Just as she said this, Jason saw the problem. At the entrance to the bridge, a young woman, probably late twenties, had pulled off the road with a flat tire. She was currently bent over changing said tire, her short skirt not appropriate attire for the task at hand. Jason cursed under his breath at the damned rubberneckers, as his frayed nerves tingled and his head began to throb with frustration at this latest near-death experience. He said to Chelsea with self-righteous indignation, “Some young girl had a flat, pulled off the road right before the bridge, and is bent over changing the tire, her ass bared to the world. These rubberneckers are idiots.” He reached the spot where the girl was changing the tire, slowed to a stop, and took a good long look before continuing on across the bridge. He failed to mention that part to his wife.
“Jason, are you staring at her ass? How long did you stop to look?”
“I did no such thing. It’s not worth dying for.” He looked up to the sky, waiting for the lightning bolt to strike.
Once he had passed the young lady with the hazardous rear end, traffic picked up again. About a mile ahead, he saw a large plume of dark smoke rising mysteriously from the road, and he got a whiff of the distinct odor of burning rubber. As he approached the source of the smoke, his mind had difficulty processing what his eyes were seeing. He said to Chelsea, “Lord God Almighty! I’m in a freaking NASCAR race! Up ahead, in my lane of course, is a blue Ford Fusion, spinning round and round like a top, black smoke rising from the tires as they slide sideways across the asphalt surface. Someone must have given this guy a NASCAR bump in the rear at high speed, and sent his car into an uncontrollable spin. Help me!”
“Jason, are you screwing with me? I’m going to hang up and go eat pizza. The girls are home, and we’re all hungry.”
Jason had mere seconds to decide how to avoid disaster; in the wall-to-wall traffic he had nowhere to go, and he was moving too fast to stop in time. For a brief moment he detected a small break in the traffic to his left, so he closed his eyes, said a quick prayer and jerked the steering wheel in that direction, expecting to crash into one or more of his fellow commuters. He screamed into the phone, “Aaaahh! Shiiiiit! I’m gonna die!” To his surprise, when he opened his eyes he was moving safely around the spinning car, and all he suffered was yet another one-finger salute, this time from the Mercedes sedan that he had cut off while avoiding death. He was glad he had Bluetooth, because he couldn’t have pulled off that maneuver if he’d had a cell phone in one hand. He said to Chelsea, “Dear, are you still there?”
After a brief pause, he heard “Still here. I just served up the pizza. The girls all say hi, and they love you. Are you okay? I thought I heard you yell. Did someone cut you off?”
“Oh, I’m fine. I just had yet another scrape with death, but I’m still not dead yet. I hope we have a full bottle of gin, because I’m going to have several martinis with my pizza. And I hope it’s pepperoni, because gin-soaked olives go especially well with pepperoni pizza.”
An hour later Jason pulled into the garage of his home in Northern Virginia. Traffic had been stop and go the rest of the way. He turned off his vehicle and sat there for several minutes, trying to force himself to take regular deep breaths as an effort to calm down before facing his darling wife and three beautiful daughters. It was not their fault that his commute was the equivalent of driving the Indy 500, and he didn’t want to take out his stress and frustration on them.
Eventually, Jason got out of his car and opened the door that led through the mudroom into the kitchen. It was good to be home—good old safe, peaceful home. As he opened the door connecting the mudroom to the kitchen, he heard raised voices, perhaps an argument. When he walked into the kitchen, his eldest daughter, Lizzy, saw him first, turned from her mother and charged toward him. He held out his arms, foolishly expecting a hug from his darling thirteen-year-old. Instead, she looked up at him, placed one hand under each of her newly formed breasts, pushing them up to emphasize their presence, and said emphatically, “Daddy, can I have a push-up bra? Mom says I’m too young, but I want one. What do you think?”
Jason blinked a couple of times, looking around to make sure that he was in the right house, began to shake uncontrollably, dropped his briefcase on the floor, and fled back through the mudroom and into the garage. He climbed back into his 4Runner, backed out of the garage, barely remembering to reopen the garage door first, and aimed the vehicle at the nearest bar, where he calmed his nerves with a couple of nice, strong drinks.
