He realized that it came down to a gamble, and this made him uncomfortable. But he didn’t feel he had a choice. The noose was tightening around his client’s neck. His guts told him that it was worth the risk. But if he was wrong….
“You want, I can get that snot rag around your throat and tighten it down just a little bit. I’m told it’s quite effective for the libido.” Strout was referring to the garrote, and even more grimly to erotic asphyxia, the heightened orgasm which occurred during hanging and some other forms of strangulation. “Seems to be all the rage these past few years, ’tho my own feelin’ is that it just plain ain’t worth the trouble. But maybe I’m wrong. Lots of folks seem to give it a try. Anyway, how y’all doing?”
The two men made small talk for a couple of minutes while Strout shuffled his messages. After he’d gotten behind his desk, and Hardy had moved to a different chair, they got down to it.
When Hardy finished, Strout scratched around his neck. “Let me get this straight,” he said at last. “You’re comin’ in here as a private citizen askin’ me to autopsy another Portola patient who died the same day as Mr. Markham?”
“If you haven’t already done it.”
“What’s the subject’s name?”
“James Lector.”
Strout shook his head. “Nope, haven’t done it. But they do an automatic PM at the hospital. You know that?”
“And they never miss anything, do they?”
This was a good point, and Strout acknowledged it with a small wave. “How close was the time of death to Markham’s?”
“Within a few minutes, actually.”
“If I take a look, what exactly would I be lookin’ for?”
“That I don’t know.”
Strout took off his horn-rims, blew on them, put them back on. The medical examiner had a mobile, elastic face, and it seemed to stretch in several directions at once. “Maybe I don’t see what you’re gettin’ at. If you’re sayin’ Glitsky thinks your client killed Mr. Markham, then how’s it s’posed to help your client if another body turns up with potassium in it on the same day?”
“It won’t,” Hardy agreed. “I’m hoping it’s not potassium.” What he did hope was that James Lector was unexplained death number twelve. It wouldn’t clear Kensing, but it might take some of the onus off his client for Markham’s death. “Either way,” he continued, “isn’t it better if we know for sure what Lector died of?”
“Always,” Strout agreed. He thought another moment. “And why would I want to order this autopsy again?”
Hardy shrugged. “You decided that Lector was a suspicious death, dying as he did within minutes of another homicide in the same room at the same hospital.”
The medical examiner’s head bobbed up and down once or twice. He pulled a hand grenade that he used as a paperweight over and spun it thoughtfully a few times on his blotter. Hardy watched the deadly sphere spin and tried not to think about what might happen if the pin came out by mistake.
Finally, Strout put his hand on the grenade, stopping it midspin. His eyes skewered Hardy over his glasses. “You’re leavin’ somethin’ out,” he said.
“Not on purpose. Really.”
“If I’m doin’ this—which I’m not promisin’ yet, mind you—then I want to know what you’re lookin’ for, and why.”
Hardy spread his hands, hiding nothing. “I think there’s some small but real chance that James Lector is the latest in a series of homicides at Portola.” This made Strout sit up, and Hardy went on. “So Lector’s death may or may not have been natural, and may or may not have been related to Tim Markham’s,” he concluded. “But certainly if Lector was murdered and died from a
different
drug than Markham, then there’s a lot more going on at Portola than meets the eye at this stage.”
“But again, it wouldn’t do much for your client.”
“Maybe not, John, but I need to find some evidence of other foul play where I can make an argument that my client wasn’t involved. And don’t tell me—I realize that doesn’t prove he didn’t kill Markham. At least it’s somewhere to start, and I need something.”
Strout was considering it all very carefully. “You got the Lector family’s permission?” he asked. “When’s the funeral scheduled?”
“No and I don’t know. If you ordered an autopsy, we wouldn’t need the family to…” This wasn’t flying and he stopped talking. “What?”
“I believe I mentioned that there’s already been a PM. If they got a cause of death they’re happy with and I say I want another look at the body, it’s goin’ to ruffle feathers, both at the hospital and with the family. ’Specially if like the funeral’s tomorrow or, say, this mornin’ and we got to dig him back up.” But something about the idea obviously had caught Strout’s interest. If somebody was getting away with multiple homicides in a San Francisco hospital, it was his business to know about it. “What I’m sayin’ is o’ course we could do it without anybody’s permission if I got a good enough reason, which I’m not sure I do. But any way we do it, it’d be cleaner if we asked nice and got an okay from the family.”
