by Hal Ross
The newfound energy was unexpected. Denise vacuumed the floor, then dusted some furniture until she began to feel light-headed.
She made it back to the bathroom, where she gripped the edge of the sink and tried to hold herself together. She could no longer feel the pain in her neck; there was too much else going on, especially the palpitations in her chest.
Her strength ebbed. She wanted to stay upright, would give anything to be able to do so. “Why?” she muttered, just before her knees buckled.
* * *
The ceramic tiles on the bathroom floor were cold to the touch; Denise noticed this when she came to before anything else. Then she realized something still wasn’t right. Hadn’t she read somewhere about the cerebral cortex controlling one’s sensory perception? At the moment she had no perception at all.
She got to her feet but couldn’t perceive colors. Shapes, too, appeared out of kilter; squares abruptly sliding into circles. There was a buzzing in her ears. Yet, out of the noise came clarity. She left the bathroom, walked awkwardly along the hallway, traversing the great room with care, as if she could lose her balance at any moment.
When she reached the kitchen, Denise paused. You’re procrastinating! an inner voice insisted.
“Oh my,” she said aloud.
An invisible limb gave her a physical shove. Forward, forward, until she stopped in front of the drawers and opened the top one, pulled it out as far as it would go. The butcher knife materialized in her hand.
Denise allowed the sharp edge to run across her forearm. Gently, hardly touching. Then she went at it again; not as gentle this time. She added pressure until this liquid began to flow; dark in color, ominous. How fascinating!
40
March 27
I took another sip of coffee; found it was getting cold. This was my second hour searching the web, having filled over five pages in my notebook. Some of what I uncovered was redundant; I’d read about some of the same side effects in the magazines at home. The rest was all new to me, including the number of new medications brought to market each year. When I came upon the extraordinary profits most of the drug manufacturers were earning it made me wonder if someone might be in collusion with a person or persons high up in the FDA. After all, this was a multi-billion-dollar business. It might be the cop in me or the cynic, but I believed that anything was possible. What were the drug manufacturers not telling us? And what were the hidden consequences?
I returned to my computer screen and read on. Six out of ten adults in the United States took some sort of medication. It was closer to nine out of ten for those over sixty-five. In the latter group, four out of ten filled five or more prescriptions. The most commonly used drugs were for high blood pressure and diabetes. Cholesterol and depression weren’t far behind.
There was a knock on my office door.
FBI Agent Walter Diggs—dressed smartly in his usual suit and tie, this time in hues of brown—walked in and took a seat. “Pressure’s on,” he confided. “My boss just called to give me a warning. Unless a serious suspect turns up soon, the Bureau will have to take over.”
I leaned forward. “My men are doing everything they can.”
“I’m sure they are. I have firsthand knowledge of their work ethic as well as yours. But you can’t afford to have anyone else murdered on your watch.” He paused and lowered his voice. “Between us, I think Governor Mackie has gotten to the powers that be. The murders are unprecedented, Miles. This case has become a political hot potato.”
I didn’t say anything for a few seconds. I had the utmost respect for Walter Diggs, but didn’t know how far to trust him. Besides, what could I say: Arrest me. I could be one of the perps?
I tried another tact. “Walter—I told you my theory about extremely adverse side effects of prescription medication. Is there any word on how far we can take our inquiries?”
“No. Not yet, I’m afraid. But I should have it for you later today.”
“Okay, good. Recently, I’ve narrowed it down to one drug in particular … Narvia. It’s manufactured by Foster Pharmaceuticals, a giant in the drug industry. I’m planning to pay them a visit, but I’ll likely need a court order to get them to cooperate.”
“How soon?”
“Now.”
“Okay. I’ll see what I can do,” Diggs said. “But step it up, Miles. The clock is ticking.”
41
One week prior
Frank Sinclair was on Interstate 24, outside of Chattanooga, Tennessee, when reality smacked him in the face. What the hell am I doing? Running to my home in St. Louis is not a smart idea, not if I want to be truly safe. Yes, Tracy lives next door; one of the hottest lays of my life. But is she worth the risk? My best bet is to get the hell out of the country.
He’d vacationed in Bangkok many times and had connections there. Plus, the American dollar went a long way. And no one had to tell him about the women, their desire to please and make any man feel welcome.
Night had fallen and Frank was having trouble staying awake. He still wasn’t 100% decided about what he was going to do when he pulled off at the next exit. His eyes automatically went to his rearview mirror. He knew the black van had passed him hours ago, but he still needed to be sure.
Once satisfied the tail was gone, he continued for a quarter mile where he found the Holiday Inn as advertised on a freeway sign. He paid cash and headed for a room on the ground floor.
Less than ten minutes later Frank was in the bar, nursing a Manhattan. The first few sips went down smoothly enough, at a slow, relaxed pace. Then he consumed the rest in three gulps. He swallowed the cherry, while signaling the bartender for a refill.
