by Ellen Butler
“Good. I sent you a date and time for your next self-defense class. I’m leaving town. Jin offered to work with you.”
“Jin? Are you sure? Not Josh?”
“Not Josh.”
“O-kay.” I tried not to sound too reticent.
“Don’t worry. Jin’s taken a shine to you.”
“Great.”
“Also, he lost the coin toss.” With that parting shot, Rick hung up.
Traffic came to a complete standstill. Sirens whined and lights flashed in the distance. I wasn’t too worried; my first appointment of the day was a conference call that didn’t start until nine thirty. The digital clock on my car’s dash read 8:40. Still plenty of time to make it.
My cell rang. “Hello.”
“Is this Karina Cardinal?”
“Yes, it is. Who is this?”
“My name is Joe Brock.”
Why does that name sound familiar?
“I’m a journalist with The Washington Post.”
That would be why. I didn’t know Joe Brock personally but had certainly read a number of his recent stories about the long-fingered Russian influence on our last election. “What can I do for you, Joe?”
“I was hoping we could meet today.”
“Why?”
“To talk about Senator Harper’s death.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“What about Karen Ferngull?”
“What about her?” Traffic finally started moving.
“What do you know about her death?”
“What do you know about it?”
“Ms. Cardinal, can I call you Karina?”
“You may call me Ms. Cardinal.” For the most part, I held reporters in high regard, however past experiences left me reticent to speak with them.
“This morning a flash drive showed up on my desk. A note was attached that read, ‘In case of my death, deliver to Joe Brock at The Washington Post.’ Her death was on the morning news.”
I couldn’t help the slight gasp that escaped. “What’s on the drive?”
“Well, I’d like to talk with you about that.”
“Why me? Am I on it?”
He hesitated. “No. But, your name keeps popping up on my radar. Harper’s death and now Karen’s.”
As much as I disliked having to talk to the press, it occurred to me that Joe might have some of the answers I sought on that drive. “Fine. I don’t have my calendar in front of me. Let me call you back in thirty minutes to set a time and place.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Rodrigo’s cube stood empty when I arrived. After checking the kitchen and coming up empty, I phoned him. It went straight to voicemail. Then I spent ten minutes agitatedly pacing from my office to his cube. When he finally arrived, I pounced. “Rodrigo, my office.”
My face must have betrayed my anxiety because he didn’t even bother dropping his crossbody computer satchel at his desk before following me to my office.
“Shut the door. I only have ten minutes before my conference call.”
“What’s wrong?” He gripped the back of the guest chair.
I didn’t bother to sit either. “All sorts of things.” I gave him a rundown of my morning conversations with Mike, Rick, and Joe Brock. “I think we should meet with this reporter.”
“We?”
“He might be able to give us more information. And I’m dying to know what’s on that flash drive. Aren’t you?”
He paced the small bit of real estate in my office. “Okay, yes. I’m in. Where are we meeting?”
“I’ve got time at three thirty today. What about you?”
Rodrigo checked the calendar on his phone. “I can rearrange some things.”
“Can you get us a private table at Alfonse’s restaurant?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’ll organize the rest. I’m in the city this afternoon, so I’ll meet you there.”
Once he left, I phoned the reporter. “I can meet you at three thirty. Côte du Rhône restaurant.”
“I’ll be there.”
Now I had to figure out how to get one other person there who might be able to help put the puzzle pieces together, but who undoubtedly wasn’t interested in meeting me.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Côte du Rhône was located on 18th Street, NW, between an Ethiopian and Chinese restaurant in the trendy Adams Morgan neighborhood. It served fine French cuisine, and at three thirty in the afternoon, between the lunch and dinner rushes, I figured customers would be light. As a matter of fact, when I walked in the door, only two white-clothed tables housed patrons.
I spotted a balding man of average height with a middle-aged paunch, wearing tan chinos, a white button down, and a brown polka dot tie hovering near the maître de station.
“Joe Brock?”
“Ms. Cardinal.” We shook hands and I turned to the maître de. “Can you please escort this man to Rodrigo Alvarez’s table? I’ll join you in a minute, Mr. Brock.”
He didn’t question my actions and followed the tuxedoed host to a booth in the back of the restaurant where I could see the back of Rodrigo’s head. The door swung open and the man in question arrived after all.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to pull here, lady. But, I don’t take kindly to blackmail.” Nick Ross’s bird-of-prey features were even more forbidding than usual as they hovered above me.
“Not blackmail, Nick. Karen Ferngull is dead, and I believe you know more about what she was mixed up in than you’re letting on.”
“This is ridiculous. I’m leaving.”
I seized his wrist, reminiscent of his breakup with Karen, the only difference being I wasn’t infatuated with this callous man and my voice held none of her begging, but rather a quiet severity that brooked no arguments. “Her actions have led to the death of a senator and congressman, as well as her own, and almost mine. We’re getting to the bottom of this. Now. Or, I tell the FBI all about your little affair, in addition to an intriguing conversation I overheard opening night of Turandot.”
He visibly paled. “I had nothing to do with it.”
“That’s why we’re meeting a reporter, rather than the FBI . . . today.”
