The First to Lie

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Then she grasped what had been nagging at her. He was lying.

  “Are you on a plane?” she asked. A ponytailed woman in a puffer jacket came into the vestibule, letting in the night’s bluster as she eyed Nora up and down. Nora remembered to smile, then pantomimed, I’m just on the phone, no problem, before she turned her back on her. The woman clicked open the door and vanished up the stairs.

  “A plane?” Guy replied.

  “Yeah. You told me you were an hour or so from here,” she said. “And that you’d take an Uber here. So, you aren’t driving. But you can’t use the phone on a plane. So—”

  “I’m on the train, Miss Detective,” he said. “If you don’t want to see me,” he went on, his voice hardening as he spoke, “I get it. I won’t bother you again.”

  Nora winced, ensnared in her own suspicion, snarled in conflicting desires.

  She laughed her best Nora laugh. “You are so silly,” she said, trying to draw him back to her. “But, listen, you can’t show up at a girl’s apartment on such short notice.”

  “Or to a guy’s, either,” he said. “So—drink? How about where we first met? Unless you’ve already forgotten where that was.” He laughed. “I bet you haven’t,” he whispered.

  “Seaboard,” she said. “No. I haven’t forgotten.”

  She prepared for him, aware of how much care she was taking—hair, makeup, Nora clothing—and how long it took to decide what to wear. How to be. At seven, she sat across a sleek wooden table from him. She’d chosen a soft black cashmere turtleneck. So had he.

  “Did I send you a clothing memo?” He reached across the table, touched her arm so briefly she might have imagined it. “Or are we so connected that we already know what the other is thinking?”

  Nora stirred her amber drink, stalling, the slender red straw whirling the cubes. A faintly seductive soundtrack, not quite recognizable, floated over them. Seaboard pulsed with the buzz of connections, strangers and scavengers and people-shoppers, eyeing each other over salt-rimmed glasses, or defaulting to their cell phones or the opening front door.

  When Nora looked up, Guy was staring only at her.

  “What am I thinking now?” she asked.

  “You’re wondering why I stayed out of town so long,” he said. “How I could possibly have managed to keep my hands off of you for all that time.”

  “You’re an idiot.” He was audacious, had to give him that. She couldn’t help laughing, then stopped herself. “You never crossed my mind,” she lied. “But okay, now that you mention it. Where out of town were you?”

  “Where do you think?”

  She pursed her lips, as if trying to remember. “You mentioned palm trees and red rocks. And you were in a different time zone, you said. Arizona?”

  “Your detective skills are improving, Red,” he said. “Yup. Flew into JFK late last night, took a morning train to Boston, and here I am. With you. Tired, but with you.”

  Nora swirled her ice cubes. “What were you doing there?”

  “Now it’s your turn to guess what I’m thinking,” Guy said.

  “You’re thinking I ask too many questions?”

  “Wrong. I’m thinking—we should get some food.” He picked up the menu, an iPad-size blackboard with white-chalk selections. “Truffle fries?”

  “What do you do, exactly, though?” Nora asked. “What was in Arizona?”

  “Calamari?”

  “I don’t think so.” Nora used her most alluring Nora voice. “I know you’re a lawyer, but—”

  He peered at her over the top of his menu. “Nora? You knew I lived in Back Bay. So you looked me up. Ah ha.”

  “I did.” She raised her hands in faux surrender. “You got me.”

  Guy smiled at her, a cat anticipating the cream. “I know I do.”

  CHAPTER 8

  ELLIE

  “Ellie Berensen, perfect timing!” Warren’s jovial voice washed over her, his booted footsteps crunching on the sidewalk’s nubby blue ice-melt, the stuff layered double thick to prevent nuisance lawsuits from litigious pedestrians arriving at Channel 11. Above him, construction workers in orange parkas balanced on a two-story scaffold, wooden planks laid over a rickety-looking metal grid. Their breath showing in the Monday morning cold, the men peeled off a white protective cover from a massive photo, revealing, inch by inch, the words The New Channel 11, then COMING SOON, and then a row of smiling and coiffed faces, carefully diverse: Sam and Darweena and Jodi and Julianne and Xavier. Channel 11, the billboard promised, would be “all the news you need.”

