Little Lamb Lost

by Margaret Fenton

  “Right, Liz.”

  “You just can’t convince some people,” Liz finished. I thanked the ladies and asked after another of my clients. Back in my Civic, I checked the time. Five twenty. I called The

  News. As expected, I got Kirk’s voice mail. I left him a message asking him to call me on my cell. I wanted to go home. To be alone and to think. But unbidden images of Jimmy with his knife and Ashley’s fear-twisted face kept me from feeling easy. My phone rang. The caller ID said it was Grant, from the shop.

  “You headed here?” he asked.

  “I was just debating that. I think I’ll go home.”

  “That’s not such a good idea.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “Famous last words.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “This whole situation isn’t funny. At least let me come over.” “No. Really. I just want to be alone for a while. I’ve got some

  things to do too.”

  “Then I’m going to call you every hour.”

  I laughed.

  “I’m serious.”

  “Fine, call me if it’ll make you feel better.”

  “It will.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m only doing this because I care about you.”

  That threw me. I didn’t know what to say. Before I could piece together a response, he hung up.

  My house was still standing, undisturbed. I checked it over, cell phone in hand, ready to dial 911 if needed. Several messages were on my answering machine. Two from Dad, asking me to call him when I got in, one from a friend, and two from Royanne, wondering where the heck I was and confirming lunch for tomorrow.

  I called Dad and checked in, did the same with Royanne. I called my friend and we chatted for a while, then I sorted the laundry and washed clothes. Precisely an hour after I got home, the phone rang. Grant’s cell.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes. Are you really going to do this all night?”

  “Maybe not. I think I have an idea. I’ll see you in a little bit.” He

  hung up before I could protest. Twenty minutes later, I heard a vehicle pull into my driveway. I peeked out the window and saw Grant’s minivan. He hopped out, a box in hand.

  I met him at the door. “What’s that?” “Something I remembered.” He put the box down on the dining table. smarthome was printed in blue letters across the top. He opened it and took out a rectangular white motion sensor, a box with a keypad, and a small keyring remote.

  “What’s all this?”

  “It’s an alarm system. You can get them for about a hundred bucks online. I bought this when I first opened High Tech. I used it until I could afford a real security service. I had it in storage at the shop.” He surveyed the room. “This detector will sense motion in a range of about twenty feet. It’ll go off if someone comes in. All you have to do is turn it on before you go to bed.”

  “It’s a loud alarm?”

  “One hundred and thirty decibels, so, yeah. And,” he pulled out the white keypad, “this is already programmed to call my cell phone if it goes off. It’s an autodialer. I just need to hook it to your land line.” I watched as he positioned the motion sensor on an occasional table, and plugged the little box into my phone. “There. Just switch it on with the remote when you go to bed. The beam goes all the way across this room, so if anyone comes in here, you’ll know about it. Just don’t forget to shut it off before you break the beam in the morning.”

  “You’re a genius.”

  I gave him a grateful hug and felt his long arms pull me in. He kissed the top of my head. “You sure you don’t want me to stay? I don’t mind.”

  “I know. I just want some time to myself,” I murmured into his chest.

  He held me for a few minutes longer. Then, “I meant what I said on the phone. That’s why — the other night — why I didn’t — I want to do this right.”

  Suddenly, so did I. “Me, too.”

  He left after a long, sweet kiss good-bye. I switched the alarm on before going to bed, and it did make me sleep easier in between thoughts of what my next move in Ashley’s case should be.

  The next morning, on my way to work, my cell phone sang. “You rang?”

  Kirk. “Hi. Can you look into something else for me?” “For this mysterious story that is going to surface someday?” “That’s the one.”

  “Shoot.”

  “BaxMed. It’s some kind of medical research firm —” “Oh, yeah, one of Joey’s.”

  “Who’s Joey? The owner’s a Dr. Walter Baxter.”

  “What, you don’t read my newspaper?”

  “I read all the articles destroying my career, thank you very

  much.” He laughed. “Joey Renzi is one of our reporters. He’s doing a series of articles on Birmingham’s biotech industry. BaxMed is one of them. The article ran a couple of weeks ago.” Now that he mentioned it, I did remember reading something about a biotech firm, probably the same day as Kirk’s article quoting my name.

  “Gee, I guess I had my mind on other things. I can’t imagine what. Can you get me copies of the articles?”

  “You want the whole series?”

  “Sure. And anything at all on BaxMed or Dr. Walter Baxter.” “You got it. I’ll bring them by your office.”

  “No! Are you nuts?”

  He laughed again. “Oops. Sorry, I forgot. So, you’ll put the red

  flag in the flower pot, and we’ll meet in the parking garage down the street?”

  “Don’t you dare start calling me Deep Throat.”

  He did have a point, though. My paranoid self didn’t want to be seen walking into the newspaper building, and he sure as hell wasn’t welcome at the office. We needed a place, downtown, close to both our workplaces. “I’ll meet you at the main library.”

  “Where?”

  “In the mystery section, of course.”

  “What time?”

  “Five?”

