Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller)

by Deborah Shlian

  “Damn it!” Sammy tugged hard at the wheel and the Land Cruiser swerved to the right, skidding smoothly in a circle, finally coming to rest in a small gully by the side of the road. She looked up to see the rear lights of a large limousine speeding down the roadway ahead in the distance. Her whole body shook as she took a few deep breaths to calm herself.

  “Whutiz?” Pappajohn murmured, lifting up his cap.

  “Nothing,” Sammy shook her head angrily. “Some son of a bitch in a limo practically ran me off the road.”

  “Djgetalisuz?” he slurred.

  “No. Didn’t have time. They’re gone.” She started rocking the car back and forth out of the gully. “Sorry I woke you, go back to sleep.”

  “Rockabyebaby,” Pappajohn mumbled as he drifted back into slumber.

  Sammy nudged the car back into traffic. Looking off in the distance where the limo’s taillights had been only a moment before, all she could see was the darkness, shielded by a curtain of snow.

  PEORIA, ILLINOIS

  8:00 P.M.

  Tom Nelson was exhausted. Not to mention hungry, horny, and freezing cold. He couldn’t decide which was the greatest of his miseries. The rookie cop had been on foot patrol for close to eight hours, and it had been snowing constantly. He glanced at his watch. Another twenty minutes and he could sign off duty. Then he’d grab a burger at Mickey D’s — his bride of only three weeks was no cook — before heading for home. He thought about Patti in bed, her naked body waiting to warm his, and he smiled. Whatever skills she lacked in the kitchen were more than compensated for by her expertise in the sack.

  The Amtrak whistle blew in the distance as the train steamed off toward its next stop. Nelson’s beat included the Peoria neighborhood abutting the railroad yard. All along the crisscrossing tracks, inside abandoned cars or beside them, homeless men, women, and even a few children had set up temporary camps. The cop approached one ragged group standing around a burning oil can and warmed his hands over the flame.

  “Officer!”

  Nelson turned to see a man pointing to something lying in a mound of snow. Although several feet away, the cop sensed trouble.

  “Officer, come quick!”

  Nelson hesitated, his first impulse to leave it for the next guy. Less than five minutes to go, damn it. If this were anything requiring a report, he’d be hours doing paperwork before savoring burger, wife, or bed.

  “Officer!”

  Sense of duty prevailed, and Nelson hurried over to where the man was frantically signaling.

  “Jesus!” His exclamation was involuntary. Worse, he’d lost all his appetites as he stood staring down at the ripped and twisted, now totally unrecognizable body of Lucy Peters.

  Sammy left Pappajohn snoring in his bedroom and tiptoed out to the living room. Before falling back into his semi-stupor, he’d mumbled something about her staying over that night — “too dang’rous,” he’d slurred — but as she checked out the sagging, food-stained sofa, she wasn’t sure she could comfortably manage even a few hours sleep there. Besides, if there were anything to fear, Pappajohn would be of no use. He’d be out of commission for a good five or six hours at least. Sammy peeked out the living room window. Only a couple of inches of white covered the ground; the snowfall seemed to be tapering off. She shouldn’t have too much trouble walking back home now that the worst of it was over.

  Still wound up from the events of the past few days, Sammy couldn’t resist wandering around the rooms of the small cottage. She went through all of them in less than three minutes, then stopped in the kitchen to wash a sink full of dirty dishes. When she was done, she walked back into the den and sat down in front of the computer sitting atop Pappajohn’s cluttered desk. Maybe she’d use the time to modify her list of fact and speculation, adding what she’d gleaned from Dr. Ortiz and Mrs. Nakamura, as well as the question of whether yesterday’s assailant might have been someone from Taft’s organization. She could print it out on Pappajohn’s dot matrix, then later fax it to Mr. Ishida in New York. It might help the Nitshi CEO focus on any missing pieces in his own investigation.