“A reporter,” he hissed, “are you crazy?”
“No. The story is coming out, so you can either help control the message or be part of the bloody aftermath.”
The maître de returned and watched us with open curiosity.
I released Nick. “Are you joining us, or not?”
His eyes narrowed. “After you, milady,” he said with exaggerated gentility.
“No need to see us to the table,” I told the inquisitive maître de, striding past his post.
Rodrigo and Joe stood when we arrived at the table. I made introductions and scooted inside the black velvet, circular booth between Joe and Nick, the latter sitting on the edge of his seat, as if ready to bolt at any moment. The location of the table and high back gave us the privacy I sought.
A waiter arrived to take our drink orders. No one was interested in allowing alcohol to loosen their tongue; everyone chose iced tea, and Rodrigo ordered some hors d’oeuvres for the table.
Joe flipped open a notebook and, shifting the candle aside, placed his phone in the center of the pristine white cloth. “I’d like to start with you, Ms. Cardinal.”
“Actually, I think we’d all like to hear what you have to say. Maybe a little introduction as to what you’re working on will get the conversation flowing.”
Joe seemed disconcerted by my suggestions. “That’s not how this works.”
“I’m afraid if you want answers, today, that’s how this works.”
He glanced around the table and must have realized none of us would open up without something to go on. “Alright. As I’m sure the three of you are aware, global pharmaceuticals are a trillion-dollar industry. The International Trade Administration estimates it will grow to one point three trillion by 2020. Our aging population and rise
in chronic diseases along with higher disposable incomes have been some of the reasons for its continued growth.”
Rodrigo and I nodded. The numbers sounded right to me. Nick continued his impression of a bad-tempered vulture.
“For the past six months, I’ve been investigating a group of drug companies.”
“What kind of investigation?” Rodrigo asked.
“Their political contributions, recent patents, R and D futures, stock prices . . . In addition, I’ve been watching the political climate surrounding the drug industry—Hill votes, new White House policies.”
“And what have you found?”
“Some disturbing patterns.”
“Were you investigating Karen?” Rodrigo asked and adjusted his tie.
“She was in the mix.”
“And today, you said you’d received a flash drive from Karen,” I put in.
Nick’s frown deepened, but Rodrigo leaned forward, intrigued. “Ooh, spooky, she speaks from beyond the grave.”
“Before I get into that, I’d like to ask you a few questions.” He reached out to turn on the phone’s recorder and poised his pen above the notebook.
Nick remained perched in position—his arms crossed and expression hostile. I began to fear he’d tell us nothing, so I reached over and tapped the cell’s screen.
“Listen, Joe, I think it’s best if we’re off the record for right now.”
Joe hid his disappointment and put the pen aside.
The waiter arrived with our appetizers—a plate of mussels, some sort of garlic sausage, and what looked distinctly like snails. I must have missed when Rodrigo ordered the escargot. He was also the only one who dug into the food, scooping a little bit of each offering onto his dish. After assuring our server we needed nothing more, Joe returned his attention to me.
“Where to start? Where to start?” I drummed my fingers. “I suppose my story begins with the death of Senator Harper. Before you ask, yes, I was in the tunnel with Harper when he passed. It has since been revealed to me that his pacemaker was hacked, causing it to go haywire and kill him.”
“Wait a sec.” Joe madly flipped through his well-used notepad. “Yes, here, Harper’s pacemaker was made by Teason Medical.”
That was news to me. “Teason Medical of Troika Star?”
“You know about Troika?”
“I do. They own a house near the train tracks where Finley was killed. What do you know about Troika Star?”
“We’ll talk about that in a minute.” He made a circular motion with his hand. “Let’s get back to Harper. You said you were with him?”
“I provided CPR. A useless exercise, I found out later.” I shook my head sadly.
“I’ve an idea why Harper,” Joe continued, “but I can’t fathom Finley. Harper had been meddling in the drug industry for the past year. Turning more and more against the large companies. He even voted in favor of the—”
“—’Buy Your Pills from Canada’ bill,” I finished for him.
“Yes. Over the years, Harper’s taken thousands from the drug companies, although on his last campaign there was a distinct fall off.”
“You think they saw him as a traitor?” I asked.
“That’s my guess,” Joe confirmed.
“They saw him as a danger,” Nick grumbled. “He’d been gaining support for the legislation he wanted to introduce.”
Joe’s gaze speared Ross. “What legislation?”
Nick shifted. “A new government pharmaceutical price modulating bill.”
Surprise flashed across his features. “Harper?”
“What’s more, Finley was in on it as well.” Rodrigo supplied.
“Yes, but we don’t know if they actually killed Finley. The final reports aren’t in yet.” I sipped my iced tea.
“According to my source at the NTSB,” the reporter explained, “the crossing gates were tampered with. And the ME found remnants of ketamine in the driver’s system.”
Ketamine! A minute detail Mike failed to tell me.
“Ketamine? Isn’t that the date rape drug?” Rodrigo asked.
“Yes, you are correct, my friend.” I continued to watch Joe as I spoke. “What about the congressman? Why didn’t he get out of the car? Did they tie him down? Drug him too?”