* * *
Bill Miller, tired as well after driving a full day, picked a Days Inn to spend the night. The long trip had been unexpected and he was not pleased about it. Frank Sinclair’s destination had become clear to him by the route he’d chosen, heading toward his hometown of St. Louis. There were other possibilities, of course, but this one made the most sense. Bill handled Frank’s financial portfolio; he knew the exact address of his house. He was approximately 150 miles away.
After checking in, he headed to a strip mall and purchased a few necessities: toiletries, a change of underwear, and a heavier jacket; then back to the motel. A familiar twinge in his stomach reminded him that the cancer had no intention of easing up, not even for a minute.
For dinner he had a simple bowl of chicken soup. He awoke early the following morning, looked outside to see snow on the ground. He turned on the news and heard that the temperature had dipped below zero.
Three hours later he was traveling through the outskirts of St. Louis—Clayton and then Ladue. By the time he reached Frontenac he realized he was lost. The van he was driving didn’t have a GPS; he had to stop and ask for directions.
Bill finally found his way to Chesterfield, a neighborhood not only populated with mega mansions but newer villa/condos that were becoming the current rage with retirees. A large section of it was still under construction.
He came to a stop on the unpaved road, not quite opposite the address he sought, and waited. From his vantage point, he was able to follow the morning routine: newspapers deposited on a few front porches, mail being delivered. Frank Sinclair’s villa remained quiet.
Bill figured that unless Frank drove all night he wouldn’t be here yet. To be sure, he put the van in gear and pulled in at the designated parking area. There was no sign of Frank’s BMW. But he had no doubt that he was headed here. It didn’t matter how long it took. When the man arrived, he’d be ready for him.
Plan A had been to shoot Frank in his car, but with so much traffic and potential witnesses that conception had been replaced with Plan B. The scene played out in his mind: gun at the ready, ring the bell, back Frank inside the house the minute he opened the door. How I’ll enjoy making Frank beg for his life
before I pull the trigger. Neighbors won’t hear a thing, not with the silencer on the gun. When I leave, I’ll say ‘goodbye, Frank’ and close the door behind me. If anyone’s around, I’ll smile and wave.
* * *
Frank slowly came awake; his skull felt three sizes too small for his brain. His throat was parched and he was nauseous. In the shower he figured the cold water would do the trick, and it more or less did. While toweling himself off, however, the room began to spin; he had to brace himself against the wall and wait for the feeling to pass.
Breakfast in the coffee shop was forced down; bacon, eggs and hash browns. Most of the time, one of his favorite meals of the day. But not now. While eating he found it necessary to support his head with his hand.
Back in his room, after brushing his teeth, he made the mistake of lying down on the unmade bed and sleep overtook him. Two hours later his eyes flipped open and he was confused as to where he was. Then he remembered and knew it was decision time.
Part of him wanted to continue on to St. Louis and have a romp with Tracy. But it would have to be quick as he couldn’t stay. Bangkok, on the other hand, would not only provide relative safety but a continuous stream of exotic women; drinking and dancing on the beach, plus endless sex.
The image left its mark. He couldn’t imagine leaving the country soon enough.
42
March 29
The head office in Manhattan for Foster Pharmaceuticals was exactly what I’d expected to find—ultra-modern, with more glass than steel. Situated downtown in the financial district, it rose fifty stories in an unusual octagonal shape as if it wanted to draw attention to itself.
I’d ridden the elevator to the top floor forty-five minutes ago and here I sat, in the ornate reception area, still waiting, my appointment time of two o’clock long since past.
Most of the magazines on display were drug industry related and I found them boring. I leaned back in the plush upholstered chair and reflected on the latest steps I’d taken to speed up our investigation. Agent Diggs had come through with legal authorization for us to interview residents of Bonita Palms. But there were parameters, restricting us to questions solely about Narvia and limiting the scope of our inquiries.
Meanwhile, it had taken persistence on my part to arrange this interview today. I’d left countless messages for Hugh Bostwick, the president of Foster, without a reply. But a request for help to Guy Thomas, my old boss with the Chicago police department—now a fast-rising star with the NYPD—secured an appointment. With it, however, had come a succinct warning: “Be on your toes, Miles. I understand Bostwick is quite a character. The man likes to talk down to people, so you might be tempted to say something to piss him off. Do so and I can see your meeting coming to an abrupt end.”
I’d read up on the drug industry before coming here. Almost four hundred billion dollars in annual sales in the U.S. alone. I’d also looked into Foster’s president. The man was in his early fifties and had built quite a reputation for himself. He was the wunderkind of the drug industry, known for his brash manner with employees and competitors alike. Married for the third time—to a woman half his age—he kept a condo in Manhattan and a home on Long Island’s Gold Coast.
“Deputy?”
Automatically, I looked at my watch: 3:05. And here was Hugh Bostwick, himself, out to greet me.