“I’ll talk to them,” Hardy said.
“Then I’ll make a gentlemen’s deal with you, Diz. If it gets so it doesn’t make anybody too unhappy, we’ll do this. But if the family makes a stink, you’re gonna have to go to court and convince a judge to sign an order. I’m not gonna do it on my own.”
Hardy figured this was as good as it was going to get. He didn’t hesitate for an instant. “Done,” he said. “You’ll be glad you did this, John. Ten to one you’re going to find something.”
Strout’s expression grew shrewd. “Ten to one, eh? How much you puttin’ up?”
Hardy gave it some thought. “I’ll go a yard,” he said.
“A hundred bucks? You lose and you’ll owe me a grand?”
“That’s it.”
“You’re on.” Strout stuck out his hand and Hardy hesitated one last second, then took it.
I
t was Friday afternoon, the best time to do it. Joanne announced his appointment in her pleasant, professional voice. She, of course, knew all about it, having typed the termination papers, but she would do nothing to give it away. Also present, kitty-corner from his desk at the small conference table, was Costanza Eu, Cozzie for short, the Human Resources director at Parnassus. This was going to be, had to be, strictly by the book. Malachi Ross, behind his desk when Driscoll came in, didn’t get up.
“Brendan.” He didn’t bother with much of a welcoming smile. “Have a seat.”
Driscoll was within a spit either way of forty. Meticulously groomed, he sported a carefully trimmed mustache in an unusually attractive, somehow asymmetrical face. With his powerful physique and his short dark hair dyed a discrete blond at the tips, he could have been sent from central casting to play a young, slightly sinister CEO in any daytime soap opera. From his carriage, no one would surmise he was a mere secretary or—as Markham had always called him—an executive assistant. Today he wore a muted blue tie and a black pin-striped business suit, and he wasn’t a step inside Ross’s door when he cast a quick eye at Cozzie and knew what was up.
He didn’t take the proffered seat. Instead, he approached it and put his hands on the backrest. “I was hoping I’d have the opportunity to clean up Tim’s files before we got to this,” he said. “Though of course I understand. But I’ll do what I can in the next two weeks.”
Ross made an elaborate expression of disappointment. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Brendan. I’ve decided, and the board has agreed, that you won’t be required to stay on after today.” He had the thick envelope on the desk in front of him, and he picked it up. “We’ve included a check in lieu of your two weeks’ notice, and on top of that what I think you’ll find to be a very reasonable severance. Due to your long tenure with the company, as well as Mr. Markham’s high regard for your services, the board has approved seven months of your full salary and five more months at half, as well as of course your fully vested pension, and letters of recommendation from myself and several other members of the board. You’ll also have the option to remain enrolled in the employee health plan.”
Driscoll stood rooted, his mixed emotions playing on his face. Eventually, he nodded and swallowed, accepting the fait accompli. “Thank you, Doctor. That’s very generous. I assume you’ll be wanting my keys and parking pass and so on.”
Even as he said it, he had his wallet out, then reached into his pockets. After he’d placed all the required items on Ross’s desk, he stood at attention in front of it for another long moment. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I kept his calendar mostly on the computer at my desk, although there’s an incomplete hard copy in my top right drawer. I haven’t gotten around to calling all of his appointments yet. There’s also some unsent correspondence and I believe a few internal memos. If you’d like to send someone back with me, I’d be happy to print out…”
But Ross threw a glance, prompting Cozzie to speak up. “That won’t be necessary, Brendan. We’ll be going through all that material in the coming weeks. Standard procedure is we’d prefer to have you escorted from the building directly when you leave this meeting.” She smiled with all the warmth of a cobra. “We understand that this can be a little disconcerting, but I’m sure you understand that it’s nothing personal. Some people…” She let it hang, then shook her head and continued. “The contents of the closet by your desk, including your sweater and other personal goods, are boxed up just outside. Security will help you with them.”
Some of the starch had gone out of Driscoll’s bearing. He turned back to Ross. “What are you going to do about Mr. Markham’s personal files? He left very specific instructions that I should…well, of what I should do if…”
“We’ll take care of them,” Ross said reassuringly. “Don’t you worry. As you know, Mr. Markham left descriptions of his projects and detailed instructions for the board against just such a tragic event as this.” Ross rose halfway out of his chair and smiled perfunctorily. “I did want to thank you again for your loyalty and discretion. And now, for your cooperation.”
