Death Match (31 page)

“Just a moment, please.” The woman peered into a monitor recessed into her work surface, held a manicured finger to one ear, listened to an invisible earpiece. Then she looked up at him again. “If you’d kindly take a seat, he’ll be right with you.”

Lash had barely settled into one of the chrome-and-leather chairs when he saw Roger Goodkind approaching. Goodkind was carrying a few more pounds since they’d last met, and the sandy hair was receding dramatically from his temples. But the man still had the same sly half-smile, the same loping walk, of their undergraduate days.

“Chris!” Goodkind clasped Lash’s hand in his. “Punctual as ever.”

“Anxiety disorder. Presenting as compulsive timeliness.”

The biochemist laughed. “If only your diagnosis were that simple.” He led Lash toward an elevator. “Can this really be? Hearing from you like this, twice in two weeks? I’m almost prostrate with gratitude.”

“I wish I could say it was a social call,” Lash replied as the elevator opened, “but the fact is I need your help.”

Goodkind nodded. “Anything.”

Goodkind’s lab was even larger than Lash had anticipated. There were the obligatory lab tables and chemical apparatus, but there were also deep leather chairs, a handsome desk, bookcases full of journals, a stunning view of the river. Lash whistled appreciatively.

“The center’s been kind to me,” Goodkind said with a chuckle. He’d developed a new mannerism since Lash last saw him: he ran his fingers through his thinning hair, then grasped a few strands and tugged on them, as if encouraging growth.

“So I see.”

“Have a seat. You want a diet soda or something?”

Lash let himself be shown to one of the armchairs. “No, thanks.”

Goodkind took a seat opposite. “So what’s up?”

“Remember why I called you last week?”

“Sure. All those crazy questions about suicide among perfectly happy people.”

“Yes. I’m working on something, Roger, something I can’t tell you much about. Can I rely on you to keep it confidential?”

“What is this, Chris? Is it a Bureau matter?”

“In a way.” Lash watched the man’s eyes widen. If Goodkind thought the Feds were involved, he’d be more likely to cooperate.

Goodkind shifted. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

“You do a lot of work with toxicology, right? Drug side effects, interactions, that sort of thing?”

“It’s not my field of expertise, but, yes, we’re all involved with toxicology to some degree at the center.”

“So tell me. What steps would a biochemist go through in developing a new drug?”

Goodkind ran a hand through his thinning hair. “A new drug? From scratch, you mean?” He paused to tug on a lock. “Historically, drug development’s always been kind of hit or miss. You screen molecules and compounds, looking for a ‘hit,’ something that seems beneficial to people. Of course, now with computational chemistry, you can simulate the effects of reactions that—”

“No, I don’t mean that early in the process. Say you’ve already developed a drug, or something you think might be a drug. What’s the next step?”

Goodkind thought a moment. “Well, you do stability testing. See what delivery vehicle it likes best: tablet, capsule, solution. Then you expose the drug molecule to a variety of conditions—relative humidity, UV light, oxygen, heat—make sure it doesn’t degrade, break down into harmful byproducts.” He grinned. “People always keep drugs in their bathroom cabinets, you know, which is probably the worst thing you can do. Heat and moisture can cause all sorts of nasty chemical reactions.”

“Go on.”

“You perform tox studies, qualify the degradation products. Determine what’s acceptable, what’s not acceptable. Then you do a Trap.”

“A what?”

“A Trap. Toxicological risk analysis procedure. That’s what we call it here at the center, anyway. You run the functional groups—the different parts of the drug molecule—against a knowledge base of existing chemicals and pharmaceuticals. You’re essentially looking for adverse reactions that might cause different, and more dangerous, functional groups. Toxicity potential. Carcinogenicity, neurotoxicity, so forth.”

“And if you find such toxic potential?”

“That’s known as a structure alert. Each alert is flagged and studied for severity.”

“I see. And if the drug passes?”

