W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

“That was a happy coincidence.”

“Not at all. The friend who saw the article knew the subject was close to what I was working on at the time. He had no idea Linton lifted it from me. The department chair sure didn’t want to hear my side of it. Linton was teacher’s pet and could do no wrong.”

“Too bad.”

“Too bad is right. What he’s doing here is worse. With the grant he got, he can’t afford to fail.”

“He’s covered his butt by now, don’t you think?”

“Nuhn-uhn. He has no clue I’m onto him. Otherwise, he’d have found a way to get rid of me before now. I mentioned his ripping me off because it’s indicative of his . . .”

Pete missed the word. Distracted, he looked up and caught sight of Willard returning to the apartment. How long had he been gone? Fifteen minutes tops? Not long enough to accomplish anything. Willard gave him the high sign, but Pete was too busy listening to respond.

“Hey, I understand. I’m just tapping on the wall to see if I can find a way in. What about his computer?”

“I have his password, but that’s it so far.”

“His password? Good girl. How’d you find it?”

“It was written on a piece of paper in his desk drawer. How’s that for clever?”

“But if you haven’t actually gone into his database, what makes you so sure he’s cooking?”

“Because I saw the printout before he shredded it.”

“What’s that other term you used?”

“Dry-labbing it. Don’t get sidetracked,” she said.

Pete missed Pensky’s response. He pressed his hand against the ear bud and closed his eyes as though that might improve his hearing. Had he used the word “trial”? Must be clinical trials if they were talking about medical charts.

“Listen, Owen. I’m working ten-hour days. I don’t have a lot of time to play Sherlock Holmes. I can only do so much.”

“What about the incident at Arkansas?”

“No good. Hearsay. The girl who told me says he skirted disaster by going away for a ‘much-needed rest.’ After that he disappeared and reappeared somewhere else. She talked to Dr. Stupak twice, but he wouldn’t pursue the matter for fear it would negatively impact his career.”

“Stupak’s career?”

“Not Stupak’s, Linton’s. These guys are always circling the wagons. Any hint of trouble, they close ranks. Shit. Gotta go. Bye.”

The line went dead though he was still tuned into her end by way of the pen mike. Pete heard a door open and a muffled exchange. Mary Lee said, “Wrong number.”

A few seconds later, the door shut and there was silence. She and Willard must have moved into the living room.

What he’d been listening to wasn’t romance. It appeared Mary Lee and this fellow were in cahoots, but what was the object of the exercise? Linton Reed, obviously, but in what context? Pete swapped out the tapes, inserting a blank on the off chance another call might transpire while he was gone. Once he was back at his desk, he put the recording into his player and listened to it twice. At first, he was annoyed he couldn’t make heads nor tails of it. Clearly, Mary Lee Bryce and Owen Pensky were trying to get the goods on Linton Reed, and if Pete hoped to profit, he needed to know what he was talking about. Faulty information was useless. “Glucotace” was the word he’d missed. He deciphered it on the third go-round and figured it must be a medical condition, maybe a test of some kind. There’d also been mention of cooking numbers, which must be what it sounded like. You cook numbers, you’re slanting the results. That’s why Linton’s getting the big grant put so much at stake. He worried the subject, turning it this way and that. As far as he could tell, there was only one interpretation. Linton Reed had been falsifying data. He wasn’t sure how Mary Lee picked up on it, but she’d known him in the past and apparently, she’d been an early victim of his shady manipulations.

At 5:00, he gave up, locked the office, and headed for home. He was just pulling into his garage when he had a flash. He’d been thinking he couldn’t move forward until he filled in the blanks, and how was he to do that when he didn’t have a clue? What occurred to him was that all he had to do was go over to the medical library at St. Terry’s and have somebody look it up. Linton Reed was vulnerable. Pete had no idea how, but he knew Owen Pensky and Mary Lee Bryce were closing in on him. Judging from their phone chat, the good Dr. Reed hadn’t quite caught on yet. Pete would be doing him a personal service by alerting him to the danger. There might even be a way to head off trouble, which was bound to be worth something to a bright young fellow with a rich wife and his whole life ahead of him.