“I’m sorry, Wick. I know you’re busy. I didn’t think you’d do it if it wasn’t business.”
“Oh, it is business, Leo. I could just as easily bill you for a consultation instead of collecting a commission for a sale. But this is fun for me, so there’s no charge.”
“Thanks, Wick. It won’t happen again.” He’d graciously downplayed the point. I’m glad I’m not a friend of mine. I couldn’t afford it.
“Well, anyway, the prospectus was withdrawn a few weeks ago. No reason given, just withdrawn.”
“Do you have any ideas?”
“Well, there’s a couple of likely reasons. One, a private buyer has approached them. Some sort of takeover or buyout. If one of their competitors has the money, it may be prudent to absorb them now for a set price rather than lose a portion of the market to them from now on, or have to do it later for more money.
“A second reason would be that the company is having problems with its new project, or that the market in general has bottomed out for its product. There was no investor interest, so they withdrew the prospectus.”
“How do you read it, Wick?”
“The biomedical field is very unstable these days. The FDA scandal with the generics has spooked a lot of people. They’re worried about lawsuits consuming profits. This is not a good time for a small firm with shaky or nonexistent capital to try to interest investors. AIDS research is even trickier, even though that’s where the profit potential is greatest right now. There’s a tug-of-war over the way research is being conducted that makes this a terribly volatile and unpredictable area.”
“Who’s doing the tugging?”
“On one hand, there’s the activists who want government procedures and requirements changed so that drugs can be made more quickly available to people with AIDS. They want the FDA to tolerate the idea of human guinea pigs if it’ll accelerate the discovery of an effective treatment or vaccine.
“On the other side is the FDA, which is concerned about releasing medications that do nothing or are lethal to people. They don’t want to give up control of the safety and efficacy of drugs.”
“How does all this affect the drug companies?”
“The result for the drug companies is rapidly changing performance criteria for FDA approval into the market. Who’s closer to a breakthrough is always changing because the rules are always changing. On top of that, the potential rewards are now even greater.”
“I don’t follow.”
“As the FDA gives up control and lets medications into the market more easily, they lose their control over pricing. In the past, they could say that without a price cap of X dollars per unit, there was no approval. Now, with drugs being released that are essentially still in the investigatory phase, they don’t know what’s going to turn out to be effective. Drugs are being tested in the market, not before. A price cap after approval is like closing the barn door after the horse has bolted. Whoever gets out there first with anything that’s at all effective and less awful than the disease can make a fortune.”
“So the bottom line is that AIDS victims may get a drug that helps them sooner than before, but they might not be able to pay for it?”
“You got it, Leo.”
28
I drove over to Palmetto Research Corporation. They had the twelfth floor in a large office building. I found a space where I could watch the front door of the building and backed into it. I checked my tank. Almost full. Then I called Kelly.
“I need some help on a surveillance. Who’s in the office?”
“Burdette’s here, finishing a report.” Burdette was less than no help. He was the worst driver I’d ever seen. He thought you lined up the dotted lines with your hood ornament.
“I’m in Tysons. Anybody live out here that I can call?”
“Let me check. Hold on … Del Winslow lives near you. Here’s his number.”
Del was a hardworking guy of modest talents. His mother must have had footlights in mind when she named him Delmarva, after the eastern shore peninsula. So far he was more Del than Marva-lous, but he could execute a two-man tail.
Fortunately he was home when I called and he drove into the lot ten minutes later. He sauntered over and I rolled down the window.
Del was six feet two, maybe 140 pounds, capped off with a diamond stud in his ear, sidewalls, and a flat top. He wore two-toned shoes, pleated chocolate slacks, and a pink shirt.
“Mr. Haggerty, what’s happening?”
“We’re happening, Del. I’m going to make a call to someone in there and hopefully annoy her enough to come running out, jump in her car, and lead me to someone I very much want to meet.”
“This ‘her,’ what’s she look like?”