“Then it goes on to clinical trials, first in animals usually, then humans.”

“These structure alerts. Can a drug cause a structure alert and still go on to be developed?”

“Of course. That’s one reason you have warning labels on medicine bottles. ‘Don’t take with alcohol’ and the rest.”

“Are these alerts listed somewhere, in a book? The
Physician’s Desk Reference
, maybe?”

Goodkind shook his head. “Structure alerts are too low-level, too chemical, for the PDR.”

“So they’re proprietary? Kept secret by individual researchers or pharmaceutical companies?”

“Oh, no. They’re all stored in a central database. Government regulations.”

Lash sat forward slowly. “Who has access to this database?”

“The FDA. Pharmaceutical manufacturers.”

“Biochemistry labs?”

Goodkind inhaled sharply as he realized where Lash was headed. Then he nodded. “With the proper accreditation.”

“The Weisenbaum Center?”

Goodkind nodded again. “In the research library. Two flights up.”

“Mind leading the way?”

Goodkind licked his lips. “Chris, I don’t know. Access to that database is government-sanctioned. You sure this is official?”

“It’s of the greatest importance.”

Still, Goodkind hesitated.

Lash stood up. “Remember what you said when I called? That you couldn’t predict suicide, that it was just a roll of the dice? That it made no sense, for example, why Poland had a drastically higher suicide rate than normal in 2000?”

“I remember.”

“Perhaps you forgot something, a fact I just dug up on my way here. Poland is the country where, because of the low cost to run studies,
most drugs were tested in 2000
.”

Goodkind thought for a moment. “You mean—?”

“I mean you should show me that toxicology database. Right now.”

Goodkind hesitated just a second longer. And then he, too, stood up.

THIRTY-NINE

T
he center’s research library did not look like a library at all. It was a low-ceilinged space, uncomfortably warm, its walls lined with carrels of blond wood. Each contained a seat, a desk, and a computer terminal. The room’s only occupant was the librarian, who looked up from her typing to stare suspiciously at Lash.

Goodkind chose a carrel in the far corner. “Where are all the books?” Lash asked in a low voice as he pulled over the chair from the adjoining carrel.

“In the basement stacks.” Goodkind drew the keyboard toward him. “You need to requisition titles from Ms. Gustus, there. But almost everything we need is online, anyway.”

Lash watched as the man typed in his name. A menu appeared, and Goodkind made a selection. The screen refreshed:

FDA - DIVISION R

PBTK

PHARMACEUTICAL AND BIOMEDICAL

TOXICITY KNOWLEDGE BASE

REV. 120.11

LAST UPDATED: 10.01.04

PROPRIETARY AND CONFIDENTIAL. OFFICIALLY SANCTIONED USE ONLY.

UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS CONSTITUTES A FEDERAL CRIME.

ID: ____________

PASSWORD: ____________

Goodkind looked at Lash, who nodded encouragingly. With a shrug, Goodkind completed the fields. A new screen appeared:

FDA - R/PBTK 120.11/00012 10/04/04

ENTER QUERY BY:

1. CHEMICAL COMPOUND

2. TRADEMARK

3. GENERIC

PRESS F1 FOR INDEX:

Goodkind looked over again. “What’s the name of the medication you’re interested in?”

“Scolipane.”

“Never heard of it.” Goodkind tapped a series of keys, and the screen filled with text. “Here it is.”

Lash peered more closely:

FDA - R / PBTK 120.11 / 09817 10/04/04

SCOLIPANE

Hydoxene, 2 - ((6 - (p-methylparapine) phenylchloride) alkaloid) -, sodium salt

MR: PhG

MF: C
₂₃
H
₅
O
₅
N
₃
•Na

USE: (primary) S. M. R. (secondary) see p. 20

MUTATION DATA: N/R

REPRODUCTIVE REFERENCES: p. 15

SYNONYMS: p. 28

DOSAGE DATA: p. 10

PAGE 1 OF 30

“Biochem was my worst subject at U. Penn. Remember?” Lash looked away from the screen. “Why don’t you hold my hand a little here.”

