Mark took his second beer, sipped, and said, “Yes. As I understand it, you knew Tom Andrews very well.”
“We grew up together. Neither of us had any siblings. We were the brothers each of us never had. Along with Steve Cooper. He had a sister, but he was like our third brother.”
“Steve passed away not long after Tom?”
Paul’s face clouded. “In August, after Tom died in June. A surfing accident.”
“And you also know Kathryn well?”
Paul gave him a wry smile. “She is the girl I lost to Tom. I met her when we were One L’s. But I had the bad judgment to ask her to meet me at O’Leary’s Pub and Wine Bar a week later where I was hanging out with Tom. The moment they saw each other, they fell in love. I was there. I saw it happen.”
Mark’s stomach tightened. He was about to ask a question purely for his own personal information although he knew he shouldn’t. “What about you and Kathryn now that Tom’s not in the picture?”
Paul shook his head. “She keeps Tom between us. And I made the stupid mistake not long ago of having a one-night hook up with Steve’s old girlfriend. I was lonely, I’d had too much to drink, and so I did something stupid. Kathryn doesn’t trust me now because of that. I’m trying to win back her trust, but it’s an uphill battle.”
Mark told himself he didn’t feel relieved at the news. “Hugh thinks Kathryn is hiding some deep, dark secret about her marriage.”
Paul raised his eyebrows. “Such as?”
“Was either of them having an affair?”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Are you sure?”
“I couldn’t be more sure. I told you, those two had eyes only for each other from the day they met in September 1994.”
“Kathryn told Hugh the sea was a jealous mistress. Was Tom’s interest in surfing a source of conflict between them?”
“Not at all. Kathryn supported Tom in everything he did, one hundred per cent. I’m afraid Hugh’s wrong on this one. There were no deep, dark secrets in the Andrews’ marriage. They were the most in-love couple I have ever met.”
* * *
Friday, August 8, 2014, 610 First Street, Coronado
At seven thirty, Mark opened yet a third beer and went out to sit on his deck, so he could watch the afterglow of the sunset reflected in the glass towers across the bay. He hadn’t been surprised to learn that he and Paul were neighbors on First Street and had been for several years. Lawyers who made their kind of money liked the pricey, exclusivity of Coronado Island. And those with the money to buy the San Diego skyline view, anted up for the prestige of the address. And no one in California knew their neighbors. So he was not surprised that neither he nor Paul had been aware of the other’s presence.
He contemplated whether he should have gotten the waitress’s phone number. She made it clear she was willing to give it to him and to Paul. But Paul hadn’t shown the slightest interest. Paul, of course, still had a shot at having Kathryn in his life, whereas he remained only her lawyer. At least he’d have the Paris trip with her. Hugh liked to throw money around when he traveled, so Mark had taken advantage of his mentor’s weakness to make sure Kathryn would have one of the premier suites in the small, family-owned, luxurious Hotel de Bertrand in the Fifth Arrondissement. He wanted to lift her out of her drab public defender world at least for a few days. And maybe if she saw what Goldstein, Miller had to offer, she’d consider a job with the firm. He could at least have contact with her as a colleague, even if nothing more.
As he regretted his decision not to ask for a phone number that might have led at least to a date with a woman who found him attractive, he remembered he needed to tell Hugh the outcome of his meeting with Paul. He was still angry with him over Hays, Price, so he was happy to think of Hugh at dinner, at this very moment, working hard to dance to Buffy’s tune.
Mark looked down at his phone and smiled. Hugh was old school and hated text messaging. So a text was absolutely the best way to torment him with the news. He wrote, “Per Paul Curtis, they were the most in-love couple he has ever met. Investigation closed.” And then he hit ‘send.’
* * *
Friday, August 8, 2014, 1845 Ocean Place, Pacific Beach
At midnight, Kathryn walked home from the PB Saloon feeling tired and defeated. She had dared herself to sit at the bar that Shannon had once ruled to prove she had let go of the past. She’d spent three hours there, toying with her wine glass, fending off pickup lines, and dancing a couple of times with an unattractive fortyish man who did not understand the word no. But her antics had done no good because she’d pictured Shannon behind the bar all night even though Shannon had stopped working at the PB after Steve died.
