“The Markov PharmacoEconomic Study Group. They advise the G8 on medical developments and global health care.”
I remembered being turned away from the resort. “Security seemed pretty tight for a bunch of eggheads meeting to talk about vaccines and Band-Aids. Would Goodman have anything to do with them?”
“I’m ahead of you, Felix.” Carmen reached back into her tote bag and tossed a plastic card at me. “This is your pass for tonight’s party.”
The card looked like a standard-issue ID. It had my name, photo, a bar code, magnetic strip, and an iridescent stamp. “Where did this come from?”
Carmen shook her head. “Are you asking me that question?”
“All right. What party?”
“At the Grand Atlantic, what other?” Carmen produced a pair of envelopes in her hand, like a card trick. “You and I are guests of the G8 Markov PharmacoEconomic Study Group.”
Carmen scooted back on the mattress. “Now we better get ready.” She hitched her skirt and slip over her hips and peeled the stockings off her legs.
I did notice something, rather the absence of something. “What happened to your tattoo?” Carmen, always in orbit, once had a Star Trek insignia tattooed below her navel.
“Star Trek got so damned politically correct that they pissed me off. So I lasered the tattoo away in protest.”
Carmen rolled across the bed and reached into her tote bag. She pulled out a pair of strappy, golden, stiletto-heeled sandals and a tiny black bundle the size of her palm.
“Let me show you what I brought for the party.” Carmen shook the bundle and it unfolded into a cocktail dress. She fluffed the dress and it hung from her arm perfect and free of creases. “This is my little black number.”
“It’ll look stunning, Carmen.”
“No. On me it’ll look positively deadly.”
Chapter
29
I keep an Internet hacker on retainer. Every month I send five hundred bucks to a private mailbox in Kalamazoo, Michigan. In return, he or she gives me access to almost everything wired to the information grid. I sent to an anonymous e-mail address Marissa’s cell phone number and a request for her records. Now to wait.
Carmen and I looked up articles about missing women. We found websites and blogs asking, Have you seen Mommy? Daughter? Sister? Wife? One husband complained that his wife was last seen hanging around with a mechanic from the local Harley-Davidson dealership. I didn’t think he’d find her with Goodman. Try Sturgis.
We looked into the crash of the Cessna Caravan. It had taken off on a chartered flight from San Diego en route to Catalina Island. Air traffic control lost contact and, that afternoon, wreckage from the Cessna washed up near Camp Pendleton. The victims included the pilot and six passengers: four women and two men. None of the bodies were recovered. The women were close in profile to the others: early twenties to late thirties. Nothing remarkable but suspicious, since the Araneum had alerted me about the crash.
Frustrated by how much more we learned while still remaining far from any worthwhile lead, we quit for the day, turned off the laptop, and got ready for the party.
That evening, after the sun had set, Carmen and I entered the main lobby of the Sapphire Grand Atlantic Resort. We waited in line to scan our badges under the vigilant eyes of a phalanx of sour-faced men in cheap suits.
I recognized a congressman from South Carolina, the one who looked like a wrinkled version of Harpo Marx. He stood next to the security kiosk and nodded vacantly as a man in a blazer two sizes too small and trousers that sagged under his potbelly bragged about the effectiveness of the security system.
“No one,” the man in the blazer declared, his finger jousting at the scanner, “can sneak in here. This system is absolutely failsafe and foolproof.”
My face appeared on the screen.
Blazer man waved me through. The congressman’s gaze swiveled past me and latched onto Carmen. His eyes lit up with excitement and his wizened face turned into a giant smiling raisin.
Carmen and I stepped away from the security cordon.
I shoved my badge into an inside pocket of my jacket. “Did you notice the congressman?”
Carmen slipped her badge into her tiny purse. “Are you kidding? That eye grope of his almost left bruises. But he had better iron his birthday suit before I would even think of doing him.”
We joined the crowd shuffling through the foyer and into the lobby. About two hundred people mingled around a string quartet in the center of the lobby. The racket from all the voices made normal conversation impossible; as for the musicians, it was like playing next to Niagara Falls.
