He wondered if the unfinished and unsent email would put Garfield on the radar as a murder suspect. There’s a motive, but that’s not how I want this to play. What to do? And taking more time than he’d intended, Dalton spread Hansel and Gretel breadcrumbs to serve as a mundane reason why an esteemed researcher and professor would be shot dead in his home – a simple break-in and burglary gone wrong. But, the assassin-style single shot set the wrong tone. It won’t do. He paused and eyed the near-empty tumbler of bourbon, too drunk, too old, and too preoccupied to hear the burglar enter. A scuffle would have been better, but to move the body now would be a mistake, each drop of blood on the keyboard would leave a trail of post-mortem manipulation. It’s what came next that had to set the stage. And like a director’s suggestion in one of the many acting classes he’d attended at NYU’s school of the arts, he thought, if I were a heroin addict what would I do?
He set to work, opening drawers, pocketing whatever small bits could be easily pawned or bartered for drugs. But as he passed through a study with a wall covered with framed class photos, a discordant note hit. He zeroed in on the doctoral class of 1988. Twenty-four mostly smiling, and mostly bespectacled faces in front of the physics building. Jackson Atlas, a proud parent on one end, and his mother on the other. She had stared straight into the lens, younger than all, blonde, and even with her hair tied up and back and her prim white buttoned blouse, lovely, like a fairy princess with sapphire eyes, a pointed chin and perfect symmetry to her East European features. He wondered why she stood as far from Jackson in the photo as possible. ‘Something’s not right here.’ Why didn’t I know this? Well, she would have been dating my father when this was taken … was she already pregnant?
He stared at the picture. The trees had leaves, but new ones … April, maybe May. Which even then … June, July, August, September, October, November, December.
Nausea flooded his mouth. He felt the weight of the jewelry he’d taken from an upstairs dresser, and the heat from his gun through the leather holster. The story went that he’d been born a month premature, even so. She was pregnant in that picture and when she married Father. Sick to his stomach, he returned to the conservatory and stared at the fallen man.
No. Did I just kill my father? Why didn’t she tell me she knew him? What else is she keeping from me? I am so fucking tired of her pulling my strings. He stopped. Don’t let her get to you. You have a busy night ahead and information she didn’t want you to have. Good things. And this anger … Song lyrics formed, and with them came a melody in a minor key.
I am not my lady’s lackey.
I am purpose and intent.
I will feed my baby’s hunger, with the burn of discontent.
He checked the French doors to make certain they weren’t alarmed, and humming, he left.
FOUR
Frank felt sick to his core. He’d lost all sense of time, from the moment he’d found Jackson’s cold body to dialing 911, ‘Someone’s dead. I think he’s been shot. His name is Jackson Atlas. He’s a professor.’ To now, seated in Jackson’s kitchen at the paper-strewn and coffee-ringed table with a dark-suited, Brookline detective named Sean Brody.
‘Dr Garfield, can you think of any enemies Dr Atlas had?’
Frank looked at Brody, not much older than he, early thirties, sandy blond hair, hazel eyes, well-pressed suit, white shirt and burgundy tie. Not like yesterday’s Mr Crisp with his five-thousand-dollar suit, but like he knew his way around an iron or used a dry cleaner … Do detectives make that much? His cell buzzed. He glanced at the number, didn’t recognize it, figured it was a drug company, and rejected it.
‘Dr Garfield? Please focus.’
‘Enemies, yeah, lots.’ And was I becoming another? Am I a suspect? Shit.
‘Tell me about that. Who in particular?’
Frank swallowed. Jackson is dead. Someone shot him. But the pieces wouldn’t fit. He’d come over early, before classes, for breakfast. He was determined to move past last night’s impasse. His run home had cleared his head and brought him to a decision point. Jackson either would support him and his work, or he’d find a different faculty sponsor. A grim prospect. But with children’s lives, Jen’s life, in the balance, he could not roll over and bury research that might save her. He didn’t get it … and now he’s dead.
‘Dr Garfield, I know this is upsetting, but please concentrate.’
His gaze now connected to the detective’s. This is his job. This matters to him … ‘Of course. Jackson made a lot of enemies and torpedoed a lot of projects.’ Including mine.
‘I need specifics.’
