The Invasive Species, page 15
part #4 of Professor Molly Mysteries Series
“Make sure you shine up that wedding ring nice and bright before we go, Molly. I think we’ll have to keep reminding him you’re married.”
“Whatever you do,” Pat said, “make sure he ends up feeling warm and fuzzy about Mahina State. It’s all my management cares about.”
“Remember when he was going on and on about Molly’s ‘exotic’ looks, and her ‘kinky’ hair?” Emma laughed.
“I shoulda punched that faka’s face in.” Davison stalked out without paying for his coffee.
“Emma, Donnie’s not supposed to know about our meeting with Randy Randolph.”
“Whoops,” Emma said.
Chapter Thirty-One
Pat watched the front door of the Pair-O-Dice close behind Davison, the sliver of outdoor light slowly narrowing to nothing.
“This job is killing me,” Pat said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You just started,” Emma added.
“I had my first meeting with the athletics boosters this morning.”
“They make you work on Sunday?” I asked.
“We have boosters?” Emma echoed.
“Yup. I had to attend their monthly breakfast meeting to assure them that our athletic program is our number one priority. And then on Friday, I’m going to go stand in front of the faculty senate and tell them academics is our number one priority. Our chancellor refuses to say no to anyone, and it’s my job to somehow keep everyone happy.”
“Well, that’s why you’re getting the big bucks,” I said.
“Tough gig,” Emma sympathized. “Chancellor makes all these promises, then goes and hides till Pat and Victor can figure out how to make it all work.”
“That’s pretty much it,” Pat sighed. “And something else I didn’t expect about this job. Suddenly I’m privy to all this sensitive internal information. In a way, it’s the worst part.”
“That sounds like the best part,” Emma said.
“Seriously,” I agreed. “So what’s the dish?”
Pat shook his head despairingly. “Sometimes ignorance really is bliss. Molly, I already knew about your tenure vote. In fact, I know exactly what happened.”
“You do? Those committees are supposed to be confidential.”
“Nothing’s confidential. Seriously. Nothing. Not what goes on in closed meetings, not what you buy from your office computer, nothing that goes over the campus network, even if it’s from your private email account. Victor and I see everything. I’m gonna get more coffee.” Pat stood up and went up to the bar.
Emma and I looked at each other. Emma’s eyes were wide.
“They see everything we do on our computers?”
“That’s what he just said.”
“You think Pat and Victor know about that back massager I ordered?”
“I wouldn’t worry, Emma. They’re both guys. They probably think it’s actually for back pain.”
Pat returned, his Styrofoam cup brimming with watery tan brew.
“So what happened with Molly’s tenure vote?” Emma demanded.
“It was Hanson Harrison.” Pat set the cup down and took his seat. “He said he found your methodology ‘reductive,’ whatever that’s supposed to mean.”
“Yeah, well it was good enough to get a federal grant,” Emma snorted.
“Harrison?” I exclaimed. “I knew we had our differences, but he actually tried to destroy my career?”
“That’s the kicker. He didn’t realize this was your up-or-out tenure vote. He doesn’t read his email. Everyone else voted in your favor. And Larry Schneider went out of his way to stick up for you.”
“That’s just because Larry Schneider and Hanson Harrison hate each other.”
“So Pat,” Emma said, “why don’t you just walk away from this job, if it’s so bad?”
“I’ll tell you why. Because with my big fat salary, I now qualify for a home loan.”
“Wonderful,” I said. “Congratulations.”
“Yeah, I’ve just put in a backup offer for my cabin, in case Randy Randolph’s deal falls out of escrow.”
“Do you have any reason to think he’ll fall out of escrow?”
“No.” Pat sighed. “Not unless someone drops an anvil on his head, or something.”
“Well, we can dream,” Emma said.
“Emma, you know what? I do feel like working out now.”
“Really?” Emma said.
“Yes. All of a sudden, I feel like hitting something. Pat, do you want to go with us?”
“Me, work out?” Pat said. “Have we met? Anyway, I’m supposed to finish the position paper on our Golf Course Management major.”
“What is our position on the Golf Course Management major?” I asked.
“Our position is, yes, Mister Yamada, your wonderful idea for a Golf Course Management major is going through, and before you know it, we’ll be putting out graduates who are ready and willing to work at your resort. And also, no, Senator Kamoku, of course we’re not considering offering a major in golf as a taxpayer-subsidized sop to our most powerful trustee. The very idea.”
“That’ll take some wordsmithing,” I said.
“You girls have fun at the gym.” Pat stood up. “Oh, and Emma, be careful lifting those weights. Back pain is no laughing matter.”
Unlike the Mahina State library, the Mahina State student gym was open on Sunday. Also unlike our library, it was packed with students.
“I’m losing my motivation now, Emma. I don’t want to wait in line for some sweaty machine. Maybe I can go home and punch a pillow or something.”
“They have classes in the back.” Emma led me through the clanging and grunting of the cavernous main workout space. “Let’s go see what’s there.”
