Peggy Sue Got Murdered

by Tess Gerritsen

  "You're making a mistake."

  "Christ," Sampson said with a sigh. "You can't even prove to me these deaths are related. Why go and get the whole town panicked about it?"

  Ed added, "They're only junkies."

  She shook her head in disbelief. "You know what, Ed?" she said with a laugh. "It's a continuing source of wonder to me."

  "What is?"

  "What the hell I ever saw in you." She turned and walked out of the room.

  Ed followed her, through the receptionist's office and into the hallway. "M. J., wait up."

  "I'm going back to work."

  "Just love those stiffs, huh?"

  "Compared to present company? Don't ask." She got into the elevator, and he slipped in beside her.

  "Looks like life's been rough since you left me," he said, glancing at her bruised face with a grin.

  "Not nearly as rough as it was with you. And you left me, remember?"

  "You know, you really blew it in there with Sampson. Next time you should try a little honey, not so much vinegar. It'd be better for your career."

  "I see your career doesn't need any help," she said, glancing at his tailored shirt.

  He grinned. "You heard that Sampson endorsed me? The campaign coffers are already loaded."

  "Be careful whose coattails you grab onto. Sampson's days are numbered."

  They stepped out of the elevator and left the building.

  "It's just a stepping stone," he said. "Today, DA. Tomorrow-who knows? Are you coming to the campaign benefit? I could use you there. Show of support from the ME's office."

  "I've got better ways to spend my money."

  He reached in his pocket and produced an invitation. "Here." He dropped it in her purse. "My compliments. Will you vote for me, at least?"

  She laughed. "What do you think?"

  "I think you're gonna need a friend in high places. Especially with the rut your career seems to be-" He broke off and stared as M. J. unlocked the door of the Mercedes. "This is your car?" he asked.

  "Nice, isn't she?" M. J. slid into the driver's seat and slammed the door. She smiled sweetly out the window. "Those of us in career ruts have to find some way to compensate."

  The look on his face was enough to keep her smiling for a block. Then the anger hit, anger at Ed and Sampson and Wheelock. And at herself, for acknowledging defeat. She could go around them all. Ignore the lines of authority, call up the news stations herself, and announce a crisis…

  And promptly get herself fired.

  She gripped the steering wheel, silently railing at herself, at election-year politics, at a system that made you park your conscience if you wanted to stay employed. She just didn't have the evidence to force the issue-not yet. What she needed was a pair of matching tox screens-just one pair, enough to link two of the deaths. Enough to go to the press and say, "We have a trend here."

  The minute she got back to her office, she called the state lab. "This is Dr. Novak, Albion ME. Do you have results yet on Jane Doe number 373-4-3-A?"

  "I'll check," said the technician.

  A moment later, the tech came back on the line. "I have a blood, urine, and vitreous on Jane Doe number 0372-3-27-B."

  "That's a different number."

  "It was ordered by a Dr. Ratchet, Albion ME. Is this the one you want?"

  "No, that's the wrong Jane Doe. I want 373-4-3-A."

  "I have no record of any such request."

  "I sent it in April third. Name's Dr. Novak."

  "My log for April third doesn't show any Jane Doe specimens from Albion. Or anything from you, Dr. Novak."

  M. J. tugged at a loose hair in frustration. "Look, I know I sent it in. It was even marked 'Expedite.'"

  "It's not in the log or in my computer."

  "I can't believe this! Of all the lab requests, you have to lose this one? I need those results."

  "We can't run a test without specimens," said the tech with undeniable logic.

  "Okay." M. J. sighed. "Then give me the results from another case. Xenia Vargas. I sent that in April fourth. You do have that one?"

  "It was logged in. Let me check…" There was a brief silence, punctuated by the clicking of fingers on a keyboard. Then the tech said, "It was shipped to an outside lab."

  "Why?"

  "It says here, 'Nonspecific opioids detected. Unable to identify using available techniques. Specimen referred to independent lab for further tests.' That's all."

  "So I will get an ID? Eventually?"

  "Eventually."

  "Thank you." M. J. hung up. Then it was something new. Something even the state lab couldn't identify.

  But it was only one case. To prove a trend, she needed a second case, at the very least.