  “That works. When am I going to get this story of yours?” “When there is one. I promise.”

  We hung up as I arrived at work.

  Russell walked in, his usual cup of coffee in hand. Before he could start his daily ritual of checking his messages and returning calls, I asked, “How’s Heinrich?”

  “Fine.”

  “Are y’all busy tonight?”

  He put the handset back down on the phone. “Why?”

  “Got time for drinks?”

  Eyes narrowed, he asked, “Why?” Boy, he knew me.

  “I wanted to talk to Heinrich about something.”

  “What?”

  “I just have some questions to ask, that’s all.” I wasn’t even sure what those questions were yet. “About the university. He’s getting his master’s in chemistry, right? I want to ask him about some things.”

  “I guess we could do that. Let me call him and see.”

  A few minutes later, Russell hung up the phone and said his boyfriend would meet us at the office at five thirty. That didn’t give me much time to meet with Kirk and get back here.

  Our secretary came in with a new case for Russell. He left while I was catching up my case narratives. At ten till ten, I left for the jail.

  All the glass cubicles were filled today, so I had to wait a few minutes until someone left before claiming my own uncomfortable stool. The guard brought Ashley in. Her hair was pulled back today, and it looked brittle. She looked thinner than the last time I’d seen her. I could only imagine how bad the food was here, if she even felt like eating with all she’d been through.

  She sat down and grabbed her handset as I picked up mine. After the way we left things last time, this was going to be a bit awkward. I was over the anger. Now I just wanted answers.

  “Hi,” I began. “How are you?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Do you need anything?”

  “No. Are you still mad at me?”

  “No. I wasn’t really mad. Just frustrated.”


  “Same thing.”

  “No, it’s not. Ashley, I’m trying to help you. I can’t for the life of me understand why you don’t want to help yourself.”

  “There’s nothing you can do.”

  “But if you know something that can get you out of prison —”

  “What for? What do I got to go home to? Mikey’s gone.”

  “There’s your mother. And Jimmy.”

  “Jimmy’ll wait for me.”

  “I know where you were the Friday night before Michael died.”

  “So? I was at work. And Monday. All day, like always.”

  “Friday, you were at BaxMed. That’s Trey Baxter’s company. You knew him through Zander, didn’t you?”

  The moment the words were out of my mouth, her expression turned to raw fear. Like I’d just pulled out a gun and aimed it right between her eyes. I pressed on. “Did something happen there?”

  She was making an effort to stay composed, but I could detect a slight tremor as she clutched the handset. “I cleaned for them, yeah.”

  “Ashley, I don’t get it. Why did Michael die now? What happened that someone tried to get rid of you, or him?”

  “I relapsed.”

  “No, you didn’t. Don’t give me that. Something happened, and I think it was at BaxMed. If you tell me, I can —”

  The fear flashed again in her eyes. Her knuckles around the phone were white. “Claire! No! Promise me you’ll stop. Please!”

  “Why? What are you afraid of?”

  “Death.”

  She was serious, and it stopped me cold. “Whose?”

  “Mine. Yours. Please, please let this go. They’ll kill you.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m not sayin’. If we shut up and leave it alone, no one will get hurt.”

  It sounded like she was repeating a line someone had said to her. “Who threatened you?”

  “Please, Claire. Please don’t do this. Mikey’s already dead because of me. I couldn’t live with it if somethin’ happened to you. Please.”

  The begging was getting to me. “Okay.”

  “You’ll drop it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You promise?”

  I opened my mouth to say yes, but couldn’t do it. I owed it to Michael. Once I gave my word about something, it was law, and I couldn’t honestly say I was going to stop. I couldn’t lie to her. Ashley saw my open-mouthed hesitation.

  I muttered, “I’m sorry,” and hung up the receiver. I turned my back on Ashley and started for the elevator. She was leaning on the cubicle, yelling through the glass. Before the guard grabbed her arm, she screamed, “Don’t! It’s not worth it!”

  `

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I went back to work, my mind a jumbled mess of thoughts. Over my whole mood lay a blanket of apprehension. I was close to something dangerous. Mac popped his head in to check on my crazy case from the other day, and I asked him about the attorney general. He said there’d still been no word, and there probably wouldn’t be for another week or so.

  Beth, one of the receptionists downstairs, buzzed me. “Royanne wants to know if you are going or what?”

  “Oh, hell. Tell her I’ll be right down.” I packed up my stuff and raced to the elevator. Royanne was in the lobby, chatting with Beth and Nancy and fanning herself.

  “There you are. I was about to die in that car.”

  “I’m sorry. I lost track of time.”

  Pablo greeted us at Los Compadres with a big smile. I think he was relieved to see that we’d patched things up. He seated us and brought usour drinks. I picked up a tortilla chip and nibbled a corner.

  “You’re awful quiet today.”

  “Sorry. Just distracted.”

  “I’ve got to make a decision about Madison Accounting Services.

  This afternoon. My boss is really pushing me to do this loan.” “I’d go ahead.”

