failed. She rummaged in her purse for her Swiss Army knife and nervously aimed for the lock. In a few minutes, the door creaked open to admit her to the musty hall.

  She flipped on the light, casting a bright patch across the floor, illuminating the living room where just a few days ago she’d discovered Conrad lying dead on his sofa. Now the room was a mute tableau. Everything remained as she’d found it then, except, of course, for his body. She took several deep breaths, hoping to calm herself. Get a grip. A good reporter checks her emotions at the door.

  Sammy tiptoed up the wooden staircase to the second floor. Two small bedrooms at the end of the narrow dark hallway were vacant, save for some empty unmarked cartons and a few crumpled blank sheets of computer paper. The large master bedroom overlooking the campus, however, was filled with an antique four-poster, a beautiful armoire, even a writing desk in one corner. Here the old house appeared in better shape than the living room or the outside. All the original oak floors had been stripped and re-stained so they sparkled, the light beige paint on the walls appeared fresh, the curtains and matching bed ruffles, new. Someone had paid attention to detail. Probably Mrs. Conrad before she ran off with her lover.

  The layer of dust on the windowsill indicated that the professor did not share his ex-wife’s housekeeping skills. Sammy gazed out the locked window at the expanse of white below. The snowfall had slowed again so that beyond a single path of her own footsteps, she could see traces of Puhawtney Creek as a brown vein winding through marble. Far in the distance, she could barely make out the university clock tower from which poor Sergio had fallen to his death. Squinting, she could convince herself the clock hands were pointing up to noon. Ask not for whom the bell tolls. She waited for the chimes, but heard nothing except the whisper of falling snow.

  After a moment, she turned away. The bed was still made, of course. Conrad had taken his last breath on the sofa downstairs. Sammy walked over to a large wardrobe and tentatively opened its creaking door. Only a few pairs of slacks, two corduroy jackets, and several button-down shirts hung on real wooden hangers — the typical professorial uniform. A drawer at the wardrobe’s base contained a jumbled heap of white boxer shorts and cotton socks.

  The adjacent bathroom was also devoid of female paraphernalia. Sammy found a worn toothbrush in a stained water glass on the cracked sink, a rusted razor, a nearly empty shaving cream can, and several shards of soap by the bathtub. The medicine cabinet contained only a leather dop kit, a box of Actifed, a bottle of Motrin, and some Band-Aids. Shaking her head, she had to acknowledge that she’d found nothing unusual in any of these rooms.

  Back downstairs, she wandered through a sparsely furnished dining room and a bright country kitchen with wood countertops and appliances in the off-white manufacturers call “almond.” The sink was filled with dirty dishes — strings of red sauce and spaghetti. Remnants of Conrad’s last meal, she guessed, looking away. Privacy destroyed as completely as life. Feeling guilty, she took a quick peek in the refrigerator where she found the spaghetti moldering in a plastic container along with several unopened bottles of beer and wine. The professor obviously kept himself well supplied, she noted sadly.

  A squeal. Or was it a squeak? Startled, she bumped the back of her head on the freezer door as she pulled out of the fridge. It sounded like the stairs. Or even the front door. She froze, afraid to take another breath.

  Did I close the front door? Is someone in the house?

  Heart hammering, she gently shut the refrigerator and remained perfectly still, straining to coax sound from the silence. For several seconds she waited, but there was nothing. Nothing except the wind and snow. She breathed normally again.

  Must’ve been my imagination.

  Trepidation mixed with curiosity as she crept into the lit hall, half expecting to see a figure among the shadows. The front door was shut.

  I’m sure I closed it.

  She paused. Again silence.

  Before her was the living room. She shuddered, recalling the scene she’d stumbled into last Saturday. The clutter of books, journals, and papers scattered through the room and on Conrad’s desk had already begun to accumulate a thin layer of dust.

  Sammy walked over to the large desk and slumped into the rickety chair. Almost mechanically, she opened each of the drawers. No sign of the brown envelope. The left lower drawer was still locked. Sammy leaned forward as she reached for her Swiss Army knife. Despite being careful, her tugging produced two bright scratches on the drawer’s lock. Inside she found a thick manila folder containing more journal articles, all dealing with arcane aspects of molecular genetics. Sammy jotted down the references, noting that Conrad himself was co-author on two. Most of the papers were several years old and, many, she observed, had Yitashi Nakamura as the final name. That meant something, she remembered. She’d have to ask Reed.

  Then she struck her forehead with the flat of her hand. Oy gevalt — Reed. She’d promised to call him this morning. He’d be furious.

  Concerned, she picked up the cordless phone from its cradle. He was probably at the hospital by now. She’d have to beep him. About to punch in the number, her eyes fell on the redial button. She knew Osborne had called the professor Saturday morning, but what if Conrad had phoned someone Friday night? It was worth a shot.

  She hit the button. Seven pulses indicated a local number, and seconds later, she was listening to the greeting from a familiar voice: “This is Hamilton Jeffries. Please leave your message.”

