Skorpio (8 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"Wrongful Death"

Beadles' research had only fueled suspicion that the diary was "incomplete." He'd queried the Vatican numerous times and always been told that the Vatican Library had no knowledge of any remaining pages.

Beadles felt this was a lie and believed the Vatican had only surrendered the diary because the Benedictines had informed Spain that it existed, and it rightfully belonged to them. The Balmora Dynasty had generously bequeathed the diary to the Universidad de Seville. Beadles had reached out to them but never received a reply.

A thump from the front porch. Beadles stared dumbly for a second before getting to his feet and going to the door. He turned on the lights and looked out. No one. He opened the door. A dead cat lay at his feet. His eyes swept the street first one way then the other. His heart accelerated. It was that Carson kid he was certain. Cowardly little shit.

Beadles got a plastic supermarket bag from the trash, picked up the cat in the bag and put it in the garbage in the garage. He made sure the garage was locked, pausing for a minute to admire his British racing green Mustang Bullitt. A powerful urge descended on him. Just get in the car and go! Leave it all behind. But he'd learned from bitter experience that he couldn't do that. They'd track him down and extract their pound of flesh. The university had its reputation to consider. Hayes could always withdraw his gift.

Beadles retrieved his Scotch and returned to the bedroom. He went into the dressing room and looked for Betty's bling box. Gone. Not a good sign. He wouldn't be pawning any jewelry for get-away money. He'd need every dime he had to pay the lawyers. He mentally touted his assets--the bank account, the retirement account, the vacation property in Wisconsin.

Hell. Attorney fees would piss through that in a New York minute. He would discuss suing the University with Berenson in the morning. His hand went in his pocket and removed the medallion. Too late to return it. It would only add to the fire.

He opened the top drawer of Betty's bureau, rummaging among the panties and bras for any jewelry she might have forgot. He inadvertantly peeled up the flowered contact paper that lined the bottom. A yellow piece of foolscap peeked out. He pulled it out. It was in Betty's handwriting.

"Someday I will meet my soul mate and give up smoking."

Galactus' fist closed on him squeezing out all breath. His knees buckled. He caught himself on the edge of the dresser.

Get over it
.

He clenched the gold coin tightly. They could take his livelihood, his dignity and his marriage but they would never take this! He peeled off his clothes, got in bed, held the coin and went to sleep. Shallow, restless dreams. He was at a faculty party. People kept telling him that the President was looking for him. Filled with anxiety Beadles sought to escape the party but he couldn't find his car. He couldn't remember where he parked it and he found himself walking up and down the streets near the University Club looking.

The sun came up. It was so bright he couldn't see. How was he expected to do anything if he couldn't see?

Beadles woke up with the light shining in the bedroom window. He felt like crap. His throat was dry and he had a pounding headache behind the eyes. He looked blearily at the empty tumbler on the bedstand.

Idiot.

He had drunk himself to sleep. Rubbing his temples he sat up. He went into the bathroom and splashed cold water in his face. It was ten-thirty. After a cursory breakfast of cheerios in milk he phoned the PI Panny and left a message. He phoned Ruby but the lawyer was in court all morning. He phoned Berenson.

"What if I can prove Liggett had that pot planted? Can I sue the university?"

"That is certainly an option," the lawyer replied. "But it seems dubious. Professor Liggett is a highly-respected academic. You'd have to come up with some pretty solid proof."

"I'm working on it, Mel."

"Well let me know if you find something. In the meantime you're in good hands."

Beadles didn't know what to do so he went for a run. For the first mile every footfall sent a needle through his temples but after that it got easier. You could always kill a hangover if you were willing to put in the work.

He took a shower and when he came out his cell phone, which he'd left charging on the bathroom counter, rang. It was Ruby.

"The University has obtained a restraining order preventing you from entering the campus until this matter is resolved."

Beadles sat heavily on the bed suddenly exhausted. "Can they do that?"

"Yes they can. You might want to think about sending someone over to claim your personal effects."

"Jesus Christ."

"The good news, they're eager to settle and put this matter behind them. We have a meeting this afternoon at two at the law offices of Strunk and White. Can you be there?"