It was a dismissal, and at Ross’s invisible sign, Cozzie was on her feet, coming around the table with a line of inane chatter, guiding the clearly shell-shocked Driscoll back toward the door. “You’ve got a beautiful day to start your new life, I must say that. Look at that blue out the windows. I don’t remember the last time I’ve seen the sky so clear. And to think after the storm the last few days….”
Firing Brendan Driscoll, that officious little mouse, had been the first, albeit tiny, ray of sunshine in his life since Markham’s death. No sooner had Cozzie left his office than he rose from his desk, went over to the wet bar, and poured himself a viscous shot of frozen vodka from the bottle of Skyy he kept in his freezer. The no doubt heart-wrenching departure scene with Driscoll in his reception area played itself out in about ten minutes while he savored his drink. Joanne buzzed him to say it was over. Driscoll was out of the building.
Ross strode from his office, made some lame joke to Joanne, and turned right down the carpeted hallway. Floor-to-ceiling glass on his left made him feel almost as if he were walking in the air—the bay sparkled below him, while the Bay Bridge, already jammed up with traffic, seemed close enough to touch. Sitting at Driscoll’s former desk, out in Markham’s reception area now, he experienced a strange and momentary sense of dislocation. In a couple of weeks, he realized, Joanne would be sitting out here and he would have moved to the gorgeous suite behind him. It was the very pinnacle of the greasy pole he’d been climbing for what seemed all of his adult life.
At every step, he’d done what he had to do to get here. There was no question—as the board had affirmed—that he was the best equipped to handle the job. And now, with Markham’s micromeddling and needless hypocrisy a thing of the past, he believed he could turn the business side around in a matter of months. If only he could keep the company afloat until then.
He thought it was eminently doable. He had ideas. Sending the city that $13 million bill for its past outpatient copays had been one of them, although admittedly merely a stopgap measure. Short term, he had the city over a barrel. And long term, his plans would stop the bleeding and get Parnassus back to financial health.
While he waited for the screen to come up on the computer, he pulled out the drawers of Driscoll’s desk one by one and nodded in satisfaction. They’d done a good job cleaning them all out. He fully expected to find the hard files behind the locked door of Markham’s old office. Ross intended to come in over the weekend and review every page of that material. But in the meantime, he had an hour before close of business, and another hour after that before his dinner appointment, and he wanted to make sure that Driscoll’s computer contained nothing of an embarrassing nature.
Long ago, before cash had been such a problem, Ross had purchased a state-of-the-art computer system that he still considered one of his most astute investments. The customized business program he’d ordered allowed unlimited access to all files for certain employees, such as Cozzie and himself, who were given what they called “operator privileges.” This allowed Ross’s Human Resources department to keep tabs on nearly everything that went on. The system’s security programs could count actual keystrokes per hour so the department could know which secretaries were underutilized or, more typically, just plain lazy. Likewise, if an employee spent too much time on the Internet, or wrote a screenplay or love letter on the company’s time, Cozzie would know about it by the end of the week, when the reports came out. She would then review these reports with Ross, and together they would decide which person they would discipline, for everyone was guilty of something. It was, Ross believed, a beautiful thing—make laws governing all behavior, then enforce them selectively against people you don’t like.
Only Brendan Driscoll, perhaps the worst offender in the company, had managed to thwart the system. He wrote love letters, short stories, and poetry on his computer, he visited porn sites on the Internet. When Markham was traveling, he would sometimes talk to his friends on the telephone for half the day (for of course the phones were integrated to the computer system, as well). But Driscoll got away with it all because Markham wouldn’t let him go.
But now Ross sat at his terminal. Driscoll had a password for his personal files, but Ross had his own “operator privilege” password, and it trumped Driscoll’s. He typed in his own initials and password, a secondary directory came up, and Ross involuntarily, unconsciously broke a tight smile.
The Mandarin Oriental Hotel, one of the crown jewels of San Francisco, presented a look and feel of restrained opulence that Malachi Ross found appealing. It was also within easy walking distance of his office, and taking the leisurely stroll on this glorious evening was even more pleasurable than usual. After the grueling few days he’d just spent—not only in the immediate wash of Markham’s death, but dealing with fallout from the “CityTalk” broadside—he’d take any comfort he could, wherever he could get it.
