.05 and those asterisks. Those are the significant values. Wherever there’s an asterisk or two, there’s a statistically significant value.”
It must have been my labored breathing that gave me away. Reed put down his papers and smiled at me.
“You never took statistics, did you?”
I hung my head.
“Or multivariate research design?”
My chin was on my chest.
“Okay. Here’s the mega-maxi compressed version for men of action. The purpose of controlled research is to reject, if possible, the null hypothesis.” Reed waited to see if my eyeballs crossed, then went on. “Which is whether a difference between groups, in this case the drugs and the placebo, is due to chance rather than an actual difference in effectiveness. Okay, scientists pick cut-off values that they feel are significantly greater than chance, to determine which results are valid. Here it’s >.05. The difference between a drug and the placebo has to be greater than what would occur at the .05 level or one in twenty cases to be statistically significant as a sign of the efficacy of the drug.”
I nodded.
“Okay. Let’s go to pages thirteen through twenty-four. This is what’s on the second set of files. It’s almost identical to what’s on the first set. Except for two things. Look at the last page. See where there are those asterisks for the data on group two from the third week on? Now flip to page twenty-four. No asterisks. I went back to the raw data and compared them. The data in these files have been degraded by ten percent across the board. The end result of a statistical analysis is no difference between groups.”
“English, please, Reed. I’m bleeding from the ears.”
“Right. English. The data in the first set of files says that compound two has a statistically significant effect. The data on the second group of files says that no compound has a statistically significant effect. Now remember that doesn’t mean clinical effectiveness, just statistical. Compound two is better than a placebo, or any of the others, and it’s not by chance. But it may not make you better.”
“So what’s the point?”
“The point is you focus your efforts on number two. You refine it. Then run studies with varying dosages until you hit one that’s clinically effective. That’s your therapeutic dosage. If you don’t have horrendous side effects, you have a marketable, effective, safe drug.”
“So which of the files is the real data?”
“Why thank you for asking. Flip to page twenty-five. This is where it gets interesting.”
“You’re really enjoying yourself, aren’t you?” I said.
“Absolutely. This last stuff is not data, per se. This first page is an activity log. Anybody who wanted to get into this data base has to be an approved user. Now my friends tell me that medical research security is generally horrendous, not at all like military or financial systems. So, what we’re looking at is unusual. Did the project have some troubles? Virus threats?”
“Yeah. So what’s unusual?” I sipped the coffee and took a bite out of the sandwich.
“Well, they’ve got a callback system. You need an approved phone number to get on the system. You punch it in and the computer calls you back at the number to confirm that it’s actually the approved line. Then it lets you enter your identification number. If that’s approved, you’re in. They must do a lot of data collecting and so on with modems, so these doctors can phone it in from their offices.
“Anyway, column one is phone numbers. Column two is user identification numbers. See, it’s the Social Security numbers. Then the date and time they logged on and off. The last columns are cpu time, I/O amounts, disk-space usage, connect time, resource utilization. This is from a big system running a lot of projects. The company would use these figures to bill people by department or project for their computer usage.
“Okay, our boy, Terry Onslow, went through this activity log and he got curious about one person. Look halfway down. Phone number 555-1097, then the I.D. number. He did a sort of all the files that person had been into, and guess what he found?”
“Reed, please?”
“Okay. He found two directories for this I.D. number. Look at the first. The I.D. number is the same, but it’s a different phone number. This directory is a secretary’s. Tons of correspondence. Mostly word-processing stuff. But there’s also the 555–1097 number. It’s also logged out to the same I.D. number and has a directory. But there’s only a few files in it.”
I flicked the paper. “This stuff?”
“You got it right the first time.”
“Okay, Onslow was on the computer after hours. He was helping the doctors load their data, running the weekly analyses of what was already there, and he sees something. What?”
“Look at the time and utilization for this person. Way beyond anyone else logging in data in this project. More than a secretary would need. She’s using lots of disk space and storage, lots of CPU time. So he goes to see what she’s doing. Maybe he’s bored and curious, or he takes his job seriously. Who knows? He finds these directories. One makes sense, one doesn’t. He punches up the funny one, and if he’s been doing the data analyses for this project it wouldn’t be hard for him to see the difference.”
“I’ll bet you your Redskins tickets that the data everybody else is looking at is the insignificant version.”
“So they’ve got a drug that works, or might, and they don’t know it.”
“Right again, Sherlock. They’ll run the study to its conclusion and then scrap it.”
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine scenarios for the data. A secretary and Onslow were in it together? No, why would he need her? He was perfectly positioned to do it all by himself.
So Onslow caught her at something. There goes my insider theory, too. He wasn’t in on it. At least not initially.
That leaves blackmail gone sour, or Onslow knew too much and had to be silenced. But why a secretary? A disgruntled employee acting on her own? What’s the motive? Maybe someone else bought her? Who?
I thought about the asset search on Onslow. He wasn’t going to get rich squeezing a secretary. No, she was either the key herself or she knew who was. Either way she was a step closer to the center than Onslow. I had a hard time with a secretary hiring a killer to retrieve the disk, not for herself at least. But she could peddle it to another lab. That’s where the money would be.
