by MJ Rodgers
“And you think it was Patrice Feldon who did it,” Adam said.
“Damn right we do.”
“But why?” Whitney asked.
“Because she was the only other person with access to Dr. Miller’s computer code and, therefore, the missing files.”
“No, I mean why would she destroy his work?” Whitney said.
Carver’s jaw locked. “She didn’t destroy his work. She copied his formula and all the test results onto floppy disks. Then she wiped Crowe-Cromwell’s data base clean so that when she sold the fertility formula, we wouldn’t be able to compete with the company that marketed it. That bitch robbed us blind.”
“I resent the use of that word in reference to a human female, Mr. Carver,” Whitney said, her warm voice cooled considerably. “’Bitch’ is a term for a dog, not a woman.”
Carver’s jaw clenched even more as the pink bands on his cheeks flashed red. He was clearly upset to be receiving this verbal dressing-down from Whitney. He obviously thought himself too exalted a personage to have to put up with criticism from anyone.
Adam almost smiled at the way Whitney looked Carver directly in his arrogant eye, just as if she were ready to spit in it. He wasn’t surprised to see it was Carver who looked away first.
“If Patrice Feldon stole this formula as you say, Mr. Carver,” Adam began, “why didn’t Crowe-Cromwell prosecute her?”
“Because by the time we realized the files were gone, so was she.”
“Still, you could have taken action,” Adam said.
“We didn’t know she intended to sell the formula. We thought Dr. Miller’s death had unbalanced her, too, and that was the reason she had destroyed the files.”
“And when did you decide that wasn’t the case?”
“When Emery Pharmaceuticals started marketing our product.”
“If you were so sure that Patrice sold them your formula, why didn’t you take legal action then?”
“Normally we would have placed the facts of such a theft in the hands of the authorities and let them take it from there. But our senior management was in a very precarious position at the time with regards to a proxy fight. The bad publicity of such a theft would undoubtedly have led to accusations of sloppy management and undermined our chairman’s efforts to maintain his leadership role. We simply couldn’t afford to go public with the matter.”
“So you hushed it up?” Whitney said.
“We didn’t know where Patrice Feldon had gone. We assumed it was somewhere in Canada, since she’d sold the formula to a Canadian company. We had no idea the company had paid her in stock. We thought she had a fistful of cash in hand and a lot of foreign land in which to disappear. Based on that we figured the chances of locating and prosecuting her were slim. We chose not to broadcast the theft.”
“But you’re willing to do so now?” Whitney asked.
“Now we have the evidence tying her to the Vancouver pharmaceutical firm who she sold the formula to and who marketed our fertility drug.”
“What records do you have verifying that Dr. Lydon Miller was working on the fertility process you describe?”
“I can produce the sworn affidavits of half a dozen of Dr. Miller’s fellow scientists at Crowe-Cromwell. I also have these two internal company memoranda,” Carver said, getting up and slipping his hand inside the folder on Adam’s desk to pull out a couple of sheets. He passed them to Adam before resuming his seat.
Adam perused the memoranda. Both carried Dr. Miller’s signature and were dated nine years previously. They were enthusiastic reports about the results he was achieving with a new process of embryonic implant.
In both memoranda Dr. Miller was asking for more money to go forward with the experiments. In the later memorandum the request was almost a plea. It spoke of having had to arrange with a Dr. McGrory for the test subjects. Adam passed the documents on to Whitney as he directed a question to Carver.
“Does this McGrory—the person who Dr. Miller mentions briefly in one of these memoranda—work for CroweCromwell?”
Carver shifted uneasily in his chair. “No, he’s a professor at the University of Washington. The men were friends.”
“Is the purpose of this visit to tell us you are going public with this matter now?” Adam asked.
Carver turned to Whitney. “Justice and I have a few private items to discuss. You’ll have to excuse us.”
“Ms. West stays,” Adam said before Whitney had a chance to respond.
Carver turned to him, a bead of irritation digging across his forehead. “This is a very sensitive matter, Justice.”
