Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (34 page)

Over a montage featuring sleek edifices of sparkling glass and steel like the Research Institute at Ellsford, the voice told of Nitshi subsidiaries specializing in every major new scientific area from biotechnology to genetic engineering.

“At Nitshi, we are committed to long-term goals. For every new drug that works, there are about a thousand that don’t. Some drugs are researched for as long as ten years and then abandoned. A single drug can cost as much as three hundred million dollars in R & D before we can bring it to market.”

The film featured a modern manufacturing plant where empty bottles were carried in on a giant conveyor belt. By the time they had crossed the room, the bottles had been sterilized, filled with capsules, labeled, topped with cotton, and sealed. All done by automation.

“Through work initiated at Biotech Development Corporation, some twenty new biotech drugs are currently in clinical trials — several at your institutions.”

Sammy sat up straighter. Biotech Development Corporation was one of the companies that had sponsored Conrad and Nakamura. She wondered if it was the same one that was testing the AIDS drug Seymour Hollis had taken.

“NuVax, Inc. and Virology Research Foundation —”the announcer was saying.

So Reed was right. They were all Nitshi subsidiaries. Until Nakamura’s death, Nitshi had funded Conrad. Sammy already knew
that Nitshi funded Nakamura and Palmer. Now she had confirmed the link to Conrad.

She had to talk to Mr. Ishida
. Quietly, she slipped out of the conference room before the movie ended.

Once in the hallway, Sammy checked to make sure that no one had followed her, then headed for the elevator and pushed the “up” button. A few moments later, an empty car was whisking her swiftly and quietly to the fifty-second floor. Certain her stomach had shifted a few inches when the car finally braked to a rapid stop, she walked off, a bit shaken into a dimly lit, plush-carpeted corridor stretching in both directions. There were no signs indicating suite numbers and no one around to ask the way. Sammy decided to turn to her right for a first try.

After passing several doors, she realized she had traveled down an odd-numbered hallway. Returning in the other direction toward the even numbers, she finally arrived at Suite 5210. Gated by an unmarked walnut door, the suite number was engraved in small letters on a brass plaque that hung off to one side. Sammy looked around for a doorbell or buzzer. Seeing none, she decided to try the door-knob.

The door opened easily. Sammy stepped into a spacious, brightly lit, paneled reception room containing a small sitting area — empty — and a desk, behind which sat a very attractive secretary who could easily have been the twin of the woman in the lobby.

“May I help you?”

“I don’t have an appointment, but I’ve got to talk to Mr. Ishida,” Sammy spoke quickly, heading off an interruption. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

That got the woman’s attention.

“Please, I won’t take much of his time. Just tell him it’s about the bombing at Ellsford University. I’m a student there. My name is Sammy Greene.”

The woman examined Sammy’s nametag and frowned.

“I borrowed this,” Sammy started to explain. “Please,” she said again, “ask Mr. Ishida if he’ll see me.”

“All right, have a seat.” The secretary pointed to the cluster of comfortable chairs as she herself rose and moved toward the back door. “Mr. Ishida is on a trunk call. Let me stick my head in and see if he’s free.”

“Thanks.” Sammy walked over to the waiting area and sat down as the woman disappeared into the inner sanctum. Scattered on a glass table were several brochures. She picked up one that was a descriptive public relations flyer about the Nitshi Corporation and slipped it into her purse.
Something to read later
. Several brightly colored pieces of paper in an adjacent trash can caught her eye. She fished out a few discarded old employee newsletters. They, too, went into her purse just as the secretary reappeared.

“Go right in,” she motioned with a wave. “He’ll be off the phone in a minute.”

Sammy entered the room slowly, trying to shore up her courage. The corner office was dominated by floor-to-ceiling glass windows that allowed a panorama of Manhattan even more breathtaking than the view from Mrs. Nakamura’s hotel suite. The one remaining wall was filled with original French Impressionist paintings. The floor was decorated with antique Oriental rugs.

In the center of the room behind an enormous hand-carved mahogany desk filled with a myriad of expensive looking computers and technical equipment, sat the CEO of Nitshi, dressed in a tailored silk suit, one manicured hand writing on a notepad as he spoke into the receiver held by the other. He waved for her to sit in one of the plush leather chairs in front of the desk.