  She rose and pulled on her lab coat. Then she walked down the hall to the morgue. One of the day attendants was tidying up the room. He glanced at her.

  "Hey, Doc," he said. "What's up?"

  "Hal, you remember those specimens I sent off on Monday? For Jane Doe? I put them in the out box. Did you see the courier pick them up?"

  "Don't tell me they went and lost somethin' again?"

  "They say they never got it."

  Hal rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I heard ' em give Doc Ratchet the same story. So what do you want me to do? Run another set over?"

  "If you're willing." She glanced at her watch. "It's four. Take an hour of overtime. That'll cover the drive. And make sure they log it in."

  "Sure thing."

  Now there would be another long wait for results. Luckily, they'd retained several tubes of Jane Doe's blood and urine, for just this situation. While it was rare for specimens to be lost, it did happen.

  Her head was starting to ache again, a reminder of last night's scuffle. She should go home early, put up her feet, and OD on the opiate of the masses-TV. But she'd accumulated too much paperwork.

  Back at her desk, she shuffled through her in-box. There were dictations to sign, reports from ballistics, lab slips, pathology journals. She had just emptied her box when the mailroom clerk came in, whistling, and dumped another stack onto her desk.

  "Forget this," M. J. muttered. "I'm going home."

  Then she saw the envelope on the stack. Dr. Novak was scrawled on top. No address, no stamp; someone must have dropped it off at the front desk.

  She opened the envelope and read the note.

  Nicos Biagi results just back, MIT lab. Identified as new generation long-acting narcotic, levo-N-eyclobutylmethyl-6, 10 beta-dihydroxy class. Not FDA approved for use in humans. MIT says research patent application made six months ago. Trade name: Zestron-L. Applicant: Cygnus Corporation.

  Sorry I'm cutting out on you, but I don't need the headache. Good luck, Novak. You'll need it.

  – Mike Dietz.

  The Cygnus Corporation . She stared at the name, stunned by the revelation. Thanks, Dr. Dietz, you coward. You drop this can of worms on my desk, and then you turn tail and run.

  She grabbed the phone and called the state lab once again.

  "About that tox screen, on Xenia Vargas," she said to the technician. "There's a specific drug I want you to test for. It's called Zestron-L."

  "You'll have to talk directly to the outside lab. They're handling it now."

  "Okay, I'll call them. Where did you send it to?"

  "Cygnus Laboratories, in Albion. Do you want the number?"

  M. J. didn't answer. She kept staring at that note from Dietz, at the name: Cygnus. Pharmaceuticals. Diagnostic labs. How many tentacles did the corporation have?

  "Dr. Novak?" asked the tech again. "Do you want the Cygnus phone number?"

  "No," said M. J. softly, and hung up.

  It took her a few minutes to dredge up the courage to make the next phone call. It had to be done; Adam Quantrell had to be confronted.

  The phone rang once, twice. A male voice answered: "Quantrell residence. Thomas speaking."

  "This is Dr. Novak."

  "Ah, yes, Dr. Novak. I hope the new a
utomobile is working out."

  "It's fine. Is Mr. Quantrell in?"

  "I'm afraid he just left for the evening. The mayor's benefit, you know. Shall I give him a message?"

  And what message could she leave? she thought. That I know the truth? It's your company, your drug, that's killing people?

  "Dr. Novak?" asked Thomas when she said nothing.

  She folded Dietz's note and stuffed it in her purse. "No message, Thomas. Thanks," she said. "I'll catch him at the benefit."

  Then she hung up and walked out of the office.

  7

  It took M. J. an hour and a half to drive home, change her clothes, and fight her way back through midtown traffic. By that time, a major jam had built up along Dorchester Avenue, leading to the Four Seasons Hotel. All the red lights gave her time to shake her hair loose, dab on lipstick, brush on mascara while looking in the visor mirror. Even with a ton of face powder the bruises were still obvious, but at least she'd found a silk scarf to wrap around her neck and conceal the stitches. It actually looked rather dashing, that slash of red and purple silk trailing across the black dress. Too bad the whole effect required high heels; before the night was over, her feet would be killing her.