“Ms. West stays,” Adam repeated.
Carver looked decidedly put out with Adam’s uncompromising stand. He shifted some more in his seat before resuming. “All right. As we at Crowe-Cromwell see it, there’s no reason to give all the particulars on this sensitive matter to the press, not if an equitable accommodation can be reached.”
“Equitable accommodation?” Adam repeated.
Carver leaned forward. “We know she made you the executor of her estate, so it’s really pretty simple. You recognize our claim as sole debtor and hand over the stock. In return, we see to it that your fees are covered with a special bonus for speed and efficiency.”
“A special bonus?”
“The stock clearly belongs to us. We’re going to get it. Why. subject the courts and everyone else concerned to a useless, protracted and costly probate? I’m authorized to offer you a quarter million to handle this matter expeditiously. This is in addition to your normal fees, of course. What do you say, Justice?”
“Mr. Carver, you have not yet submitted a claim against Ms. Feldon’s estate. Until you do, there is no way for me to assess its merits.”
Carver’s voice rose in disbelief. “Assess its merits? Haven’t you been listening? Patrice Feldon stole our secret formula. Then she turned around and sold it to Emery Pharmaceuticals. Every penny in her estate belongs to us.”
“What proof do you have that Patrice Feldon took your formula?” Adam asked.
“Proof? The proof is the fact that she ended up with all that stock in that Canadian pharmaceutical firm that came out with Crowe-Cromwell’s fertility drug.”
“That stock is not proof, Mr. Carver.”
“The hell it isn’t. What is this, Justice, a shakedown? You want half a million? Three-quarters?”
“What I want, Mr. Carver, is to see that Patrice Feldon’s estate is properly executed.”
Carver lunged out of his chair, rested his knuckles on Adam’s desktop and leaned his tall frame toward Adam menacingly. “Don’t jerk me around, Justice. You don’t handle this right, you can count on the newspapers getting the complete story from us.”
“And why should that concern me, Mr. Carver?”
“Oh, the truth might prove a little embarrassing to CroweCromwell, but it will prove a lot more than embarrassing to you. No one is going to believe you didn’t know who she really was and what she had done when you married her under that alias. On the contrary, after we get through, everyone will know you were in on this theft and fraud. Your name won’t be worth spit, I guarantee it. And neither will this law practice. You have twenty-four hours to make the right decision, Justice.”
And with that, Stanford Carver stomped out of the room and slammed the door behind him.
“I’VE BEEN OVER this stuff so many times I’m getting crosseyed,” Whitney said, looking up from studying the contents of the cardboard file that Carver had left. “Haven’t you seen enough yet?”
Adam held up his hand, not taking his eyes off what he was reading. “Just a minute, Whitney. I have this one last document to review.”
Whitney leaned an elbow across the black leather sofa in the corner of Adam’s office, her feet tucked beneath her. It was a room full of natural light, bordered on two sides by floor-toceiling windows, its steel-and-leather furniture clean, crisply modern, functional. There were no plants, pictures or any other touch that might have lent something
of a personal nature.
To Whitney this room was a perfect outward manifestation of the man beside her. But it reflected none of what she knew he was inside. None of the humor. The gentleness. The warmth.
She studied his clean, strong features—a man’s features, nothing boyish about them. His lustrous black hair was rich and straight and full, like a lion’s mane.
But he was a lion who didn’t waste his energies on roaring.
No matter how much Stanford Carver had tried to manipulate, intimidate or provoke him, Adam had remained perfectly cool and calm and in control.
Finally Adam set the document with the others on the glass coffee table. He ignored the last triangle of chicken sandwich and instead swallowed the remainder of the cold coffee in his cup—the remnants of the late lunch his secretary had brought for them both. He leaned against the sofa’s back.
“The birth date of Patrice Dulcinea Feldon is the same as that on the birth certificate Patrice left with her will,” Adam said.
“It looks like her handwriting on the application form,” Whitney added. “The photo they took for the employee ID looks like her. The documentation of Miller’s suicide and Patrice’s job abandonment seems pretty thorough, too.”