“Yes, yes. It is already taken care of.” The executive’s voice was icy. “I’ll be arriving late this afternoon. On the Gulfstream.”

“Miss Greene,” Ishida said smoothly to Sammy as he hung up the phone. “I understand you have some information for me.”

“Where was it?” Larry Dupree asked the fire chief.

“Must have been under your engineer’s workstation. Looks like
it was the only thing of his that survived.” He handed Larry a charred and slightly twisted rectangular metal box. “My men didn’t even notice it until they’d cleared away most of the debris.”

“Is this all you found?”

“Afraid so. A blaze like the one that hit your radio station doesn’t usually leave much more than cinder and ash. Obviously, that container was fireproof.”

Larry looked down at the object in his hands. So sad. All that was left of poor Brian’s world. It didn’t seem fair that the essence of one man could be reduced to a small metal box.

“Amazing,” Yoshi Ishida commented when Sammy had finished. He leaned back in his sleek leather chair. He was a small man, but his round face had a sculptured look that over the years he had forged into a hardness that could be intimidating. Now, he forced himself to soften his expression. “I must say, you make a compelling case against Reverend Taft. I wish my own investigators were that thorough.”

“You mean you believe me?”

“Actually, Dr. Palmer first alerted me to the possibility that Taft might be dangerous,” Ishida confided. “Unfortunately it was only after this week’s bombing incident that I paid attention. And, of course, now the FBI is involved.”

FBI. That explained the two men at the hospital. The same two men who visited Taft yesterday. Obviously undercover.

Ishida placed the tips of his fingers together. “While we do feel the Reverend is responsible for the bombing, we still don’t have enough evidence to prove that anyone else was murdered.”

“But what about the fact that all the so-called suicides can be tied in some way to Nitshi?” Sammy asked. “I think Taft is trying to damage your company.”

“It all makes sense, I agree, but it’s still not positive proof.” Ishida affected a smile. “At this juncture, Miss Greene, it is critical that we keep the investigation confidential. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course.”

“Then I hope you will allow the proper authorities to do their job.” The smile broadened. “Without interference.”

“Oh, I would never do anything to undermine the FBI,” Sammy said. “I’m just glad you’re on top of things.”

Ishida stood up and came around to where Sammy sat. He extended his hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Greene. I’ll have my secretary show you out.”

Sammy rose. “That’s okay. I know the way.” She removed her badge and placed it on the CEO’s desk. “I guess I won’t be needing this.”.

Sammy exited the suite and headed for the double elevators just outside. Both arrived at the same time — one lit for “up,” one for “down.” Sammy stepped into the down car and turned to face forward just as the doors closed. She barely saw two men, each wearing Nitshi employee badges, engrossed in deep conversation walking down the hall. One man had his face turned away from her. The other? She wasn’t sure, but the short, heavyset man looked familiar.

“I hope she didn’t recognize you.” Ishida was watching his own hand-held TV monitor. It was tuned to Station #1, the lobby entrance. Sammy was just walking out of the building.

Peter Lang turned away from the monitor and shook his head. “I’m sure she didn’t.”

“And your friend with the mustache?”

“He’s agreed to take a long vacation.”

Ishida nodded. “Fine. Now you must concentrate on Miss Greene. She has proven to be a very resilient young woman indeed.”

“At least she hasn’t put it all together.”

“But she will,” Ishida said. “Unless, of course, we conclude her investigation.” He stared at Lang for a long moment, before adding, “Once and for all.”

It was after three when Sammy slid into the backseat of the dirty, dented cab and gave the man at the wheel her old address.

The driver, a recently immigrated middle-aged Indian, looked
back at Sammy. “You sure you wish to go there? That is a very rough neighborhood.”

“I used to live there.”

The man shrugged, put the cab in gear, and sped toward FDR Drive.

Sammy listened with only half an ear as the cabbie chattered in nonstop musical English about the family he’d left behind in Bombay, his dreams for a better life, and his disappointment in this new country, which seemed to have such a voracious appetite for violence. “Sometimes I think maybe I will never live to see my wife and sons again.”

