Don't Go L.J. Breedlove (books to read fiction TXT) 📖

the sad reality for any number of adjunct professors teaching in universities across the country. He saw no reason it couldn’t be Black’s reality.

McShane snorted. “That would be satisfying,” he agreed. “The problem is he would be more bitter and more vengeful. And he’d come back after you and Teresa, I’m afraid.”

He tapped his fingers on the table. “Your doctor did send down the lab reports on your near-death experience,” he said, pulling out a file from his briefcase. He pushed it over to the senior attorney. “I realize criminal law isn’t your area of expertise, but see what you think.”

“You’d be surprised,” Vincent Rios said dryly, and he looked at the report. He handed it to his nephew. Ryan held out his hand. He hadn’t seen it before either.

“Someone tried to kill you, Ryan,” Vincent Rios said.

“Yes,” the Provost agreed. “But would that, even with Ryan’s testimony, be enough for a district attorney to bring charges?”

Vincent Rios grimaced and shook his head. “Given what else was in his system? Ryan’s testimony would be extremely suspect. Even if there were other witnesses? I would not expect charges to be brought, no.”

Ryan nodded.

“That was my thought,” McShane said. “I could possibly get him dismissed from the university but charges? Unlikely.”

“But this is a very dangerous man we’re dealing with,” Vic said. “And very unstable.”

“Yes, and disgraced and banished would make him more dangerous, not less, I’m afraid,” McShane said.

Ryan’s migraine chose then to go full-bore. He closed his eyes, as he fumbled in the backpack to find his medication.

He heard the noises of alarm from his attorneys, and then someone put a glass of water in his hand. He took it gratefully. “Sorry, migraines. They’ve been more frequent of late,” he said. He didn’t open his eyes. “Go on. Do we have options?”

His phone buzzed, and he looked at it. It was Emily, he frowned. “I’d better take this,” he said apologetically.

“What’s up?” he asked moving away from the conversation. He closed his eyes again. Nausea was a bitch.

“A Professor Ian Black called. It was weird, and with everything else going on, I thought I’d let you know right away, instead of waiting until you come in. You are coming in, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Migraine,” he said briefly. “I’ll be in if it clears. Let me put you on speaker. I’m with some people I’d like to hear this.”

There was a pause, and then Emily continued, a bit of hesitation in her voice, “Well this is unlikely to help the migraine. He wanted to know if you’d assigned the feature piece the two of you had discussed. I said you hadn’t said anything to me about a feature piece. But I found a press release in the university queue announcing his new book. I said as much, and that I would be assigning a reporter to interview him about it.

“He got...,” she hesitated, looking for the right word, “hostile. He said that wasn’t what he was talking about at all. And that you should know better to play games with him. Then he laughed at that as if it was some joke that only he understood.”

Ryan looked at McShane. Neither said anything.

“I mean, we get some ego-centric profs calling about whatever feature they think they’re entitled to,” she said, blithely unaware that it was the Provost who was listening in. McShane’s lips quirked, and he raised one eyebrow. Ryan snickered.

“But this went beyond that, I thought. Did you have a piece you wanted me to assign that involves him?”

“No,” he assured her. Then he had a thought. “Em, what’s the title of his book?”

“Fertility Symbols in Pre-Colonial Mexico,” she read after she called up the press release back up on her computer.

“Really,” Ryan said. He wanted to laugh. Hubris could be Black’s downfall. “Would you send someone over to University Relations for a review copy? I assume they have some? And then would you go into my computer, and do a search for fertility and send that paper to me as an email attachment?”

“Sure,” she said, dragging the word out. “J.J.’s been hanging around. I’ll send him after the book, and he can bring it to you at home tonight.”

“Perfect. And if Professor Black calls again? Refer him to me,” he said.

“OK. Bianca turned in her first immigration piece with her friend? The one being deported back to China? It’s really good. She’s calling the series Faces of Immigration. She wants to know if it’s OK to interview Miguel. I know we don’t usually do staff, but his story is interesting and warrants a story.”

“Go ahead,” he said. “Sounds like I might not be needed after all.”

“Yeah, go find a dark room and get some sleep,” she said. “We’ve got this.”

Ryan dropped the call, and grinned.

“Are you telling me that his book plagiarized an undergraduate honors paper?” McShane demanded.

Ryan shrugged. “Have you read the book?”

McShane grimaced. “Skimmed it. It’s no worse than most of the drivel academics publish.”

Ryan looked at the two attorneys who were watching fascinated. Probably saw their billable hours mounting, he thought wryly.

“Is there a printer?” He called up his email and sent the attached paper to the printer stored in the credenza. Because, of course, it would be too tawdry to have it setting out in this room designed with all the earmarks of success. Vic opened a cabinet door and pulled out the paper. He handed it to Ryan, who handed it to McShane.

McShane read the opening thesis and stopped. He rubbed his forehead between his eyes. “May I have this?” he asked.

Ryan nodded. The migraine hit again. He gagged.

“Jesus, Ryan,” McShane muttered. “Bend over, put your head between your knees.”

Ryan obeyed. And he recognized it as obedience, too.

“Pardon me, gentlemen, but it’s not in me to watch someone in my care suffer like this,” Ryan heard him say. “Ryan? Do I have permission to touch you?”

Ryan gestured his permission. When nothing happened, he sighed. “Yes,” he said, giving the verbal permission McShane was waiting for.

McShane