‘OK, here’s one. Someone here had a cancer drug heading toward a stage three human investigation study. That’s the final hurdle before a drug company gets the FDA approval to bring it to market. And by the time you hit stage three, millions have been invested and careers are on the line. So this drug, Robenazide, was being pushed hard for small cell lung cancer. Jackson got asked to review a study for one of the journals. He shredded it, said the toxic effects outweighed any possible benefit. The study was terminated, though the drug company is now trying again with a different indication.’
‘They can do that?’
‘Yeah, it’s called finding a hammer for the nail. Happens all the time. It made Jackson furious. He was usually right about these things.’ Was he right about my work? Like an amputee who still feels his arm, Frank desperately wanted to talk with his mentor. He’s gone.
‘How many of these Robenazide scenarios were there?’
‘Lots. Jackson was a one-man crusade. Especially cancer chemotherapies. He believed the entire cancer industry had gone in a wrong direction. That most of their treatments made things worse, and ensured that the bulk of patients would die in the most expensive manner possible.’
‘That’s a bit cynical,’ the detective said.
‘No. Factual.’ Frank’s words felt disconnected, as scenes from last night’s fight played over and over. Answer his questions … why is he smiling? Nice smile. ‘Most chemotherapy attacks the immune system. How can an organism heal when its defense weapons are taken off the field?’ Frank glanced up at the kitchen clock. ‘I was supposed to teach a class at eleven. Can I make a call?’
‘Go ahead.’
Frank pulled out his cell, and under Brody’s scrutiny he dialed his best friend. ‘Grace.’
‘Frank, what’s wrong?’
‘Lots.’ He spoke fast. ‘Jackson was murdered … shot, sometime after I left him last night. I’m being questioned. I’m not going to make my eleven o’clock. Can you cover or call out for me? And you should let them know that Jackson won’t …’ He couldn’t say it.
‘Oh my God. Where are you?’
‘Jackson’s.’
‘I’m on my way.’
‘OK.’
She lowered her voice. ‘Are you a suspect?’
‘Maybe … Yes, I think so.’
‘Do you have a lawyer?’
‘No.’
‘Frank be careful. We know you didn’t do this. Right?’
‘Of course.’ He knew it was a joke, but he couldn’t feel the humor.
‘Just checking. And Frank, you’ve been through worse, you’ll get through this.’ And she hung up.
‘What do you teach?’ Brody asked.
‘Genetics.’
‘Where?’
‘MIT.’
Brody nodded and held eye contact. ‘Smart guy. So, you were here last night and again this morning. That usual for you?’
And here it comes. Should I get a lawyer? Should I stop answering? I didn’t do this. I should tell the truth, the whole truth, and … he’s got nice eyes. Green … hazel, little gold flecks. ‘Yes. Jackson doesn’t keep office hours, so we’d meet here. He was my doctoral thesis advisor and has sponsored my research ever since.’
‘Explain that.’
‘Which part?’
‘The sponsor thing. You’re a doctor, right. Is that MD or PhD?’
&n
bsp; ‘Both.’
Brody smiled. ‘Like I said, smart guy. So why do you need a sponsor?’
‘I’m junior faculty, on a tenure track, but whether or not I ever become a full professor is a crap shoot and depends on my ability to get grants, do successful studies, and publish what will be considered important work.’
‘In genetics?’
‘Epigenetics. But trust me, you don’t want me to explain that.’
‘We’ll see. So keep going with the nuts and bolts of your relationship with Jackson.’
‘He was my mentor, and it was his name and reputation that got my last two NIH grants funded. It’s his sponsorship that gets me the office and lab space I need.’
‘And without him?’
‘I either get another sponsor or … I don’t know what. Go somewhere else, I guess. Although—’
‘What?’
Tell the truth. ‘Jackson and I had reached an impasse about my work. He felt it was dangerous and I should go in another direction.’ He waited, knowing he’d just lobbed a motive onto the table.
‘You fought?’
‘Yeah.’ He’ll find out anyway. ‘Seems all we did lately was disagree. I’d come to where I knew he wasn’t going to give in, and I’d have to find someone else, or go somewhere else.’
‘I’m glad you told me,’ Brody said. ‘Did your arguments ever get physical?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Good. So why did Dr Atlas view your work as dangerous?’
Frank thought of something Grace would say, and bit back a grin.
‘What made you smile?’