“Agreed,” Adam said. “Carver ties Patrice to CroweCromwell, and the stock in her estate ties her to Emery Pharmaceuticals. At this point in time those are the two strongest points to his case.”
“If this claim Carver has made is true, it would explain why Patrice was using an alias when you met her. She was hiding her identity so Crowe-Cromwell wouldn’t find her.”
“That occurred to me, too.”
“Linda Carmichael said Patrice worked with a scientist developing a new fertility process. And then Patrice arranged for Linda to be the recipient of donated embryos implanted by Emery Pharmaceuticals in conjunction with their new fertility process. If Carver finds out about Linda and the children—”
“Yes, Whitney, I know. Still, at this point we are not obliged to tell him, and the company has offered nothing to substantiate that this Dr. Miller ever produced such a fertility process—much less that Patrice stole the formula for it.”
The intercom on Adam’s desk buzzed.
Adam got up, walked over to it and pressed the button to connect him with his secretary. “Yes?”
“Piper Lane and Gavin Yeagher are here to see you, Adam.”
“Good. Send them in.”
He turned to Whitney. “They wouldn’t have come unless they had some news.”
Whitney quickly slipped her feet into her shoes and stood, turning her attention to the couple entering the office.
The woman was very well-groomed, with shining titian hair drawn to the top of her head and arresting turquoise eyes beneath thick bangs. Behind her was a very casually dressed lumberjack-size man, with unruly wavy brown hair, deep brown eyes and the beginnings of a scraggly beard. Whitney thought they made quite a contrast—she so neatly groomed, and he so unruly and unkept.
“Piper Lane, Gavin Yeagher, this is Whitney West,” Adam said.
Piper stepped forward and offered her hand and a smile. Whitney liked the firm shake and straight look of the woman right away. Then Gavin took Whitney’s hand and treated her to a charming lopsided grin that revealed two very deep dimples.
“You’ll have to excuse Gavin,” Piper said to Whitney with a conspiratorial wink. “He thinks the grizzly-bear look is in.”
Gavin released Whitney’s hand and turned to Piper, both dimples in clear evidence as he stroked the week-old growth spiking out of his chin.
“Most women tell me I’m more like a big, cuddly teddy bear.”
“Until the next morning, when they sober up and discover their face is red and sore from those whiskers,” Piper said, a dash of merriment in her turquoise eyes. “Do the female population of Seattle a favor and get a razor, Gavin.”
Gavin chuckled easily at the ribbing.
“So what is it you’ve learned?” Adam asked, gesturing them to seats around the conversation area where he and Whitney had been studying the Crowe-Cromwell records.
“Very little with respect to who Patrice Feldon was,” Piper answered as she took a seat in one of the black leather chairs across from the sofa. “There is no birth date for a Patrice Dulcinea Feldon in any county in Washington State for the last thirty-five years. But I did find that there was a Patrice Anne Waring born in Seattle on February 4, 1964.”
“Are you saying she really was Patrice Anne Waring?” Whitney asked as she sat again on the sofa.
“No, Patrice Anne Waring was a crib death at two months old. Patrice Feldon apparently wrote for her birth certificate and used it to take a G.E.D. test that allowed her to enroll at UW under that name just a couple of months before Adam met her.”
“How did she know about Patrice Waring?” Whitney asked.
“Probably by reading the name and birth date off her tombstone,” Piper said. “It’s really not that difficult to get someone else’s birth certificate and, with it, take on another identity.”
“Is that all you’ve found out so far?” Adam asked.
“About Patrice’s background,” Piper said. “But since you called and left that message about your visit from Stanford Carver, I started inquiries at the Crowe-Cromwell lab in Olympia. So far, nothing. They’re a tight-knit group, and no one’s talking. Our best lead is this Dr. Grover McGrory that Miller mentioned in his memorandum. I’ve set up a luncheon meeting with you and him tomorrow at Elliott’s Oyster House, Pier 56.”