  She retrieved the handwritten list from her purse and switched on the computer. Once the system booted up, she opened an untitled file and began typing, transcribing the original and adding the following:

  Six deaths: Yitashi Nakamura, Barton Conrad, Sergio

  Pinez, Katie Miller, Brian McKernan, and Seymour Hollis

  Four “suicides”: Nakamura, Conrad, Pinez, and Hollis

  One fire and resultant death: Brian

  One bombing and resultant death: Katie Miller

  One almost hit-and-run and one assault: Intended victim: Sammy Greene

  Two missing: Luther Abbottt and Lucy Peters

  Done. Sammy wadded up her handwritten sheet and tossed it in the trash can under Pappajohn’s desk. Then she returned her attention to the computer screen, convinced that Taft was behind all the violence and death. A man so determined to discredit the global enterprise that he was willing to sacrifice anyone — including Sammy herself — to accomplish that goal.

  Conrad had warned her that something was going on at Ells-ford. He’d already discovered that Seymour Hollis, the third suicide on campus, was a Palmer patient and had been taking a new AIDS drug developed by a Nitshi subsidiary. Whatever other evidence he’d gathered must have been in the brown envelope addressed to Dean Jeffries. If in fact, Jeffries hadn’t received it, it was likely that whoever visited Conrad Friday night, shot the professor and took the envelope. The tape would have proven that Conrad was murdered. That’s why Brian was killed. That’s why someone — someone sent by Taft — had been after her. Even in New York.

  What if, as Lt. Williams suggested, the attacker knew her? Someone sent to kill her before she learned too much? Because she was starting to piece the puzzle together.

  Sammy shut her eyes, absorbing this terrifying idea.

  Eventually, her calm voice broke through. Unlikely that the Reverend would send his henchman after her all the way to New York. She opened her eyes and took a deep breath. Of course, it was absurd.

  Relieved, Sammy punched the function keys for “Print.” A few minutes later, she had two hard copies, which she folded and placed in her purse. Turning back to the computer, she pushed “Save” and waited for instructions to name the document. Let’s see. Guess “Greene” is as appropriate a name as any .

  “DO YOU WANT TO OVERWRITE? Y/N?” flashed on the screen.

  What? Overwrite? There’s another file with my name? Why? Sammy tried to access it, but only succeeded in repeatedly getting a prompt for a password. She tried the names of Pappajohn and his relatives to no avail, finally banging the desk in frustration. Irritated, she went back to check the directory for a clue. Among the multiple listings of games, communications services, and home tax and budget programs, she found files titled “Conrad,” “Nakamura,” “Nitshi,” and “Taft.” They, too, were equally inaccessible.

  Sammy bit her lower lip. What the hell was going on?

  Her pulse quickened as she considered the worst possible scenario. Whoever shut down Conrad’s computer the night he died might not have realized that Conrad always turned his off and on using the master switch on the floor. But, he would have had to know how to use a computer.

  And Pappajohn fit that profile, Sammy realized, feeling at once angry and betrayed. She’d been a fool to begin trusting the man. After all, if you’re into university corruption, who better to have on your side than the campus chief of police?

  A conspiracy.

  Could she prove it?

  She didn’t know.

  All she did know was that the more she learned, the more frightened she became.

  Impulsively, she hit the “Delete” button on the computer, instantly removing the document she’d just created. Then she switched off the computer, grabbed her purse and jacket, and headed out of the cottage. It was still snowing. Falling flakes soon filled in her footsteps as if they had never exi
sted.

  Peter Lang was freezing. Parked outside Pappajohn’s home ever since Sammy and the campus cop had arrived, Lang couldn’t risk turning on the engine. He’d sat there without heat for what seemed like hours, without even a cup of coffee to warm him. Worse, he’d had to crack the windows a bit to prevent fogging and now gusts of icy wind blew across his face, burning his nose and ears.

  Damn that Greene. So far, this assignment had been a disaster. His hired killer had screwed up badly — not only missing the girl with the car and at the bombing, but allowing her to get a look at him and his blasted mustache. If she ever made the ID, the authorities might connect him to Lang. After all, Lang had arranged the contract.