‘In scientific circles you have to be careful what you ask. We live in super-specialized niches so that no one knows what we’re talking about. It’s why you never ask a doctoral student about his thesis … because he’ll tell you, and tell you, and tell you some more.’
‘Give me The Reader’s Digest condensed.’
‘Sure, there’s little bits of protein on the ends of our DNA. They’re called telomeres. They keep everything folded the way it’s supposed to be. But every time a cell divides the telomeres shorten and their ability to keep the DNA in its most-stable configuration is compromised. And it’s why cells can’t reproduce forever, something called the Hayflick limit. My work focuses on reinforcing the telomere.’
‘Pure theory or have you actually done it?’
Frank looked at the detective who had just asked the big question. Jackson’s voice rang in his head, ‘Once people know what you’ve done. Then it’s not theory.’
‘Just theory.’ He lied, not about to tell this detective about his small clandestine study with tumor-riddled Norwegian rats. Or that they all lived … until he sacrificed them, dissected them and found not a single malignant cell. ‘Jackson didn’t want me to publish my theory, said it was like chumming the waters for the drug companies.’
‘Those recruiters you keep blocking?’
‘Yeah. He wasn’t wrong.’ And now he’s dead. Did that article have something to do with this? Did I?
‘Come with me, please’ Brody said, and he walked back through the house to the conservatory.
Sunlight streamed through the windows and skylights. Even so, bright tripod lamps had been set up around Jackson’s body, as he was photographed from every angle.
‘Where’s Killer?’ Frank asked.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Killer,’ Frank crouched and looked in the direction of the tortoise’s hangout spot under a stainless-steel potting table.
‘Who or what is Killer?’
‘A Galapagos tortoise. And no one woke up Harvey.’
‘Who is?’
‘A Macaw in the cage over there. He swears.’ Frank turned around. ‘Shit! Who left the door open?’
He headed towards the gaping French doors.
‘Dr Garfield,’ Brody followed him. ‘Don’t touch anything. This is how the room was found, correct?’
Frank stopped and turned. ‘Yes.’
‘Think hard, did you move anything, anything at all?’
‘The chair. And then I knelt down, and felt for a carotid pulse. There wasn’t one.’
‘And?’
He paused, and could feel Jackson’s flesh, cool and rubbery, against his fingertips. ‘He was cold, he must have been dead for hours. It must have happened not long after I left.’
‘Which you said was at ten.’
Frank heard the unmistakable thump and drag of Killer from under the back deck. ‘Yes, ten. What will happen to his animals?’
‘Professor Atlas has family?’
‘Not close.’
‘And what’s with the weird animals?’
‘Not weird, long lived. Killer has documentation going back a hundred years. Jackson’s had him for over thirty-five. What will happen to them?’
‘If there’s no family they go to Animal Control.’
‘Could I take them, even for now?’ Unless I’m getting locked up.
‘Let me get back to you on that. What I’d like you to do now, is take a careful look at everything here and tell me if anything is missing or different from how you remember it.’
Frank looked. ‘It’s all here. Except for Killer. We shouldn’t leave him outside. He’s not fast, but he wanders. Maybe I could grab him and we could shut him up in the kitchen.’
‘Sure,’ Brody said, but sounding less than certain.
Frank headed out into the spring morning; it smelled of cut grass. This is how the killer must have left. He looked back and spotted the open second-floor bathroom window. ‘That’s how they got in.’
Brody nodded. ‘Seems like, access up there and egress through the conservatory.’
‘He’s under there. I can hear him.’ Frank got down on all fours and searched in the sun-dappled shadows under the deck for Killer. He spotted the tortoise semi-burrowed next to the stone foundation where he munched on a patch of weeds.
Mindful of his suit, Brody knelt next to Frank. ‘Sweet Jesus, how big is he?’
‘Four-hundred plus.’
‘You want to take care of that?’
‘I suppose. I just hope what he’s eating doesn’t give him diarrhea. There’s nothing worse than sick tortoise shit.’
‘How are you going to get him out of there?’
‘Food, and there’s a hydraulic cart in the garage. We fill it with lettuce, make a path, and leave the door open. He’ll go in.’ He then blurted his question. ‘Am I a suspect?’
‘Did you kill him?’
‘No.’