“The congressman’s blood alcohol level was point two-five,” Joe responded.
I whistled and directed my question at Nick. “Was the congressman a heavy drinker?”
He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Only socially.”
“So, what? They force fed him drinks?”
“Or just gave him a couple of really strong ones.” Rodrigo chewed the side of his mouth.
“Wow, I never knew Karen had it in her. A real black widow, that one.” I directed the cutting jibe at Nick.
“She didn’t. If it weren’t for you, the congressman would still be alive!” he spat back at me.
I reared back, placing a hand to my chest. “Me? How on earth can you blame me?”
“Everything was fine. After Harper passed, Finley gave up on his grand plans to stick it to the pharmaceutical industry. Then you came along with all your talk about honoring his grandchild. Your hoity-toity speech in the hotel room actually got to him. The old man, one of the most level-headed conservatives in Congress, was swayed by your ridiculously passionate call to arms. Making a difference.” Nick snorted. “He latched on like a tick ready to feed. They knew he had influence and feared he’d wield it to pass the bill.”
“And knowing this, you ran to Karen. To what? Tell Mommy?” I taunted nastily.
“I mentioned it might be back on. But it was Finley who did it. I heard him talking to Ari over the phone that afternoon.”
“Ari? Ari, who?” I held up my palms in confusion.
“Ari Punjab.”
“Ari is head of R and D at Comstock Medical. They’re based in New Jersey,” Rodrigo explained to Joe with a smug smile.
“I think they invited him down to the house to try and negotiate with him. Get him to back off.” Nick fidgeted with his spoon, tapping it on the table.
“And when he didn’t . . .”
Nick tossed the spoon aside and shook his head.
Joe shifted forward. “So, let me get this straight, the murders were a conspiracy, to stop the possibility of a bill?”
“Finley had the votes. At least he said he had them. That’s what he told Ari.” Nick rubbed his eyes.
“Even so,” I scoffed, “it’s such a stretch. I’m having a real difficult time reconciling killing two members of Congress over a bill that had yet to be proposed. There’s got to be something more. Joe, what has your investigation found?”
“Actually, it makes complete sense, and it’s the piece I’ve been missing.” Joe went back to his notepad. “Last year, prescription drugs brought in almost three hundred billion in domestic sales alone. Only fifty billion in international exports. America is funding the pharmaceutical industry, and it will only increase as the baby boomers continue to age. Too many European and Asian governments manage pricing, and America is footing the bill. If we pass price controls, the industry profits will shrivel by billions.”
“I told you. Remember, at the theater?” Rodrigo put some more appetizers on his plate. “Seriously, you all should try some of this. The garlic mussels are to die for.”
I ignored Rodrigo’s jibe and his offer of food. “I hadn’t read the latest numbers; they are bigger than I thought.”
“Back to the conspiracy theory here; we’re saying it was Karen, Ari, and someone from Teason Medical? They are Troika Star? Why them? What’s the connection?” Rodrigo slurped up a snail.
“Hardly.” Joe tapped the pen against his notebook. “It’s more.”
“How many more?” I asked.
“Troika Star is a conglomerate of five pharmaceutical companies and includes multiple executives at those companies.”
All eyes turned to the reporter.
“And you can prove
that?” Nick chimed in.
“Karen’s flash drive provides bank account numbers and screenshots of an account with regular deposits from J & P, Comstock, Orlando, Teason, and Maceret. The account has over forty-five million in it.”
Rivkin’s words came back to me— “tip of the iceberg” and “follow the money.” All five of those companies fell into the top ten pharmaceutical companies in the world.
Joe continued, “There were over two hundred emails outlining a strategy to put politicians in place at the highest levels who would enact and continue to uphold laws that maximize company and industry profits.”
We digested the information with varied expressions of shock.
“My God, how many years has it been going on?” I asked.
“So far, we’ve found emails dating back to 2008.”
“Ten years?” Nick said in disbelief.
“They can’t all be a part of the conspiracy to the assassinations.” I rubbed my temples. “Someone’s conscience would have gotten the better of them.”
“One of them did,” Rodrigo said, “Karen.”
“True,” I muttered.
“I’m still culling through the emails. From what I can tell, Karen, Ari, Jamichael Teason, Brett Culligan at Orlando, and Vanya Didi at Maceret were put in charge of the fund.”
“Oh my god!” Rodrigo cried. “I just realized who the guy in the Caddy was, Jamichael Teason. I remember him from a fundraiser I attended last year.”
“Did you know?” I aimed my accusing question at Nick.
“No,” he denied.
I delivered a skeptical frown.
“Look, I knew, before Karen took the job at HHS, that she was under tremendous pressure to make sure J & P was as profitable as it could be. She always referenced her stockholders, though. As any executive does. I only began to realize that she was mixed up in something more after Harper. And then . . . when Finley . . .” His shoulders sank with guilt.
I left him alone, returning my attention to Joe. “Did the deposits come from company accounts or private accounts?”
“Almost all of them are shell companies that can be traced back to pharmaceutical executives or the company itself. However, there were three from private accounts. One from Ari. One from Jamichael Teason’s father, Michael. . . .”
