W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone Mystery)

mike and suggested he place it in the bedroom, preferably on the floor near the bedside table where the phone sat. There was an off chance Mary Lee might notice it, but if she was intent on shenanigans, she probably wouldn’t be that observant.
    Day Two, Pete picked up a most enlightening fragment of conversation. Mary Lee was home by 4:00. Pete had advised Willard to run an errand, giving her the opportunity to make a call, which is exactly what she did. Pete heard a lilting melody of numbers being punched, long-distance judging by the length. Sure enough, when a fellow on the other end picked up, all she said was, “It’s me. I don’t have much time, so let’s make this quick. What’s happening on your end?”
    “Nothing. I told you my hands are tied. What about the charts? Did you find them?”
    “Not yet. I know where they are. I just can’t get to them. I’m trying to track the one guy down but it’s tough. Can’t you use the information I already gave you?”
    She said something else Pete missed. He pressed a hand against his earphone.
    Pensky’s response was muffled. “. . . here says one could be a fluke. You need a pattern.”
    “Owen, I know that! How do you think I spotted it in the first place? The pattern’s there. What I don’t have is proof. Meantime, I’m walking on eggshells . . .”
    Something, something Pete missed.
    “You think Linton suspects?” Pensky asked.
    “I hope not. You don’t understand how ruthless he is. It’s fine as long as I’m in the lab, but I can’t get anywhere near the clinic.”
    “Why not?”
    “The lab’s in Southwick Hall. The clinic’s in the Health Sciences Building.”
    “Why are the charts kept there?”
    “Because that’s where the subjects are seen for follow-up.”
    “You can’t just go over and ask?”
    “Oh, right. Talk about a red flag,” she said.
    “You gotta give me something or I can’t help. I told you that to begin with.”
    Exasperated, she said, “Shit. I’ll think about it. Maybe I can come up with some excuse.”
    “Listen, I went back over my notes last night and came across that business about the paper you wrote. Plagiarism’s serious damn business. Look what happened to me.”
    “I figured you’d appreciate the finer points,” she said drily.
    “So can’t you use that?”
    “To do what? The journal was published in Germany. I wouldn’t have known about it myself if someone hadn’t sent it to me.”
    “That was a happy coincidence.”
    “Not at all. The friend who saw the article knew the subject was close to what I was working on at the time. He had no idea Linton lifted it from me. The department chair sure didn’t want to hear my side of it. Linton was teacher’s pet and could do no wrong.”
    “Too bad.”
    “Too bad is right. What he’s doing here is worse. With the grant he got, he can’t afford to fail.”
    “He’s covered his butt by now, don’t you think?”
    “Nuhn-uhn. He has no clue I’m onto him. Otherwise, he’d have found a way to get rid of me before now. I mentioned his ripping me off because it’s indicative of his . . .”
    Pete missed the word. Distracted, he looked up and caught sight of Willard returning to the apartment. How long had he been gone? Fifteen minutes tops? Not long enough to accomplish anything. Willard gave him the high sign, but Pete was too busy listening to respond.
    “Hey, I understand. I’m just tapping on the wall to see if I can find a way in. What about his computer?”
    “I have his password, but that’s it so far.”
    “His password ? Good girl. How’d you find it?”
    “It was written on a piece of paper in his desk drawer. How’s that for clever?”
    “But if you haven’t actually gone into his database, what makes you so sure he’s cooking?”
    “Because I saw the printout before he shredded it.”
    “What’s that other term you used?”
    “Dry-labbing it. Don’t get sidetracked,” she said.
    Pete missed Pensky’s response. He pressed his hand against the ear bud and closed his eyes as though that might improve his hearing. Had he used the word “trial”? Must be clinical trials if they were talking about medical charts.
    “Listen, Owen. I’m working ten-hour days. I don’t have a lot of time to play Sherlock Holmes. I can only do so much.”
    “What about the incident at Arkansas?”
    “No good. Hearsay. The girl who told me says he skirted disaster by going away for a ‘much-needed rest.’ After that