Room “A” had a crowded high-impact dance class. Neither of us felt coordinated enough to jump in to what looked like a complicated routine. Room “B” had a spin class. All the stationary bikes were occupied. Room “C” had a Tai Chi class with only a few students. It was a maybe. Room “D” had a Katana class starting at half past the hour.
“What’s Katana?” I asked.
“I think it’s sword fighting.”
“That sounds kind of fun.”
The door to the room was closed. We peeked through the narrow glass window. A lone man, dressed in wide-legged black trousers and a snug white t-shirt, expertly maneuvered a large sword. He whipped it around over his head, brought it around sideways, brandished and retracted it with such expertise it looked like a dance.
“No way could I do that. I’d walk out with an arm missing.”
“Wanna go back to the Tai Chi class?” Emma asked.
“I think I’ll just do the treadmill. Wait a minute. Is that…”
It was.
“Victor Santiago is the katana instructor?”
“Looks like it,” Emma said.
“He sure can handle that sword.”
“I know.”
We looked at each other.
“You think?” Emma said. “Victor? What’s he have against Primo Nordmann?”
“Are you kidding? That’s the easy part. His whole reason for being is to keep our donors happy. Like our favorite biotech guy, Randy Randolph.”
“Nah. Seriously?” Emma stared at him.
Victor caught sight of us lurking at the window. He rested the sword, point down, on the mat and looked straight at us, as if daring us to come in. I waved idiotically and ducked out of sight.
“He saw us,” Emma gasped.
“It’s the campus gym. We have every right to be here.”
“So you want to go take his class?”
“What? No. I’m just going to go walk on the treadmill.”
Emma took one last peek through the window. “He’s kinda sexy and dangerous.”
“Stop it, Emma. You’re married. Remember?”
“Well, he sure knows how to move.” Emma pulled away reluctantly from the window. “They never did find the weapon, did they? I’ll come do the treadmill with you.”
“No. I don’t think they ever did find the weapon.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
On Monday morning, Emma picked me up at my house, and we drove the few short blocks to Randy Randolph’s Bayfront apartment.
“He better not come to the door with a towel around his neck, slapping on aftershave,” Emma said, as we approached the building.
“Maybe Randy isn’t my prime suspect anymore,” I said.
“I hear you. After seeing Victor Santiago’s katana routine? Man.”
“And Victor’s the one who engineered our suspending our work on this grant. It sure seems like he wants to keep something secret.”
“So, what are we going to do about it?”
“As long as I still don’t have tenure? Nothing. That’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to keep our heads down, stick with the phony story about voluntarily suspending work on the grant, and then quietly interview Randy Randolph because he’s a potential donor who wants to be interviewed, and our administration wants us to appease him.”
Randolph’s salmon-pink apartment complex stood out as one of the very few new structures in Mahina’s dilapidated downtown. After one too many tsunamis had deluged the business district, the building codes had been revised to require expensive safety measures like concrete pilings and ground-floor parking. As a result, building owners had refused to remodel, preferring to wring as much rental income as possible out of the termite-infested structures before they collapsed completely.
As we approached Randolph’s complex we saw an armada of emergency vehicles parked up and down the block, lights flashing. I recognized Detective Medeiros’ police cruiser.
“Detective Medeiros must have gotten my message,” I said. “I don’t think they needed all these police cars, though. One would’ve been enough.”
“Maybe this doesn’t have anything to do with Randy Randolph. Maybe something’s going on somewhere else in his building.”
“Good point.”
We finally found a legal parking spot two blocks up the hill from Randy Randolph’s building. Emma and I walked back down. The front gate was propped open, so we didn’t bother to ring. I double-checked the unit number and we mounted the steps to Randy’s second floor apartment.
The door to Randy’s unit was open. We approached, looked in, and saw workers in dark blue (police) and white (medical) uniforms swarming inside.
“Make way,” a male voice ordered.
We stepped aside to allow a large man in a white uniform to roll a gurney past us. Lying on it was a white plastic bag, which appeared to contain a human-shaped object. The zipper was completely closed.
Detective Medeiros stepped out behind the gurney.
“I’d like a word with you two.” It sounded as if he was talking to me from very far away.
“Molly.” Emma was in my face, shouting at me. “Get a grip. Come on. Don’t get sick like you did last time.”
“I did not get sick.”
“Did. Soon as you saw the foot lying there, you turned green, and your legs went out from under you.”
“The ground was uneven,” I protested. “I tripped.”
“Professor Barda,” Detective Medeiros said (now speaking at a normal distance). “We received your message. Unfortunately, we arrived too late. Please. We need to talk.”
Detective Medeiros led us downstairs to a picnic bench in the prettily planted courtyard. I never have to deal with the odious Randy Randolph again, I thought, with a shameful and short-lived sense of relief. Short-lived because I realized whoever did this to Randolph was still out there. Randolph certainly wasn’t the most charming fellow I’d ever met, but who hated him enough to go to his apartment and kill him? I couldn’t imagine who would do something so—
Uh-oh. Yes I could.
We sat on the concrete lip of a planter, and Medeiros took out a small notebook.
“So what happened?” I asked.
