Pot of Gold

by Judith Michael

  they're accusing me of mur—attempted murder. I'm all alone here, Dad! You've got to come down and help me!"

  The man and woman finished their song and the party guests applauded. The couple began another song. "Dad.-^ Dad!"

  'Tm not coming down," Quentin said tonelessly. "You got yourself into this; you'll have to get yourself out. You can't come running to me like a college kid; you're a grown man. You're on your own; you're not my son anymore."

  The music was cut off as Quentin hung up. Brix started shivering. He held the telephone to his ear for another moment, trying to think.

  "How soon will he be here.?" one of the officers asked.

  Brix hung up and turned around. "He won't. Fucking son of a bitch!" he burst out. Suddenly he realized he was about to cry. Christ, he couldn't cry! He sat with his head down, fighting back the tears that rose in his throat.

  He couldn't let them think he was weak. He couldn't let them think he was stupid. He was smarter than all of them put together, and that included his father. He'd take care of himself. He didn't need anyone.

  "We didn't finish with those rights I read you," Sergeant Janowski said. "Do you want me to read them again.'"'

  "What for.?" Brix growled. He was still pushing back tears and getting himself together.

  "We have to know if you understand them. Did you understand them.?"

  "For Christ's sake, a baby could understand them!"

  "Then"—he was reading from the card again—"keeping your rights in mind, do you wish to waive your right to remain silent and answer our questions.?"

  Brix gave an angry bark of laughter. "I've been answering your questions for half an hour."

  "But you can stop anytime," Detective Fasching said. "You can remain silent."

  Brix shrugged.

  "Then sign here." Sergeant Janowski placed a form in front of Brix printed with the six rights and a space at the bottom for his signature and the names of witnesses.

  Brix looked at it. He shouldn't sign anything, he thought. But then he glanced at the list of six rights, and thought, what the

  hell, they didn't have anything to do with him. They were for criminals. They were for people who didn't know anything. They were for people who weren't as smart as he was.

  He scrawled his signature at the bottom and made a slashing check mark beside the "Yes" below the question about waiving his rights. "Now what.'"'

  "You can still call a lawyer," Detective Fasching said.

  Brix shook his head.

  "You're sure.''" Sergeant Janowski asked. "Even though you signed this, you could still—"

  "I don't want a goddamn lawyer," Brix shouted. "Stop dragging it out. Get it over with!"

  "Mr. Eiger does not want a lawyer," Detective Fasching said, and then the two officers began taking turns, like a vaudeville team tossing a ball back and forth. "He has refused to call one. That's right, Mr. Eiger.'"'

  "Right, right, right. Why the fuck can't you just leave it alone.^"

  "Because we're not through. You haven't told us what you dissolved the Halcion in."

  "I didn't dissolve it in anything, for Christ's sake; I didn't do anything!"

  "Then how did she get three milligrams of Halcion in her stomach.''"

  "I told you, I—" Brix stopped as a thought came to him. He wondered why he hadn't thought of it earlier. "How do you know it was three milligrams.-^ If Emma told you, then you ought to know that she took it. Nobody could know how much she took."

  "The doctors know; they've had experience at this. It's an estimate, Brix, but it's probably pretty close, based on the estimated time since she took it, her symptoms, and the recoverv^ time. What we still don't know is how you got her to take it."

  "She did it herself! I told you I gave her—"

  "You said she'd never take an overdose. You told the pharmacist that. Did you tell the pharmacist that.'"'

  Brix was silent.

  "Was there a pharmacist.^"

  Brix was silent.

  "Well, there was somebody, wasn't there, Brix.'' Somebody gave you the pills and then you crushed them or ground them up.

  What did you do, go to this company you and your daddy own and use somebody's mortar and pestle? Do they still use mortars and pestles, like in the old days? Or did you go home and put it in your coffee grinder? Or your spice grinder? Or your Cuisinart? Probably wouldn't work in a Cuisinart, would it? I never tried to grind up pills in a food processor; can you tell us anything about that, Brix?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "How you ground up the Halcion before you put it in Miss Goddard's cognac or wine or whatever."