“Good.” Adam turned to Gavin. “Find out anything about the stock?”
“Yes,” Gavin said, resting one scuffed boot over the knee of his other leg. He had taken the chair next to Piper’s. His blue jeans were very worn and frayed at the bottom. Whitney had a hard time picturing Gavin as the financial guru Adam had described. The guy didn’t look as if he had that proverbial dime to his name.
“Before we get into the matter of this stock, Adam, I’m curious as to why Patrice prepared a will instead of placing her assets into the kind of trust that could pass to her beneficiaries without all this probate cost and state intervention. When I think of all the time and money wasted—”
Adam held up a hand. “You’re right, Gavin. I always recommend trusts to my clients.”
“How is it, then, that Patrice didn’t listen to your advice?”
“She didn’t ask for my advice. Now, what have you found out about that stock?”
Gavin draped his hands, which looked more to Whitney like rough clubs, over the arms of his chair and leaned his hefty bulk against the back. “Nine years ago Emery Pharmaceuticals was barely making it, rumored to be going under. And then, suddenly—miraculously, by some accounts—they came out with a revolutionary new fertility process based on embryo implant. It was far more advanced and superior to anything else anywhere in the world.”
“Is there a big market for such a fertility process?”
“Very big, particularly here in the States. Baby boomers who delayed having children to get educated and establish careers are now trying to make up for lost time. Those who experience fertility problems—and there are a lot of them—are reaching for whatever help they can get. Emery’s process has a ninety-nine percent success rate and boasts no side effects, unlike other drugs that have been linked to cancer.”
“Sounds like a winning combination,” Whitney said.
“Which explains why the company has grown by leaps and bounds. Today it’s a major pharmaceutical concern, with yearly sales in the multimillions.”
“And all because of this new fertility process?” Adam asked.
“It certainly was what jump-started their corporate engine nine years ago.”
“What’s it going to take to find out if their research scientists developed such a process?”
“Well, unlike other companies, pharmaceuticals spend a big chunk of their profits on research and development. The competition is stiff, so they’re very
secretive about what they’re doing. The only way for Piper and me to find out anything is to fly up there and do some poking around the skeletons in their R-and-D closet. Which is why we’re on a flight leaving in two hours.”
“Is there any reason Emery couldn’t have come up with the process on their own?” Adam asked. “They could have. But the stock that was issued to Patrice was preferred stock. It’s generally only issued to officers of the company or capitalsupplying investors.”
“I doubt Patrice had any money to invest,” Whitney said.
“Still, if she had that fertility formula to offer them,” Gavin said, “it was better than money.”
“I’M NOT LOOKING FORWARD to telling Commissioner Snowe about the Crowe-Cromwell claim,” Whitney said to Adam as they entered the elevator in the hallway outside the Justice Inc. office. “I really hate the idea of Crowe-Cromwell getting that money instead of the D’Amicos and the Rubins and the Carmichaels—even if it does technically belong to them.”
“They don’t have it yet,” Adam said as he pressed the button for the garage level. “We still have a lot of facts to gather before coming to any final conclusions. Sorting out what happened nine years ago and Patrice’s part in it is going to take time. And I have no intention of introducing CroweCromwell’s claim to Commissioner Snowe until Carver fills out the proper paperwork.”
“Since he gave you twenty-four hours to accept his deal that means he’s not intending to file until tomorrow. So what do we do in the interim?” Whitney asked as they stepped off the elevator.
“While Piper and Gavin fly to Vancouver to see what they can learn from Emery Pharmaceuticals, I suggest we—”
“Talk to me,” A.J.’s voice said suddenly from behind Adam, finishing his sentence.
Adam turned, surprised to see his sister, but not surprised he hadn’t heard her. A.J. could move as silently as a whisper when she wanted to.
Adam introduced Whitney.
“I’ve been hearing a lot about you lately, A.J.,” Whitney said, her tone warm.
“And I’ve been hearing a lot about you,” A.J. said. Adam noted that his sister’s manner and tone seemed excessively formal for the occasion.
