I answered his question with a question. “Have you ever heard of a company called BaxMed? They do drug research.”
He shook his head. “No. I know of a few biotech companies at the incubator, but that is all.”
“Incubator?”
“The university has a biotech incubator. They help start-up companies. Are you thinking of investing in this BaxMed?”
“Oh, no. I just wondered how they worked, that’s all. It has to do with work, so I can’t really go into it right now.”
Russell asked, “Is this the case —”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Russell asked.
“Because there are still questions to be answered.”
Russell muttered, “Fool,” under his breath.
Heinrich, confused, asked, “I want to go into pharmaceutical research when I get my master’s, so if you hear they are good, please do let me know.”
Heinrich had been in this country for ten years, but occasionally talked about going back to Germany. As the bartender brought me another glass of wine, I asked Heinrich about his future plans and inadvertently started an argument between him and Russell that blew over quickly. They’d been together eight months, and it looked to me like they were getting more serious. I hoped so. Heinrich had been good for Russell. A stabilizing force.
We finished our drinks, and I paid the bill before we left. In the small parking lot, I thanked Heinrich for the information and told Russell I’d see him tomorrow.
In my car on the way home, I thought about my theory. Ashley goes to work at BaxMed Friday night. She sees someone at their office. Trey, perhaps. They have a fight about — what? Michael? Zander? Or something at BaxMed? Whatever it is, it nearly gets her killed, and scares her half to death. Time to find out more about that company.
I U-turned in a gas station and took Lakeshore to Mountain Brook. By the time I pulled up to the Madison’s house, it was almost eight fifteen. I could see lights burning at the back of the house. I parked on the drive, empty today, and rang the bell.
Karen answered the door. “You again?”
“Sorry. I know it’s late.” I studied her for a second. One of her eyes was drooping slightly, and she’d slurred her greeting a tad. She’d been drinking. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
She let me in. “Come on through to the back. Alexander and I were just having a celebratory drink.” Or two or three.
“What’s the occasion?”
“I’ll let Alexander tell you.” She ushered me into the apricot and gold room we’d met in before. Alexander was relaxing in one of the upholstered chairs, a glass of neat amber liquid on the marble table at his side. He stood when he saw me, but it took some effort. “Do come in,” he said. “Would you care for a drink?”
“No, thanks.” The two glasses of wine I’d had at Fuel were more than enough when I was driving. “What are you celebrating?”
Alexander answered, “I got the funding today to take my business to the next level. A big move. You’ll be reading about it in the paper.”
“Congratulations.” And to you, Royanne, I thought.
“Thank you. What can we do for you?” He motioned for me to sit down and I complied.
“I wanted to ask you about BaxMed.”
Karen asked, “What about it?”
“How are they doing?”
“Why? What do the Baxters have to do with anything?”
“I’m just curious.”
Alexander answered. “Walt’s having the time of his life. He was a doctor here for years, but he was always interested in research. Now, with his son on board, they’re doing very well.”
“Are you an investor? In BaxMed?”
“Not anymore. I helped them with the initial start-up costs. Helped them get going with a little loan. Walt’s paid me back already.”
“Why aren’t you an investor? Do you know how BaxMed is financed?”
“I think he has a sponsor. I don’t know who. One of the larger drug companies, I would imagine. I don’t think he needs my money. Besides, Walt and I don’t like to mix business with friendship. I’d rather have him as a fishing buddy than a business partner.”
“But things are going well?”
“To my knowledge, yes. Why?”
“I don’t think it’s anything. How’s Zander? Is he home?”
At the mention of Zander’s name, both of them stiffened. Alexander answered, “No, he’s not here. We don’t know where he is.”
“Oh. Well, tell him I said hello when you see him.” No wonder Zander was angry. His parents griping at him to get clean when they were piss-drunk by eight o’clock on a Thursday. Who’s to say which addiction was more acceptable?
Karen walked me to the door. Once I was out on the stoop, she said, “Claire —”
“Yes?”
“I wanted to thank you. We’re seeing Dr. Conover again tomorrow.”
“I hope he’s helping.”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“It’s confidential. He never would.”
“It is helping. Alexander and I are seeing things differently. Patterns we’ve never seen before.”
“Hang in there. I know it’s hard, but it’s worth it.”
I took a left at the end of the long driveway and made my way to Highway 280. Traffic was still quite heavy, so it wasn’t until I’d made the turn onto I-459 and was under the bright lights illuminating the on-ramp that I noticed the truck.
A ten-year-old black pick-up truck. Jimmy was back.
`
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
At least I thought it was Jimmy. In the twilight it sure looked like his truck. I hit the interstate bypass at sixty-five miles an hour, then accelerated to seventy-five. The truck matched my speed, easily. The cloverleaf of the I-65 junction was two exits away, and I opted to take it north. The truck followed me. I sped up again, this time to ninety. The truck’s speed kept pace.