When all else fails, Rocky used to say, look for love or money, or better yet both. The twin engines for almost all crimes: empty pockets and broken hearts.
X smelled of money. Big money, to take the chances he did. No, the secretary wasn’t the end of the chain. There was at least one somebody in the shadows behind her.
I opened my eyes. “I’m sorry, Reed. I was trying to see where all this took me. Thanks, man. You’ve really helped a lot. I owe you one. A big one.”
“True, and I fervently hope that I don’t ever have to use it.”
“I’ve got to run. There’s things I need to do with this information.”
“Sure. Just don’t forget these.” Reed handed me two disks.
“What’s this?”
“A backup. People are getting killed for this thing, remember. Put the second one in a safe place. You might need it.”
“Good point.” I pocketed them both and slipped the printouts into an envelope Reed gave me.
24
I sat in my car and dialed the BMR number from the disk.
“Sally Boszik’s desk.”
“Sally Boszik, please.”
“I’m sorry. She’s not at her desk. Can I take a message?”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll call back.”
I called information and got her home number and address. That wasn’t the 555 number, either. Okay, it’s not her home number or her office. Where does she call from?
I dialed the number directly. What the hell. Maybe an answering machine would say, “Corporate Espionage Services. I’m sorry all of our spies are busy now. If you’ll leave your alias an
d the number of a pay phone near you, we’ll get right back to you.” Actually, it just rang ten times and I hung up.
I called Kelly at the office.
“Franklin Investigations.”
“Good morning, Kelly. It’s Leo. How’s it going with Frank Martell? Go ahead, tell me it’s awful and you can’t wait for me to come back.”
“Boy, am I glad you called.”
“What is it?”
“We got a strange call last night, and again this morning.”
McBreakfast hardened in my gut and I exhaled slowly. “Go ahead, what was it?”
“It was a man. Both times. Last night, he called and left a number where you could call him back. This morning he called again.”
“What did he say?”
“Just a second. I wrote it all down. I didn’t say a thing, I just listened.”
“You did the right thing. Read it to me.”
“He said, ‘I want to talk to Leo Haggerty.’ I told him you weren’t in the office and he said he’d call back at noon today. It was a matter of life and death. He wouldn’t leave his name.”
“Okay. At noon when he calls, put him on hold, get me on my beeper, and I’ll call in and make it a conference call.”
“Okay. Is there anything else you want done? Frank wanted to know.”
“Just remember to set up your recorder on that line and tape the conversation. I do need something right now, though.”
“Okay.”
“Go get the reverse directories for the metropolitan area. I need an address for a phone number.”
Kelly came back and asked for the number. I gave it to her and held on as she flipped through the books.
“No entry. Could be a new line, or it’s unlisted and unpublished.”
“I’ve got a feeling that it’s the latter. Okay, thanks. I’ll be waiting for your call at noon.”
“Right. Oh, one other thing, Leo.”
“Yeah.”
“Hurry back. Frank has all the pencils on your desk arranged by length.”
“Soon. Soon.”
I put the phone down and took a few minutes to concoct another adventure for my wandering psychotic patient. Then I dialed Directory Assistance.
“What city, please?”
“I don’t know. Fairfax County.”
“The name?”
“Uh, I don’t know. My name is Frank Martell. My sister just called me. She was hysterical but she wouldn’t tell me where she was. All I’ve got is the phone number. I need the address so I can go get her or …”
“What is the number, sir?”
“Oh, it’s 555–1097.”
After a couple of seconds, the voice returned. “I’m sorry, sir, that number is unlisted and unpublished. I can’t give you that information.”
“But it could be an emergency. She sounded awful. I’ve heard her like this before. It’s usually right before she has another breakdown.”
Calmly, evenly, she said. “I’m sorry, sir. If it’s an emergency, call 911. Have the police contact us. I need a court order before I can release this information.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll call 911. Thank you.”
I replaced the phone. So it was a Fairfax County number. Sally Boszik could have two numbers to her home. No law against that. I checked my watch. Still enough time to call Ms. Boszik and rattle her cage before my noon meeting.
“Hello. Dr. Carleton’s office.”
“Sally Boszik, please.”
“Speaking.”
“Hello, Ms. Boszik, we have a mutual friend, Terry Onslow.”
“I’m sorry, but I hardly know Terry Onslow. Who is this?”
“A friend, Sally. Terry’s out of the picture now. You’ll be dealing with me. But the deal is a little different. What say we get together to discuss it? How about tonight?”
Her “Fuck off, you creep,” was punctuated with the crash of the receiver onto its cradle. The echo felt like a bayonet in the ear.
Sally Boszik didn’t rattle easily. Round two would start tonight, say about eleven.
I stretched in the car and checked my watch. Ten of twelve. I scanned the car’s interior. Home, Sweet Home. I’d spent more time in this exoskeleton than I had anywhere else, even the motel room. I hadn’t seen Sam in days, or talked to Randi, or seen a friend, or been home or to my office. I owned nothing but some clothes, a gun, and a car with a phone. This was not the life I thought I’d have. Not living in my car, by myself, at age forty. Of course, this is temporary, I told myself. I’ll catch this shithead and it’ll be over. Everything will go back to normal. Just the way it was. What if I don’t catch this guy? How long do I do this?