“Short. A bit heavy. Blond hair, page-boy, glasses. A look on her face like someone spit in her soup.”
“Car?”
“Don’t know.”
“How do you want to handle it?”
“I’ll be lead car. You follow. Consider it a hot tail. If she does anything funny—last-minute turns, a sudden park job, U-turns, whatever—I’ll break off and go parallel for a couple of blocks. Then fall in behind you. I don’t want to lose this lady.”
“What if she spots us and hightails it? Any hot pursuit?”
“Down, Del. If we’re blown, she won’t go anywhere near the person I’m looking for. If we’re spotted, just call it off and go home. Beside, hot pursuit is from La-La Land. We miss her today, we come back tomorrow. We get them with patience, not firepower.”
“You know, Mr. Haggerty, this p.i. business is not what I thought it would be.”
“You disappointed?”
“I guess so.”
“Don’t be. Nothing’s as good as it’s cracked up to be. Except sex. Sometimes.”
“That’s not real encouraging. I was going to make a career of this. Delmarva Winslow, the famous shamus.”
“You know the Pinkerton symbol, Del?”
“Yeah, the Eye. Ever vigilant. It sees all, knows all.”
“Right. Well, the eye that sees all also sees what it doesn’t like and stays open anyway.”
Del looked puzzled, like my dog when as a boy I gave her a command like “Roll over, lie down, sit, paw, stay.” She was sure that I didn’t mean that string of non sequiturs, and that I’d soon realize it and do the right thing, like get a biscuit.
“Sure, Mr. Haggerty, whatever. I was just asking if we could do a little hot pursuit.” Del walked back to his car, looked over his shoulder at me, and shook his head.
Once Del was ready, I called Palmetto Research Corporation.
“Good afternoon. Palmetto Research.”
“Sylvia Francis, please.”
“Hold.”
Ten seconds later I met Dr. Sylvia Francis.
“Yes.”
“Hello, Dr. Francis, my name is Arbaugh. I’m a detective with the County Police. I wonder if I might meet with you today?”
Nothing.
“Uh, Dr. Francis, are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here. I was just, uh, checking my calendar. May I ask what this is in reference to?”
“We’re looking into the disappearance of Terence Onslow. He worked at Biomedical Research. I understand you were previously employed there. Let me see here,” I paused as if perusing some notes, “yes, you both worked on the same project, Dr. Schatzkin’s study. You were an investigator and he worked in the computer section. Is that right?”
“Yes, Lieutenant. That’s right.”
“So you knew Mr. Onslow?”
“Yes, but only slightly. He came on just before I left. I really can’t imagine what I could tell you.”
“Let me be the judge of that. People know a lot more than they think. It’s just a matter of asking the right questions.”
“Can we do this by phone? I’m quite busy. I’ve got research of my own to attend to.”
“No. I’m sorry, I have to do this in person. By the way, what kind of research are you in
volved in?”
“Is that important, Lieutenant?”
“I have no idea, Doctor. Seems to me you can’t tell whether something is important until after you know what it is. How it squares with everything else you know. Isn’t research like that? You collect all the data, but you don’t know what it means until it’s all in?”
“Yes, that’s true. To answer your question, I’m studying a variety of drug combinations to see if we can block the transmission of the AIDS virus to the fetus of infected mothers. Some of the drugs that are available now may not be effective after exposure to the virus or after the infection appears but may block the initial invasion of the virus genes into host cells. Does that help you, detective?”
“Like I said, I don’t know. I’m just a researcher, like you. What you’re describing sounds real important, though. If you found some combination that worked, you’d have a vaccine, wouldn’t you?”
“Technically, no. We’d have a preventive treatment for a portion of the population at risk, the children of infected mothers. From there we’d have a much better sense of how to go about creating a vaccine.”
“Good luck, sounds like there’s a Nobel Prize in there somewhere. I appreciate how valuable your time is, but do you think we might be able to meet sometime today?”
“I’m sorry. That’s really not possible. I’m in the lab all day today.”