Carmen and I veered to the south side of the lobby and halted between a ficus tree and a palm. We removed our contacts. I scanned right while Carmen scanned left.
The lobby was a tidal pool of red auras. Most of them bristled with excitement, but some had tendrils of anxiety looping from their penumbras, and a few party poopers simmered with a low burn of worry.
A large banner that hung from the center rafter read: WELCOME G8 MARKOV FELLOWS. The surrounding banners along the lobby ceiling mentioned various conference sponsors: both the Brookings and Hoover Institutes, the U.S. Food and Drug Administration, ConAgra, Dow Chemical, Craig Bio-Engineering, Cress Tech International, and Nestlé.
I studied the auras of the hotel staff tucked in the corners of lobby. “See anything out of the ordinary?”
“No. Just the usual herd of blunt tooths.” Carmen’s gaze arced again over the crowd. “What’s with all the cleavage? There are more oversized mammary glands here than at a dairy.”
I motioned with my eyes to one of the overhead banners and the logo of Rizè-Blu Pharmaceutique, a DNA helix superimposed over a sunburst. I acted as if I held a pair of melons against my chest. “All it takes is a prescription and some money.”
“Then they made a fortune from this gang.”
Many of the women and men, all over-coiffed, kept wiping their lips.
Carmen said, “Explain the drooling.”
“Side effect of NuGrumatex,” I replied.
“They ought to wear spit buckets.” Carmen glanced at me and did a double take. “Are you okay?”
“I feel fine. Why?”
“It’s your aura. Seems a little…off.”
I examined my hands and arms and the psychic glow outlining them. “Looks okay to me.”
“Still, if I were you, I’d fang someone soon. Get a blood pick-me-up.” Carmen replaced her contacts with a pair that made her irises sizzle electric blue against her orange aura. She relaxed her expression and stood straight. Her slicked-back hair was gathered into a ponytail secured with a gold lamé band that matched her purse and shoes. That little black cocktail dress was as tight as skin on a snake. “How do I look?”
“Just as you predicted, positively deadly.” I put in my contacts.
She flicked a fingertip against the corners of her mouth to tidy her lip gloss. “Good. It’ll keep the posers at a distance. I only want to get hit on by a man who thinks he can handle me.”
Carmen adjusted the collar of my burgundy silk shirt and smoothed the lapel of my black jacket. “Felix, I give you a B.” She glanced to my feet. “Make that a B+. I like your shoes.”
We stepped from between the plants and headed into the crowd. Carmen hummed the reggae tune “Now That We Found Love.”
She looped the chain strap of her purse over one shoulder and joined a clutch of elegantly dressed women, almost as regal in bearing and attractive as Carmen herself. She gave a toothy, radiant smile and must have said something witty as an introduction. Even with my vampire hearing, I couldn’t pick out what she had said, because of the din. The other women laughed, and I knew Carmen was accepted as one of the girls.
A server paused with a tray of drinks and Carmen chose a flute of champagne. She sipped and said something else. The women laughed again and inched forward to soak in Carmen’s charisma. If she was in a girlish mood, I’m sure Carm
en would have the entire group in a sweaty, tangled pile by midnight.
I wove through the clusters of people and waited in line at the open bar. Another server circled around us with a tray of appetizers, grilled shrimp and pineapple chunks on short bamboo skewers. The shrimp looked delicious until the stench of garlic hit my nostrils. I waved her away before I barfed.
I shouted my order to the bartender. A manhattan on the rocks. Two cherries.
The bartender shook my drink in a chrome cocktail shaker for so long that I thought he was going to give himself frostbite. I raised the glass to taste the manhattan.
Someone bumped into me and I almost dropped my drink.
A man put his hand on my shoulder. His gray eyes had a self-effacing glitter. “My apologies.” His left hand held the arm of a blonde in a tangerine evening gown. The top of her dress looked like a cup filled with two big helpings of firm pudding. She held a cocktail glass in one hand and a highball in the other.
He dropped the hand from my shoulder and offered a shake. “Name’s William Krandall.”