My beeper went off. It was Kelly at the office. I called her back.
“Leo, it’s the guy. I’ve got him on hold.”
“Okay, connect me through and run the tape. When we’re done, send it to Rocky to hold onto until I return to the office.”
“Okay, Leo.”
She made the connection and I spoke first.
“This is Leo Haggerty. Who am I talking to?”
“Don’t fuck with me, asshole. You know who it is.”
“No, I don’t. Who is this?”
“Cut the shit. You’ve got something of mine and I want it back.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Jesus, that’s lame. You ripped off that moron, Snipes. I want the key back, Haggerty. Now.”
“I don’t have it. Snipes is lying to you. He’s still got it.”
“Nice try, but I think not. Snipes knows better than to fuck with me. If I put the word out that he’s ripped me off, there’s no place he can hide. Besides, I know where he is. I’m getting tired of looking for you. So you give me back the key, and hey, we’re even. You fuck this up for me and I will hunt you down. How long do you think you can keep hiding, you gutless cock-sucker? What you gonna do? You gonna quit work? Sell your house? Leave town? Even if you do, you’ll be looking over your shoulder the whole time. And I’ll be there, and one day it’ll happen. I won’t do it like I did your buddy. I wasn’t going to fuck with him. That was business. But you, you’re pissing me off.
“How long do you think that honey of yours will stay put? She’ll come by the house one day, because she left a dress there or something. And then I’m gonna have some serious fun with her. She’s a stone fox, that bitch. So, what’ll it be, Haggerty?”
“All right, all right. You win. I’ve got it. I mean, I don’t have it but I know where it is. I can get it. I just need some time.”
“Attaboy, Haggerty. I knew you had it. How much time do you need?”
“Uh, forty-eight hours. I can have it for you then. We’ll set up an exchange. Whatever.”
“Yeah, whatever. Okay. You’ve got forty-eight hours. I’ll call you at nine, day after tomorrow. Don’t fuck this up. I don’t give anybody a second chance.”
“No. I won’t. I don’t know what we were thinking of. I just want to give it back to you. Get this thing over with. You’re right, I can’t take this any longer.”
“You know, Haggerty, Snipes was right about you.”
“What do you mean?”
“He said your buddy was the balls of the outfit, but I could reason with you. I guess he was right. You got forty-eight hours.”
Think what you want, shithead. Forty-eight hours is all you’ve got, too.
25
I picked up a jumbo 5-way and some garlic bread at Skyline and took them back to the motel. I punched on the TV and sat down at the desk to eat. The big story on all the local news was the mayor’s arrest on a drug charge. And this only a day after he’d announced that he was winning the war on drug-related violence.
As usual, I speckled myself while I ate. Never could get that chili-coated spaghetti to behave. When I was done, I bagged all the debris and tossed it in the trashcan. Out came my address book for some more notes.
Was my mystery man a member of the Fourth Reich? His comments about Ha
rold and the consequences of ripping him off led to that conclusion. If not them, then maybe another neo-Nazi group. Harold hadn’t been entirely truthful with me. This was where I could use Arbaugh or Rhodasson’s help. Take the description and put it into their computers, spit out a name and a history.
I closed up the notebook and emptied Reed’s envelope. I tore off the first page of the printout and put the rest of it and one disk back into the envelope. On that sheet I wrote a concise narrative of everything I knew and addressed it to my lawyer, Walter O’Neil. In the event of my disappearance or death, he was to convey all the data to the police. I sealed up the envelope and set it aside. First thing tomorrow, I’d mail it to him.
My next step was to increase the pressure on Sally Boszik. But that wouldn’t happen until later tonight.
I flipped the channel on the TV and watched a couple of music videos for the thinking-impaired, gave up, and turned it off.
My beeper went off and rescued me from myself. It was Sandy’s number. I called back and got her on the line.
“Sandy, it’s Leo. Did Sam just call me?”
“Yeah, hold on. Let me get her.”
“Hello.” Her voice was soft, the word tentative.
“Hello, Sam. I tried to reach you yesterday.”
“I know. That’s why I called.”
“I’m glad you did. I miss you terribly.”
“I miss you too, Leo.”
“How are you doing?”
“Okay, I guess. I don’t know. Mostly I sit and think. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I’m numb.”
My spectrum of emotion was enraged to numb. I didn’t think she’d want to hear that.
“I spoke to that policeman again, Rhodasson.”
“Oh, did he call you?”
“No. I don’t think he knew where I was. I called him. I told him everything I told you in the hospital. He said it was helpful. They already have some leads. He’s pretty sure they’ll be able to find out who the guy is.”
“I see. Well, that’s good news.”
“What’s the matter, Leo? You don’t sound like you think it’s good news.”
“No, it is. I guess I don’t want to rely on the police, that’s all.”
A Fistful of Empty Page 10