Now as she plodded along toward home, she heard the inevitable footsteps behind her. She’d grown used to them, so she didn’t turn around.
* * *
Saturday Morning, December 10, 2011, 1845 Ocean Place, Pacific Beach
Kathryn did not even attempt to go back to sleep after Tom left. She got up and resumed the after-party cleanup. By eight, the work was done, but Tom had still not returned. She decided to call Steve, who did not answer.
At nine, Tom finally came straggling in, looking tired and worn, his face covered in stubble. Kathryn heard the front door close as she was making coffee in the kitchen. A few seconds later, he appeared in the doorway. She remained facing the coffee pot and didn’t turn to greet him.
“I see you’re angry with me.”
She poured herself a cup of coffee, taking a long time to choose a cup from the cupboard above her head. She could feel him watching her.
“Would you pour some for me?”
She stepped away from the pot and went to the refrigerator to get milk. As she measured it into her cup, she said, “Help yourself.”
He crossed the room and poured a mug for himself. He took a long sip as if he needed to be revived. Then he said, “You didn’t have to do all the cleanup by yourself.”
“I couldn’t sleep.” She bit off every word.
He leaned against the counter and frowned into his cup as if the answer lay in the dark liquid. “You’re angry because I tried to help Shannon.”
“I thought we had decided in October that you would stay out of her conflicts with Steve.”
“No, that’s not what we decided. We did not decide I would stop being her friend or stop being there for her when she needs someone to help her sort things out.”
“I see. And what did she need your help sorting out at three in the morning?”
He sighed and sat down at the kitchen table as if the weight of the whole problem was too much to bear. “Steve asked her to marry him last night after the party.”
“Why did she need your help, then? The answer to a proposal is a simple yes or no.”
“She told him she wasn’t sure, and he stormed out. She came over here to find me because she needed someone to talk to. I took her back to Steve’s and tried to help her figure out why she wasn’t sure about marrying him.”
“And did the two of you decide what made her hesitant?”
“No. She was still confused when I left. But I couldn’t stay any longer. I guessed you were already upset with me for being gone so long.”
“Did Steve come back by the time you left?”
“No.”
“I told you before, she’s come between you and Steve. You hardly ever surf with him or spend time with him anymore. You’re always with Shannon instead.”
He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. She wondered if sorting out Shannon’s feelings for Steve had included sex.
“I told you before, Shannon is only a friend.”
“She’s the only ‘friend’ who can take you out of the house at three in the morning. Paul and Carolyn are having their problems, but Carolyn doesn’t call you in the wee hours to hold her hand while she cries over her litany of all the things she hates about her husband.”
Tom was silent, staring into his
cup. His jaw worked in tense circles. He seemed to be considering something else he wanted to tell her; but instead he said, “I’m sorry I’ve upset you.” He got up and walked out of the kitchen. A few minutes later, Kathryn heard the water running in the shower.
THE INVESTIGATION,
PART ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Wednesday, September 17, 2014, École Normale Supérieure, Paris
At ten a.m. on a crisp, mid-September morning, when Paris smelled of autumn tinged by the edge of coming winter, Kathryn, Hugh, Mark, and Rick Peyton crossed the beautifully landscaped green quadrangle at the heart of the École Normale Supérieure at 45 Rue d’Ulm, France’s oldest institute of higher learning, on their way to see Maurice Vannier. As she walked just behind Mark and Hugh, Kathryn glanced at the tranquil Court aux Ernests, the fountain at the center, where the goldfish, known as the “Ernests,” swam peacefully in their famous circle.
In less than a minute, their group had left behind the École’s magnificent 1841 stone-facade and had crossed the narrow street to the modern beige and glass box at 46 Rue d‘Ulm which housed the Department of Biology. They made their way to the second floor and down the hall to the reception area outside the office of the head of the department. An attractive blonde in a black dress tight enough to rival any of Logan’s offered them coffee and explained Dr. Vannier would be a few minutes late.