Now I was sure it was Jimmy. He hung back, not making any attempt to run me off the road or overtake my car. I needed a safe place to go, now, before he did whatever he was planning. But where? The Birmingham Police Department was in the middle of downtown. I didn’t want to risk getting off the highway, where I could get stopped by a traffic light, giving Jimmy a chance to get out of his truck and come after me. So the city streets were out. I weaved in and out of cars, one eye on my rearview mirror. This was getting dangerous. I was overdriving my headlights and it was getting darker. I slowed back down to seventy-five. So did he.
I took one hand off the wheel and took my cell phone out of its pocket in my purse. Should I call 911? What would Jimmy do when the police showed up? Would their arrival, lights flashing, force him to make his move? He might even disappear. And then what would I say to the cops?
Where the hell was a state trooper when you needed one? I zipped between two cars and crossed three lanes of traffic, but Jimmy didn’t back off. We were coming up on Malfunction Junction. In an instant I decided to take I-20 eastbound, and from there to where it intersected again with I-459. Maybe Jimmy would figure out that I was onto him — leading him around in a great big circle — and go away.
Still clutching my cell, I got into the right lane to exit and merged into heavy oncoming traffic, cutting off an eighteen-wheeler. The driver honked two long blasts. Jimmy was still behind me, three car lengths back. The convention center flashed by in a blur, and the skyscrapers of downtown towered on my right. I wondered how many people were in those buildings, maybe even watching the traffic go by, with no idea that one of the tiny cars was in trouble. I passed the exit to the airport and stayed on I-20, passing through suburbs east of the city. My speed was a steady eighty miles an hour, yet Jimmy made no move to overtake me.
As I made the wide turn to get back on the bypass, my cell phone rang, sending another shot of adrenaline pumping through my body. Grant’s home number was on the screen.
“That guy is following me again.” My words came out
on top of each other.
“What? Where are you?”
“Near Liberty Park.”
“I’m calling 911.”
“No, don’t. He hasn’t done anything yet.”
“Come here. Come here right now. If he follows you, we’ll call the cops.”
That actually wasn’t such a bad plan. Grant lived close to an exit. “Okay.”
I sped to the Galleria exit, taking the flyover to where it hit Highway 150. I had to make it through three traffic lights before the entrance to Grant’s apartment complex. The first was green, and I sped through it. So did Jimmy. The next turned yellow as I approached and I floored it through that one. So did Jimmy.
I could see the last light up ahead. It was red. I barely slowed at the intersection, wheels clipping the curb in front of a gas station on the corner. I climbed the long drive and went through the brick signs that flanked the entrance to the apartments. Jimmy was still three car lengths behind me.
He stayed behind me as I entered the cluster of buildings. I spotted Grant, standing in front of his building waiting for me, and parked as close to him as I could. He met me as I put the car in park and got out.
“Where is he?”
“In a black pickup. There.” In the orange glow of the streetlights, I could see his bushy profile as he cruised between the rows of cars.
“Let’s get inside,” Grant said, taking my arm.
We climbed the stairs two at a time. Inside, he locked the door with the deadbolt as I peeked through the mini blinds at the lot. Jimmy had parked one row away from my Honda, keeping his eyes on it. I was breathing hard.
Behind me, Grant called 911. He reported there was a man who had been stalking his girlfriend in the parking lot of his apartment. He described the truck and the man inside, then thanked the person on the other end of the line and hung up.
We waited, both peeking out the window, until a white Chevrolet SUV with hoover police department in gold and blue on the side entered the lot. It idled behind Jimmy’s truck for a minute before a uniformed officer got out. He tapped Jimmy’s window with his flashlight and spoke with him. Jimmy’s headlights came on and he eased out of the space and toward the exit. The police SUV followed.
I collapsed onto the leather sofa. “Thanks.”
“You need a drink.”
“Amen. Have you got any wine?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve got some beer.”
“That’ll work.” While he was in the kitchen, I picked up my keys and my purse from where I’d dropped them near the front door.
“Where’re you going?”
“I need to get something out of my car.”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so. I’ll get it. Here.” He crossed the room with a sweating cold Killian’s and traded me the beer for my keys. “You’re staying right here. What do you need?”
“There’s a folder on the passenger seat. A plain manila folder with some photocopied newspaper articles in it.”
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
Grant returned with the folder Kirk had given to me at the library. “This it?”
“Yep, thanks.”
I curled my feet under me and sipped on the beer. Grant got his own Killian’s and a laptop and joined me in the living room, stretching his bare feet out in front of his oversized chair. With the clickclick-click of his typing in the background, I browsed the articles.
They were in chronological order. The first was a small article, dated five years ago, from the Local News section. RESPECTED LOCAL PHYSICIAN RETIRES, the title read. It was just a fluff piece announcing that after twenty-seven years of service to the Birmingham area, Dr. Walter Baxter, a specialist in internal medicine, was selling his practice. It quoted several patients he had treated over the years, telling how much he meant to them, blah, blah, blah. No pictures. I put it aside.
The next article had run in the fall, two years ago. DOCTOR EXPERIMENTS WITH RESEARCH SIDE OF MEDICINE. A brief article about the incorporation of BaxMed, owned by former Birmingham physician Dr. Walter Baxter. He was quoted about the exciting promise of medicines for the future, stating that new and more effective drugs were being developed every day. How he’d gained a greater interest in the research side of medicine since his retirement. His son, the article mentioned, was about to complete his graduate degree in pharmacology. Dr. Baxter hoped to have him on board soon. The story delved a little into the fact that Dr. Baxter was seeking sponsors for his company’s research. Nothing new there.