About an hour later, he drove home again, parked in the garage, and this time he went to the front door and rang the doorbell. He thought that maybe by doing so his family would not realize that it was Dad and he would have the element of surprise. Chelsea answered the door alone, and when she opened it and saw him, she looked daggers through him.
“What the hell! Where did you run off to? I had a bad day at the office, and I desperately needed some help corralling those three little hellions to get them ready for bed. Instead, you ran away, you big coward, and left me here to fend for myself. I can smell from your breath that you already drank your dinner, and the pizza’s all gone anyway. There’s some bologna in the fridge and bread in the pantry. You can make yourself one of your disgusting fried bologna sandwiches. I’ll send the girls to the kitchen to say goodnight.”
• • •
Jason was in bed reviewing his day, and for the first time, he started to think seriously about leaving the government and working full-time as a private eye. I could work from home, and the commute from hell would end. I already have my PI license and my first case. Why not give it a try? Now, how can I do this without Chelsea finding out? How, indeed?
CHAPTER 7
“What would Jessica do? What would Jessica do?” Jason was a mumbling mess.
It never dawned on him that people might think he was nuts if they heard him, especially if they knew his mentor was an old lady from a TV show.
He finally decided that he’d visit CureStuff Pharmaceuticals. He mumbled, “That’s what Mrs. Fletcher would do. She’d go to CureStuff, ask a lot of questions, irritate the hell out of everyone, and see what happens. Means, motive, opportunity, and alibis.”
Jason had no idea what he was doing. He wasn’t even sure that this was attempted murder. If a drug caused Joanne’s strange attack, the dose would be important to consider; a higher dose would have probably killed her. If the intent was not to kill but to induce intense sexual pleasure, she could have taken the drug herself, in which case there wasn’t even a crime. But where’s the fun in that? With that in mind, he called out of work for the day and prepared for a trip to North Carolina.
He suspected that Chelsea might not be too happy about his plans, and she did not disappoint. He sheepishly told her that he was taking a day of leave to visit CureStuff and interrogate some of the senior management.
“You really are crazy. You’re abandoning me here with our three little monkeys, and by skipping out on your government job you are probably putting that in jeopardy. I love you, and part of me wants to support you on this little adventure of yours, but the other part of me thinks you’re out of your mind and wants to kick you in the nuts.” His only response was to cringe, grimace with imagined pain, and pack for his trip. A hug was probably out of the question.
When Jason was speaking with Dr. Richard Littlething, president and CEO, he would be careful not to say anything about working for the FDA. He dialed and an administrative assistant answered the phone.
“Hello. I’m Jason Longfellow, a private investigator hired by one of your former employees. I need to make an appointment with Dr. Littlething to question him about matters concerning Dr. Shipley. I’d also like to interview a number of the other senior management while I’m there. I’d prefer to come for a visit day after tomorrow. Would that work for Dr. Littlething?”
“I’m sorry. I’m not sure that Dr. Littlething is available for an interview with a private detective. I need to check with him. Please ho
ld.” Before Jason could say anything else, he heard the phone click, and elevator music began to play an orchestral version of Beatles songs. Finally, she came back on the line and said, surprise in her voice, “I must admit, I didn’t think that Dr. Littlething would be interested in your interview. Sounds so, well, silly. I thought private detectives spent their time taking pictures of husbands and wives involved in extramarital affairs. Oh my God. Is someone here having an affair?” She paused. “Anyhow, much to my surprise, Dr. Littlething agreed to a meeting with you. It seems day after tomorrow will be fine.”
Jason thought, She makes my new job sound like I’m making a porn film. Trying to sound confident, he said, “Thank you. I’m pleased that Dr. Littlething agreed to meet with me. I knew contacting him directly was the right thing to do. It’s what Mrs. Fletcher would have done.”