Fifteen minutes later, he appeared, apologizing for the faculty meeting that had run long. He invited them into his office, sent the receptionist for a fresh pot of coffee, and settled everyone companionably on the two sofas in the corner of his very large office. He was only about five-foot-five, Kathryn noted, balding on top with otherwise closely cropped gray hair around the sides. He had the wiry build of a runner, almost no body fat, and small, round wire-rimmed glasses that made him look scholarly. He was wearing soft tan corduroy pants, a blue plaid shirt, and a light gray sweater. The Goldstein, Miller contingent had adopted the business casual uniform of dark pants, variously colored shirts without ties, and navy blazers.
Hugh began by explaining the litigation. Whenever he mentioned Tom, Dr. Vannier’s light blue eyes studied Kathryn’s face kindly. When Hugh finished, Dr. Vannier said in his delightfully accented English, “I extend my condolences, Madame Andrews.”
“Thank you.”
“And you have come because you want to know if Myrabin killed your husband,” he went on.
“Yes. Dr. Myers, his cardiologist, believed it did based upon a reference he found to some of Suchet’s original work on Myrabin.”
“Your husband had an exceptional physician, Madame. I am surprised he was able to find that link to my work. Wycliffe worked very hard to bury any references to it after they bought the rights to the drug.”
“According to the little we know,” Mark said, “you were the head of the research team.”
“I was,” Dr. Vannier agreed. “Suchet saw a market for drugs to control hypertension in the late eighties and early nineties, and they paid me a small fortune to take a sabbatical and work on one for them.”
“We know they stopped developing the drug that became Myrabin in 1993,” Rick Peyton said. “Do you know why?”
Dr. Vannier smiled. “Because of my work and the work of my team. The prototype for Myrabin caused liver failure in our animal studies.”
“Is there any doubt about that?” Hugh asked.
“None whatsoever. I’m guessing Wycliffe didn’t turn over my work to you, Dr. Peyton?” Dr. Vannier turned to Rick.
“Only very insignificant parts of it. Nothing that told even a tenth of the story.”
Dr. Vannier nodded wisely. “I suspected that. I have had everything copied for you.” He motioned to a large box sitting on the table between the two sofas. “You must take that with you. It is the story of Myrabin, short and sweet. It looked quite promising in the beginning. But we quickly determined that the rate of liver failure in the test animals was extraordinarily high. We modified and modified, but we could not reach an acceptable level of tolerance. I and my team recommended abandoning it, and Suchet agreed. I returned to my teaching and research.”
“Wycliffe told us you were fired for sexually harassing a woman on the development team,” Hugh said.
Dr. Vannier looked blank for a moment before he burst into laughter. “No, absolutely not. Suchet lured me away from my own research here with the promise of a lot of money. But when the drug didn’t work out, I grew disillusioned by the idea of making a quick fortune with the big pharmaceutical companies. I much prefer the combination of teaching and research I have here. And, by the way, if you doubt my reason for leaving Suchet, the name of my female co-chair on the project was Aimée Girard. She’s at Stanford now. And both of us were and are very happily married. That is why I can only imagine the pain you’ve been through, Madame Andrews. And I want very much to help you.”
“But not everyone who takes Myrabin experiences catastrophic liver failure,” Rick Peyton said. “Can you explain why it is safe for some people?”
Dr. Vannier shook his head. “It is not a safe drug. Some people have a gene that affects the way the liver metabolizes toxins in their bodies. For those people, the liver processes Myrabin so that it becomes toxic to them. They are the ones who experience catastrophic liver failure and who will die if they do not receive a transplant. I am certain your husband was carrying that gene, Madame Andrews. It is quite common. But even if a patient doesn’t have that specific gene, the drug itself has an adverse effect on the liver and always produces a certain degree of damage. It is not a safe drug,” he repeated.
