Sammy hesitated. Friendship was the ploy she’d used to see the doctor, but now she felt she had to qualify her association with Sergio. “I was a classmate. We took Intro Psych together.” That certainly was true enough. “Unfortunately, I really didn’t get to know Sergio better,” she admitted. “He was a wonderful musician.”
“We all thought the boy would be a star.”
Sammy nodded. “I played one of his concerti on the air. We got more calls —”
“So where is this radio station, Miss uh —?”
“Greene. Sammy. At Ellsford.” Sammy explained about her radio show and the impact of her recent program on suicide. “Actually, Dr. Ortiz, one of the reasons I came to see you was because Sergio’s death has upset so many on campus. I’m trying to understand more about Sergio and what made him do what he did,” she said. “Maybe keep others from following the same road.”
“What is it you want to know?”
“Well, our guest expert said that people often visit a doctor shortly before committing suicide. I wondered if Sergio had come to you.”
“You really think knowing that could help others?”
Sammy sensed that the doctor was uncomfortable. “I really do,” she said.
“I’m in a difficult position,” Ortiz finally answered. “Patient confidentiality, you understand.”
“But didn’t Mr. Pinez say you could talk to me about Sergio?”
“We spoke. Juan also wishes to prevent other such tragedies.” Abruptly he nodded, slapping his thigh. He left the room and returned shortly with two thin manila folders.
He flipped through the yellowed pages of the first. “Up to date on his shots. Chickenpox. Flu. Ear infections. Typical childhood illnesses. Hadn’t really seen him much the past few years.”
He moved to the end of the folder. “Fact is, the last time he was here was for his college physical. June twelfth. Everything checked out okay. He —” Ortiz seemed lost in thought for a moment, then snapped back to attention and pulled over the second folder. “A copy of Sergio’s Student Health chart just came this morning. I haven’t had a chance to look.” He opened the record to the last few pages. “Let’s see. There are a number of visits here. Most of them to Dr. Palmer. July fifth for immunizations. That’s funny, we had him up to date on his shots.”
Ortiz scratched his head. “Then twice in October, Palmer again. Sergio saw a Dr. Osborne in Student Counseling Services several times, too, but there’s no doctor’s note written. I guess they don’t write much about counseling visits.”
Sammy shrugged.
“More Dr. Palmer. Headaches, cough, and a rash. The last visit was in November. ‘Chief complaint, severe headache’ and,” Ortiz said, turning the page, “Palmer states that Sergio was depressed about a girlfriend.” Looking puzzled, he stared off at the corner of the room.
“Something troubling you, Doctor?”
Ortiz hesitated.
“Off the record.” Sammy flipped closed her notebook. “I know that Sergio was gay.”
“His family would be devastated if they knew.”
“I promise to keep this between us, doctor. But I am curious. Did he talk with you about it?”
“At his last appointment. Sergio admitted to me that he was struggling.”
“What did you say?”
“What could I say? We talked about safe sex. I wanted to be sure the boy would not get AIDS.”
“Did he ever go out with girls?”
“He said no. But,” the doctor chuckled, “it was hard to avoid them, since his sisters were always bringing friends around. The girls were crazy about him.” Ortiz pulled out a photo from a manila folder: Sergio at fifteen. “He was a very good looking boy.”
Sammy agreed.
“Such a tragedy.”
Everything Ortiz told her jibed with Lloyd’s recollection of his roommate. Lloyd had referred Sergio to Dr. Osborne to deal with his gay identity. So why the note about a girlfriend? Maybe Sergio was trying to go straight. Or, maybe he just didn’t feel comfortable confiding in Palmer.
“Here’s the autopsy report.” Ortiz handed Sammy the typed sheet. She skimmed the data. Death was due to multiple trauma and massive hemorrhage. Toxicology negative. Slides of brain tissue had been sent to pathology for analysis, results pending. A shame that analysis couldn’t show what Sergio had been thinking in his last few days as well, Sammy reflected. His chart had made the picture even more confusing.
