by Joel Shulkin
“It’s an early morning commuter flight. They don’t serve alcohol.”
“No alcohol?” Andrea stood and scanned the compact plane. “What kind of cheap-ass airline is this?”
“It’s only a ninety-minute flight. When we land, you can go to the airport bar.” Cristina nudged her friend back into her seat. “You do know most people don’t start drinking twenty minutes after breakfast?”
“Mami, when this is over, we’re checking into a Club Med and partying until we forget our names. Again.” She winked.
Cristina smiled, but when her friend turned away, she fingered the silver locket under her blouse. Somewhere out there, a woman had forgotten her father. No matter what kind of man Santos was, his daughter deserved to know the truth.
And so did Cristina. She clutched the locket and closed her eyes. If the key to unraveling her identity was at ReMind Pharmaceuticals, she had to find it.
“Good morning, Detective.” Agent Vasquez sidled up to Wilson’s desk. She wore her hair down and it draped her shoulders. Her cheeks had a pink flush. She breathed deeply, as if collecting her thoughts. “I want to apologize for my partner’s behavior yesterday.”
Wilson tilted his head. She was acting like a nervous schoolgirl. Was she for real? It was a big change from the austere federal agent from yesterday. “That’s kind of you, but it’s not like you’re his keeper.”
“No, I’m not. But I can—and should—rein him in when he gets out of line.” She sat on the corner of Wilson’s desk. “I know this case is personal, but Forrester is letting it consume him.”
Wilson could only stare. Was she really coming to him for moral counseling? He caught a whiff of perfume. Or did she have other motives? Like his life wasn’t confusing enough already. How stupid had he been, making a move on Cristina? Had he learned nothing from Cambridge? And her reaction had only made it worse. The last thing he needed was to misread another woman’s signals.
Hesitantly, he said, “Well, if Zero Dark is operating in our neighborhood, we’ll do everything we can to help stop them. Maybe you can convince Forrester we want to help.”
A small but warm smile crossed her lips. “I’ll try.”
Vasquez held Wilson’s gaze a second longer than professional comfort allowed.
He coughed onto the back of his hand. “Where is Agent Forrester, anyway?”
Her smile wavered. Vasquez straightened her back and was suddenly all business. “Searching for the murder weapon that killed Gomes.”
“CSI already scoured the alley where they discovered him.”
“Charles could find a drop of blood in the ocean.” She cleared her throat. “He’ll be even more obsessed when he learns what I found at the morgue.”
“What do you mean?”
“We sent Gomes’s prints and dental impressions to Quantico. So far, they’ve haven’t found any domestic records that match them, not even a birth certificate or visa. They’re contacting Interpol now.”
“He entered the country illegally?”
“It seems so.” She glanced over her shoulder before lowering her voice. “But when I arrived, the medical examiner was autopsying another of Dr. Silva’s patients. Carl Franklin.”
“Franklin?” Wilson cocked his head. “That’s the suicide I investigated weeks ago. Why was he autopsying him now?”
“Apparently, Dr. Silva asked him. She seems to think Franklin’s and Peterman’s deaths are related.”
“That doesn’t make sense. One jumped out of a window and the other shot up a subway.”
“They may have ended up in different places, but she’s not wrong.” Vasquez pulled a paper from her pocket and handed it to him.
Wilson unfolded it to find a printed mugshot.
“I recognized his face and sent it to records also,” Vasquez said. “That man, Carl Franklin—his real name is Carlin Pickens. Number eight on the FBI’s Most Wanted list for domestic terrorism. He was involved in the Aryan Nation.”
No question it was the same stiff. “How’d Carlin Pickens end up in Cristina’s practice? And why’d he kill himself?”
“Maybe you can find out.”
“Me?” Wilson said.
“Dr. Silva trusts you. Talk to her. Maybe she’ll tell you something she hasn’t already shared with others.”
Wilson’s tongue went numb. Something like Martins’s burner phone? Or that she skipped town to visit a drug company in DC? He forced a smile. “Sure. I’ll give her a call and let you know what I find out.”