  "I didn't do it. I didn't do anything."

  "The waiter saw you."

  "Nobody saw me!"

  "He saw you. He wondered what you were up to, but he figured it wasn't his business. He thought it might be to help her sleep. He was right, wasn't he? Wasn't he, Brix?"

  "I didn't do anything. Nobody saw me."

  "We'll call him; he can be here in twenty minutes." Sergeant Janowski reached for the telephone. "A lot faster than your daddy. Does your daddy think you tried to kill Miss Goddard? Is that why he isn't coming down to hold your hand? Maybe we should talk to him, too." He was punching numbers on the telephone, very slowly. "We could go to his house if he doesn't want to come here. I think we should do that, talk to your daddy."

  "Keep away from him!" Brix screamed. He grabbed the telephone from the officer. "I did it to help her sleep. That's what the waiter said, right? He was right; it was to help her sleep. That's all it was. I was always taking care of her; she couldn't take care of herself; she was a mess. And at dinner she was all worked up, screaming and yelling and I thought she had to get out of there and go to sleep and then she'd be fine."

  Sergeant Janowski pried the telephone from Brix's grasp and put it on the desk. "Fine," he repeated. "Fine. Fine. Fine. What does that mean, Brix? Does it mean not able to talk about what you did at this company you and your daddy own?"

  Brix jerked backward in his chair. "I don't know what you're—"

  "Oh, sure you do, Brix, come on, we all know what's going on here. Miss Goddard found out you were involved in a crime and you had to kill her to shut her—"

  "I wasn't! I wasn't involved in a crime! What the fuck is going

  on here? First you accuse me of putting stuff in her cognac and then you start talking about my company; you're so mixed up you don't know what the fuck you're doing."

  "But you admitted you put the stuff in her . . . was it the cognac? I guess it was. You just said it was. And the test reports on PK-20—"

  "You don't know anything about PK-20! Nobody outside the company does! That's ail confidential!"

  "We do, Brix. We know everything. And so does the State's Attorney. The test reports, the first ones, are in his office. So are those memos from your friend Kurt. Everybody but you knows everything, Brix. How does that make you feel? Left out? You won't be, if you just tell us the truth. Then we'll be together on this thing. Everybody knows, Brix. Everybody knows."

  "Does my dad know?" It came out in a whisper.

  "The State's Attorney called him tonight."

  Brix crumpled in his chair. It did not occur to him to doubt that the State's Attorney would call his father on Christmas night; it did not occur to him to doubt anything. He was alone and everybody knew why.

  The roaring in his ears was louder; it sounded like a train coming through the room, aimed at him. Slouched in the chair, he looked up, to see what was happening. Nothing was happening. Sergeant Janowski sat on the windowsill; Detective Fasching sat on the desk. They were watching him with interest, and all the patience in the world. No one else was in the room. Nothing was in the room that would make a sound like the roaring inside his head. He was alone, with that awful noise. Alone, alone, alone, alone. Because of his fucking father.

  "I did it because he told me to." The words were out and Brix shrank a little from them, but th
en he thought, the hell with it; it's true—it's the goddamn truth—and he wouldn't come down and help me and why the fuck should I protect him anymore? I risked everything to protect him and the company, and he threw me out anyway. I don't owe him a goddamn thing anymore.

  "You did what because he told you to?" Sergeant Janowski asked.

  "Oh, you know, fixed the test reports. He wanted me to change the percentages of women who'd had problems, and up the ones who liked the stuff, it was an eye cream, and take out the

  one who went blind in one eye—I mean, nobody could really blame that on us, but my dad wanted it out anyway so nobody'd have anything to talk about. So I did all that; I did everything he told me. I always did what he told me, you know; whatever he wanted, so he'd be proud of me."

  There was a pause. Detective Fasching stood up. "And you didn't want him to know that Emma had found out about it, is that it.^ You thought he'd be mad at you."

