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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.”