“Thanks,” Vasquez said. “I’m going to see if our BOLO on Martins turned up any hits.” She turned to the door and then stopped, looked back, and grinned. “See how much better things go when we work together?”
After she left, Wilson stared at Carl Franklin’s mugshot. At least two of Cristina’s patients were terrorists. Was she playing him? At least now he understood why he had gotten a weird vibe from Franklin’s suicide. Was it possible that this death was connected to Zero Dark?
Wilson drummed his fingers on his desk, trying to shut out the searing heat behind his ear. He’d found no usable prints on the burner phone Cristina gave him and hitting redial yielded a “number not in service” message. When he called the Salt Lake precinct, he was told Stacey Peterman had disappeared after departing her flight. Martins was still in hiding and Quinn’s identity unknown. Where else am I supposed to look for answers?
His cell phone rang. Startled, he answered.
“Detective,” a thick voice said. “You told me to call if I remembered anything.”
Wilson recognized the voice from the mechanic’s shop. “Mr. Feldman. That’s right.”
“The detective who stated Francisco Martins had been cleared of charges. You recall I told you about him?”
“Yes, I do. Did you remember his name?”
“I don’t want any problems with the police,” Feldman said.
“You won’t get in any trouble.” Wilson tried to remain calm, hoping he would get straight answers this time. “I’ll keep what you tell me strictly confidential.”
“You know, I may have forgotten to mention that I had to take a call and left him with the Silvas’ car for a few minutes. After speaking to you and thinking about what happened to them—I don’t know, maybe he did something to the car. But why would he do that?”
Wilson’s pulse quickened. “I don’t know. That’s a good question, and I promise I’ll find out. But I can’t do that without knowing the detective’s name.”
“Yes, yes, of course. I’ve been trying to remember. It was a long time ago.”
“Take your time.” Wilson bit his lower lip.
“He was tall, muscular. His face had many wrinkles, as if he’d been to hell and back.”
“Okay.”
“It’s . . . Hold on, I remembered before I called you. Something with a P . . .” Another pause. “Parker. His name was Mitchell Parker.”
Chapter Forty
Cristina stood outside the boxy office building wedged between a furniture warehouse and a falafel restaurant. She scanned the area. American flags billowed proudly on masts suspended from the historic Mayflower Hotel two blocks away. Cars rushed both ways down the busy street as people hustled to wherever they were headed, blowing on their hands though it was at least twenty degrees warmer in DC than it had been in Boston. Cristina tugged at her scarf and looked back at the building. A sign on the front of the building read ReMind Pharmaceuticals.
Cristina stepped through the revolving door and halted, stunned by the surprisingly expansive lobby. Glistening marble floors. Lavish onyx pillars. A sparkling water column tumbling from an ornate glass chandelier into a sandstone basin lined with wrought-iron ivy. Over the basin, a statue, carved in Greco-Roman style, of a woman holding a book in one hand. A fountain bubbled from her diadem into the basin.
Cristi
na breathed in the unexpected, luxurious scent of cinnamon. She marveled at the company’s ability to afford such opulence.
“Dr. Silva?” A blond woman called from the marble reception desk.
Cristina approached the desk. The name Kitty was emblazoned in pink script on the left breast of the woman’s white lab coat. On the right, the word ReMind overlaid a drawing of a brain encircled by ivy.
Kitty’s teeth glittered between scarlet lips when she smiled. “Welcome to ReMind.”
Cristina swallowed as she prepared for the upcoming confrontation. She could’ve used Andrea’s support. But Simmons had made it clear to Devi that civilians weren’t allowed in the R & D area, so Andrea had gone to see the modern-art exhibit at the Smithsonian. When Cristina was done, they planned to meet at Farragut North Metro station and head from there to the airport. For now, Cristina was on her own.
“Thanks,” Cristina replied to Kitty. “Is Mr. Simmons ready to see me?”