  The ballroom of the Four Seasons was packed. There were probably enough furs and jewels in the room to fund the city budget for a year. A buffet table held platters of shrimp and smoked salmon, pastries and caviar, all of it served on real china, of course. A balalaika troupe was playing Russian music-a tribute to Albion's equally depressed sister city on the Volga. M. J. handed her invitation to the official at the door and headed into the thick of things.

  She was reminded at once of why she hated going to affairs like this, especially on her own. Bring an escort and you were an instant social circle; go alone and you're invisible. Sipping at the requisite glass of white wine, she wandered through the crowd and searched for a familiar face-any familiar face. Mostly she saw a lot of tuxedoes, a lot of mink, a lot of orthodontically perfect teeth bared in perfect smiles.

  She heard her name called. Turning, she saw her ex-husband. "And I thought you weren't going to vote for us," he said as he approached.

  "I didn't say I would. I just can't pass up a free invite."

  "Hey, I want to get a photo taken. You and the mayor together." He glanced around and spotted Sampson off in a corner, surrounded by admirers. "There he is. Come on."

  "I don't do photo ops."

  "Just this time."

  "I told you, I'm not here to endorse him. I'm here to partake of a few free drinks and-" She stopped, her gaze suddenly focusing across the room, on a man's fair hair. Adam Quantrell didn't see her; he was facing sideways, engaged in conversation with another man. Next to Adam stood Isabel, her equally blond hair done up in an elaborate weave of faux pearls. The perfect couple, she thought. A stunning pair in tuxedo and evening dress. The sort of couple you saw epitomized in Cosmo ads.

  Adam must have sensed he was being watched. He glanced her way and froze when he saw her. To M. J.'s surprise, he abruptly broke off his conversation and began to move toward her, across the room. She caught a glimpse of Isabel's frown, of faces turning to look at Adam as his broad shoulders pushed past. And then all she could seem to focus on was him.

  He was smiling at her, the relaxed greeting of an old friend. The bruise on his cheek was almost lost in the laugh lines around his eyes. "M. J.," he said, "I didn't know you were coming." He reached out to her, and her hand felt lost in the warmth of his grip.

  "I didn't know I was coming," she said.

  The sound of a throat being cleared caught her attention. She glanced sideways at Ed. "I guess I should introduce you two," she said. "Ed, this is Adam Quantrell. Adam, this is Ed Novak. Our acting DA."

  "Novak?" said Adam as the two men automatically shook hands.

  "I'm her ex-husband," said Ed, grinning. "We're still very close."

  "Speak for yourself," said M. J.

  "So you're both campaigning for Sampson?" asked Adam.

  "Ed is," said M. J. "I'm not."

  Ed laughed. "And I'm going to change her mind."

  "I came for the free meal," said M. J. She took a sip of wine, then she looked directly at Adam, a cool, hard gaze that no one could mistake as flirtatious. "And to see you."

  "Well," said Ed. "She always did favor the direct approach."

  "I'd like to say I'm flattered," said Adam, frowning as he studied her face. "But I get the feeling this isn't a social chat we're about to have."

  "It's not," said M. J. "It's about Nicos Biagi."

  "I see." Suddenly he seemed stiff and guarded-as well he should be. "Then perhaps we should talk in private. If you'll excuse us, Mr. Novak." He placed a hand on M. J.'s shoulder.

  "Adam!" called Isabel, moving swiftly toward them. "I want you to meet someone. Oh, hello, Dr. Novak! Have you recovered from last night?"

  M. J. nodded. "A few sore muscles, that's all."

  "You're amazingly resilient. I would have been terrified, having my life threatened that way."

  "Oh, I was terrified all right," admitted M. J.

  "And then to have your car stolen. How fortunate it was only a Subaru-"

  "Will you excuse us?" said Adam, continuing to guide M. J. toward the exit. "I'll join you later, Isabel."

  "How much later?"

  "Just later." With a firm hand, he hustled M. J. out to the lobby, where it was every bit as crowded. "Let's go outside," he suggested. "At least we can get out of this madhouse."

  They found a spot near the hotel fountain, its trickling waters aglow in a rainbow of colored lights. The sounds of the gathering spilled out even here, in the darkness. From the ballroom came the faint strumming of balalaikas.