Goodkind scanned the text. “Scolipane’s primary use is as a skeletal muscle relaxant.”

“A
muscle
relaxant?”

“It’s a relatively new formulation, about five years old.”

“Dosage?”

“One milligram. A little feller.”

Lash slumped. The theory that had begun to seem so promising started to slip away again.

He glanced back morosely at the top of the screen. Between the chemical description and the formula was a line he didn’t recognize. “What’s ‘MR’ stand for?”

“Manufacturer. They all have codes. You know, sort of like airports. Take this one: PhG. That’s short for PharmGen.”

Lash straightened again.

PharmGen.

He began looking more closely at the data. The acute toxicity chart was a typical feature of such reports; it usually recorded the LD50, or dosage at which half the sample population would die. He ran down the columns.

“Canine mania,” he said quietly. “What the
hell
?”

“We have to scroll to page twenty for more information.”

“And look—it says to see page twenty for data on human overdosage, as well.” Lash glanced at Goodkind. “Primary use is as a muscle relaxant, you said.”

“Right.”

“But look here. There’s
another
use. A secondary use.” He pointed at the screen.

“Page twenty again,” Goodkind murmured. “Seems that page has a lot to tell us.”

“Then let’s go.”

Goodkind moused quickly forward, the screen blurring, until he reached page 20. Both men leaned in to read the dense text.

“Jesus,” Goodkind breathed.

Lash said nothing. But he found himself going cold in the overheated room.

FORTY

T
ara Stapleton sat behind her desk, motionless except for her eyes. Slowly, she scanned the office, letting her gaze settle on one thing, then another. The plants were watered and carefully pruned; her old fiberglass board leaned against the wall as it always did; the posters, bumper stickers, and other surfing paraphernalia remained in their usual spots. The institutional clock on the far wall told her it was ten minutes to four. Everything was as it should be. And yet everything looked unfamiliar, as if the office had become suddenly foreign to her eyes.

She leaned back slowly in her chair, aware her breathing had grown fast and shallow.

Suddenly the phone rang, its shrill warble shattering the quiet. Tara froze.

It rang again. Two beeps: an outside call.

Slowly, she lifted it from the handset. “Stapleton.”

“Tara?” The voice was rushed, out of breath.

“Tara?” it repeated. “It’s Christopher Lash.”

Street noises filtered from the earpiece: the rush of traffic, the blatt of a truck’s horn.

“Christopher,” Tara said evenly.

“I’ve got to talk to you. Right now. It’s very important.”

“Why don’t you come by my office?”

“No. Not inside. Can’t take the chance.”

Tara hesitated.

“Tara, please.” Lash’s voice was almost pleading. “I need your help. There’s something I have to tell you nobody else can overhear.”

Still, Tara said nothing.

“
Tara
. Another supercouple is about to die.”

“There’s a coffee shop around the corner,” she said. “The Rio. On Fifty-fourth, between Madison and Park.”

“I’ll be waiting for you. Hurry, please.”

And the phone went dead.

But Tara did not rise from her desk. In fact, she made no move at all except to replace the phone in its cradle and stare at it, as if struggling with some terrible uncertainty.

FORTY-ONE

L
ash walked into the Rio a few minutes after four. The walls were covered in gilt wallpaper, and the incandescent lights and resin-colored banquettes gave the diner a hazy, golden glow. He felt like an insect surrounded by amber.

For a moment, he thought he’d arrived first. But then he caught sight of Tara, sitting at a booth in the rear of the restaurant. He stepped forward and slid into the seat across from her.

A waitress approached; Lash ordered a coffee, waited until she walked away. Then he turned back. “Tara. Thanks for coming.”

Tara nodded.

“Did you talk to that doctor? Moffett?”

Tara nodded again.