  Ishida had been right not wanting to bring in an outsider, but Lang had persuaded his boss that it was necessary. Lang himself wasn’t a killer. He couldn’t even pull the trigger on Conrad.

  Industrial espionage was Lang’s game. Planting bugs, gathering dirt, spreading disinformation. He had no qualms about his undercover work — including double-crossing that idiot Taft. Murder, however, was another matter. That was why he’d backed off in New York, why he’d run the minute that kid had yelled “police.” Now he’d been given only one more chance to stop Greene. Once and for all. Or else. Well, he thought with a certain resignation, he was in too deep to back out. There was no other choice.

  He looked over at the house. Lights still burned in the living room and den. That meant at least one of them was probably awake. He held his hands up to his mouth and blew hot air on them, trying to coax feeling back into his stiff fingers. Shit! This was going to be a long night.

  Lang was half-asleep when he heard the sound. He sat up to see a shadow emerge from the house and shut the door. It was Greene. Alone. The snow was falling more thickly now, so he wouldn’t have to wait long before he could start his motor and follow. Damn, she was taking the walk path toward the university campus. He’d have to follow on foot. Cursing the foul weather, he dragged himself out of his cold car into the colder night. There was so little light that he had a hard time tracking her progress without moving in too close. He hoped the wind noise muffled the sound of his footsteps.

  Fifteen minutes later, hidden in the shadows, he stood shivering outside the building where Sammy lived. She had just gone inside. He saw the lights in her apartment flip on. He checked his watch. The crystal had fogged, making it difficult to read the time. One a.m. It wouldn’t be long before she’d be asleep, and he’d have a chance to make his move.

  Soon, very soon, his duty would be fulfilled.

  The moment Sammy locked her apartment door, she stripped off her clothes and jumped into the shower, turning on the water full force. Rotating slowly, she let the needle-like jets crash down on her head, rivulets of warmth running along her body, relaxing her muscles made tight by tension. She closed her eyes, emptying her mind of anything but the pure pleasure of the shower.

  The sound of the telephone didn’t register at first. Finally, she opened her eyes and listened. Another ring. Who’d call at this hour, Sammy wondered, shutting off the faucet. Hair dripping, she stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around her wet body, and padded into the living room. “Hello?” she spoke tentatively into the receiver.

  “Sammy?”

  “Dr. Osborne?” What in the world?

  “I’m so glad you made it home safely.”

  “Me, too,” Sammy said. If only he knew the half of it . “Didn’t you get my message?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. My service said you’d canceled our appointment because you were going out of town.”

  “Something came up and —”

  “It’s all right,” Osborne reassured her. “I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but I ran into your friend Reed Wyndham today, and he told me you hadn’t returned from New York. He seemed troubled —”

  Oy vey, Reed! In the midst of all the turmoil she completely forgot to call him.

  “And frankly,” Osborne was saying, “after our chat on Thursday, I wondered if somehow Taft’s people had gotten to you.”

  Sammy was touched by the psychologist’s concern. More than that, she was gratified that he had believed her story about Taft before anyone else did. “Actually,” she replied, “they almost did.”

  “What happened?”

  Sammy began to relate the incredible events of the past two days. As she spoke, her eyes wandered to her purse lying on the chair next to the phone. She’d thrown the shoulder bag down when she came in earlier and somehow one of the Nitshi brochures she’d taken from Ishida’s office had fallen out. “Jesus!” she exclaimed into the receiver.

  “Sammy, are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.” She picked up the brochure and stared at a small unlabeled group photo on the back cover. “A man I saw Friday in New York — a man who apparently works for Nitshi.” Sammy flipped through the brochure until she found him again — this time in a shot with Yoshi Ishida. She searched for a name in the caption. “Uh, here it is. Peter Lang. I couldn’t place him when I saw him walk past the elevator, but now I remember,” she said excitedly. “He was at the animal rights protest. My God, that means he’s also working for Taft!”

  “You’re sure it’s the same man?”

