Prayers for the Dead (19 page)

“Berger didn’t feel the drug was ready to be tested on humans?”

“He never actually espoused that opinion, no,” Shockley said. “Because Sparks always called the shots, of course. But the D.C. labs were frustrated by Berger’s pickiness.”

“Maybe some would call that exacting,” Oliver said.

Shockley’s smile was mean. “There’s being exacting… and there’s being ridiculous.”

“Ah,” Oliver said. “I guess it takes a person of very high intellect to know the difference.”

Marge shot Oliver a look, and he backed off. He asked, “Did you express your lab’s frustration with Dr. Berger directly to Dr. Sparks?”

“Of course not. We had complete confidence in anyone who represented Dr. Sparks. And I don’t want to imply that we were unhappy with Dr. Berger. We just felt that Dr. Decameron was…”

Oliver said, “More with the program?”

Shockley’s smile was condescending. “Better suited to the job.”

“Dr. Decameron told us the initial trials of Curedon looked promising.”

“Yes.”

“He’s also told us that some of the latest data was not so promising.”

Shockley said, “There are always wrinkles. That’s why we have trials before the drug is presented to the public, my friends.”

“Would you have the latest results?”

“Not at my fingertips.”

“Could you get them for us?”

“No. They aren’t your business.”

Marge said, “We can get them from Dr. Decameron.”

“So do that.” Shockley’s smile was smug. “You know, I am trying to help you out. But you can’t expect the company to just open up its data banks for you. First, it would serve no purpose. Second, it’s confidential information. For all I know, you two might be industrial spies.”

Oliver couldn’t help it. He broke out laughing, swinging a look Marge’s way. “My Ph.D. in chemistry must be showing.”

Shockley frowned. “Are you putting me on, Detective?”

Oliver said, “Yes, sir, I am putting you on. I apologize.”

Shockley glared at him. Oliver flashed him the peace sign. “No disrespect meant.”

Mollified, Shockley folded his hands and said, “Besides, you wouldn’t get a thing out of the trial data. Just a bunch of numbers and figures. Impossible to interpret unless you’re intimately involved in the trials.”

Meaning you dumbshits couldn’t understand them anyway
. Marge said, “What do you think about Sparks’s other colleague, Elizabeth Fulton?”

“I never dealt with her.”

“Never?” Oliver asked.

“Yes, I believe I did say never, Detective.”

Oliver said, “You spent lots of money developing and refining a drug like Curedon, right?”

“Researching and refining,” Shockley corrected.

“Yes, you’re right, of course. Sparks developed the drug.”

“Yes, he did.”

Oliver said, “Say you spend lots of money researching and
refining
a drug, and it turns out to be a bust. What happens?”

“We move on.”

“You take a huge loss just like that?” Oliver said.

“We move on,” Shockley repeated.

“Then how do you stay in business?”

“Our profits exceed our losses.”

Marge thought of something that Decameron had brushed upon. “How about this, Doctor? We all know there’re a million different names for the same aspirin tablet out there, right?”

“I’ve never analyzed all the different acetylsalicylic compounds. I can’t answer that yes or no.”

“You’re being picky, Doctor,” Oliver said.

“I’m being exacting.”

Marge was not about to be put off. “What if a drug proved to be safe and effective. But not much more effective than what’s available on the shelves.”

“Or what’s in the pharmacies,” Oliver stated.

Marge said, “Do you still market the drug?”

“I can’t answer that, Detective.”

“Not even evasively?” Marge asked.

Shockley smiled, but said nothing.

Marge said, “I mean why would drug companies spend all this money to put something on the market when it’s not a big improvement over what’s already out there.”

“Like we have a million types of cold medicines,” Oliver said. “Or a million types of toothpastes.”

“Or a million types of cola sodas, Detectives.” Shockley made quote signs with his fingers when he stated the word
million
. “Or all the different brands of cigarettes, coffee, orange juice, yogurt, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Different strokes for different folks,” Oliver said.

“I couldn’t have phrased it better,” Shockley said.

“Is Curedon more effective than what’s out there?” Oliver asked.

“Detective, we’re back to where we started.”

“Are the trials going to continue now that Dr. Sparks is gone?”

“I don’t know for certain,” Shockley said. “But I can’t see why they shouldn’t continue.”

“And you’d still be working with Dr. Decameron?”

