wasn’t concerned about containing her anger. “We’re a Level One-A research institution. Four straight years of increased funding. I’m the university president, for God’s sake. And I’m finding this out now? After the mid-term funding season?”
Carl Snelling took a step back. Meredith loathed her Executive Provost’s spinelessness.
“Answer me, Carl.” She toyed with the long rope of pearls draped from her neck. “When did you first learn this?”
Carl shuffled through the duplicate printout he held. “Is it really that bad, President Thornton? This economy leads to cuts everywhere. I heard rumors NIH wasn’t funding anything below the upper three percent.” He leaned toward her and whispered. “I’ve got a little birdie at Johns Hopkins who tells me even their grant funding has been slashed.”
Meredith had no interest in Snelling’s gossip. Her own house was on fire. “Thirty-one percent below last cycle?” She pushed a wayward strand of ash blond hair behind her ear. “Nearly fifty million dollars. You tell me, Carl. Is it really that bad?”
Meredith paced her office and punctuated her steps with icy stares.
“How many research assistants will we lose? How many graduate students or support staff? My God, a loss like this could cost us faculty members.” She marched straight toward him and enjoyed his subtle flinch. “These people have families, Carl.” She stood two inches from his nose. “Anyone wondering if this kind of loss is ‘really that bad’ doesn’t deserve to be standing in an executive office.”
Carl’s voice faltered. “I’m sorry, President Thornton. I didn’t realize the funding shortfall would be this great.” His lower lip quivered. “What would you like me to do now?”
Meredith’s withering gaze suggested he was a gumball ring trying to pass as a diamond. “That question is about three months late, Carl. I’m tired of fixing your failures.” She pivoted on a black suede pump and punched a button on her phone. “Angela, can you get me Bradley Wells, please? Use his private number.”
Her stomach lurched as her Executive Provost slithered out of the room.
Chapter Twelve
“Is there some reason we’re not at Smitty’s?” Jim De Villa slid into the leather banquette and admired the sailboats moored outside Richard’s On The Bay’s expansive windows. “I can hear my credit card being declined already.”
“Drinks are on me.” Mort took his place across from his friend. “Today’s too special for a cop bar.”
Jim’s face wrinkled before he shook his head in recognition. “Sorry, Buddy. November eleventh. Remember how she used to call it ‘railroad tracks’?”
Mort smiled. “Eleven-Eleven. I wasn’t in any shape to mark the day last year.”
“I’m honored to be included,” Jim said. “Things getting better?”
Mort shrugged. “Most days I can’t believe she’s gone. I expect to pick up the phone and hear her chewing me out for working late. Maybe see her sitting in the dining room paying bills when I get home.” He signaled for the waitress. “But I haven’t smashed anything in six months.”
“I’m calling that progress.” Jim smiled at the blonde taking his order. “Whiskey and a beer, please. Something local, in a bottle.”
Mort ordered scotch rocks.
“How’s Robbie adjusting?” Jim helped himself to the salted cashews on the table. “Must be tough, him being so far away.”
“He’s got Claire and the girls.”
“He working on anything interesting?”
Mort nodded. “Branching away from insider trading and fraud. Remember Gordon Halloway? Robbie’s working a hunch the asshole was murdered. Hired hit.” Mort let his pride show. “He might be on to something.”
“And another Grant man falls victim to the seductive lure of homicide,” Jim said. “What’s he got?”
Their drinks were delivered before Mort could answer. They each lifted their glass.
“To Edie,” Mort said. “Happy Birthday, Baby Girl.”
“To the classiest woman I’ve ever met. Why she married you none of us will ever know.” Jim took a sip of whiskey. “So. Robbie and his hired hit.”
Mort settled back and brought his friend up to speed on his son’s theories. Jim reaffirmed Mort’s concern that a hired professional might leave him with no story at all.
“Might as well try to nail the wind,” Jim said. “But if he’s anything like his old man, that’s not going to stop him.”
The perky blonde came back carrying a bottle of Laphroaio and two crystal tumblers. She smiled as she set the fifteen-year-old scotch in front of them. “From the gentleman.” The waitress nodded to a thin man flanked by two barely dressed women at the end of the bar. “He asks that I tell you he appreciates the quality of your work.”
“Are you shitting me?” Jim moved his hand to the small of his back.
“Hands up top, Jim.” Mort smiled at the waitress. “No offense intended, Miss, but we’d prefer you returned this to that cockroach.” Mort shifted his focus to the bar. The man who sent the bottle kissed each woman full on the mouth before heading toward Mort and Jim’s table.
“Beat it, Junior,” Mort said to the jerk in leather jacket and jeans.
The man who liked to call himself Satan brushed aside the waitress clearing the scotch. “Leave it,” he said as he tucked a fifty dollar bill in her collar. “These poor schmucks are going to learn the joys of a two hundred dollar bottle of liquid gold.”
The waitress shot Mort a frightened look and hurried away.
Satan turned toward Jim. “Where’s your little doggie? I thought he was part of your act. Officer Numbnuts and his trusty pal. Doing tricks for treats.” Angelo Satanell, Jr. laughed and glanced around the bar. He looked disappointed that no one was paying attention. He focused on Mort. “And Detective Quick Draw, too. This place has lost its standards.”
Mort fixed a cold gaze on Satanell and lifted his own glass for a taste.
“You drink that swill while a bottle of heaven sits in front of you?” Satanell turned back to look at his women and grinned. “Your pay grade has warped your taste buds, my friend.”
“We don’t need your booze, Junior,” Jimmy said. “And we don’t need your shit, either. Now be a good little boy and go spend Daddy’s money on your whores.”
Satanell grinned at Mort. “You still pissed at me about that cello player?” He leaned forward, both hands on their table. “Little girls play with fire, they get their asses burned.” Satanell dropped his voice to a near whisper. “Miss Allie knew that, didn’t she, Papa?”
“Step back, Junior.” Jim slid closer to Mort. “Unless you want to see how fast I can have you in cuffs.”
Satanell glanced again to his women. He seemed pleased they were watching and tossed a wink before turning back to Mort. “Your cunt of a daughter knew what to do with top shelf liquor.”
Mort’s sudden lunge sent Satanell shuffling back in reflex. Jim grabbed Mort with both hands and shoved him back into the booth.
“Go ahead, old man.” Satanell was yelling now. “Touch me. Put a hand on Satan and wait for the fire.”
Jim struggled to keep his friend seated. “Save it, Mort. Time will come to deal with this piece of shit. Save it.”
Angelo Satanell, Jr. tipped a two finger salute, grinned, and swaggered back to the two women feigning concern for their man.
Mort waited until his breath was close to normal before shrugging off Jim’s hold. He watched Satanell and the women leave the bar. “He thinks he’s bullet proof.”
Jim shook his head. “Daddy being Daddy and things being things, he just may be correct.”
Mort reached for his glass and drained his scotch in one swallow. “Correct doesn’t make it right.”
Woods, T E