There was silence from the other end of the line, followed by a click as the administrative assistant shook her head. I’m not sure who the hell this Mrs. Fletcher is, she thought, but I think I just made an appointment for my boss to meet with a lunatic.
• • •
On the day of his appointment, Jason drove the four and a half hours to Research Triangle Park, parked in CureStuff’s outdoor visitor’s lot, and went through security at the entrance to the building without issue. From the looks of the place, the company had lots of money. The entryway and atrium leading to the elevators were gigantic, at least two stories, and filled with marble, stone pillars, and inlayed tile with beautiful and brightly colored designs. There was so much rock that it smelled a little like the inside of a cave, albeit a very expensive one. A large mural covered the ceiling, with four corners made up of a gigantic caduceus, a sphygmomanometer, a scene from a research laboratory—complete with beakers, test tubes, a microscope, and a picture of a hospital emergency room entrance featuring an ambulance with a large red cross on the side. These four items created a square, surrounding the branded emblem of CureStuff Pharmaceuticals: a picture of a globe with a 50s-cartoon-style face, a big, happy smile on it, and the words CureStuff, for a Happy, Healthy World.
One of the security guards waited with Jason until Ms. Harden, the perky assistant in her late twenties, came to get him. She was slender, with long sleek legs. She had short, bright-red hair, a cute nose, dimpled chin, luscious lips that looked highly kissable and rosy cheeks. There was something in her clear blue eyes and friendly smile that gave the impression of an intelligent young woman with more than her fair share of ambition. She was dressed business casual with a white blouse and light-blue skirt, though the skirt cut off high enough above her knees to get Jason’s attention. Ms. Harden extended her hand.
“Dr. Longfellow? I’m Carol Harden, Dr. Littlething’s administrative assistant. Pleased to meet you. Come with me, and I’ll show you to his office.” She thought, He doesn’t appear to be a lunatic. Looks fairly normal, although a bit on the tall side. He’d be a handful if he decided to run amuck.
Jason shook her hand briefly while gazing straight into her piercing blue eyes. He believed that eyes were a mirror to a person’s soul. He saw in her a youthful, energetic, playful spirit that for a moment brought back memories of a time when he was young and free. As she moved closer, he caught the light smell of lilacs, his favorite scent. Ms. Harden, where were you when I was in my twenties? Then reality hit him, and his smile wavered a bit. Damned midlife crisis. My twenties are long gone, and I need to focus on the task at hand.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Carol. I appreciate you making this appointment for me, and I look forward to meeting Dr. Littlething. Also, you addressed me as doctor. I made my appointment as PI Jason Longfellow. How did you know I’m a doctor?”
She smiled and said, “I’ll leave it to Dr. Littlething to explain,” as she turned to lead him to his meeting.
They took a nearby elevator to the top floor, the home of upper management. “So, Carol, how long have you worked for CureStuff?”
“I’ve been Dr. Littlething’s administrative assistant for three years now. I began working for him right out of college. Dr. Lance Harden is my father, and he introduced me to Dr. Littlething.” she said, a twinkle in her eyes. “I majored in pharmacy at UNC and took the job as a way into the company, but I have plans to move on from here in the near future.”
“Where do you eventually want to land in the company? With a pharmacy degree you obviously have potential.”
“I have my eye on a position in the marketing department. Everyone knows that the marketing teams end up running most drug companies. It’s unusual for someone new to start as the president and CEO’s administrative assistant and move from there to a department like marketing, but I saw an opportunity and thought I’d give it a try. Plus, my father likes it that I’m in Dr. Littlething’s office. I can keep an eye on things from here.”
Jason was taken aback by her honesty. Aha. It would seem that Dr. Harden has his daughter planted in Dr. Littlething’s office to keep an eye on him. This makes sense. It was Jason’s understanding that Harden developed the company’s new potential blockbuster antidepressant drug, so he had a large stake in the company and whatever the president and CEO was up to. “I wonder if there’s a clue to what happened to Joanne in there somewhere. This Carol Harden could be useful,” Jason mumbled.