  “See? Here we go,” the news director went on, pointing at the sign with a leather-gloved finger. “It’s a good morning, Ellie. Seeing this news baby come to life.”

  “It is a good morning,” Ellie replied. What she’d discovered the night before, in her post-midnight one-last-time search of the internet, had pushed her already high-pressure timetable into overdrive. Sometimes the universe did provide, although sometimes what it provided was complicated. “In fact—do you have time to hear about my story?”

  “For that? I’ll make time.” Warren, bundled in a dark blue overcoat topped by a bright yellow muffler and carrying a covered cup of Starbucks, pulled open the station’s heavy glass front door and gestured her inside. “In fact, how about now? Dump your coat, grab some coffee, come see me. Five minutes.”

  Ellie had sneaked out of her apartment this morning, taking the stairs in Meg-avoidance mode, but when she arrived at Warren’s office, coffee in hand, Meg herself was waiting outside it. She’d apparently baked a Bundt cake and carried the thing, slathered with shiny white frosting, on a foil-covered plate.

  “Hey, Ellie.” She held up her offering. “I made carbs.”

  “Come in!” Warren had draped his coat on a padded hanger and was hanging it on a hook behind his door. He settled in his swivel chair, waved off the cake, opened his computer and pulled a thermos from a battered leather briefcase. Pointed them to the two ladder-backed visitor chairs. “Sit. So. Ellie. Whaddaya got? Two weeks, three max, till you’re on the air. No pressure, ha ha.”

  Meg had taken out a spiral notebook, had a pen poised over a blank page.

  “Okay.” Ellie scooted her chair to face Warren. “I haven’t completely nailed it down yet. But—”

  “Ellie?” Warren’s face had hardened into dark slate, no longer the affable Papa Bear. “What’s the story? That’s what I need to hear. Right now.”

  Meg studied her notebook, as if to indicate she hadn’t noticed Warren’s disapproving tone.

  “Reporters,” Warren said, letting some humor back into his voice. “Don’t mess with me before I’ve had enough coffee.”

  Ellie toasted him with hers. “Understood.” She took a deep breath, knowing her success depended on how well she sold this story. Too much information would either confuse him or make him lose interest; too little would make him ask too many questions. She needed a headline.

  “How about ‘acclaimed wonder drug harms women more than helps them’? Like the opioids. Like Vioxx and Bextra and fen-phen and thalidomide and the whole list of them.”

  Meg’s eyes widened, but Ellie couldn’t read Warren.

  “You know of them, right? How terrible they—”

  Warren gestured yes at her. “Go on.”

  “Those drugs were FDA-approved, and aggressively pushed on patients as lifesavers. But in truth, they were deadly. So now? Monifan, it’s called. It’s also FDA-approved, but only to be used to decrease recovery time after surgeries. That’s all good. But Pharminex, the drug company that makes it, thinks it can also—let’s see how to put this—make it easier for fertility drugs to take effect.”

  “Easier?” Meg asked. “Because I know—”

  “You know how many women want to have children,” Ellie went on, “how many try hormone treatments. It’s incredibly expensive and not always covered by insurance, and in the end, it doesn’t always work. But like I said, Pharminex, the company that produces Monifan,
believes it also makes hormone treatments more effective. And apparently doctors agree. But since it’s not approved for that, it can only be used for it off-label. Meaning—”

  “Not big news.” Warren’s voice was brusque with dismissal. “Doctors can prescribe an approved drug for whatever they want if they think it works. We did that story in San Fran, Ellie. Years ago. Like Rogaine, the heart drug, turned out to grow hair. Viagra was created to help high blood pressure. And that stuff that makes eyelashes grow—glaucoma patients noticed the beneficial side effects.”

  “Right,” Ellie said. “That’s what makes it a good story. Because a doctor can prescribe whatever they want. But. Here’s the thing. A pharmaceutical company is not supposed to push it for that. This one does. I mean, who wouldn’t want a pill that increases the chances for the thing you want most in the world? A child?”

  “If it works,” Meg said.

  “Exactly.” Ellie pointed to her, punctuation. “But I’m hearing that sometimes Monifan doesn’t work for that. Even worse—it can cause women to be unable to have children. Ever. Because some people have bad reactions. And apparently there’s no way to predict it.”