  HARLEM

  The entire church community packed the tiny Iglesia de la Santa Maria. Most had watched Sergio Pinez grow from the shy little papi to a handsome nineteen-year-old with musical talent that promised to be his ticket to a better life.

  Now all their hopes for him were buried in the closed pine coffin that lay before them. Father Campos struggled for reassuring words about his former altar boy, but was unable to console Sergio’s family who sat, shoulders sagging, faces streaked with tears, in the front pew.

  At sixteen, Maria Pinez was the closest in age to her brother. In her arms, she clutched Sergio’s first flute, as if willing it to play a comforting tune. José Pinez sat stiffly, stone faced, his fourteen-year-old hands fingering the
knife hidden in his pocket. The younger children seemed equally shaken, little Felicia stroking the hair of her doll with a comforting pat. As the priest began talking about eternal life in heaven, Lupe Pinez burst into loud sobs. Raoul Pinez turned from his children and pulled his wife closer into his arms. “¿Parqué, dios?” she wailed. “¿Por qué m’hijo?”

  In the back of the crowded church, Dr. Ortiz stood off to one side, alone, knowing that no answer would ever really satisfy the grieving woman. Still, as the boy’s family doctor, he felt a duty to try to ease her pain. When all the services and prayers were over, Lupe would come to him once again with her questions. This time, he needed to be ready with some answers. The university promised to send a copy of Sergio’s medical records this week. As soon as they arrived, he’d study them, and hoped he’d discover porqué .

  So Conrad had phoned Dean Jeffries the night he died — apparently on the dean’s private line. Sammy wasn’t surprised. She’d felt Jeffries had been less than forthright when they talked yesterday. Although her first impulse was to go to Blair Hall and confront the dean, Sammy realized the call itself meant nothing.

  Frustrated, Sammy replaced the folder and slammed the drawer shut. She dialed the hospital page number with one hand and slipped the phone under her chin. While she waited for the operator, she flipped through Conrad’s Rolodex absentmindedly, considering several possible scenarios.

  If Conrad never mailed the envelope to the dean, and it wasn’t in the house, perhaps he’d stashed it somewhere for safekeeping.

  Or, maybe it had been taken. From the tape recording she now knew that someone had been here after her visit Friday night. She recalled Conrad fastening the chain before she left and warning her to be careful. Saturday morning the door had been locked, the chain unbroken. So, whoever had come by, Conrad had let in. Someone Conrad knew and trusted. Who, she wondered. And what had they argued about? Were the contents of the envelope a motive for murder?

  “Hello.”

  The voice of the hospital operator interrupted speculation. “I’m sorry, Dr. Wyndham doesn’t answer his page. Would you like to leave a message?”

  “No. No, thanks.” Sammy hung up the receiver and saw that the Rolodex had fallen open to a familiar name and address: Karen Conrad.

  Sammy added the information to her notes, and checking her Swatch, decided to visit the professor’s ex-wife that afternoon. First stop, however, was Conrad’s office at the genetics building.

  Sammy flicked off the hall light and slowly nudged the front door open. The snow had tapered to a few sprinkles, so she now had a clear view of the yard to the street. Closing the door behind her, she started carefully down the steps, then froze when she spotted two more rows of footsteps beside the gullies left by her own feet as she’d entered. Both sets traveled up the stairs and ended at the front door. Propelled by fear, she made a dash for the street, hurrying down several blocks before the sight of a group of students frolicking in the freshly fallen snow gave her cover to resume a normal pace.

  Still, she couldn’t resist the occasional backward glance to reassure herself that she wasn’t being followed.

  The neighbor who called Campus Police never saw the tall man with a mustache. She only reported a frizzy-haired redhead hurrying from the Conrad residence shortly after eleven.

  “Thanks for stopping by, Gus,” Coach Grizzard said.

  Pappajohn hung his overcoat on a peg by the door. “You had something to tell me?”

  “Take a load off,” Grizzard pointed to the chair in front of his desk. He pulled out a cheap American cigar from his top drawer, clenched it between his front teeth, and lit a match to the other end. “Smoke?”

  “No. Thanks.” Pappajohn sat down impatiently as Grizzard took a deep puff.

  “Probably wondering what’s on my mind.” The coach blew out a curtain of smoky haze.

  Pappajohn nodded, trying to keep from grimacing at the stench. The man didn’t know from good cigars.

  “Bud Stanton.”

  Pappajohn acknowledged the name. But the connection? “Yeah.”

  “It stinks. Something stinks.”

  Pappajohn couldn’t hide a look of amusement as he eyed the foul cigar. He resisted the obvious comment and returned a noncommittal “What?”

  “Stanton’s an A-one forward. But, let’s just say he’s not the best in the brains department.”

  “So? You’re going to the finals this year.”

  “With him. But if he hadn’t passed his courses —”

  “He passed?”