“Why did Wycliffe buy the rights to Myrabin if Suchet thought it was lethal?” Hugh asked.
Dr. Vannier frowned. “I contacted Phillip Teague, a colleague at Wycliffe, when I heard his company was interested in Myrabin. I told him about my research and the decision to abandon work on it. He said Wycliffe thought their team could improve it and make it safe.”
“Was Teague part of the Myrabin group at Wycliffe?”
“No, he was just a personal friend. But I warned him we at Suchet had concluded it could not be manufactured in a way that made it safe. It was just toxic, no matter how you combined the various ingredients.”
“Did you ever write an official letter to anyone in charge at Wycliffe?” Mark asked.
“Aimeé and I did. It’s included in the material that I copied for you. And their response essentially said we French scientists didn’t know what we were doing.” Dr. Vannier chuckled.
“Was that all you did to warn them?” Hugh was glancing through the top folder as he spoke.
“That was the extent of my contact with Wycliffe. But when I learned they were submitting Myrabin for approval, I sent my research to the FDA.”
Hugh stopped looking at the folder and focused sharply on Dr. Vannier. “You mean the FDA knew about your conclusions?”
“Absolutely. The letter Aimée and I wrote to them is also in the material I gave you.”
“Did they ever respond?” Mark asked.
“No.”
“Do you think Wycliffe was able to modify Myrabin to make it safe?” Hugh asked.
“Absolutely not. Phillip Teague sent me their formulation of the drug and insisted they had made it safe to take, but nothing substantive had changed.”
“Wycliffe claims there has never been a death from Myrabin,” Hugh said.
“Based on my research, that’s not possible.”
* * *
Wednesday Night, September 17, 2014, Hotel de Bertrand, Fifth Arrondissement, Paris
The black Mercedes limo that Hugh had booked for their stay deposited them at their hotel at nine-thirty. Still dazzled by dinner in the elegant white and silver dining room at the Hotel Le Meurice, featuring sautéed blue lobster with champagne and gold-leaf risotto, Kathryn grew restless in her suite with the blue brocade Louis Quinze love seats in the living room and the marble claw-footed tub in the bath. She snuggled into a
furry black sweater and slipped out to walk the narrow streets of the Fifth Arrondissement in the crisp autumn air under Paris’ golden streetlights. As she walked along, hands in her pockets, she thought of her trip here with Tom for their fifth wedding anniversary. No Shannon, then. No decision to remain forever childless.
She passed only a few people as she walked, mindful of the concierge’s warning of how far it was safe to go. She replayed the meeting with Dr. Vannier and smiled to herself, knowing he was the key to vindicating Tom. And, equally importantly, he was willing to do it. She knew only too well that key witnesses often refused to come forward when they were needed. She’d lost cases she should have won because a witness she desperately needed had refused to testify.
At first it was a low hum that seemed to be coming toward her. She moved to the left, as close to the curb as she could get, sensing that whatever was approaching was fast-moving and would overtake her quickly. And she was right. Within seconds, an enormous BMW motorbike came roaring out of the darkness, straight toward her.
She stopped and made herself as small as possible at the curb while she waited for the behemoth emerging from the darkness ahead to pass by.
But then, in one horrible moment, she saw the bike’s headlamp blazing toward her like a light saber. She didn’t have time to think other than to realize she was its target. The heavy machine was closing the distance between them in tenths of a second.
She looked around for an escape. As counterintuitive as it seemed to move toward the monster speeding in her direction, she hurried forward until she reached the doorway of L’Artisan Parfumeur. If the bike were determined to hit her, it would have to go through the two glass windows loaded with perfume bottles that jutted out to form a little alcove that sheltered the shop’s entrance door.
Her mouth dry with terror, her heart hammering, she flattened herself against the door and waited. The bike continued to scream toward her, but at the last second, the rider swerved when he saw the glass windows he was about to hit. He roared off into the night.
The Death of Distant Stars, A Legal Thriller Page 14