“He’s waiting for you upstairs.” Kitty waved and a bear-sized man with close-cropped hair and a gray uniform lumbered over to them. He towered nearly a foot over Cristina. An emblem similar to the one on Kitty’s coat adorned his left shoulder. His face was frozen in a scowl. “Mateo, our security chief, will escort you.”
“Security?” Cristina spotted a pistol butt poking out beneath the man’s jacket. Her mouth went dry. Santos had reassured Cristina they wouldn’t kill her—at least until they had what they wanted. Forcing herself to remain calm, she faked a smile. “Afraid I’ll walk off with a few samples?”
Not a facial muscle budged on Mateo’s face. “Yes. Open your bag.”
Cristina’s smile faded. Slowly, she removed her backpack and unzipped it. Mateo poked around her books, charts and spare clothes.
He nodded. “Now, spread your arms.”
“What?”
He pointed at a sign on the desk: All visitors are subject to search upon entry.
Cristina did as Mateo asked. He ran a wand under her armpits and down her sides. It bleeped over her pocket.
“Remove it,” he said.
“It’s my phone.” She held it out.
“I’ll need to keep it until you leave.” He snatched it and stuck it in his pocket.
“Hey!”
“No photos, no outside calls. Precautions.” He spun on his heel. “Follow me.”
Cristina hesitated, recalling Santos’s warning. Listen, observe, and remember. If ReMind were hiding something, she’d have to rely on her own observations and memory, unreliable as they may be. With a glance at Kitty, who smiled back with saccharine sweetness, Cristina followed Mateo into the elevator. They rode up in silence. After a minute, the doors opened.
“This way.” Mateo led the way through a maze of corridors. Down a dim hallway, he stopped at a solid oak door. He knocked twice, then stood at attention.
After an uncomfortable wait, the door swung open, revealing a distinguished African American man with a clean-shaven face. Gray hair curled around his ears. A pair of bushy eyebrows framed gentle amber eyes. When Julius Simmons caught her gaze, an inviting smile bloomed on his face. Cristina tried to mask her surprise. Instead of the monster she had expected, he looked like a shorter Morgan Freeman.
“Dr. Silva, good to meet you face-to-face at last.” Simmons’s handshake was warm and firm. He nodded to Mateo. “I’ll take it from here. Thanks.”
With a grunt, Mateo marched away.
“Please come in.” Simmons led Cristina through a modest foyer, around a corner, and into a more elaborate office framed by gold-trimmed walls. A leather couch hugged the near wall, opposite a beautiful cherry desk. On the desk, a Daliesque melting clock ticked. The smell of cinnamon permeated the room. Simmons motioned to a plush office chair as he sat behind his desk. “Have a seat and let’s chat.”
Just a friendly chat. Right. She sat.
“Let me get right to the point.” Simmons locked his gaze with hers. “We’ve run into a few snags, and we’re hoping you can help.”
“Of course,” Cristina said. “That’s why I’ve come.”
“You came because I threatened you.” Simmons grinned sheepishly. “I apologize for that. When you deal with politicians and federal agencies like I do, you’re used to playing hardball. I hope you don’t take it personally.”
“Not at all.” Cristina lifted her chin, relaxing her shoulders. Maybe Santos had lied. Maybe ReMind had nothing to do with Zero Dark. “Why does everything smell like cinnamon?”
“A study out of Chicago suggests cinnamon stimulates hippocampal plasticity and improves memory.” When Cristina stared, he shrugged. “What? A CEO can’t keep up on the hot studies?”
Cristina blushed. No, Julius Simmons was nothing like she had expected.
He leaned forward. “Did you bring your records?”
“Yes.” She pulled the charts from her pack and placed them on the desk. “What do you hope to find?”
Simmons flipped through the files and looked up. “Are these all of your patients in the Recognate study?”
“Only six enrolled. You rejected the others.”
“How many did you refer?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Thirty-two?” Simmons scrunched up his face. “Why where they rejected?”
“You tell me. I emailed Frank multiple times and he never gave me a good answer. He said they didn’t meet inclusion criteria.”