  Grizzard shrugged. “We’ll never know. Dean Jeffries waived most of his midterms. Of course,” the coach added, “I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  Pappajohn waited.

  “Maybe I’m off base, but Stanton was having a real hard time in bio.”

  Pappajohn raised an eyebrow. “Conrad’s bio?”

  “Yup. Dean couldn’t budge the professor.” He waggled his hand sideways. “So, the big exam’s Monday. Three to one, it would have been a knockout. Now, all of a sudden, Conrad croaks and everybody gets to sail through — even Stanton.”

  “You suggesting the kid had something to do with Conrad’s death?”

  “I ain’t suggesting nothing. I just know that Stanton was parading his ass around here Saturday like the fix was in. Before any of the rest of us even knew the guy was dead.” The coach launched a few more cloudy puffs to underscore his point.

  First Greene, now Grizzard. Paranoid imaginations. Pappajohn did not hide his irritation. “Seems to me that Stanton could’ve maybe worked out something with Conrad. You know, extra credit, a paper, maybe even tutoring. The faculty bends over backward to help our athletes.”

  “Not Conrad. Stanton was up against the wall. That exam was going to kill him.”

  Pappajohn eased up from his chair and slid on his overcoat. “Well, thanks for letting me know.”

  “You gonna look into it?”

  Do I have a choice? Pappajohn mused, nodding toward the coach. “Yeah. I’ll look into it.” He gathered his scarf and headed for the door. “I’ll get back to you when I get something.”

  If I get something.

  The door to Conrad’s campus office was unlocked. Sammy stepped inside, quietly shutting it behind her. Last time she’d been here, she’d focused on the grumbling professor. Now she took a moment to study the room itself. If not for the rainbow of light streaming through the stained-glass window just behind the wooden desk, the spartan cubicle would have been stifling. The furnishings were Victorian and austere, the room was dark and devoid of personal touches. Sammy saw no photographs, posters, or chatchkes among the dusty books and papers.

  Propped on the floor in one musty corner were Conrad’s diplomas and certificates. Sammy stooped down and flipped through the frames: B.S. in biology from Wisconsin, Ph.D. in biology from Berkeley, Member of the American Association for the Advancement of Science, Phi Beta Kappa. Barton Conrad was brilliant and accomplished. Standing, she noticed the Ellsford Teaching Award, still posing on the windowsill. Dear God, why did he throw his life away?

  Abruptly, she turned from the window and back to Conrad’s desktop. Unlike the one in his living room, this was uncluttered — only a few recent genetics journals stacked neatly beside the Macintosh — an identical twin to his home computer. Except for some loose paper clips and a couple of Bic pens, the two drawers were likewise devoid of disorder. Unless someone had cleaned up, it seemed that Conrad did his serious work at home.

  Sammy sat down in the swivel chair behind the desk and flipped on the computer switch at the back of the monitor. The familiar ping sound came on; the computer started whirring as it booted up and the screen took on the familiar gray glow.

  A look at the hard disk directory was not particularly illuminating. Sammy scrolled up and down, examining the file titles. Most referred to Ellsford administrative subjects, lecture summaries, course outlines, and research papers.

  Sammy stopped
and double clicked on a folder labeled “Nakamura.” The window came up empty. Apparently, Conrad had erased its contents.

  Continuing to explore the files, her attention was drawn to a folder labeled “Osborne.” Not surprising, she figured, given that they were friends. Inside the folder was a single document, which appeared to be random notes: a few dates and times — perhaps when he’d met with the psychologist — and a list of scientific articles. No titles, just journals, volumes, and pages. Next to one he’d asterisked “see Darsee and Summerlin.” Sammy had no idea what that referenced, but she copied the names down anyway.

  “What are you doing?”

  Startled, Sammy looked up to see a young, neatly dressed woman leaning against the door. She was carrying several manila folders filled with blue memorandum paper. Must be a departmental secretary.

  Sammy adopted her most convincing smile. “I, uh, Dr. Osborne asked me to pull up references for a project he and Professor Conrad were working on.” Smoothly, she reached behind to turn off the computer.

  “Not there!” the secretary snapped. “You turn it off from the master switch.” She pointed at a row of plugs on the floor. “Down there, by your feet.”

  “Oh.” Sammy pushed the floor switch off with her toe. “I didn’t know.”

  “Professor Conrad would’ve killed you,” the secretary explained. “He always used the floor switch. Said he hated wasting time with the individual switches, turning them on one by one. This way, zap, and everything was ready to go.”

  “Sorry, I forgot.” Sammy stood and folded her notepad into her purse. “Anyway, I got what we needed. Thanks.” Shaking her head, she walked out of the room alongside the woman, “Sad, isn’t it?”

  The secretary agreed. “Yeah. I mean, he wasn’t exactly Mr. Nice-to-be-around, but it’s not like we wanted him gone, you know? At least I don’t think so,” she added in a half-joking manner. “You’re lucky, you know.”