‘Then for now, you’re not a suspect. Though you are in the middle of things.’
‘I know. Will you help me get Killer out?’
Brody turned and faced Frank. Mere inches separated the two men as their gazes connected.
Frank’s breath caught. Relief surged, not a suspect. But there was something else, as a silence stretched under Brody’s scrutiny.
‘Sure.’ He smiled. ‘Let’s get some lettuce.’
FIVE
From her power position in UNICO’s Manhattan Auditorium, capacity five-hundred, CEO Leona Lang sat perched at the top of the pharma heap. And where do we go from up? But down. That will not happen. She pressed her Botox-kissed lips into a serene half smile, fixed her jaw at an upward angle to decrease lines in her neck, and scanned the capacity crowd assembled for the annual meeting. On the periphery, reporters hung, including ones from The Times and The Journal and jumbo flat-screen monitors provided lesser shareholders with poor seats a better view. On her right, son Dalton, who she’d recently promoted to COO and on her left her board chairman, J. Robert Henry, IV. Bob to his friends, of whom she was not.
She half-listened to her current head of R&D, Dr Bradley Gordon, drone on about his team’s accomplishments over the past year. To Dalton she whispered, ‘I want him gone by the end of the week.’ Even the man’s voice annoyed her … Useless.
‘Yes.’
‘Where are we with Garfield?’ she asked.
<
br /> ‘I’ve found an angle.’
‘Yes?’
‘Terminally ill children. Six of them. He wants to save them.’
‘Interesting.’ On a screen, she now caught her and Dalton’s images. She flinched. At forty-nine, she’d reached the outer limits of Botox, Collagen and Dr Ramon’s temporizing miracles. But Dalton; she inventoried his looks, her cheekbones and piercing blue eyes, thick hair, and not a wrinkle on his face. She ached for the beauty she’d once had.
‘A very good year,’ J. Robert offered from her other side. ‘Lionel would be pleased.’
‘He would,’ she said, knowing the Lionel he referenced was not her dead husband but his father, a scion of industry who had put UNICO on the map with great government contracts after WWII and the development of powerful antibiotics, still on the market, albeit with new derivatives that extended the patents. She then followed J. Robert’s gaze fixed on her breasts. Great, he still finds me attractive. Her earlier years at UNICO had been punctuated with J. Robert’s unwanted advances, even when her husband – the other, and arguably lesser, Lionel – still lived.
The applause swelled as the soon-to-be terminated Dr Gordon turned towards her, ‘And now a few words from our esteemed leader. The CEO of UNICO Pharmaceuticals, Dr Leona Lang.’ She stood and smoothed down the front of her navy Chanel suit. She weighed the applause – fair, not great.
‘The numbers speak,’ she began, as the monitors displayed her smoothed-out features, luminous blue eyes, and trademark spiked blonde coif. As a young woman, she’d been compared to a blonde Audrey Hepburn; her looks a tribute to her Polish mother and the Swede she’d bedded in a drunken encounter.
Leona needed no notes or teleprompter. ‘We are a single entity you and me. Without you, our shareholders and supporters, UNICO does not exist. Without us, well, this is our twenty-third consecutive year with double-digit profits. How rare that is.’ And the reason why Bob and all his desiccated cronies can’t fire me.
A cell phone with a marimba riff distracted her. She noted Gordon silence his ringer and scroll through messages. Moron. ‘But here’s the thing,’ she didn’t miss a beat. ‘Everything we do, every penny invested in cutting edge research is based on the UNICO mission and vision. It’s simple and it’s true. Here to help; here to heal. When other pharmaceuticals sit on past laurels we finish the year with innovative products, which have either already made it to market, or will be released in the next twelve months. We do not make me-too drugs, but rather, the new, the now, the next … the needed.’ She felt the energy in the room. It fed her and she it. And she would give them what they wanted. And what do they want more than anything? What we all do. Money, power, beauty. But that wasn’t it and she knew it. There was something more. ‘Yes, we will finish this year strong. But that’s not the point … is it? We till the soil for next year, the year after, and the years beyond. It’s not a question of what we’ve accomplished, but of what is to come. We, you and me, will move ahead boldly. We will bring miraculous new drugs to market. We will transform lives. Because we are UNICO.’ She stared out into the crowd, her voice like thunder. ‘Here to help; here to heal.’
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