“Inclusion rates at our other sites are close to sixty percent.” He pushed aside the files. “Yours is eighteen. Of those, a third dropped out.”
“They didn’t drop out,” Cristina said. “They died.”
“Another shouldn’t have been included.”
Cristina’s jaw slackened. Did he really brush over their deaths?
“Normally, we conduct a thorough review of subjects who don’t fall within inclusion criteria, but Dr. Alvarez decided to approve Mrs. Watterson without a review.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He trusted your judgment. Don’t worry. I assure you it won’t happen again.”
Cristina caught the undertone of his comment and cringed. “Again, I apologize for putting you in a difficult position.”
“Forget it. We have more important business to discuss.” Simmons interlocked his hands against his chin. “What I’m about to tell you is confidential. You’re not to share it with anyone, or there will be consequences. Do you understand?”
The way he said consequences sent prickles along the hairs on Cristina’s arms. “I understand.”
Simmons removed a plain brown folder from a desk drawer. He flipped it open and handed her a stack of papers. The front sheet displayed a list of names. Most were unfamiliar, but near the bottom she recognized two: Jerry Peterman and Carl Franklin.
“That’s our record of adverse events, Dr. Silva. Over the past six months, fifteen subjects have died or been institutionalized for intractable psychosis.” His gaze took on a hard edge. “I need your help finding out why.”
Chapter Forty-One
As Cristina thumbed through the ream of paper Simmons handed her, her stomach churned. She wasn’t as shocked as she might have been. She recalled the news clippings Santos had given her. There had been the man from Spokane—death by self-inflicted stabbing. She swallowed hard and tried to appear surprised. “How has this not been all over the news?”
“Like I said, this is a sensitive matter.” Simmons tucked away the folder. “We’ve kept our involvement out of the media for the good of the project.”
“Good of the project? Have you explained to these people’s families how you’re protecting the good of the project?”
“I don’t expect you to understand the business. Our marketing director is negotiating with an important client. We need to launch Recognate sooner than expected.”
“This isn’t about business.” Heat crawled up the back of Cristina’s neck. “This is about patient safety.”
“Everything is about business,” Simmons brow furrowed and his nostrils flared. “The first few subjects had unreported histories of mental illness. Then more cases popped up, and we became concerned.”
“But not enough to suspend the study to confirm safety?”
“Actually, we very nearly did.” Simmons gave Cristina an accusatory look. “When Mr. Peterman drew national attention.”
Cristina’s cheeks flushed. Simmons knew how to point the finger back at her. “So, why didn’t you shut it down then?”
“When you told me about the complications your other patients were having, I realized we had a larger problem.”
Here it is, Cristina thought. There’s something wrong with the drug. “What is that problem?”
Simmons tilted his head. “Have you been experiencing any headaches?”
“An occasional dull throb. I’ve been under a lot of stress.”
“Mood swings?”
Cristina caught the undertone of his question. “Are you asking if I’m impaired?”
“It’s well-known that amnesiacs often suffer from despair and hopelessness. It wouldn’t surprise me if you self-medicated.”
Cristina squeezed her fingers together, trying to maintain her grip on something tangible. Give them nothing they don’t already know, Santos had said. If he was right, this was all a game to find out what she remembered. Two could play that game.
“My amnesia is under control,” she said. “And I wasn’t involved in those thirteen other deaths. Are you asking your other researchers if they’re impaired?”
His smile faltered. “This isn’t a witch hunt. We’re doing a root cause analysis so we can treat the problem.”
“Right,” Cristina said, “and your goal is to ensure Recognate is safe—not to sweep problems under the carpet before the DSMB audits your outcomes.”
A vein bulged on Simmons’s forehead. His jaw tightened. Cristina retreated into her chair. Had she pushed too hard?
“Safety is always our number one priority,” Simmons said as if reading a script. “I’ve already notified the Data Safety Monitoring Board that I’m requesting a thorough review, including laboratory analysis, of all subjects. I imagine you’ve already done the same for your patients.”