  Brix nodded. The roaring in his ears had gone. He sat in absolute silence, slumped over in exhaustion.

  "Okay, Brix, we'll want you to sign a statement," said Sergeant Janowski. "We'll have it in a minute."

  Brix looked at him dully. What was he talking about.-'

  "And here it is," the sergeant said as the young woman behind the screen handed him a sheaf of papers. "Wonderful things, computers; like instant replay in a football game. You'll want to read this before you sign it."

  Brix looked at the pages in his hand. He ignored the first ones and went to the end, reading what he had said about his father. / did everything he told me. I always did what he told me, you know, whatever he wanted, so he'd be proud of me. Well, if anything did in the old man, it would be that. Brix didn't give a damn what happened to him as long as his old man got it, too. Lost the company. Went to jail. Went broke. Whatever. He'd see what happens when a man kicks out his son. He leaned forward and put the last page on the desk and signed it.

  "You didn't read all of it," Detective Fasching said.

  "I don't need to."

  "You don't want to read the other pages.'"'

  Brix shrugged.

  "Then would you please initial each page at the bottom."

  "F'or Christ's sake," Brix mumbled, but he went through them, scrawling his initials in the bottom corner of each page. Slowly he sat up, then stood, stretching his stiff muscles. "I'm going home now."

  "Fm afraid you can't do that," Sergeant Janowski said. "We've charged you with attempted murder. Until a judge sets bail, you'll have to stay here."

  "You can't do that! Who the hell do you think —^'ou can't keep me here; I don't even have a lawyer!"

  "I'm sure you will tomorrow," Detective Fasching said. "I'm sure you know many lawyers and they'll be glad to come down when you call. You could have called earlier, but you weren't interested." He took hold of Brix's arm. "So, at least until tomorrow, you'll stay here."

  Brix stared at him. Slowly, through the bubbles of Scotch that still shot like little missiles through his brain, he understood that he was under arrest for the attempted murder of Emma Goddard, and that he would be spending Christmas night— and how many other nights; Jesus Christ, how the hell did this happen? —in jail.

  Quentin sat in his study, working on strategy. His window looked out on Long Island Sound, gray and as still as glass this time of year, the sailboats put away, the swimmers gone. The beach was windswept and abandoned. Lonely, Quentin thought, and then wondered why that had occurred to him; he seldom had fanciful thoughts. March, he said to himself, to bring his mind back to his work; he wanted to have everything organized by January 2, when everyone was back at work, and that only gave him three days. "March," he said aloud. "Release the PK-20 line with extra advertising, with two models instead of one, about ten years difference in age, to reach different targets. We should have thought of that earlier. But first the series of memos for the company, maybe a newsletter, undermining the rumors without referring to them directly, since to repeat them would be, in a way, to legitimize them. ..."

  His ideas came swiftly. Occasionally he thought of Claire, of Emma, of Gina, of Brix, but not for long: he had a job to do. When the telephone rang, he reached for it absently, finishing a sentence, thinking of the next one.

  "Quentin Eiger," he said, still writing.

  "Mr. Eiger, my name is Hank McClore; I'm with the Connecticut State's Attorney's office."

  Quentin's head came up. "And.''"

  "And I'm calling to tell you that, because of information received, we are going to court tomorrow morning to get an injunction enjoining you from making any shipments within Connecticut of a line of cosmetics containing a proprietary ingredient known as PK-20, pending an investigation of the safety of that ingredient. I also have sent copies of our information to the FDA, and I would

  anticipate that they will enjoin you from interstate shipment of those cosmetics. The Connecticut Department of Health will join in our investigation, the purpose of which will be to look for evidence of fraud, criminal intent, and criminal conspiracy."

  Quentin stared at bare trees, black slashes against a steel gray sky. "Our products are safe and always have been. You may have heard rumors—there are always rumors in any business—but you have nothing else." His voice barely contained his fury. "If you know what's good for you, you'll call off this witch-hunt before it goes a step farther. You may be able to terrorize small businesses, if that's what gives you kicks, but not Quentin Eiger; if you don't stop this, I warn you, I'll see to it that you're out of a job, and no one else will look at you."