  Meg’s mouth opened, closed again.

  “You sure?” Warren put down his coffee, leaned toward her.

  Ellie nodded. “Yeah.”

  “How often?” Warren asked. “How often does it not work? And how do you know this?”

  Ellie pressed her palms together, put them to her lips as if praying. “I have proof—just between us for now, and I only found it last night—that P-X did a cost-benefit analysis. Decided they could handle the liability for individual cases, and that it was better to settle out of court with confidentiality agreements and keep the whole thing quiet. That’d be less expensive than giving up all the profits from the times it does work. So goes the calculus.”

  The room went quiet for a moment. Ellie figured Warren was realizing what that meant. That Pharminex had calculated the cost of a human life. Of the cost of a woman’s ability to have children versus their desire to make a profit.

  “It helps some people, though, doesn’t it?” Warren asked. “It must, if it’s on the market. How many are helped versus how many are hurt? Do we know?”

  Elle nodded. “Sure. But ask yourself, for instance, if three hundred people are helped, but one can never have children again, does that make it okay?” She shook her head. “How many successes make up for a disaster? Given those odds, what would you do?”

  “I’d want to know,” Meg said. “I’d want to choose.”

  Silence again. Ellie agreed with Meg for once. People should be given the facts.

  “You have real documents?” Warren finally asked. “And someone who says she was harmed by this? A victim?”

  “Looking for that, of course,” she said. “And as for the documents—I have a source.”

  “Who? How? Where?” Warren frowned. “This could be blockbuster, Ellie. This is—a company knowingly causing women to become infertile and then covering it up to protect their own bottom line. The publicity—the lawsuits and the backlash—could destroy the company.”

  “Yup,” Ellie said.

  “And destroy us, and you, if we get it wrong,” Warren continued. “So?”

  Ellie crossed her legs, smoothed down her black skirt, hesitating. No turning back now. She took a stalling sip of coffee, but her cup was empty. She pretended it wasn’t.

  “I’ve been doing research much of the time since I’ve been here.”

  “At the library,” Meg offered.

  “Sometimes. Of course.” Ellie agreed, trying harder to be inclusive. “And I’ve talked to some lawyers who might be putting together lawsuits. But I’ve also been tracking the pharmacy reps. The salespeople for Pharminex.”

  “Don’t they have an office here?” Warren asked. “Downtown?”

  “Yeah. By the Custom Tower. The training office. So I followed a couple of the new sales rep trainees. I found one or two, maybe three, who might be willing to talk about what they do. What they’ve been told to say.”

  “You’ve talked to them?” Warren eyed her skeptically. “Wait—you followed them?”

  Ellie needed to derail the second-guessing train. “Really. It’s fine. I’m still working on it. Seeing where they go have coffee, that kind of thing.”

  Warren seemed mollified. “Go on.”

  “One of the reps, I think, might especially be a candidate.” Ellie decided to risk telling a little more. “I saw her in a doctor’s office, and I know her car now and it’s possible that I could…” Ellie paused. “Here’s the leverage. If she’s pushing the off-label use, she’s in legal jeopardy too. As being complicit. She seems like a reasonable person. I’ve seen her talk to women in the waiting rooms, as if she’s actually concerned about them. So either she really is—or she’s a darn good actress.”

  “What if she recognizes you?” Warren asked.

  “Yeah,” Meg piped up. “What if she wonders why you’re in every office?”

  “That’s handled.” Ellie wished Meg would butt out. “The first time or two I came as myself, but it felt … susceptible. So now I make myself look pretty different. Every time. And I bring a briefcase, so she might think I’m a competitor. I’m careful.”

  “So you’re just gonna, what?” Warren asked. “Why would she just spill the beans to you, Ellie?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I have to figure it out.”

  “I have an idea!” Meg’s voice had several exclamation marks built in. She winced, touched a palm to her chest. “Sorry, I just got excited. But what if—I could go pose as, like, a patient?” She nodded, as if urging the two to agree with her plan. “Maybe you could find out where your person is going next, and then I could come in, like I had an appointment, and sit beside her, and see if I could get her to talk. Tell me stuff.”

