The Green Trap Read Free Page B

been in here, he thought. Cochrane searched through the apartment. Nothing much seemed out of place, really. Nothing stolen. Notthat there was anything much to steal. Living room, bedroom, everything as he’d left it, pretty much. Maybe I did leave the newspapers on the sofa, he said to himself, scratching his head as he stood in the middle of the living room.
    He went to the kitchen and opened the dishwasher. It was empty. He distinctly remembered it held a week’s worth of dirty dishes; he’d turned it on just before he’d left.
    The dishes and glasses were back in their cabinets now. The forks and spoons were in their drawer.
    A burglar who doesn’t take anything and leaves the place neat and tidy? Cochrane shook his head. What was he looking for? How could he get in? The front door was still locked when I got here.
    Puzzled and more than a little worried about his own mental state, Cochrane went to bed. Mike’s murder is making you paranoid, he told himself. Sleep it off.
    He awoke early Sunday morning, the vague memory of unpleasant dreams troubling him as he showered, shaved, and then phoned Irene again. Still nothing but the damned answering machine message.
    He made up his mind to go to his office. Nothing better to do, and the silent apartment gave him the creeps. The campus was quiet as he parked in his assigned slot in the cavernous parking garage. He walked slowly to the observatory building, paying no attention to the scent of orange blossoms that wafted on the cool morning breeze or the bees that hummed tirelessly from flower to flower. His leg throbbed sullenly, but exercise was good for it, according to the doctors. A pair of National Guard jets growled through the cloudless blue sky as he pushed open the building’s front door.
    Once in his office, Cochrane couldn’t work up the interest to boot up his computer. He simply slouched in his desk chair and swiveled around to stare out the window. He tried to phone Irene again and got the damned answering machine message once more.
    I should’ve stayed in Palo Alto, he said to himself. I should’ve gone to the house. She must be home. Maybe I could’ve gotten those cops to find her for me. Absently, he dipped a finger into his shirt pocket, then realized he’d left the card Sergeant Purvis had given him at his apartment.
    Then a new thought hit him. Maybe they killed her, too! Maybe she’s lying dead in their house. The SUV was parked out on the driveway. Jesus!
    He picked up the phone on his desk and punched out Mike’s home number again. The phone rang once, twice…
    â€œDr. Cochrane?”
    He looked up. A young woman was standing in his office doorway. No student, he immediately realized. Too well dressed. She was wearing a tailored white blouse and a midthigh skirt of deep green. Her face was oval, with lustrous dark hair pulled back tightly. Green eyes, almond-shaped, almost Oriental. Good figure. Nice legs.
    She took a step into the tiny office and smiled at him. “You are Dr. Cochrane? Paul Cochrane?”
    He put the phone back into its cradle. “Yes.”
    She took in the office with a single sweeping glance: the bookcase filled with journals and reports, the cluttered desk, the full-color poster of the Eagle Nebula’s breathtaking clouds where new stars are born. With a single little nod, as if confirming her expectations, she came fully into the office and sat pertly on one of the two plastic chairs in front of Cochrane’s desk.
    â€œI’m Elena Sandoval,” she said, her voice a throaty mezzo. “I’m with the Department of Justice.”
    Cochrane blinked. “This has something to do with my brother?”
    Sandoval smiled slightly. It made both cheeks dimple.
    â€œI’ve been trying to reach his wife,” Cochrane said. “His widow, I mean.” It sounded stupid to him and he thought he’d made a fool of himself.
    â€œMrs.