  He turned to face her, his hair glittering in the reflected lights of the fountain. "What's going on?" he asked.

  "I could ask you the same question."

  "Are you angry at me for some reason?"

  "Zestron-L," she said, looking at him intently. "You have heard of it, haven't you?"

  She could see at once that he had. She caught a glimpse of shock in his eyes, and then his expression smoothed into unreadability. So he knew. All this time he knew which drug might be killing these people.

  "Let me refresh your memory, in case you've forgotten," she went on. "Zestron-L is a long-acting narcotic, new generation, of the class levo-N-cyclobutyl-"

  "I know what the hell it is."

  "Then you also know Cygnus holds the patent."

  "Yes."

  "Did you also know your drug was out on the streets?"

  "It's not possible. We're still in the research stage- primate trials. It hasn't gone to human trials yet."

  "I'm afraid human trials have already started. The lab is South Lexington. And the results aren't too encouraging. Bad side effects. Mainly, death."

  "But it hasn't been released yet!"

  "Nicos Biagi got his hands on it."

  "How do you know?"

  "The hospital couldn't ID it, so they sent the blood sample to a university lab. A lucky break, too. They were able to identify it."

  "There are two other victims-"

  "Yes, and a funny thing happened to their blood samples. Jane Doe's got lost in transit. And as for Xenia Vargas, I won't trust any results I get back on hers. In fact, I half expect that her blood sample will get lost as well."

  "Don't you think you sound just the slightest bit paranoid?"

  "Paranoid? No, I'm afraid I've never had much of an imagination. It's one of my faults."

  He moved closer to her, so threateningly close she had to fight the impulse to retreat a step. "Whatever your faults, Dr. Novak, a lack of imagination isn't one of them."

  "Let me lay out the facts, disturbing but true. First, Jane Doe's specimens were lost. I know I labeled them properly, I filled out all the right forms, and put them in the right box."

  "The carrier could have lost it. Or it could've been stolen from his vehicle. There are dozens
of possibilities."

  "Then there's the matter of Xenia Vargas. Her specimens did make it to the state lab, but they can't ID the drug. So they send it to an outside lab for further testing. Guess which lab?" She looked him in the eye. "Cygnus."

  He didn't even flinch. Calmly he said, "We routinely handle requests from the state. We're only thirty miles away and we're better equipped."

  "Third, there's the matter of Dr. Michael Dietz, Nicos Biagi's doctor. He identifies the drug as Zestron-L. Then he resigns from Hancock General and skips town. I think he was forced out by the hospital. Because Cygnus just happens to be a major donor to Hancock General."

  "Cygnus had nothing to do with Dietz's resignation. He was already on his way out."

  "How would you know that?"

  "I'm on the hospital board. Three malpractice suits were more than we'd tolerate. Dietz was a disaster waiting to happen. His license was already in jeopardy."

  M. J. paused. That would account for Dietz's reluctance to face the press. He didn't need the publicity.

  "But Zestron-L is your drug. And someone's trying to keep its identity from the ME. Someone's protecting Cygnus."

  He began to pace back and forth by the fountain. "This is bizarre," he muttered. "I don't see how that ID could be right."

  "You can't argue with a lab result."

  He stopped and looked at her, the gaudy lights from the fountain washing him in their watery glow. "No," he said at last. "You're right. I can't."

  The absolute steadiness of his gaze made her want to believe that there were no lies between them, no hidden agendas, that his bewilderment was real. I must be getting soft, she thought. A pair of blue-gray eyes, a tuxedo, a man too gorgeous for words, and my horse sense bites the dust. What is wrong with me?

  "Come with me," he said, and held out his hand.

  She didn't move, feeling shaken by the sudden temptation to take his hand, to feel her whole body swallowed in his warmth. This was what she'd fought against, from the first time they'd met, this quickening of desire.

  He was still holding out his hand, still trapping her in a gaze she couldn't seem to escape. "Come on, M. J.," he said.

  "Where?"

  "To Cygnus. The lab. Tonight, I'm going to root out the answers. And I want you there with me, as a witness."