“I’m not sure of anything at the moment.” Shockley stood. “Your police business has caught us all off guard.”

“Our police business?” Marge said. “Is that your way of saying Dr. Sparks’s murder?”

“Yes, Detective. Exactly.” Shockley walked over to the door. “I do have business to tend to. If you both don’t mind, it’s getting late. Do call if you have further questions. If I’m not available, you can always leave them with my secretary.”

Marge and Oliver exchanged glances. They were being unceremoniously dismissed. Oliver shrugged. They both got up and thanked Shockley for his time.

“You drive or I drive?” Marge asked.

Oliver flipped her the keys. “We didn’t learn too much, did we?”

Marge opened the door, slid in the driver’s seat, and reached over to unlock the passenger door. Once Oliver was belted in, she started the motor. “We learned that Decameron replaced Berger in the Curedon trials. If Shockley’s to be believed… that he didn’t complain to Sparks about Berger… I’d like to know why Sparks yanked Berger from the trials.”

“Yeah, that’s something.”

Marge pulled the Matador out of the vast parking lot chock-full of Japanese subcompacts. She turned left, onto the lone boulevard leading to the freeway. “I wonder how Berger felt about it… being cut from Curedon.”

“Maybe it was Berger’s decision.”

“Nah, Sparks made all the decisions regarding Curedon. The rest just followed orders.”

“And Berger resented Sparks for making the switch.”

“Possibly.”

“And that’s a motivation for
murder
?”

“What if money was involved? Whoever worked with Sparks got a piece of the profit?”

A good point, and Marge told him so. She took the on-ramp to the 405 North. “You know, Scott, you put money together with big
egos…
you get a powder keg.”

“Man, ain’t that so. I’ve never seen people so full of themselves.”

“Guess you play the part of God long enough, you begin to believe your own method acting.” Marge switched over to the left-hand lane. “We also found out that Shockley preferred Decameron over Berger. That says a lot.”

“You’re right. Berger must have been a real obstacle for Gordon Shockley to prefer a gay blade like Decameron.”

“Yeah, Scotty.” Marge fidgeted. “I want to talk to you about that. You think it was wise, bringing up the gay thing?”

Oliver grinned. “Made Shockley feel
real
uncomfortable. You know, Marge, sometimes you just gotta go for it. I had to get to the prick, and I did. He began to talk a little after that. Plus, he lost that smug smile of his.”

“What if it gets back to Decameron?”

“So what?” Oliver picked up the old thermos and took a swig of lukewarm coffee. “But if you want me to tell Decameron what went down, I’ll do it. I’m not the least bit embarrassed. I’d call him a queer to his face. He’d probably love it.”

“I don’t know about that.” She paused. “Does anything embarrass you, Scotty?”

“A lot embarrasses me, Margie. But I’m not gonna tell you about it.”

Marge smiled. “Too embarrassed?”

Oliver smiled back. “Too embarrassed.”

He was waiting
when Rina swung the Volvo into the parking lot. She pulled alongside his ten-year-old Toyota, paused before she opened the door. Clad in a somber brown knit dress that fell below the knee, her hair pinned and covered with a chocolate tam, she thought she looked appropriate. Her face was clean, but without a drop of makeup. Let him see all the wrinkles and worry lines.

She got out, straighted up, and brushed imaginary lint from her skirt. She tried not to stare, but did anyway.

He had aged a bit, but wore it well. Overtones of white mixed into in his amber-colored hair, the silvering at his temples. He still kept it the same way — one length and long, the ends nipping his shoulders. His green eyes were as sharp as ever, lying calmly behind hexagonal frameless glasses. His face was a bit bonier, but his shoulders had widened, his build was more mature and mannish. Even with stress stamped across his face, Abram Matthew Sparks cut a handsome figure.

He leaned against the car, looked upward, stuck his hands in his pockets. “Thanks for coming.”

Her eyes went moist. “I’m sorry, Bram.”

“So am I.”

Such
pain
in his voice.

He looked at her face, then at the ground. “You look exquisite as always. Married life has been good for you. How long has it been since you’ve tied the knot? Five years?”

“Five years exactly.”

“So it’s been what… around six years since we’ve last seen each other? Where has the time gone? You haven’t aged a whit.”

“Tell me what I can do for you.”

