Now Wolfe squirmed in one of the leather visitor's chairs. This must be how a prisoner on death row feels, waiting for the footsteps of the warden. Stop worrying. This is probably nothing. But deep down, Wolfe knew what this was about. It was about Jandramycin. Specifically, it was probably about that nosy doctor who'd called with her ridiculous stories about late complications. He thought he'd stonewalled her pretty well, but maybe Patel had gotten wind of that call. And if he did, there were going to be questions asked. And the answers had better be the right ones.
"Bob, thanks for coming."
Wolfe jumped to his feet and turned to see his boss stride into the office, followed by Steve Lindberg and a man who looked vaguely familiar, but whose name danced at the edge of his memory. "Of course," Wolfe said.
Patel gestured Wolfe back into his chair. Lindberg repeated the move Wolfe had seen before, pulling a visitor's chair to the side of Patel's desk and settling in as though he were an impartial observer in any conflict that might take place.
"I'm Max Berman, chief counsel for Jandra Pharma. " The third man shook Wolfe's hand, three quick pumps and release, a politician's handshake. Thousand-dollar suit, hundred-dollar haircut, soft hands with manicured nails. Now Wolfe remembered he'd met Berman once before. He hadn't liked him then, and had a feeling that wasn't going to change.
Unlike Lindberg, Max took the chair beside Wolfe. Did that mean he was an ally? No, more likely it was simply a matter of being in position to watch more closely. Well, watch away, Counselor. I'm ready for you.
"I understand you had a call from a Dr. Sara Miles," Patel said. He leaned forward, his hands flat on his desk. "Why don't you tell us about it?"
"How did you know about that?" Wolfe asked.
"Two reasons. After she talked with you, she tried to get through to me. Fortunately, my administrative assistant is well trained and very capable of fending offunwanted phone calls. It seems that I'm out of the country on company business, and my return date is uncertain at this time."
Wolfe knew Patel wanted him to ask what the second reason was, but he sat in silence. We'll see who blinks first. After a moment, Patel did.
"As for the other reason, I knew about the phone call while you were still talking with her." He waited like a child eager to explain the magic trick he'd learned.
Wolfe raised his eyebrows, and that was enough for Patel to continue: "I know everything that goes on in this company. Outside calls are monitored and if the content is something that should come to my attention, I learn about it immediately."
Berman spoke for the first time, and now it was fairly obvious why the man was a participant in this meeting. "In case you're wondering, this is all perfectly legal. Like most people, you didn't read your employment agreement carefully. If you had, you'd know that monitoring is carried out on a day-to-day basis. When you signed, you gave the CEO and his designees the authority to monitor telephone, e-mail, and written communications as necessary to protect the company."
"No problem. If you or one of your 'designees' . . . " Wolfe set the word offwith air quotes. "If they monitored my conversation, you know that Dr. Miles got nothing from me."
"Probably true," Patel said. "But the very fact that she called raises a question. She voiced the concern that treatment with Jandramycin may lead to late complications. Is there any truth in that?"
The group remained silent. Patel leaned forward and gripped the edge of his desk hard enough to blanch his knuckles. "Our NDA is moving forward as we speak, and I might add, at great cost to this company. We've put pressure on some of our friends on Capitol Hill, called in every possible favor, and . . . Well, I won't go into detail." He relaxed back into his chair and began to swivel back and forth. "Jandramycin must be brought to market ASAP. We can't have any snags now."
Wolfe decided that there was no question there, so he gave a quick nod and waited for Patel to make his point. This meeting was for a reason, and Patel just now seemed to be getting there.
"David, you know we're all on the same page here." Lindberg's comment was unnecessary, but apparently the man couldn't sit through a meeting for longer than five minutes without saying something.
Patel raked the two men sitting nearest him with a gaze that could cut glass. "I've asked Max to meet with us for a very specific reason. Max?"
Berman rose and cleared his throat. Wolfe and Lindberg turned slightly in their chairs. The attorney addressed them both: "Let me explain. Dr. Miles brought up a scenario that could be very problematic for Jandra Pharmaceuticals. If such side effects exist, it's imperative that we know of them. And if they do not exist, it's equally important that we are firm and forthright in our denial of any such charges. So the question everyone in this room needs to answer is this: Are you prepared to state that you are unaware of any side effects from Jandramycin such as the ones mentioned by Dr. Miles?"
Lindberg almost leaped to his feet. "Absolutely. I'm unaware of any such side effects as Dr. Miles mentioned."
"Nor do you have knowledge of any, and will so state should the occasion arise?" Berman said.
"Correct," Lindberg said.
Berman looked pointedly at Wolfe.
Wolfe nodded, but that wasn't enough for Berman. "Please answer aloud." He smothered a smile. "Sorry, that's a holdover from court. Witnesses have to answer aloud, so the court stenographer can record their responses. Reflex action on my part, I guess."
Nevertheless, he fixed Wolfe with an expectant look. Wolfe took a deep breath and said, "Yes, I'm prepared to state that I know of no such side effects."
As Wolfe made his way back to his office, he wondered how Lindberg could know about the "side effects Dr. Miles mentioned." Maybe he'd been Patel's "designee," monitoring Wolfe's calls in some way.