“Felix Gomez.”
He motioned his companion forward by tugging at her arm. We huddled close.
He introduced her as Amanda Peltier, a Fulbright scholar who had worked at the FDA to fast-track the approval of Luvitmor. Judging by the way her dress barely contained her bosom, Peltier must have been an eager test subject for the drug. She gave Krandall the highball glass and shook my hand while carefully keeping her cocktail from spilling. A lemon twist floated inside.
Her eyes sparkled like stolen emeralds. “You’ve been to one of these before, Mr. Gomez?”
“Felix, please. This is my first time here.”
“And you’re with whom?” Peltier let her gaze wander to the other people.
“The G8 media committee invited us.”
Her eyes locked back on me. “Us?”
I lifted my drink in Carmen’s direction.
Peltier raised herself on tiptoes to better see. “The brunette with the ponytail?”
“I’ll make an introduction if you’d like.”
Krandall slipped an arm around Peltier’s waist. She whispered into his ear. His cheeks flushed. They traded small nods. Krandall dug into a pocket of his coat and brought out a business card. “My cell number’s on there. Tell your friend not to be shy.”
Carmen, shy? I put the card in my coat pocket. If their plans involved a tryst with Carmen, then they better get ready for Olympic-level sexual gymnastics.
“What are you doing for the media committee?” Peltier sipped from her glass.
“We’re consultants. The committee wants us to suggest new ideas for creative and collateral. Improve the messaging.” My bullshit could only go so far. Better that I change the subject. “Why all the security here? Are you guys that worried about terrorists?”
Krandall waved me closer and we almost touched noses. His breath carried the odor of garlic from the grilled shrimp. I stifled a gag and tried to step back but he grasped my shoulder. “Terrorists? Of course not. It’s to keep the protesters out. They’re very creative about sneaking in. The pesky, tree-hugging hippie bastards. Those Luddites see a conspiracy under every rock.”
“And why hold the conference here?” I thought about the antennas, the military helicopter, and the protective perimeter behind the hotel.
“You mean, why the Grand Atlantic? Take a look.” Krandall swept his hand over the room. “This place is the Taj Mahal of resorts. Are you paying for any of this? If not, then don’t complain.”
“And what is it that you do?”
“I work for Rizè-Blu.”
Peltier leaned toward us. “The hooters division.” She chuckled and her breasts jiggled invitingly.
Krandall gave a playful elbow to her ribs. “I’m a development director in their Eden Water–Green Planet Initiative; it’s a partnership between Rizè-Blu and Cress Tech.”
Interesting. “What’s the connection between a pharmaceutical giant and the biggest engineering company in the world?”
“Here’s the corporate answer.” Krandall closed his eyes and said, as if reciting from a script tattooed across the inside of his eyelids: “The Eden Water–Green Planet Initiative blends the synergy of two major global stakeholders: the engineering resources of Cress Tech International and the consumer branding and marketing expertise of Rizè-Blu.” Krandall opened his eyes. “The short answer? Moola.”
He pointed toward the atrium. “Let me show you.”
Chapter
30
We zigzagged through the drooling crowd and made our way to the atrium. Booths lined the edges of the central pathway. The riot of conversation seemed twice as loud as it bounced against the ceiling and the overhanging ledges of the mezzanine. Kiosks towered between the booths and displayed large posters emblazoned with earnest, feel-good messages. END WORLD HUNGER, sponsored by Cargill. STOP WAR, by General Dynamics (ha!). CURE DISEASE, from our friends at Rizè-Blu Pharmaceutique (that is when they were not populating the world with larger breasts).
We stopped by the Rizè-Blu booth. A monitor announced a new breakthrough in the treatment of erectile dysfunction, Rizè-Blu’s new wonder boner pill: Tigernene.
Young women costumed like vintage cigarette girls in satin vests and tap pants offered samples from trays. The packets included: NuGrumatex, a translucent amber pill; Olympicin, a tablet with a golden metallic sheen; Luvitmor, a pink tablet with a tiny button that looked like a nipple; and Tigernene, a round pill in macho yellow with black stripes.