“Nothing, unfortunately.” Bram walked over and opened the passenger door. “Nothing at all.”

Rina blinked back tears. “It’s agonizing to see you in such misery.”

His eyes went to hers, then he looked away. “Better me than you.”

She knew his words were heartfelt, which made the pathos that much stronger. Longing to hug him, to comfort him as he had done for her. But she quelled the thought. It wouldn’t suit either of them. Instead, she took his hand, his fingers tapered and smooth, his palm uncalloused. A scholar’s hand. She gave it a gentle squeeze. Abruptly, he pulled her to his chest, hugged her hard, burrowing his face in her tam. He was trying to control his tears, but she still felt warm droplets on the back of her neck. Embracing her as if she were his life raft as he sputtered to stay afloat.

Hastily, he broke it off and walked away. “Dear God, I’m losing it.”

“Stop being so hard on your—”

“I know, I know.”

Rina was quiet. He was red-faced, embarrassed. The car door was still open. She slipped inside the Toyota’s front seat, burying her hands into the soft folds of dress fabric. Piled in the back were stacks of university library books written in ancient exotic languages. Among them, at the bottom of one of the heaps, was an oversized tome of Talmud. Tractate Sanhedrin, Volume One. Sanhedrin dealt with the laws of the Jewish court. Without thinking, Rina removed the book and set it on top. Holy works shouldn’t ever rest under secular ones.

Bram wiped his eyes, moved into the driver’s seat. “Sorry. I forgot who I’m dealing with… with whom I’m dealing.”

Rina blushed. “Force of habit.”

“It’s fine.
Anything
you do is fine. Anything at all. Anything, anything. I don’t know why I even mentioned it.” He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. “I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

“You’re perfectly coherent.”

“My, you’re kind.”

“You’re using Steinsaltz?”

“So much for purism.” He rolled his eyes. “What a firebrand I was back then.”

“Enthusiastic.”

“You mean obnoxious. Which I was. Yes, I’m using Steinsaltz. Besides being a remarkably clear thinker, he believes in readable print and punctuation. My eyes are going.”

Rina regarded his face. “Did you get any rest at all, Abram?”

“Actually, yes.” He pulled a crucifix out from under his shirt, kissed it gently. “I grabbed around four hours between six
A.M.
and noon Mass. I feel okay.”

With that, he started the car, jamming the gear into first. Speeded up as he drove through the winding mountainous road. Bram had always been a fast driver. Occasionally, the Toyota seemed to lose its grip on the asphalt. Rina clutched the door rest and hoped for the best.

She stole a quick glance his way. He was dressed in the requisite black suit and black clerical shirt. His nails had been bitten to the quick. She looked away, eyes peering out the window.

“Considerate of you,” she said. “Wearing your cross inside your shirt when you were with Rav Schulman. Especially considerate to be thinking of him at this time in your life.”

“Yes, I’ve grown up.” He was reflective. “I don’t know why Rav Schulman put up with me way back when. Such a cocky kid. Cocky, abrasive, argumentative, rude, irritating… a veritable thesaurus of unpleasantness.”

“You’re turning your grief inward,” Rina stated. “Don’t. It doesn’t help.”

Bram was silent. Then he said, “Thanks for calling last night.”

“I wouldn’t think of doing otherwise. After everything you did for…” Rina’s eyes started to water. She hid her face in her hands. “I’m sorry.”

Bram gave her a packet of tissues. Rina dabbed away tears, tried to compose herself. “Was Rav Schulman helpful?”

“Always. The man’s a stone genius.” The priest pushed the Toyota into fourth gear. “I wish he had known my dad well enough to eulogize him. I wish he were speaking instead of me.”

“I’m sure your father wouldn’t have wanted anyone else but you.”

“Flaws and all.” Bram’s voice held a bitter tinge. “I suppose you’re right. At least it will be from the heart. You’ve been okay, Rina?”

“Very well. I had a baby about three years ago — a daughter.”

Bram’s happiness seemed genuine. “That’s wonderful! You got your little girl. And what a lucky little girl she is to have a mother like you. I hope she looks like you.” He let out a gentle laugh. “No offense to your husband.”

“None taken. And you’ve been well?”

“Chugging along. I can’t believe I’ve lasted this long as a parish priest. But it’s a good place. We’ve grown tremendously. At the moment, we’re just about five hundred families.”