by JJ Lamb
Just a bunch of slugs. Even Saul seems out of the loop.
He finally sat down at his desk and began to take long, even breaths. He’d almost reached a level of calmness when the phone vibrated in his pocket again.
He knew who it was and the screen confirmed it.
“What do you want, Ethan? Calling me constantly like this is downright irritating. Enough is enough!”
“We’ve got some real problems out here, David.”
“Oh, for chrissakes just lay it on me before I hang up on you.”
“You might stop to realize I’m your only ally here. No one else knows what you’re up to except me … well, me, Rocky, and Pete.”
It took David a moment to really focus on what was being said. “Rocky and Pete? The two orderlies?”
“Exactly!”
“Well, what about them?”
“I’ve needed them and I’ve let them get too close to the operation. They’ve managed to see too much.”
“Like?”
“Like, they know where all the bodies are buried.”
“Get to the point!”
Ethan paused. “Well, they know … everything.”
David was trapped. Ethan hadn’t kept his word, hadn’t kept him out of the messy Comstock operations.
“Ethan, don’t you think it’s time you completed your exit strategy?”
“Yes. I guess it is.”
“That’s always been your end of the deal… so do it!”
Chapter 29
Tuva Goldmich finagled an early lunch so she could get to the OCI offices before noon—that’s when their lunch hour began. She rushed out the door of the building, her legs stretching out into long strides. She was determined to walk the ten blocks to avoid spending money on a cab, that is, if she could have even flagged one down.
Money was real tight and she refused to use her credit cards anymore except for emergencies. Her landlord had agreed to wait a couple of weeks for the rent, but she could see the wheels turning in his head, like: Is this tenant going to turn into a problem?
She’d lived in the apartment for three years and hadn't been late once with her rent, let alone miss a payment. But she knew businessmen had a whole set of different rules. Money was money—pay the rent or you’re out.
She thought about her new job, really a replica of the old one. Another sweat shop, with her being low shmo on the totem pole. But the place did pay better, and the people were much nicer. Plus, all of the other artists were noticeably relieved she’d come on the job—the work backlog was tremendous. She saw the situation as a real plus; there would be lots of overtime in her future. And if all went well, in three or four months she’d be back on the right financial track.
She tried to walk even faster, but her body held back. She still wasn’t sleeping well. She was too worried about her mom, and exhausted easily.
Why doesn’t Mom answer my letters? It’s not like her to ignore me. Something is definitely wrong!
Tuva glanced at her watch—like it or not, she needed to nab a taxi. She walked to the curb, waved, and, wonder of wonders, a taxi immediately pulled up alongside of her.
Now there’s s a first!
She slid inside, gave the cabbie the address, and they were on the move before she’d solidly closed the door.
* * *
Carl Krueger was in a terrific mood. He’d called in some favors from his former FBI unit and it looked like he might be able to have his old job back. It had taken days and days of hanging on the phone, talking to just about everyone he knew. Of course, that made his work schedule a real mess, but it looked like his persistence was going to pay off.
Finally, he would get back to the West Coast.
He leaned back into his desk chair—it would take a lot of sweet talk to bring his wife over to his side, especially now that she was going to be interviewed for a new marketing position at Bloomingdales.
She knows how unhappy I am here. She’ll understand … I hope.
His phone buzzed. The caller info window showed that it was reception.
Hell with it. Maybe if I ignore it, she’ll try to get someone else.
The call light went out.
He took a deep breath, leaned back, and allowed himself to daydream for a moment. He’d barely pictured a pristine Hawaiian beach, with palm trees gently swaying when the phone did its thing again.
“Oh, shit!’ He reached out and picked up the receiver.
“There’s a Tuva Goldmich here to see you, Mr. Kreuger.”
“Can’t you get someone else to handle it, please?”
“No, she won’t see anyone else … says it has to be you. What do you want me to do?”
“Throw her out the back door.” He could imagine the receptionist rolling her eyes, barely tolerating him.
Finally she said, “I’m waiting, sir.”
The way she said “sir” was definitely a sarcastic slam. “Tell her to grab a seat. I’ll be out to get her in a minute.”
His Tuva/Emma Goldmich notes sat there staring at him from the corner of his desk, the same place they’d rested since Tuva Goldmich’s brief telephone call. The only thing he’d done was print the computer file. Something inside of him had refused to pack it away in his cabinet of active files.
He opened the folder, fingered the papers. Yeah, the Alzheimer’s study. As if he didn’t know.
Even if there’s nothing to it, why the hell haven’t I gotten in touch with the LA regional office to look into this Comstock facility?
He knew the answer: It would take too damn much time. First there would be the telephone calls, then multiple e-mail communications, and last, but not least, the razzing he would get for even initiating an unnecessary investigation. The draconian budget cuts was reason enough right there.
He’d had a lot to deal with. Setting himself up for getting back to LA being his first priority. Life was too short … and would be even be shorter if he didn’t get out of New York soon.
* * *
Carl brought the Goldmich woman into his office, pulled out a chair for her. But she just stood there glaring at him.