Sammy mumbled a sympathetic response as they remained caught up in the slow-moving rush hour traffic on 3rd Avenue. They hit some gut-wrenching potholes near East 34th and narrowly avoided colliding with a crosstown bus, a sanitation truck, and a bag lady before pulling onto the expressway. At East Houston the man exited, driving down back streets to a run-down, crumbling area just twenty minutes from New York’s Upper East Side.

“You wish for me to wait?” the driver asked, his voice tinged with concern.

Sammy reached for her wallet. “That’s okay. The subway station is a few blocks away.”

“You should be suiting yourself.”

The moment the cab sped off, leaving her standing alone on the street corner, Sammy began to regret her bravado. A light breeze had sprung up, carrying a hint of more rain on its chill edge. Behind, in the east, the sky was darkening. Fighting a shiver, Sammy started down the cracked sidewalk toward Hester Street. It was early evening and the Lower East Side neighborhood where she was born was just now coming alive. Only the scene wasn’t the way it had been in her childhood — the litter-free sidewalks and well-maintained brownstones had given way to crumbling buildings decorated with graffiti and gang signs.

When Sammy finally arrived at number 453, she found a scrawny Puerto Rican teenager dressed in a spandex miniskirt and
thigh-high black boots pacing in front of the building, trying to attract men in passing cars. An unshaven old codger leaned in the doorway, drinking from a bottle wrapped in a paper bag. A group of young Asian toughs stood in the park across the street, exchanging packages for cash.

Sammy walked up the steps to the front door, hesitated for an instant, then entered the small foyer. A fly-specked, fifteen-watt bulb created feeble light, exaggerating shadows, obscuring corners. She shuddered, assaulted by the sour odors of stale urine and decay. The brown and red carpet had long been pulled up, leaving only filthy cement flooring. Paint was peeling from the walls, thick with grime.

A small boy, maybe eight or nine, sat on the stairs and eyed her with practiced toughness. “Whatcha doin’ here, lady?”

“I used to live here.” To her right was the closed door of the ground-floor apartment. Directly ahead were four flights of stairs.

The boy didn’t seem convinced. “Which one?”

“Three B.” She began her ascent, avoiding the greasy banister. Someone had written “Fuckit” on the wall. Otherwise the tagging was unintelligible to Sammy. When she lived here, the wall had always looked freshly painted. She could still hear her mother reminding her from the top of those stairs not to touch it with dirty hands.

As she reached the second floor, she was so overcome by the presence of old memories, she had to stop on the landing for breath before going on.

Playing hide-and-seek through these corridors with friends.

Her mother coming home, still wearing her white hospital coat.

Her father, handsome and young in his elegant custom suits, always smelling of cologne.

The past wrapped around her like a time warp. A brief, safe time almost two decades ago. Before —

“You okay, lady?” The boy was still shadowing her.

“Fine,” Sammy said. Taking a deep breath, she continued up to the third floor. The relentless beat of hip-hop emanating from the
apartment she’d called home for the first seven years of her life grew louder with each step. Back then the halls would have been filled with the sounds of Mozart and Bach.

“Gimme ten bucks. I’ll show it to you.”

“What?” Sammy turned to the boy. His face was earnest. “Someone’s in there. I couldn’t.”

“Nah. They just playin’ music. Looks like they’re home.”

“Excuse me?”

“So’s they don’t get ripped off,” he explained. “Ten bucks.”

Sammy pulled two fives from her wallet. “You have a key?”

“Nope. Just this.” The boy took out a penknife, not unlike the one Sammy had used at Conrad’s, and picked the tarnished lock. The door opened under his expert hands. Sammy was reminded of Vince DeFuccio, the teenager who taught her to pick locks at age eight. Some things hadn’t changed.

Sammy glanced around the hallway with a guilty look as the boy motioned for her to enter. “Well, I’ll only stay a minute.” She couldn’t resist a peek inside.

Ton-Loc assailed her ears, the smell of urine and feces her nose. But it wasn’t the different sounds or odors that overwhelmed Sammy as she walked from room to room. It was the fact that this apartment had a transient feeling, as if no one ever lived there any length of time, no one ever made it their home. The furniture was sagging and worn, the walls and shelves, paint peeling and cracking, devoid of any pictures or personal mementos. When Sammy had lived here the unit had been filled with books and family photos and music and, at times, love.