  “I’ve got pictures from the demonstration.” Sammy grabbed her purse and pulled out the photo of Luther Abbott. There, standing behind him, was the short, stocky man she hadn’t recognized before. No question. That was Peter Lang. “This time I have real proof.”

  “Sammy, listen to me. You’ve got to be very careful with this information.”

  “I’m not going to talk to the police. I think Sergeant Pappajohn may be involved in some kind of cover-up. Or worse.” She told him what she’d seen on his computer. “He even has a file on me!”

  “Incredible,” Osborne sounded shocked. “But if what you say is true, you could be in grave danger.” His voice was laced with concern. “Sammy, you mustn’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”

  “I have to get this out. We’re talking about murder!”

  Osborne’s voice was calm. “We will. But we can’t do anything in the middle of the night. I’ll see if I can set up a meeting with Chancellor Ellsford sometime in the morning. Give me a call around ten. Meanwhile, stay home, lock your door, and try to get some rest. Whatever you do, don’t go out. Oh, and you’d better leave the phone free in case of emergency.”

  “All right.” Sammy was both frightened and relieved. Chancellor Ellsford could take care of things and her nightmare would be over. “But, what if something — ?”

  “Take my number.” He gave her the seven digits. “If anything happens, call me immediately. I’ll call the state police and come right away.”

  She wrote the number down on a loose piece of paper and stuck it in her purse.

  “Thanks,” Sammy hung up the phone, too keyed up to sleep. She didn’t know if she could take much more. What she did know was that she didn’t want to be alone. Even if it meant facing Reed.

  Sammy put on long johns and pulled on a pair of jeans and a warm sweatshirt. She slipped the brochure back in her purse and reached for her jacket. The blinking light on her answering machine drew her back. It was a message from Larry. He needed to talk to her. She checked her watch: 1:30. She’d call him first thing tomorrow.

  Sammy bounded down the stairs, one eye over her shoulder, her ears cocked for footsteps. The only footsteps she heard were her own, echoing up and down the barren stairwell. As she neared the front entrance, Osborne’s words came back to her. Stay home, you could be in grave danger .

  She paused, then made a quick decision. The back door was unlit. She could sneak out, be in the woods in seconds, and still make it to Reed’s relatively quickly. Without further hesitation, she ran to the back, and looking around to see if she was followed, stepped into the cold, snowy night alone.

  Sammy wasn’t the only one getting middle-of-the-night calls. The telephone beside Pappajohn’s bed rang
four times before he realized it wasn’t part of his dream and picked it up. “Yeah?”

  The man at the other end identified himself as Tom Nelson of the Peoria Police Department. “I’m afraid I have to report a death. One of your students at the university. Name of Lucy Peters.”

  Pappajohn sat up to full attention. “How’s that?”

  Nelson explained how he’d discovered Lucy’s body in the snow near the track. “Best as we can guess, she must have fallen from the southbound train. Unfortunately, the northbound local was coming down the track where she fell. Her body was completely crushed. ME dispensed with the autopsy.”

  “How’d you make the identification then?” For Pappajohn, the news was an unpleasant surprise. He’d called the Amtrak office for a list of passengers from St. Charlesbury. Lucy’s name hadn’t been on the roster. Not that an oversight wasn’t possible. It happened all the time.

  “There was a student ID card a few feet from where she fell,” Nelson explained. Hesitating, he added. “Uh, in fact, that’s why I’m calling. I figured you guys would want to uh notify the . . . uh . . . next of kin.”

  “Yeah,” Pappajohn said. “I’ll take care of it.” Who could blame Nelson for wanting to dump the call? He took down the Illinois trooper’s number, then hung up and reluctantly dialed the Peters. Almost twenty-five years as a Boston city policeman and he’d never gotten used to this. But now as a campus cop, it was a part of the job he’d never counted on.

  2:00 A.M.

  “Well look who finally made it.” Reed stood in the open doorway of his apartment dressed only in a T-shirt and jockey undershorts. At this hour Sammy knew she’d gotten him out of bed. “Miss your plane?”

  “Reed, I —”