Next was Joey Renzi’s four-part series that Kirk had mentioned. The pieces were paper-clipped together. The first one ran on the nineteenth of June. Birmingham had thrived for decades as an industrial steel city, but like other urban areas was moving toward a more modern, service-based economy with an emphasis on health care. The article talked about the university’s role in the change.
All this was interesting, but not very helpful. I skimmed the rest of the article, and, not seeing anything about BaxMed, put it aside. The following Sunday, June twenty-sixth, Joey had profiled a company called Field Genetics. Nothing about BaxMed there, either.
The next article was dated July third, the same day Kirk’s story naming me as Michael’s social worker appeared in the paper. No wonder I’d forgotten it. It was all about BaxMed. Complete with a color picture of a smiling old man standing next to a plaque-style sign affixed to a yellow brick wall. He was tall and thin, dressed in a lab coat and a neat shirt and tie. He had a full head of gray hair, and his tanned face was deeply lined. The caption read, “Dr. Walter Baxter is one of Birmingham’s pioneers in the pharmaceutical industry.”
The first paragraph reiterated what I already knew about BaxMed’s founding. There was no mention of Trey. The next outlined what the company was working on. They planned to specialize in psychopharmaceutical drug research for mental health disorders. BaxMed was optimistic about the trials of their new medicine for attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, currently being tested under the name Focanix. Early results held hope that it had fewer side effects for its users. The company was also in the early stages of testing a new drug, named Alerox, for patients suffering from narcolepsy and cataplexy.
A grey sidebar box defined the disorders, ADHD being a disorder first visible in childhood whose symptoms included distractibility and hyperactivity. Like I didn’t know what that was. It seemed like half the kids I took into custody had it.
Narcolepsy was a sleep disorder, characterized by excessive sleepiness during the day, uncontrollable falling asleep, and in some cases, cataplexy, a sudden loss of muscle control, especially when in extreme emotional states.
I said, “Huh,” and threw the stack of articles onto the couch beside me.
Grant looked up from whatever he was working on and asked, “What is all that stuff?”
“Just some articles I thought might help me understand this case better.”
“And did they?”
“No, not really. Can I use your computer? I want to look something up on the Internet.”
“Here,” he said, passing me the thin laptop. It was smaller than a hardcover book. “Use this one.”
“You have a wireless network set up in your apartment?”
He gave me a half-embarrassed grin. “Yeah. You want another beer?”
“Sure.”
Grant went to the kitchen, returning with two more Killian’s. I thanked him, balanced the computer on my knees, and pulled up a search engine.
First, I entered “BaxMed.” Got a one-page Web site that wasn’t much more than the electronic version of what I’d just read in the article. I thought for a minute, then entered “ADHD.” I got over sixty million hits. No time for that.
I skimmed the BaxMed article again and typed “Focanix.” I got a few hits, nothing that I didn’t already know. I typed in “Alerox” and got the same result.
Grant was watching me hit the keys with a soft look on his face. I caught his expression out of the corner of my eye
and asked, “What?”
“You look sexy when you type.”
I laughed. “God, you are such a geek.”
He smiled.
I back-browsed to the search engine again and entered “Narcolepsy.” Fewer hits, only about four million. I scrolled the list for a minute and finally clicked on a fact sheet at narcolepticsupport.com.
The site gave an overview of the disorder. I clicked on a menu box under “treatment.” It listed several drugs used to treat narcolepsy. One was also an ADHD medication, Ritalin. So it made sense that BaxMed was working on the two disorders together. It seemed they overlapped. Maybe one of the two meds they were researching could be used to treat both conditions. A newer medication, Xyrem, was on the market for narcolepsy too, I read. Its active component was —
Holy cow. Gama hydroxybutyrate. GHB.
So far, despite some public concern for the safety of the drug, it had shown enormous promise. Especially in treating the cataplexy part of narcolepsy. I read the rest of the site so fast my head started to spin. I put the laptop next to me without closing it.
I got up and paced the room. The pieces to this puzzle were flying together so fast I could hardly think.
Grant watched me wearing out his carpet and finally asked, “You okay?”
“Fine, fine. I think I may have figured out why Michael died. And who killed him.”
Grant peeled himself off the chair and picked up the laptop. The BaxMed articles were underneath it. He put the computer down on the couch and studied the photocopies.
“BaxMed? You don’t think the Baxters are involved, do you?”
I stopped pacing. “Yeah, why?”
“Because they’re my clients.”
`
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Your clients? Are you serious?”
“Yeah, I’ve worked with Dr. Baxter ever since I opened the shop. Remember I said I used to work for an insurance company? I used to install and maintain billing software in doctors’ offices. When I decided to hang out my shingle, I contacted all the doctors I had worked for and told them to call me if they needed anything. Dr. Baxter called the next week and hired me to put in the PCs for his new research firm. What do the Baxters have to do with your dead client?”
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