  "Mr. Eiger," McClore said, his voice oddly gentle, "we are in possession of memos reporting moderate to severe reactions, including a case of blindness in one eye, in test populations using PK-20 Eye Restorative Cream. Those memos reflect the findings of test reports that were collated within one week of the date on the memos. We also have a second set of test reports in which the damaging percentages were altered, and the case of blindness omitted entire—"

  Quentin slammed down the telephone and burst from his chair, through the door of his study to the terrace facing the water and then onto the windswept beach. He strode on the hard-packed sand, his thoughts in tumult. His carefully constructed strategy, lying neatly on his desk, was worthless, a ruin. And he could think of nothing with which to replace it. How the hell had they gotten the test reports.^ He had assumed Brix had destroyed them; he should have made sure. But that should not have made any difference. Someone had gone into the files and found them and given them to the State's Attorney. Someone in his company, perhaps more than one, was a traitor. The son of a bitch; he'd find out who it was and—

  But it didn't matter anymore. He walked along the water's edge, kicking small stones and ruigs out of his way. He'd have to start again, with a new line of products, or, more likely, give PK-20 a new name, give the whole line a new name and a new image. Maybe he'd get away from the whole pcrpctual-youth gambit; tr- something completely new. Health, maybe. Evcrs-body was a nut on health these days, and if they were convinced

  that certain creams and ointments would keep their si^in, their hair, their nails, what the hell, all the cells in their body healthy, they could draw their own conclusions about youth. It was a whole new approach. Quentin slowed his steps. Nobody else was doing it. If he used the PK-20 line under some sexy name that implied perpetual health and got a couple of new models, he could do it in less than a year. Excitement filled him. He would save it all and end up with a better product than the first one, end up bigger than he'd ever anticipated.

  Slowing, he became aware of how cold he was. He was wearing only lightweight pants and a sweater over an open-necked shirt, and the air was bitter. Shivering, he turned and jogged toward his house. He had a lot of work to do; he'd cancel his date for tonight and get to work. He glanced up to see how far his house was, and his steps slowed. Two men stood in the doorway of his study, watching him, and as he came closer, he recognized them: his partners, the two men who, with himself, mad
e up his board of directors. What the hell were they doing here.^ They were never here in the winter.

  "I thought you'd be in Florida," he said as he came up to them. "Or was it fishing in the Caribbean this year.'"' He shook their hands. "Sam, Thor; how are you.''"

  "We just got in," said Sam. The two of them backed into the study and Quentin went in and closed the door. He had sand in his shoes; it felt like stones, cutting into his feet. But to take off his shoes in front of the two men was impossible; to be in stocking feet would put him at a disadvantage.

  "Well, sit down," he said, standing beside his desk. "What's going on.^"

  They remained standing. "We're sure you know by now," Thor said. "We heard some things about the company that bothered us and we called the State's Attorney; he said he'd be talking to you today. We assume by now he's called."

  "You heard some things.'"' Quentin repeated. "From whom.'"'

  "It doesn't matter. A lot of people are in on this by now. Has he called.?"

  Quentin nodded stiffly. "He doesn't have anything; he's fishing. But to save a lot of trouble, I've decided to rework the PK-20 line, modify it, rename it, bring it out with a whole new approach, a whole new message. I can do it within a year. I'll have some

  losses to make up, but that's nothing to worry about. There's nothing to slow me down—"

  "It's always interested me, Quentin," said Thor thoughtfully, "that you never say 'we' when you talk about Eiger Labs. It's always 'I,' as if you do everything yourself."

  Puzzled, Quentin frowned. "That's a peculiar thing to say. Of course I don't do everything myself. Though I must say there are days when it feels like that." He smiled, but the two men did not return his smile.

  "We're asking you to resign as president of Eiger Labs," Sam said. "More accurately, we're removing you. We'll try to save the company; at the moment, it seems there isn't much to save. But whatever happens from now on will happen without you."