I fucking don’t like the look on her face … she’s the kind of broad who thinks she’s better … smarter than me.
“Mr. Kreuger, you swore you’d follow up on my mother’s case.”
Damn princess. That’s what she is.
She was still standing there.
“Ms. Goldmich, you know all of this takes time. And it doesn’t help when you continue to badger me.” He went around the desk and sat down in his chair and looked up at her.
“Badger you? I’m worried about my mother, Mr. Kreuger. I thought you’d help me. Don’t you get it? There’s something wrong. My mother would never ignore my letters. Never!” She finally dropped heavily into the chair opposite him.
“Have you tried calling her?”
“Haven’t we gone over this before? Of course I have. But when I call, they say it’s too late, or it’s too early … or she’s in treatment … or she’s sleeping. There’s always a reason why I can’t speak to her. They won’t even give a good time for me to call. At least when she was in a facility here in New York, I was able to visit her, talk to her almost anytime.”
Carl felt the pangs of guilt sitting right in the middle of his chest. He also felt pretty stupid for getting a burr up his ass about a woman who was simply worried about her mother. He leaned across the desk and looked at Tuva Goldmich’s worried face. Her eyes were wide open. She was really scared.
“I promise, I will speak to the LA office as soon as you leave.”
“So, you haven’t called them yet?” Tears trickled down her cheeks.
“I’m really sorry. My caseload has been unusually heavy; I just haven’t gotten to it.” He stood and walked around the desk and held out his hand. “But I promise, I will call right away.”
She looked up at him for a moment, then placed her hand in his.
After Tuva Goldmich closed the doo
r behind her, he turned to his wife’s picture on the edge of the desk. She seemed to be looking at him with accusing eyes.
Yeah, I know. I’m a boob for a lot of reasons.
He tapped into the computer address book for the OCI offices and found the telephone number he was looking for.
* * *
Outside the building, Tuva started walking down the street in the direction of her office. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so alone, so scared. At one point she reached for her cell phone and was about to call her best friend when she remembered Nadia was vacationing in Europe and wouldn’t be back for two weeks. She folded the cell and shoved it back into her purse.
Without thinking about it, she sidetracked and climbed part way up the steps of the Metropolitan Museum. It was a beautiful day and the steps were crowded with people eating their lunch; two people scooted over so she could sit down. She was already late getting back to her job, but she couldn’t focus enough to even act, much less hurry.
Tuva glanced at the trees that bordered the sidewalk outside Central Park. The leaves sparkled in the sun. They had a transitional look that told her they would soon turn to the red-orange autumn foliage she loved. Then they would fall and it would end their cycle of life.
Was it time to stop obsessing about her mother? Was it time to let her go and get on with her own future, especially now that she had a new job and things were really happening for her?
She stood and climbed the rest of the museum steps, pulled her pass out, and walked through one of her favorite places in New York City. How many times had she come here just to wander around and study the different styles and expressions of art?
It was peaceful and beautiful.
When things were out of whack, when she was troubled or perplexed, like now, she would head for the Egyptian exhibits. In this section of the museum she knew her problems or questions would somehow be subliminally dealt with. She imagined herself back in a time and place when the mysteries of the universe must have seemed uncomplicated and orderly. Life and death were a simple equation; it was either one or the other.
She strolled through the tomb replicas, her fingers trailing along the walls, sweeping over the hieroglyphics. Behind closed eyes she imagined herself in Egypt under starlit skies. The gods were reaching down to protect her.
When she opened her eyes again, she smiled.
* * *
Tuva returned to the office a half an hour late. Her good mood disappeared when she saw her manager waiting in her office, sitting on the edge of her chair, tapping one index finger on the acrylic top of her desk.
“I’m sorry I’m late, Susan.”
“I took a real chance on you, Tuva. You know that, don’t you?”
“I do. But some things are even more important than a job.”
Susan was smartly dressed but wasn’t into designer outfits. There was nothing phony about her; she was a working woman and she dressed that way. Tuva liked her direct approach and felt she would be a friend worth having. She pulled a work stool from the corner of the office, sat down and prepared for the worst.
“You’re not going to like what I have to say,” Tuva said. “In fact, there’s a good chance you’re going to fire me.”
“I’m already flirting with that idea.”
“My mother’s in trouble.” She wanted to scream the words, but she was just too tired.
“Oh, please, don’t pull the sick mother card on me. Most people have the decency today not to use their family as an excuse for their lack of professionalism.”
Tuva bowed her head, covered her face. She could hear her manager shifting in the only comfortable chair in the office; her voice had been filled with exasperation. But at least she was giving Tuva a chance to talk. Not like the manager at her last job.
“My mother has early Alzheimer’s … she’s been in a national study for a new medication … and it was working. She was so much better, then…”
Tuva dropped her hands into her lap and looked directly at her manager. “…then she suddenly became crippled by severe arthritis, and was moved to a facility in Nevada for treatment. I haven’t been able to speak to her since.”