“Okay. How about tomorrow? You pick the time. I’ll work around your schedule.”
“Tomorrow’s not good either. Really. Are you sure this is necessary?”
“I’m afraid it is. If tomorrow’s not good, just tell me when. I’m at your disposal.”
“Oh, all right. How long will it take?”
“I don’t know. Thirty minutes, maybe a little longer.”
“Okay, how about five o’clock today, after the lab staff goes home?”
“Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be at your office at five. You might want to jot down some notes. Anything you can remember about Onslow. I find that helps me organize my thoughts. Might speed up the interview.”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary. I can’t even remember what he looked like.”
“Funny you should say that. That’s what everyone says about him. A harmless little guy. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Yes. Goodbye, Lieutenant.”
“Goodbye, Doctor.”
I hung up and checked my watch.
She was pretty nervy. I hoped that I’d gotten under her skin enough to make her contact her partner and find out how deep a hole she was in.
Ten minutes and forty-eight seconds later she came striding out of the building. She slid into a blue-gray Mercedes coupe, slammed the door, gunned the engine, and sped off out of the lot. She was under a lot of stress and I knew for a fact that she hadn’t slept well last night.
29
I followed her car as it slalomed down the hill, across Leesburg Pike, and then toward Old Courthouse Road. She wasn’t concerned about being tailed. I hoped she was angry and better yet, scared stupid. At Chain Bridge Road, she slewed right as the light went from yellow to red. I followed less dramatically. We headed into Vienna. I picked up the phone and called Del.
“Yeah?”
“I want you to pass her, Del, but don’t get into the same lane. Keep her in your rear-view mirror. We’re heading into Vienna and it’s a traffic light every hundred feet. The way she’s driving, I’d have to be in her trunk to make every light. If she turns off Maple, stop in the next block, call me, and tell me which way she went.”
“I’m on it.” With that, he sped past me. I half expected to hear a hearty high-ho silver.
We flew past the residential areas, but she began to slow down as we approached the commercial strip through the heart of town. Fortunately, getting pulled over for speeding was not on the agenda. We crawled through town from light to light. Past Beulah Road, then Park Street, which bisects the town. At Nutley, she turned left. Off to the races, I figured. I-66 was two miles away. Instead, she turned right on Courthouse and then left into Nottaway Park. I followed down the winding entrance to the parking lot. After ramming the Mercedes into a slot, she jumped out and slammed the door. She stalked off, pounding her steps like she had an enemy lashed to each shoe. I found a spot and backed in. I watched her march off toward the pavilion in the woods. Del pulled into the lot, drove past me, and backed into a spot. I zipped up my coat, reached into the back seat for a hat, and found my Falls Church Flatliners Cap. It’s a group dedicated to the belief that any activity above the brain stem is hazardous to your health. We got together to eat beef jerky and corn nuts and one-up each other with obscure books and films. The ones waiting to vault into cult status, but now sitting in the anteroom of the merely notorious.
I slipped on a pair of non-corrective glasses, got out of the car, and sauntered over to Del. He rolled down his window.
“What now?”
“You got a ball with you?”
“Sure, the trunk’s full of them. What do you want?”
“How about a Frisbee?”
“Yeah, why?”
“We’re going to play fetch. C’mon, let’s go.”
Del uncoiled from the car, opened his trunk, and handed me the Frisbee.
“Let’s go over to the open field there. We’ll start close together and just play catch. Start to back up a little bit at a time and when we’re far enough apart, I want you to wing one into the woods. Try to get it near the pavilion.”
“So I toss it and you fetch.”
“See, isn’t being a detective exciting work?”
“Be still, my beating heart.”
“Before we do this, why don’t you take off your tie, roll up your sleeves, try to look a little more casual?”
“No sweat.”
Del and I wandered over to the grassy area, casually tossing the Frisbee back and forth. Every once in a while I turned so I could get a look at Sylvia. She was seated at a picnic table under the pavilion. Her legs were crossed and her angry foot kicked an invisible enemy.