There was a knock at the door.

"I'll be there, Phil. Excuse me. There's someone at the door."

It was UPS delivering one of those high-velocity letters. Stan and Mary Whitfield of Waukegan were suing him for the wrongful death of their son.

***

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"Flew the Coop"

Strunk and White's offices were in an old two-story Victorian off Courthouse Square on Mason St. Beadles parked his Mustang down the block, waiting until he saw his lawyer arrive before getting out of his car. He met Ruby on the stoop and they went inside. The middle-aged secretary ushered them into a conference room looking out on a rose garden and asked if they wanted something to drink.

Beadles asked for a Coke. Ruby sat pat.

"I've spoken with Asst. DA Nancy Warner and the state has agreed to reduce the charges regarding Mr. Whitfield to criminal negligence. The state has no desire to crucify you for something that was obviously out of your control," Ruby said softly. "You'll be sentenced to six months community service."

"If I plead guilty."

"That's right. As for the Whitfield suit, I'm not qualified to speak to that. Ask Mel. He'll know."

The door opened admitting a slight senior citizen with close-cropped white hair and rectangular glasses.

Old Elihu White himself, class of '51. His body was frail but his mind was as sharp as ever as laid a manila folder on the mahogany table and shook Ruby's and Beadles' hands.

They all sat.

"Gentlemen," White said in a phlegmy voice. "The University will drop all charges if Professor Beadles will turn in his letter of resignation."

Beadles started to speak but Ruby laid his hand on the professor's wrist. "Mr. White, we have reason to believe that my client was framed. Will you give us a week to prove it?"

White held the manila folder. "Gentlemen, the University is very eager to put this behind them. As you know, this is a critical time with the upcoming Alumni Foundation meeting. You have until the end of the week. I'll need your decision Friday."

Outside they walked to Ruby's Lexus.

"Have you heard from Panny?" Beadles said.

"No. He'll phone me when he finds something. He's a good man. If anyone can find this girl he can."

Beadles had turned his cell off during the conference. He got in his car and turned it back on. The PI had returned his call.

"I'll try again later," the man said with a faint Germanic accent.

There was also a call from a reporter for the
Creighton Sun Courier
which he did not return.

Beadles drove by a sub shop near campus. Some idiot started pointing at him and whispering as he stood in line. At home he sat on his front porch and ate his sandwich. Let them stare. He couldn't control anybody's behavior but his own. It was his house. It was his porch. He had a perfect right to be there.

He was innocent of grand larceny, innocent of manslaughter.

He felt the warmth of the medallion through the pocket of his blue jeans. As if it had been sitting in the sun.

The university owed him that.

There was still the matter of his ethnicity claim. It had seemed like a no-brainer at the time. Native Americans were automatically fast-tracked so the university could wave the all important banner of diversity. And his mother did used to joke that he must be part Indian.

The phone rang. Berenson. His civil attorney as opposed to his criminal attorney.

"Vaughan, what about this janitor who was there? We'll need to get a statement from him."

Beadles explained that Cerveros had vamoosed.

"Phil has a private investigator he uses."

"Already on it, Mel."

"All right. Let me know if there's anything I can do."

A couple kids cruised by on their boards with a glance-over. The living room drapes across the street at the Carsons' moved a little.

Beadles phoned Betty and got her voice mail.

"Call me."

It wasn't a conversation he should have on the front porch anyway. He went inside. His cell beeped and this time it was Panny.

"Professor Beadles, Stephanie Byrd boarded United Flight #2658, O'Hare to Belize City by way of Mexico City, at 9:15 Sunday morning."

Beadles collapsed onto the living roof sofa jerking it back into the wall. The air flew out of him.

"What?"

"I have confirmed her arrival in Belize. The US has no extradition agreement and she's wanted for no crime. It would be very costly to go after her if only for a statement."

"Jesus."

"I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I know some people in Central America who might be able to help."

Beadles was already counting his losses. He'd have to sell the Mustang.

"I don't know what to do, Mr. Panny. Wait! Wait. There's someone here in the United States, I pray to God, who's still here. I want you to find him."