“How long has it been?” the manager asked.
“Three weeks.” Tuva barely recognized her own voice.
“I see.”
Then the words poured from Tuva’s mouth. She couldn’t stop to even think about what she was saying.
“I’ve done everything I can, Susan. I went to the FDA’s office of criminal investigation to have them look into it … I’ve tried to wait … be patient … but I know something’s wrong … she’s in trouble … she needs me … you have to understand … I would never make this up … I have to go to her … she needs me. … she needs me—”
“Okay,” her manager said. “I think I see the problem now, Tuva. It’s just that I barely know you and the last company you worked for was not throwing accolades in your corner. It’s hard to ignore that.”
“I can’t stay here and do nothing about my mother.”
“What do you want me to do?” Susan’s voice had softened and her eyes were kind, but the set of her shoulders were still firm.
“I have to go to Nevada … find out what’s happened to my mother. I have to do it. Don’t you see?”
Susan rose, walked over and rested a hand gently on her shoulder. “I do understand. And if there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”
“My job?”
“I’ll hold it for you … for as long as I can.”
Chapter 30
Carl Kreuger placed the telephone receiver back in its holder and glanced at the work schedule taped to the frame of the computer screen. The damn piece of paper fluttered with the slightest breeze or movement, constantly attracting his attention. Every single item on that piece of paper had to be tied up—one way or another—before he could move his butt back to his old FBI job on the West Coast.
He turned away from the jumble of words on the list and tried to get the Goldmich call to LA out of his head. It kept interfering with his focus.
Dammit. Why can’t I stop thinking about Tuva Goldmich and that Zelint- Comstock Medical business?
He clenched his thinking pencil, the one with teeth marks and chunks of missing wood, tapped the graphite point lightly on the desk.
Connecting with the OCI regional office in LA had left him unsatisfied. Like his office, they were understaffed and overworked. Only a few words into his conversation with one of their agents told him that Tuva Goldmich’s mother was headed for a trip to the bottom of someone else’s work stash.
He shifted in his chair, tried to get comfortable. But the seat felt too small no matter where he slid his rump.
Well, I kept my damn promise and made the call.
His wife’s picture kept staring at him. She still seemed to have a disappointed turn to her mouth.
Everyone was disappointed in him: his wife, because he didn’t love New York the way she did; the Goldmich woman, because he wasn’t giving enough attention to her mother; his supervisor, because he wasn’t diminishing his backlog of case files.
He tried again to push the whole Goldmich business from his mind. He’d done what he promised to do.
That should be the end of it!
But he knew that wasn’t the end of it; he wasn’t satisfied that someone would soon get around to that mother and daughter’s problem in the near future.
He couldn’t explain why, but that truly bothered him.
A lot.
He envisioned his work pile escalating with every blink. He really needed to get on the stick. Instead, he picked up his pencil and started tapping again.
In a flash, he tore the work list off the screen, put it in his top drawer, and slammed the drawer shut. Then he hit the keys of his computer and brought up Zelint Pharmaceutical’s website. Staring back at him was a picture of the twin brothers who owned the pharmaceutical company. Their home office was in Reno, Nevada.
As expected, the company praised their business operations and their dedication to humanity. It was obviously set up to woo potential investors, although there was the usual disclaimer to that notion.
No surprise there.
He cleared the screen and hit into OCI’s file on the company and its facilities.
LA’s regional office had very few consumer complaints regarding Comstock.
All small stuff.
That in itself would guarantee the overworked staff wouldn’t be checking into Zelint in any hurry. He also saw a recent updated bulletin: AZ-1166, the Alzheimer’s treatment medication was pending a Class IV drug status.
Tuva Goldmich’s sad face flashed into his head. Against his better judgment, he continued to be drawn to this woman who refused to let go of her mother.
He picked up the phone and called Zelint’s offices, asked to be put through to David Zelint, the listed contact for the company. It took more than a few minutes of dancing through a chorus line of assistants before he actually reached the man.
“David Zelint, here.”
“Mr. Zelint, this is Carl Kreuger from OCI in New York City.”
There was a pause. “Yes, of course. I’ve read about you. You’re a branch of the FDA. Right?”
“Yes, we’re the investigative arm of the agency.”
“I see,” Zelint said. “What can I do to help you?” An uneasy chuckle followed. “Are we under investigation?”
“Well, of course you are, sir. You have applied for Class IV, FDA status.” Carl didn’t like the tingling at the base of his neck. Something was off about the man’s responses.
“What can I do to help you?”
“I’m sorry to say we’ve had a complaint about one of your facilities—Comstock Medical.” Carl could have sworn Zelint was holding his breath.
“Complaint?”
“Yes. It seems you have a woman by the name of Emma Goldmich at Comstock. Her daughter, Tuva Goldmich, has filed a complaint at our offices. She states she has not been able to reach her mother by mail or telephone. She’s extremely concerned.”
“I’ll look into it immediately, Mr. Kreuger. May I have your telephone number so I can get back to you?”