A few minutes passed and Del and I were now far enough apart for an innocent overthrow. He wound up and sent one skimming high over my head.
As I loped after it, he called out, “Sorry about that.”
The Frisbee was in the underbrush off to the left of the pavilion. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a second figure at the table. I unzipped my jacket and shrugged my holster forward a bit.
I bent down to pick up the Frisbee and turned casually toward the table. Sylvia Francis was pacing back and forth, arms held tight across her chest. She spoke in a ferocious whisper. I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone of rancid contempt was unmistakable. Her target was a middle-aged black woman with short gray hair. Silently absorbing the rage, her shoulders sagged and she wrung her hands in distress. Her head kept bobbing up and down, the bitter yes of a chronic victim when a long-overdue cruelty has finally arrived. Sylvia Francis was telling her partner just how far up a certain creek they both were and just how far away the nearest paddle was.
30
I strolled back to Del and pretended to show him a defect in the Frisbee.
“Let’s move back to our cars. This isn’t the meeting I was hoping for. We’ll pick up the surveillance when she leaves,” I said.
We ambled down the slight decline and passed through the notched log fence. At Del’s car, we leaned against the body and chatted about the Redskins. Every once in a while I scanned the woods and confirmed that the two women were still there. Francis continued her pacing, interspersed with what I guessed were palms-up pleadings to the other to understand the enormity of their predicament. Most of these were addressed to the top of her head as she slumped in her seat.
I was pretty sure the other woman was Fanny Shoate, the head of Palmetto Research. Next order of business was proving it.
When Francis stormed out of the woods, I went to my car and timed my ignition and departure with hers.
We mov
ed briskly but not wildly through Vienna. From Nutley, she turned left onto Tapawingo and followed it over to Park. There she went left on Cedar, then left on Labbe Lane. I lived three blocks away.
I followed her past her house and pulled in four doors down. Once she was inside her house, I called Del, who was idling on Cedar Lane.
“She’s home. I want someone to sit on her all night. I’ll start. Why don’t you come back, say around eleven, and we’ll switch off.”
“Sure. You gonna watch her from there?”
“No, I’m too conspicuous. It’s a dead-end street so we can use one of the nearby office lots.”
I pulled out of my spot and cruised up to the main street. A three-story office building to the left had a lot with a clear view of her house. I drove into it, found a spot I liked, and cut the engine. Del pulled in alongside me.
“Anything you want before I go home?” he asked.
“Yeah. Here’s a ten. There’s a Seven-Eleven up the street. Get me a large coffee and two of their biggest sandwiches. I don’t care what they are.”
“Be right back.”
When Del returned with dinner, I took it through the window and put it on the seat next to me. Then I eased back my seat so I could stretch out some.
At five o’clock, Francis still hadn’t left for her meeting with Arbaugh. I called her office, identified myself as Arbaugh, and asked for her. Her secretary told me that she had taken ill and gone home early. I left a message that I would call again tomorrow. I left a message with Kelly and Wick Davis to get me a description of Fanny Shoate.
Four hours later, I was in Flatliner heaven. Barely awake, with just enough juice from my crocodile brain to keep my lids up and register any major changes in the world. Only the bare essentials. Nothing gaudy like a thought.
My dashboard clock read 10:15 when she came out the front door with a bag in each hand. She set them down at the curb and hurried back inside. Two green plastic garbage bags. I eyed them as eagerly as a kid finding Santa’s sack unattended. Ah, garbage, sweet garbage. I was rapturous. What possibilities in those Hefty Cinch-Sacks. One last chance to yoke Francis to Onslow and to her mercenary. One last chance at a piece of hard evidence to complete the circuit. To light up Dr. Sylvia Francis. If there were riches in that muck, I would have some control over tomorrow’s events. If not, then I’d make the best of them I could, but with drastically curtailed options.
A Fistful of Empty Page 12