  Ellie looked at her, trying to figure out how to say not a chance in hell and still keep it professional.

  “I love how you think.” Warren spoke first. “But we don’t do that, Meg. No undercover, no lying, no hiding, no pretending to be someone we’re not.”

  “Ever?” Meg tilted her head. “Not ever?”

  “Nope.” Warren made a dismissive gesture, apparently in case they didn’t understand the word nope. “Because—”

  “Then how can Ellie—and I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m trying to learn,” Meg went on. “How can Ellie go into doctors’ offices without revealing who she is?”

  “Because I didn’t say anything about anything,” Ellie answered before Warren could. “I’m in a public place, public enough, a doctor’s office, where anyone could logically be. I look like I belong. If not a patient, then someone’s friend. I don’t have to say who I am, I just can’t lie if anyone asks me. The ethical bright line is that I can’t actively pretend to be something I’m not. Like a cop, or a doctor or even a patient. But I can let people assume it.”

  “Exactly,” Warren said.

  “Okay, so I won’t say anything either,” Meg persisted. “It could work.”

  “No,” Warren said. “Plus, you’re new, inexperienced, and not even a reporter. Let’s leave it to the pros, okay?”

  “Only trying to help,” Meg said.

  “Much appreciated,” Warren said.

  “Thing is, there’s a snag.” Ellie pulled out her cell phone and tapped to her photos, then selected a shot. “Or maybe not a snag. Maybe an opportunity.”

  She held up her phone, turned the screen to show Warren and Meg.

  Warren leaned across his desk, squinting. “What is it?”

  “It’s an email announcement, including a photo of Brinn and Winton Vanderwald,” Ellie said, pointing to the black-and-white picture. “Their family, the Vanderwalds, owns Pharminex. Has from the start, since the early eighties. Winton took over in the early nineties. He’s hands-on, very insider. And the Vanderwald family—big bucks, big power, big name.”

  “Vanderwald,” Meg re
peated.

  “And?” Warren made the one-finger spiral signaling speed it up.

  Ellie stared at the screen, at the ebullient description in the email. “This is an in-house Pharminex email I got from a source. Apparently—well, let me read it to you.” Ellie cleared her throat. “‘Save the Date,’ it starts. Then blah blah, ‘pleased to announce, all invited, wanted you to know, clear your calendars,’ blah blah…” Ellie scanned down. “Okay. Here. ‘We are proud to reveal to our Pharminex family that in honor of his continuing and generous contributions to science and medicine, the Massachusetts Medical Science Association is giving our president, Winton Trevor Vanderwald, Jr., their coveted Humanitarian of the Year award.’ There’s more, and—”

  “Crap,” Warren interrupted. “When’s this happening?”

  “Less than two weeks,” Ellie said. “At a ‘gala,’ they’re calling it, in the auditorium of their new medical museum.”

  “We could go,” Meg said. “Talk to those people.”

  “Crap,” Warren said again. He picked up a yellow pencil, and toggled it back and forth between two fingers. “My first question is—how fast can we get this one on the air? Crap. It’s a shitshow. Sorry. It’s a mess. We can’t hurry, or we’ll make a mistake.”

  “Doesn’t sound like the kind of person you’d want to honor,” Meg said. “Someone who’d push a deadly medication like that.”

  “Talk about a mess,” Ellie answered Warren. “There’s more. At this gala, the Vanderwalds will announce they’re funding a megabucks scholarship for Mass Med to give every year in honor of their son.”

  “Son?” The yellow pencil stopped.

  “Son?” Meg tilted her head, inquiring.

  “Winton the third,” Ellie said. “Winton Trevor Vanderwald the third. They called him Trevor. He died.”

  CHAPTER 9

  NORA

  Nora—for now—realized her daily routine was becoming second nature. Pack her detail case, quick gossip-chat with her colleagues, drive to an appointment, wait wait wait, talk, sell, assess, go. She slammed the trunk of her car shut in yet another yellow-striped parking lot, lugged her stuff across another snowy expanse of asphalt and took an elevator to another doctor’s office. Sales was sales; it was all about talking a good story. And Pharminex had one glittering definition of “a good story.” Monifan. The miracle drug.