There was no apology for the long wait. The man led the way along a corridor to a corner office that was over forty feet in length. It not only had a cherrywood desk that could seat more than four comfortably but an area opposite that resembled a large living room: black leather couch with three matching chairs facing it, thick pile area rug, wet bar, and a credenza that contained snacks and a broad assortment of wines and liquors.
The president of Foster took a seat on the couch and I chose the chair closest to him.
Bostwick was stocky; barely five-seven, if I had to guess. Brownish hair and blue eyes. He was dressed impeccably in a gray suit, with matching red and gray tie. “Why are you here?” he asked.
“Murder case I’m working on could involve one of your products,” I said with a deadpan expression. “I need to know about Narvia and its side effects, other than what’s printed on the package.”
The president observed me with amusement. “Should I have my lawyer present?”
“Your lawyer?”
“Yes, Deputy. There’s something in your tone that sounds accusatory. Every drug we have on the market has been through the most stringent research and testing procedures in the industry. Each and every one of our products is absolutely safe.” He paused. “This includes Narvia.”
Bullshit, I wanted to say, but I held my tongue, hoping that discretion truly was the better part of valor. “Look—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insinuate that Foster has done anything wrong. It’s just that … well, I have no one else to turn to, to be perfectly frank. I need to know the components of Narvia and how it works in the human body.” And what’s being kept hidden from the public.
The man’s smile was insincere. “It would take too long to explain.”
“How about the short version?”
Bostwick held his tongue.
I was beginning to think I’d have to use the ace up my sleeve—actually in my pocket—when the president stood and offered me a drink. “Vodka? Scotch?”
“Coffee would be appreciated. Black, please.”
Bostwick placed the order with his secretary, requested the same for himself, then reclaimed his seat. “Tell me about this case of yours.”
I kept the story vague but as intriguing as I could manage, concluding with, “Four victims, all women. Murders committed before nightfall by someone each of them knew. We suspect prescription medication played a critical roll in the perpetrator’s behavior.”
“Narvia?”
“It could be related. Yes.”
Both coffees were delivered by a gorgeous twenty-something woman. I assumed she was the one I’d spoken to countless times on the phone, Ms. Berg, who’d refused to put me through to her boss. She was tall with dark hair and a striking face, more suited for a fashion runway than an office.
The minute she departed I asked Bostwick to fill me in on the protocol for bringing a drug to market.”
He looked at me like I had two heads. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“Waste of time.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.”
Easy! the voice in my head cautioned. The warning from my old boss came back, about the man’s penchant for talking down to people. “How about the For Dummies version?” I requested. “So a simple-minded person like myself can comprehend?”
He gave an exaggerated sigh, then turned to me with disdain in his voice. “Each new substance is screened by organic chemists who try to define its molecular shape and size. Following its initial creation in the test tube, a tiny portion of this substance, amounting to perhaps a few grams, is manufactured. Depending on what area of the body it’s intended to work on, elaborate clinical trials are then developed.”
“And this would take how long?” I interjected.
He paused, displeased that I’d dared to speak. “It’s a tedious process. From time to time—but not often—the Food and Drug Administration here in the United States modernize their approval methods, thereby quickening the process for ratification.”
Modernized methods? I wondered if this was the reason so many new medications were approved in the first place. And it made me question the veracity of what we were being led to believe, particularly in advertising.
“If the tests prove positive,” Bostwick continued, sounding more like a lecturer than a man attempting a simple explanation, “a larger batch is made and goes into early animal screening.”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted again. “
What animals are used in these—uh—experiments?”
“They’re not experiments. I told you, you wouldn’t understand. Acute toxicity studies are developed in rodents. How they behave is crucial, especially if they die. After death they’re fully dissected. Organs like brain, liver and heart are examined to try and detect the mode of activity of the drug. When some idea of the safe amount of each compound is determined, the tests begin again. Once fatalities are completely eliminated the decision is made about what animals to use next, be it beagle dogs or sub-human primates such as apes and monkeys.”
“And if these poor things should also happen to die?” I couldn’t help asking.
Bostwick’s face colored noticeably. “You’re not listening,” his voice rose. “I said after fatalities are eliminated.”
“Go on…”
“A compound that reaches this stage goes into what is called large batch development. If a drug passes its trials with animals, we are then allowed to proceed with testing in humans. Studies begin with both placebos and the real thing in a select group of volunteers.”
The man paused for breath. I was hopeful that the recital was over. When he took a long sip of his coffee and sat back, I realized that it was.
“So, what about my earlier question?”
The man waved me off. “I’ve told you all you need to know.”
“I don’t think so,” I insisted. If I let this guy have his way, I had no doubt he’d prevaricate to the nth degree, that he’d disseminate, equivocate, do everything in his power to throw me off the scent. “You spoke in generalities. Now let’s focus on Narvia. How many prescriptions are sold each year in the U.S.?”
He ignored me, sitting there as if bored, looking every which way except directly at me.
“Sir?”
“The information won’t do you a bit of good.”
“Let me be the judge of that, if you don’t mind. Can you tell me how many are sold?