“Could I have a copy of this, doctor?”
“I don’t know how it will help other students, but I suppose it’s okay.”
Sammy again promised to keep that information confidential.
“If you can wait, I’ll have my nurse make a Xerox.”
Twenty minutes later, Sammy was back outside hailing another cab. When the driver pulled up, she directed him to the corner of Central Park South and Fifth Avenue.
1:00 P.M.
Originally built in 1907, the Plaza Hotel is a legend in its own time, a landmark that has hosted, among others, Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald, Teddy Roosevelt, and the Beatles. Solomon R. Guggenheim lived for years in the State Suite surrounded by fabulous paintings. It was Frank Lloyd Wright’s New York City headquarters. Sammy hurried inside, stopping only for an instant at the entrance to admire the international flags representing the many countries of important foreign guests. Today, Japan’s flag was among those waving in the breeze.
At the registration desk, a hotel clerk informed Sammy that Mrs. Nakamura was expecting her. “Room fourteen thirty-six.” The young woman directed her to the far end of the lobby where she stepped onto an elevator filled with out-of-town tourists loaded down with shopping bags and cameras.
At fourteen, Sammy got off and wandered down a long hallway until she found Mrs. Nakamura’s room and knocked. It was on the corner — probably had a great view.
A tiny Japanese woman in a blue silk Chanel suit opened the door. Her short black hair was streaked with gray and stylishly coifed. Her face was smooth skinned, almost creaseless, her eyes bright ebony. Sammy guessed her age to be a very well-maintained eighty. “Miss Greene?” she inquired.
Sammy nodded. Mrs. Nakamura’s features looked surprisingly familiar. Sammy surmised she must have seen her photo in the Ells-ford Eagle .
Mimiko Nakamura bowed her head. “Please come in.” She ushered Sammy into a large sitting area with a floor-to-ceiling view of Central Park. The light morning drizzle had left the city with a scrubbed and shiny look — at least from this height.
“How beautiful,” Sammy proclaimed. “And far above the madding crowds.”
“Actually, crowds do not bother me. Like all Japanese, I am used to being surrounded by people.” Mimiko spoke in flawless, lightly accented English. “If I’m not mistaken, you’ve spent many years among the crowds here in New York. I’d guess at least some in the Lower East Side.”
“How did you —?”
“I received my master’s degree in linguistics from Berkeley. Studying the American accent became a fascinating hobby. Or, should I say, accents?”
“Like Henry Higgins.”
“Except I avoid the social judgments,” she replied diplomatically. “My interest is purely academic.” She waved at a lemoncolored loveseat opposite her own cushioned chair. “Please, have a seat.”
A silver tea service had been laid out on the table between them. “I took the liberty of ordering tea,” Mimiko said as she poured Sammy some of the steaming brew into a china cup. “It’s not green tea, but it is pleasant enough.”
“Thank you.” Sammy waited for the older woman to serve herself, then both drank at once in a kind of ceremonial silence. Sammy found the taste of the tea a bit strange, but felt herself soothed by its warmth. Pleasant indeed, she thought, taking another long sip of the beverage. A “magic brew.”
“How long have you studied at Ellsford University, Miss Greene?” Mimiko finally spoke.
“I’m a junior. And, please, call me Sammy.
”
“That is an unusual name, is it not?”
“I was named after my grandfather — my mother’s father. He had a heart attack just before I was born. In the Jewish religion, children are often named after those who’ve died — so they’ll live on through us.” Sammy was surprised at herself. It was the first time she’d ever told anyone the real reason for her name. She’d usually make a flip remark — that her parents wanted her to be different, for example — probably because she’d always felt different. For the first time, as Sammy relaxed in the spacious hotel suite, she felt as if her name actually suited her.
“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 p
referred 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.
Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) Page 26