“What was that you said? I couldn’t hear you.”
“Sorry, I was just saying how impressed I am with this elevator, the whole building really. I see the elevator has been inspected recently,” he said, trying to recover from this latest bout of mumbling.
The elevator reached the top floor. “Yes sir, we have our elevators routinely inspected—not our primary goal as a company, but we do follow safety regulations. Is that what you came to talk to Dr. Littlething about, our elevator safety program?”
She led Jason up the hall on the right, where a set of large, ornate oak double doors sported a gold-inlaid sign announcing, Dr. Richard Littlething, President and CEO, CureStuff Pharmaceuticals.
“Wow, based on these doors and that over-the-top sign, this Dr. Littlething must be quite a character.”
“Yeah, he’s a real peach. Five feet four inches of pure bullshit. But I’ll deny it if you tell anyone I said that.” She thought, The two of you should get along together famously. You’re both nuts.
She opened the door and they entered the office. She led Jason to a couch in a small waiting area near her desk. “Have a seat, Dr. Longfellow. Would you like some coffee?”
“Yes please,” he said. “That would be great.”
She left the room and returned a couple of minutes later with the coffee. “There’s cream and sugar on the tray if you’d like. Help yourself. Meanwhile, I’ll buzz Dr. Littlething and let him know that you’re here. Enjoy your meeting with him, lucky you.” She smiled and returned to her desk.
A few minutes later, a short man in a very expensive Armani business suit walked up the hall, approached Jason and offered his hand. Jason placed his coffee cup on the table in front of the couch, stood up, and reached down to shake hands with the president and CEO of CureStuff Pharmaceuticals.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Littlething. Thank you for taking the time to see me.”
Dr. Littlething looked to be in his late fifties. Dark, beady eyes peered through large dark-rimmed glasses resting on his bulbous nose, practically enveloped by his face, which was so large and round that his chin was nowhere to be seen, although it must have been somewhere south of the forced smile formed by his thin lips and small mouth. His only redeeming feature was a well-groomed beard and mustache, though even this could not distract from the 200 pounds that had been compressed into a five-foot-four frame. It was impossible for Jason to miss the fact that Littlething was balding, with a small crown of gray-brown hair surrounding the top of his head; more than a foot taller than Littlething, Jason had a clear view of the top of the man’s head. When Jason took hold of Littlething’s outstretched hand, the CEO tried his best to squeeze hard t
o demonstrate his power and masculinity, but his hand was so small that only the tips of his fingers made it around Jason’s palm.
Dr. Littlething replied, in the surprisingly high-pitched squeal that was apparently his voice, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Longfellow. How are things at the FDA?” The man obviously took some gratification from the surprised look on Jason’s face as he continued. “Yes, I googled you when Carol first told me that you wanted to meet with me. You introduced yourself as a private detective, but I found you online, and it seems that you’re a drug reviewer for the FDA. Frankly, that’s why I agreed to meet with you, although I’m quite curious as to why you’re really here. Is there a problem with one of our drug applications?”
“I apologize for not being forthright about my job with the FDA, but I’m actually here on behalf of a client in my other role, as a private detective. I can assure you that I’m a legitimate PI. I have a license, business cards, a CCW permit, the works.” He showed Littlething his bona fides.
Jason couldn’t shoot worth a damn, but he was really proud of that permit. He didn’t have to demonstrate good marksmanship to get it, just that he knew how to handle a gun safely. He had purchased a 9 mm Glock pistol, but he didn’t actually carry it; he was afraid he might accidentally shoot himself.
“I would like to ask you some questions about what happened recently to one of your SVPs. I’d also like to discuss your previous relationship with Dr. Joanne Shipley. It’s my understanding that she used to work for CureStuff?”
Dr. Littlething interrupted. “Dr. Longfellow, please. Isn’t it a little odd that an FDA drug reviewer is also a private detective? Tell me why you’re really here, or I’ll contact our lawyers and security and have you removed from the building. I ask again, is there some problem with one of our drug applications?”
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