“After we got your tip, we sent Officer Freitas over this morning to check it out. He went to the unit and knocked, but no answer. He looked in through the windows and saw the deceased in his workout room.”
“How did he die?” Emma asked.
“His neck was crushed under the bar. We still have to wait for the pathology report, but that’s how they found him. Still with the bar lying across his neck. What do you know about this?”
“Molly.” Emma reached over and rubbed my back. “Put your head between your knees.”
“I’m fine. And I don’t know anything about this. I called you because I thought Randy Randolph had killed Primo Nordmann. Did you see his website?”
“It’s called bananawrangler.com,” Emma added.
“The post exposing details of Randolph’s personal life? Yes, we’re aware of it.”
“Randolph could still be the murderer,” Emma said. “Maybe this thing was an accident.”
“Maybe.” Medeiros nodded. “Maybe it’s pure coincidence that you left an urgent message for me to check on Randy Randolph, and we show up at his apartment and find him dead.”
When Medeiros put it that way, it did seem unlikely.
“Professor Barda, Professor Nakamura, if there’s anything you know about this, please tell me now. You hold something back, all you’re doing is helping someone get away with murder. Did the deceased have any kind of disagreement or fight with anyone recently?”
“Randy Randolph was at the donor dinner Friday night, on campus,” I said. “Emma and I were at his table. He was drunk and obnoxious.”
“Did he have a conflict with anyone in particular?”
“He was really provoking my stepson. Davison Gonsalves.” Sorry, Donnie, but I’m not going to lie to the police.
“Provoking him how?”
“Male competition stuff,” Emma said. “Like the kind of thing you’d see in a documentary about baboons.”
“He invited Davison to come work out with him. Although it was more like a challenge, like I can bench press four hundred pounds, what can you do? Kind of like that.”
“Did he say four hundred pounds?” Medeiros asked. “Were those his exact words?”
“I think so. I remember thinking, that’s impossible. It seems like Olympic weightlifter level. I assumed Randolph was exaggerating for effect. Why?”
“He had exactly four hundred pounds loaded on the bar,” Medeiros said. “Two hundred each side.”
Emma and I looked at each other.
“There were no signs of forced entry,” Medeiros said. “Whoever it was, it appears Randolph let him in voluntarily. Anyone else have a grudge against Randolph?”
“He was going to buy Pat Flanagan’s house,” Emma said. “Don’t give me that look, Molly. They would’ve found out about it anyway. Pat’s saving money to buy the house he’s living in now and renting, but Randolph was already in escrow and was trying to kick Pat out.”
The apartment building had apparently been modeled on a sunny Southwestern template. The builders hadn’t counted on Mahina’s three hundred inches of annual rainfall. As the drizzle turned to a downpour, the three of us got up and moved under the overhang next to the laundry room. The clean starchy scent mingled with the smell of rain.
“So this is what’s troubling me,” Medeiros said. “You two go down to interview Art Lam on his farm. You happen to find Primo Nordmann’s body. You’re still our only eyewitnesses. You two haven’t remembered anything else about that, have you?”
“No,” Emma and I said in unison.
“Now you leave me a message about Randy Randolph,” Medeiros continued. “We come to check it out and find Randolph dead. And here you two are, on the scene. Again, about to conduct an interview. Correct?”
“Sounds right,” I said.
“So both times you’ve tried to interview someone, you show up, and there’s a dead body.”
“He has a point,” Emma said.
“Professor Barda. I saw in the newspaper you and Professor Nakamura put your research on hold. Is that correct?”
“Yes. At the request of our administration, following the Primo Nordmann incident. They wanted us to keep a low profile. Stay out of harm’s way.”
“But this morning, you and Professor Nakamura came to Randy Randolph’s apartment for the purpose of interviewing him.”
“Our fundraising people were cultivating Randy Randolph as a donor. When he saw the announcement about our suspending work on the grant, I guess he wasn’t happy about it. At the dinner, he was complaining, saying he wanted to tell his side of the story. So, our fundraising people made it very clear to Emma and me we should interview Randy Randolph if it was what he wanted. After the dinner, Randolph called me to set up the interview.”
“It’s true, Detective. Randy was the one who wanted to talk to us. Although I really think he just wanted to see Molly again.”
“Do you agree with your administration’s decision?” Medeiros asked. “You think you might be in danger?”
“No,” Emma said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Don’t be paranoid, Molly. Why would anyone want to come after us?”
“Why would anyone want to come after Primo Nordmann?” Medeiros asked. “Or Randy Randolph?”
“Primo was anti-biotech,” I said, “and Randy Randolph was the face of the biotech industry. They were on opposite sides. It doesn’t seem like the same person would want to do away with both of them.”
“You two need to be careful,” Medeiros warned. “And let me know if you find out anything relevant. We want to catch this guy before anyone else gets hurt.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
I had a quiet dinner with Donnie that night. We ate linguine alle vongole at the dining room table, with the correct silverware, the cloth napkins, and the proper wineglasses. Unlike at my house, where I don’t even own real wineglasses and use repurposed furikake jars for my box wine.
“I can’t believe it,” Donnie said. “It must’ve been an accident. What else could it be?”