There had been some comfort back at Parnassus—more on Eric Kensing in Driscoll’s computer files than he would have thought possible. There was correspondence about his wife, Ann, Markham’s responses to what appeared to be intimations of a kind of (at least) emotional blackmail that Kensing had used to keep his job, memos to file, references to cash payoffs, private reprimands, ultimatums. Amazing! He’d printed it all out and told Joanne to deliver it to the district attorney by messenger.
He printed out a few other files, as well. These he put in his own briefcase, then deleted the originals from the computer.
Nancy and the girls were up at Lake Tahoe for the weekend. He’d told her she ought to have their pilot Darren fly them on up without him. He’d been working around the clock all week as it was, and in all likelihood that schedule would continue through the weekend and for the foreseeable future.
He’d told her on Wednesday night. They were in their bedroom getting ready to go out to dinner. The door was open to the hallway. They could hear the girls just outside, playing with Bette, their nanny. Nancy gave him a quick pout. She would miss him terribly, especially
that way.
Glancing at the open door, the voices twenty feet away, she unzipped her skirt and, stepping out of it, dropped it to the floor. Turning her back to him, she leaned over and rested her elbows on the antique Italian writing desk by the end of their bed. Over her shoulder, she smiled in that “I dare you, we’ve got maybe two minutes” way she had, and whispered urgently, “It would be easier to go if you gave me something to remember you by.”
“Good evening, Dr. Ross, and welcome again to Silks. You look like you’re enjoying a particularly pleasant memory.”
He snapped out of his reverie, smiled perfunctorily. “Hello, Victor. Nice to be here again.”
“Right this way,” the maître d’ intoned. “Your guest has already been here for a few minutes.”
His guest was Ron Medras, a very well put together, athletic, mid-forties senior vice president with Biosynth, which until about eight years ago had been a small drug manufacturing firm. It had carved out a nice, survivable niche producing generic, mostly over-the-counter knockoffs of aspirin, Tylenol, baby’s cold and flu formula, and anti-inflammatories. At about that time, caught up in the feeding frenzy for mega-earnings and exploding stock prices that were overtaking the Silicon Valley, Medras and several other like-minded executives at Biosynth decided that three-bedroom homes in Mountain View or Gilroy were all well and good, but six-bedroom mansions in Atherton or Los Altos Hills, all in all, were better.
Biosynth knew it could easily produce equivalent, or near-equivalent, product of the stuff that was making billions and billions of dollars for Merck, Bristol-Myers Squibb, Pfizer. What it didn’t have was marketing,
aggressive
marketing to big clients—hospitals and HMOs. Instead, it merely worked the chain drugstores that comprised the bulk of its sales. That would change.
Tonight, Medras was on a typical sales call. Ross was not his biggest client by a long shot, but he remained an important one. This was because there was often resistance when a new drug of any kind came on the market, and Ross had been willing over and over again to list Biosynth’s new products on the Parnassus formulary nearly as soon as they were in production. This often had a snowball effect. San Francisco wasn’t a huge market, but it had very high visibility. That made it plenty big enough for Biosynth’s purposes. When Medras went to companies ten or twenty times the size of Parnassus, he’d be able to say to them: “This stuff is so good the main health care provider in San Francisco has listed it on its formulary.” And, either impressed or reassured, the other medical directors would buy.
A couple of preprandial drinks accompanied ten or fifteen minutes of expressions of regret and sympathy from both men over the loss of Tim Markham, remembrances of good moments with him, praise for his vision, leadership, personality. But in this phenomenal setting, with an hors d’oeuvres plate of perhaps the best sashimi in the Western Hemisphere, it was difficult to sustain a somber mood. By the time the wine steward offered Medras a tasting sip from the bottle of ’89 Latour that they’d ordered to go with their Asian lamb chops, they’d moved along to more enjoyable topics. They passed a pleasant hour discussing their golf games, new toys (Medras had just leased a new Saratoga aircraft), investment tips and opportunities.
Ross had developed a taste for hazelnut in the form of Frangelico liqueur, and he was enjoying his second snifter with his coffee when Medras finally got around to what they’d both come to talk about. Biosynth had been developing a new product for the past year or so. Top secret up until now, it had been waiting for FDA approval, and Medras had it on good authority that the good word would be coming down in the next month or so. The company had gotten ahold of a process that enabled them to make insulin at one-fifth of what it now cost to produce.