  “You mean —”

  “I don’t think Alexander Senior had anything to do with Michael’s

  death. Or Karen.”

  “That’s a relief. I really kind of like Old Man Madison. And this deal is going to launch his company to the next tier. He won’t do so bad either, financially. What about Zander?”

  “He’s the wild card. I’m not sure what role he might have played in all this. I don’t think he put the drug in the juice, but I bet he knows who did. Anyway, as far as he’s concerned, it’s over. Ashley’s in jail, so he’s off the hook. Oh, and by the way, it looks like he might be getting some help for his addiction.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “I hope he can quit.”

  “Me, too. So how’s the Geek God?” she asked.

  At the mention of Grant, my memories quickly flashed back to

  the other night and what he’d said yesterday. I felt my face grow warm. “Good Lord, you’re blushing. Is it that serious?”

  “Yeah, I think maybe it is. I like him a lot.”

  Royanne grinned from ear to ear. “ ’Bout time.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve been a little bit messed up because of this case.

  Hopefully he can overlook that.” We ate our usual lunch and Royanne dropped me off at work. “See you next week,” she said as I shut the door to the van. I went to one quick appointment and worked on paperwork in the afternoon. Russell was there when I got back from the home visit.“We still on for drinks?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I’ve got to run a quick errand, but I’ll meet you here at five thirty.”

  At quarter to five I left for the library. I parked in the small public lot behind the building and entered the towering, angled glass structure through the back door. I made my way to the mystery section and was browsing through a book about a woman who solved mysteries dealing with gravestones when someone behind me whispered in my ear, “Follow the money.”

  I jumped. “Jesus!”

  “Sorry.”

  I put the book back on the shelf and faced him. “God Almighty. You scared the shit out of me.”

  He was chuckling, standing so close I could smell his cologne again, mingled with the slight scent of starch from his light pink shirt. Pink was really his color. His gaze traveled over my body once before meeting mine.

  “And I said no Deep Throat jokes.”

  Amusement sparkled in his blue eyes. “Sorry. Here.” He handed me a manilla folder with a small stack of photocopied articles. “When do I get my story?”

  “Soon.”

  “Uh-huh.” He hadn’t moved and we were inches apart. “When do I get to take you to dinner?”

  “Never.”

  “Never? Never-ever?”

  “I can’t be seen with you. You know that.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “Yes. I mean, no.”

  “Which is it?”

  “That’s not the only reason.”

  “Then what is?”

  “Kirk —”

  “Is it minivan man?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” For a second I swore I saw real disappointment in his eyes. He leaned to me and barely brushed his lips on the skin just in front of my left ear. He whispered, “You’ll let me know if it doesn’t work out.” Then he left.

  I stood there, a bit tingly, and took a couple of steadying breaths. I waited until I was sure he was gone before leaving the library. I tossed the folder into the front seat of my Honda and called Russell’s extension from my cell. He and Heinrich met me in the parking lot of the DHS building.

  `

  We decided on Fuel, the pub-like bar Grant and I visited on the Fourth. We found a table in the back and I ordered a Riesling. Both Russell and Heinrich were politically active, and they caught me up on their latest events as Russell sipped his Cosmo and Heinrich his dark brown beer. Then Heinrich asked in his thick German accent, “What did you want to speak to me about?”

  “Do you know anything about drug research?”

  “A little bit.”

 
“Let’s say I have an idea for a new drug. What happens?” “It depends. Are you employed at a large drug company?” “I’m just some girl with a biomedical degree.”

  “Ah. First you have to set up your business. And find funding.” “How does that work?”

  “Here in the U.S., large drug manufacturers sponsor most clinical trials. They have much money. Sometimes researchers get grants from the National Institutes of Health. Smaller companies may use a combination of a sponsor and an NIH grant.”

  “For?” “First you have your overhead, of course. Your lab, doctors, staff, and such. Then you need money to pay the participants in the study.”

  Russell asked, “The patients get paid?”

  “Oh, yes, often they do. They may get paid a stipend, plus their travel costs and expenses. It depends on the study. And many times, doctors get money too. The doctors that refer the patients get compensated.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “It takes a great deal of cash.”

  “Okay, so let’s assume I’m able to raise the money, through a sponsor or whatever. Then what?”

  “Then you would develop the drug and do preclinical studies. Experiments on animals to prove that your drug is safe for the people to take. If you succeed in this part, then you go on to clinical trials.”

  “And then you can sell the drug?”

  “After you finish the three phases of the clinical trial and the FDA approves it.”

  “Three phases? That sounds like it takes forever.”

  “It does take time. But it is necessary. Companies test for side effects, safety, and to see if the drug is effective. They also compare your drug to medicines already on the market, to make sure it would work better than the ones already out there.”

  “That’s a long process.”

  “And yet, there is always a need for improvement. There have been drugs on the market that have been pulled off because they were not safe.”

  “Who regulates the safety part of it?”

  “It depends. Either the FDA or OHRP.”

  “I’ve heard of the FDA. What’s the OHRP?”

  “The Office of Human Research Protections. Why do you want to know about all this?”