And why was Patel the only one who didn't respond to Berman's question? Wouldn't he, above all people in the company, have no hesitancy in going on record?
Finally, Wolfe found it strange the way Berman had phrased his question. Not "Are there any side effects?" He'd steered clear of that particular question, as though he already knew the answer. Instead, he'd asked everyone to state their willingness to go on record that there were no such adverse consequences. And despite Berman's attempt to cover his insistence that a nod wouldn't do, Wolfe knew full well the reason for requiring a verbal response. That meeting, especially the responses at the end, was being recorded. He wondered how Berman and Patel might use such a record.
Wolfe tugged at his collar, but the tightness in his throat remained.
The policewoman paused at the end of the walk and looked at Sara. "Are you sure you're going to be okay here by yourself?"
"I'll be fine. Thanks for everything."
"Can you arrange transportation for tomorrow?"
"I'll call a co-worker to pick me up in the morning. How long do you think it will be before my car's available?"
"Depends on how busy the evidence techs are. Couple of days, I'd guess. You say you only heard one shot, and it appears to have gone completely through and out the opposite window. But in case more shots were fired and there's a slug hiding in there somewhere, we want to dig it out, so we have it if there's ever something to match it to."
"Guess I'd better talk with my insurance company about this. I'll need to have the windows replaced and arrange for a rental car."
Like a reluctant beau after a first date, the officer lingered on the front porch. "I know I'd be really shaken if this happened to me. Would you like me to have a patrol car cruise by a few times this evening?"
What Sara really wanted to say was, "Please. And maybe a policeman could sit up in my living room all night, and take me to work tomorrow." Instead, she said, "I'll be fine. Really."
"Okay." The officer took a card from the breast pocket of her uniform. "If there's a problem, call this number, and we'll send someone to check." She pulled a pen from the same pocket and scribbled something on the back of the card. "Here's my cell number, too."
"Thanks
again."
The policewoman touched a finger to the bill of her cap, turned, and walked slowly down the sidewalk.
Sara ducked inside to lock and bolt the front door. Soon she heard footsteps fade, followed by the slam of a car door and the sound of a car engine starting. Now that she was alone, the shaking began again. Why me? Who would do this? Why was someone trying to kill me?
She almost wished she were a drinker. If this had been Jack, he'd have a glass two-thirds full of liquor in his hand by now. Sara didn't even have any cooking sherry in the house. She supposed she should find something to eat, though. Stress produced adrenaline, and that caused a drop in blood sugar. She snorted. See how your medical training has come in handy? You were almost killed tonight, but you know enough to look for some peanut butter and crackers.
Sara made it halfway to the kitchen before dropping onto the sofa with her head in her hands. She fought the urge to start crying again. She'd already done that, sitting in her car, shaking and sobbing. She wasn't going to do it again. Get hold of yourself. You've faced life-and-death situations when they involved other people and never lost your cool. Pull it together.
Sara rose, but had to steady herself on the arm of the sofa. In a moment the light-headedness passed, and she was able to walk to the kitchen despite unsteady legs. She managed to put together a couple of crackers spread with peanut butter. She ate them while standing at the counter and washed them down with a few swallows of milk. Maybe that will take care of the shakes.
Back in the living room, she pulled a notepad toward her and thought about what she had to do next. The list was a short one, and only one thing required her attention tonight: arrange a ride to the medical center in the morning.
Who should she call? Rip? He was the obvious choice, but for some reason she couldn't bring herself to talk with him tonight, to reveal her vulnerability. True, it wasn't her fault that someone shot at her. And anyone in that situation would be upset. But she just wasn't ready for Rip to see her like this. Silly, but there it was.
Mark? She'd only met him recently. There was no question he was interested in her, but she hesitated to bring him into this. She didn't know Mark well enough, and vice versa.
Jack? Never!
Her administrative assistant? Gloria or some other nurse in the clinic? Another doctor in the department? She chewed on the eraser end of her pencil. No matter how she looked at it, the name she kept coming up with seemed the right one. She picked up the phone and dialed.
"I've got bad news for you. Every one of your HIV tests came back positive, and your T cell count is already dropping. It's like you've been taking placebo instead of zidovudine and lamivudine. We're going to have to ramp up the meds." Jack Ingersoll's face was somber as an undertaker's, his voice somehow an octave deeper than John remembered.
John could already feel the cold dampness of the grave reaching out to him. "There must be some mistake. Those meds are standard treatment. Rip Pearson assured me they'd work."
Ingersoll shrugged. "Rip doesn't know everything that goes on around here." He grinned. "Maybe the pills you've been taking were compounds I've been working on in my lab. You don't suppose one of the side effects could be to kill the immune system, do you? My, my. I'll have to write that down in my journal. My secret journal."
John was drenched in sweat by now. His chest shook with the pounding of his heart. He'd call someone—Dr. Schaeffer, Lillian Goodman, someone to talk with about this. Maybe he could call Beth. She'd know what to do. Oh, please, God. Send me someone who can help.