"Who, Professor?"

"Anatole Cerveros. He's a Navajo Indian used to work at the university. He was there the day the scorpion bit Rob."

"Can we meet? I'm available this afternoon."

***

CHAPTER TWENTY

"Panny"

They met at LaLuz, a Mexican cafe on the north side among the trailer parks and discount tire stores. Panny was a neat little man with a gray Van Dyke. They sat at the patio in the rear and sipped Dos Equis.

"Phil Ruby hired me but I am really working for you. If, as you surmise, the Byrd girl smuggled the pot into your house at Liggett's behest, and she is willing to testify, it would certainly behoove you to pursue her. It is my impression that she suddenly came into some money. But let me ask you this. Why would Professor Liggett, no matter his distaste, go to so much trouble and expense?"

"I don't know," Beadles said.

Academic politics is the most vicious and bitter form of politics, because the stakes are so low
.

"Maybe he's insane," Beadles said.

"Maybe there are things Liggett wishes to keep hidden."

Beadles looked at the PI. Was he trying to drum up work? "What am I paying you?"

"Two fifty a day plus expenses."

Beadles took a slug of his beer. "I can't just go on a fishing expedition for everyone involved in this case! God knows what my legal fees are."

"I understand. I may just take a look for my own satisfaction. I believe you were framed, Professor. I came to this country because I believed in truth, justice, and the American way."

"Superman."

"Yes, I watched it as a child in Germany. Do you want me to pursue Miss Byrd? She adds credence to your case by fleeing. The court may very well see things differently."

"No, no, let her go. See if you can find Cerveros."

"Tell me about him."

There wasn't much to tell. Beadles had exchanged pleasantries with the custodian on numerous occasions but Cerveros was not a talkative man. "He said he had a son back on the rez."

"Reservation?"

"I don't know. He said he was Navajo."

Panny made notes in a spiral pad. "The University should have that information."

The PI laid a twenty on the table and rose. "I'll be in touch. Please feel free to contact me if something new comes up."

Beadles shook his hand again. "Thanks for doing this. Looking into Liggett, I mean."

Panny twirled a finger. "Piece of cake." He left through the bar.

Some day laborers fresh off work were laughing at another table. A couple mariachis emerged and set up on a small stage made of moving pallets coverd with plywood. Trumpet and guitar. They weaved a spell of such sadness and beauty that the day laborers fell silent and Beadles found himself weeping uncontrollably.

He used a napkin to wipe his tears fearful that someone had seen him. If they had they gave no sign. This was a place where men came to forget.

He finished his beer and left. His cell rang on the way to his car. The reporter again. He took the call.

"Professor, this is Don Mullaney of the
Creighton Sun Courier
. Would you answer a few questions regarding Rob Whitfield's death and the accusations that you…"

"I have nothing to say, Mr. Mullaney." He broke the call.

There was a death threat on the home answering machine. "You fucked up Whitfield you motherfucker and now we're gonna fuck you up!" The voice sounded young. Beadles phoned the police and reported it. They told him the threat was probably a prank but that if they persisted, Beadles should bring them the tape and they would try to ascertain from where the calls originated.

"Could be weeks, Mr. Beadles."

He unplugged the phone. Betty had his cell. But she didn't call. And he'd be damned if he called her and got the Big Chill. He dreaded turning on the news. And yet he must.

Beadles sat in the living room and used the remote to turn on the free-standing flat screen television angling out from one corner. He and Betty had had a knock-down drag-out fight over it. She had decreed that under absolutely no conditions would there be a television in the living room.

Beadles won that fight but not without casualties. The cold treatment persisted for a week.

The local CBS affiliate began their five o'clock news. Seven overnight shootings in Chicago led. Beadles remembered J-school. "If it bleeds, it leads." When the segment ended he heaved a sigh of relief. He'd fallen out of the evening news, for the time being.

There was a thump against the front door. Another dead cat? In broad daylight?

Beadles got up and went out on the porch. The afternoon edition of the
Sun Courier
lay at his feet.

***