Krandall snatched a packet of Tigernene. “This will put titanium in your pencil.”
“You’ve used it?”
“Am using it.”
“And the effects?”
Peltier perched her chin on Krandall’s shoulder. “Like a stallion. Bigger and better.”
Krandall mimicked a whinny and used a leg to act out a horse hoofing the ground.
I clasped their heads and mussed their hair. “Maybe you two need to get a private stable. And soon.”
Peltier withdrew her head and frowned. She patted her hair back into place.
Krandall gave a small, embarrassed cough. “Sorry, TMI.” Too much information. “Let’s go meet my boss.”
Krandall took Peltier’s hand and used his other arm to part through a wall of people. He pointed to a portly man standing in front of the Eden Water booth. “I work for him.”
The man was Daniel Gruber, the former senior advisor to the last president. Gruber held court to a small group that gathered before him, and he spoke using a brisk, rehearsed cadence.
This was the first time I’d seen Gruber in person. His head was shaped like an eggplant that had stayed in the refrigerator for too long, sagging and bottom-heavy while the top sprouted thin white wisps. Small, intense eyes shone from under his thick brow, and his gaze bore through his spectacles as if he was looking into the future for his next moves.
Gruber clicked a tiny remote in his hand. The flat monitor screen resting on the table behind him showed a graph superimposed over a couple of African children. “Once Eden Water is established in central Africa, we can expect these levels of return from your investments.”
Another click and the screen showed the line of a graph climbing to the upper right corner of the screen.
“Phase two of the Eden Water project migrates the initiative to Latin America. Here our projected returns are double those from Africa.”
Another click and the screen showed the graph superimposed over a man in a primitive skiff pulling a net from the water.
Gruber’s eyes focused on his audience and his attention was now firmly in the present. “Phase three implements Eden Water here at home. The challenge…” Gruber paused to let his gaze seize the attention of the people circled before him, “…will be to educate legislators that municipal control of fresh water makes as little sense as the government managing any other commodity.”
An older woman asked, “What about access to
safe drinking water as a right?”
Gruber’s answer continued the practiced rhythm. “We live in a global economy. Rather than let arbitrary notions of rights dictate what is available to the consumer, we need to allow the mechanisms of a free market to meet the demand.”
I stood beside Krandall and couldn’t help but ask: “What about the right to justice? Is that also for sale?”
When he worked in the White House, Gruber had been twice indicted for perjury, and wealthy friends of the president had helped him beat both raps.
The others listening to Gruber turned their heads and glared over their shoulders. Krandall jerked on my sleeve. Did I know who I was talking to?
Gruber dismissed me with a fleeting, annoyed look. He clicked his remote again. The graph was superimposed over a girl and a boy prancing through a lawn sprinkler.
“We’ll increment the adoption of the Eden Water initiative. You can see here that at milestone one, the first year return with 10 percent marginalization of the existing market—”
The woman who had spoken before asked, “Marginalization?”
Gruber smirked. “Control.” The smirk gave way to a serious expression. “That 10 percent will deliver a return of 1.1 billion dollars—”
A man in the group interrupted: “You talk about investors. What’s Rizè-Blu’s stake?”
Gruber jabbed a finger into the air. “Excellent question.” He tapped the remote. The screen showed the logo of Rizè-Blu Pharmaceutique and a pie chart. The largest slice, 87 percent of startup costs for Eden Water, belonged to Rizè-Blu. “Our recent successes with Rizè-Blu’s new line of prescription actualizers—ladies, I notice that you all have at least tried Luvitmor”—(they giggled)—“has given us the resources to leverage the Green Planet project from a dream into reality.”
Gruber was shilling for Rizè-Blu’s idea of putting all of the world’s fresh water into Eden Water’s scheming corporate hands.
I raised my voice to get his attention. “What’s next? Selling air?”
Gruber turned to me. His pupils dilated and shrank, as if his mind darted to another place and then back to the present. That smirk returned. “We’re working on it.”
The Undead Kama Sutra Page 15