The pounding in his chest morphed into a steady vibration from the cell phone in his shirt pocket. John's eyes sprang open. He was alone in his easy chair, the stroboscopic flashing of images from the muted TV painting the walls of the darkened room.
More by reflex than volition, he answered the phone. "Dr. Ramsey."
"John, this is Sara Miles." His colleague's voice shook a bit, and he wondered what was wrong. "I need your help."
John struggled to come fully awake. His feet explored the area around his chair, searching for his discarded shoes in the near dark. "Where are you? What do you need?"
"I'm at home. But I need you to give me a ride to the medical center in the morning." There seemed to be a catch in her voice that John couldn't explain.
"Sure. But what happened to your car? Mechanical trouble?"
Her laugh had no mirth in it. "Not really. But the police impounded it so they could look for the bullet."
"Whoa. Police? Bullet?"
She told him about the shooting.
"Who's there with you?"
"I'm alone at home with the blinds drawn, the doors locked, and a baseball bat by the front door. But I'm still a little shaky."
John knew the simple thing to do was set up a time to pick her up in the morning, wish her well, and hang up. But that wasn't the right thing. By now he'd found his shoes, and he slid his feet into them. "Would it help to talk about it? Would you like me to come over?"
Her exhalation sounded like a rushing wind in his ear. "I think I'd like that. Would you mind?"
"Not at all. Give me your address."
John splashed some water on his face and combed his hair. He despised the way he'd let himself descend into self-pity. He could almost feel Beth in the room behind him, saying, "John, you can't get bogged down in thinking about yourself when there are other people who need you."
Right now, Sara needed him. He was determined to come through for her. He offered up a silent prayer to that effect, grabbed his keys, and walked out the door.
11
WHEN THE DOORBELL SOUNDED, SARA PULLED THE CURTAIN ASIDE A TINY crack and peeked outside. A gray Toyota sat in her driveway. Unfortunately, she'd forgotten to ask John Ramsey what kind of car he drove, so that information didn't do much to assure her this wasn't her attacker, come back to finish the job.
She moved to the door, but hesitated there. Hadn't she heard about murderers waiting for the peephole to darken, then shooting through it? You've watched too many crime dramas.
"Sara, it's me," the familiar voice called.
She released the security chain, turned the deadbolt, and opened the door just wide enough for John to slip through before she reversed the process. "Sorry to be so security conscious, but . . . "
"I understand. Now why don't we have some coffee and talk about this?"
After they took seats at Sara's kitchen table, she told John what she could recall about the shooting. "It was all over so fast. I never noticed a car following me. And if I hadn't swerved into that parking lot, I guess he'd have had a clear shot right through my side window."
"Sounds like you had an angel sitting on your shoulder."
It was an offhand remark, but it triggered a thought in Sara's mind. "You may be right. My mother always said we don't die until we've done everything God put us here for. Maybe I'm not finished."
John drained his mug. He started toward the sink, but Sara stopped him. "Just leave it. I'll clean it up later." She snorted. "You know, we're getting into angels and God, and it sounds like we want to talk about anything except who shot at me and why."
"Then let's get to it." John turned slightly and crossed his legs. "We're both diagnosticians. Look at this situation like it was a patient with symptoms we don't understand. Where do you start?"
"With the history," Sara said automatically. "How is the problem manifested now, what preceded it, and what's been done about it so far?"
"Let's start with the manifestations. Someone took a shot at you. Now the simplest explanation is that it's an isolated incident—in this case, a drive-by shooting, a case of mistaken identity. Unfortunately, nowadays that would be the most common explanation as well."
"Do you think that's it?"
John shook his head. "Doesn't matter. When you're making a diagnosis, do you stop with the most benign possibility?"
"No, you have to consider other causes and rule them out, especially the worst ones. You work
your way down."
"Right," John said. "The worst possible scenario is that this was deliberate. If that's the case, we have to consider the why."
Nothing was said for a moment. Finally, Sara broke the silence. "I can't think of a reason why anyone would take a shot at me."
"Nothing you've been doing could make anyone angry?"
Sara chewed on her lip. "The only thing is that for the last couple of days I've been trying to get information about Jandramycin. But surely that wouldn't—"
"Let's just follow that line of thought. Who did you talk with yesterday about Jandramycin?"
"This is crazy," Sara said. "We're being ridiculous."
"Maybe," John said. "But are you sure this isn't a valid scenario? If this was a simple drive-by, our discussion just costs us a little time. If it was something more, you may still be in danger. Now who did you talk with about Jandramycin just before the shooting?"
"Rip and I confronted Jack, but he blew us off. Then I called Jandra Pharmaceuticals, talked with a Bob Wolfe, tried to talk with the head man there, and hit a stone wall both times."
"Go back a little further—just before our lunch yesterday. What about the irregularities in the research project? Where did that come from?"
Sara nodded. "Right. Rip told us the numbers weren't matching."
"And he got that information from—"
"Carter Resnick."
John ticked the names offon his fingers. "So if we're going to connect the shooting with your inquiries about Jandramycin, the triggering event could have come from Jack Ingersoll, someone at Jandra, or Carter Resnick."
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