by J. Paul Drew
“And your brother?”
“My brother?”
“Where does he live?”
“We don’t usually give out that information. The truth is, Mr. Haas, my brother is something of a recluse. You know how these geniuses are— wrapped up in their work and not very sociable.”
“He’s lucky to have you to fend people off.”
Steve didn’t answer. Just gave me a filbert-eyed stare. I looked at my notebook. “Let’s see. Did I ask if you have any scars or other distinguishing marks?”
He let a corner of his lip turn up, just to be polite. The result was a fourth cousin to a smile.
“Nobody ever likes these preliminaries, but we have to have little facts to go between commas. You know, like ‘Steve Koehler, forty-one, a native of Chicago.’ Which reminds me— how old is your brother?”
“Forty-three.”
“Okay, let’s talk about Kogene a bit. You mentioned that you made enough money to help Jacob found it— was that a long-standing dream of his?”
“Not exactly, no. Scientists don’t really think in terms of making money. They just do research, and when they’re done doing it, they do more research.”
“So the company was your idea?”
“Primarily, yes. But Jacob is very happy with it, of course. He has more freedom this way.”
“How many employees do you have?”
“About fifty, I think.” Fifty! Genentech had several hundred and it was a lot smaller than Cetus.
“You see, Mr. Haas, we’ve deliberately kept ourselves small. At the moment we are primarily a research firm, and our research is very specific.”
“Oh?”
Again the smile-cousin. “We hope to have a product on the market within a couple of years. A very, very important product.”
I’d read that some gene-splicer or other had already whipped up bacterial insulin, and there were a few other offerings in the health field, as well as schemes to invent new plants that would fertilize themselves and maybe grow in salt water. But the potential product with the most razzle-dazzle was biosynthetic interferon, a protein that might or might not cure cancer, and maybe the common cold and herpes as well. If anyone could make it do any of those things, he’d have a very important product indeed. But every scientist in the field was trying to do that. Surely if that’s what the Koehlers were on to, Steve would have said so. Just in case, I gave him another chance.
“Interferon?”
This time he smiled a real smile. I’d said something that made him happy. “No. Oh, we’re working with it— everyone is— but the product I mean is something else. Unfortunately, I’m afraid I’m not currently at liberty to tell you what it is. I can tell you, though, that we’ll be making an announcement in the very near future. We also plan to make a public stock offering soon.”
“How soon?”
“Within about three months, I should say. Possibly in September.”
“And how much stock will you offer?”
“Something in the neighborhood of $250 million.”
I almost said, “You gotta be kidding!” But I remembered my manners in time. I didn’t say anything.
“Does that surprise you, Mr. Haas?”
“I can’t say that it doesn’t. Cetus offered about half that when they were ten years old and already had several products to sell.”
“Our stock is going to be worth a great deal more than theirs.”
“Forgive me if I ask you why you say that.”
“Of course. And I’d like nothing more than to tell you, but the time isn’t right.”
“Why all the mystery?”
“We’re just not ready to make the announcement, that’s all. If you’ve finished your coffee, maybe you’d like to look around the plant.”
“Sure.”
He picked up the phone and gave orders. “Young John Reid will show you around,” he said. “I don’t know much about gene-splicing myself— he’ll explain it much better than I could.”
“Do I have to wear a lab coat or anything?”
Koehler laughed. “Nobody else does. In fact, why don’t you leave your coat here? You’re a bit overdressed for Kogene.”
I shed it gratefully. I had a sweater underneath and the day was getting warm.
In a moment John Reid appeared. He looked about twenty-five, wore faded jeans, and had the build of a tennis player— in other words, nothing like my idea of a scientist. As we went through what Koehler called the “plant,” I was forced to revise my stereotype— the scientists were all like Reid, except for the women, who had breasts.
Their labs were decorated with photos of their most recent camping trips and each lab blared a different rock station, except for one that went in for country and western.
The equipment wasn’t impressive at all, even the thing called the gene machine. The place looked as if it could have been on a college campus.
“Do you understand what we do here?” asked Reid.
“Well, I… uh…”
“Let me start at the beginning. The thing we splice into bacterial DNA is a human gene. The new organism can then make a protein that may become a drug. That’s what it’s all about.”
I nodded. I hadn’t a clue that was the way it worked. But Reid had a way of explaining everything so simply that I almost caught on to a lot of it.
First he showed me the organic synthesis lab, where the gene machine was making synthetic DNA. “Linkers” made this way can be used to hook a gene to a plasmid, which can then be put into bacteria. Once you’ve got your new bug, you “grow it up” in vast fermenters in other labs. After you grow it up, you have to harvest it, or “take it down.” That means getting rid of the growing medium so that what you have left is “cell paste,” which you have to keep refrigerated at -80 Celsius.
Somewhere in your cell paste is your product, but the problem is, it’s still in the cells. So next you have your “purification” step, in which you must break open the cells and separate the protein of interest from all the others in the cell, and there could be a couple of thousand of them.
I think that’s the gist of what Reid said. He was very patient.
I saw the labs where all those things were done, but nowhere did I see Jacob Koehler. “Nobody goes in his lab,” said Reid. He pointed to a closed door. “Just Jacob and his wife. And sometimes his kid.”
“His kid?”
“Yeah. Terry. She’s supposed to be super-smart or something.”
“You mean she works in that lab?”
Reid shrugged. “That’s what her dad says. Maybe he’s putting the rest of us on.”
That sounded right to me.
When the tour was over, my head hurt. I needed a new super-absorbency brain— the one I had just wasn’t getting the job done. Reid took me, limping— mentally, anyway— back to Steve Koehler.
I donned my coat and sat down for a post-tour chat. It seemed to be what Koehler had in mind, too. “How long,” he asked, “have you been at the Journal, Mr. Haas?”
“I’m not actually at the Journal. I just freelance for them occasionally. Which brings me to something else I meant to ask you. I was thinking of doing a piece on your brother and Lindsay Hearne for People. Fun couple sort of yarn. You’ve probably noticed those things are pretty short and sweet. Think he’d agree to that kind of interview?”
“Hardly. They’ve been divorced for two years. Jacob’s married to Marilyn Markham now— our second most distinguished biochemist.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize. But that might even be better— two scientists working side by side, creating life forms together. Sort of romantic, don’t you think? We could get a picture of both of them in their white coats, recombining away.”
“I’m sure Jacob would never agree to it.” He extended his hand. “If there’s anything else I can do for you, let me know.”
I said I would. Then I stopped in the lobby for a moment and spoke to the receptionist, casual-like. “Could you tell me s
omething? I’m just curious. That lady who came out when I came in— wasn’t that Nancy Allen? You know, the actress in Dressed to Kill?”
She smiled— a real smile, not a fourth cousin. “Sort of looks like her, doesn’t she?”
I did what I hoped was a fair imitation of a man whose face has fallen. “You mean it wasn’t?”
“Nope. That was Miss Kincannon of Pandorf Associates. Some sort of artist, I think.”
“Sardis Kincannon?”
“Why, yes, I believe so.” She checked in appointment calendar. “That’s right.”
It wasn’t the kind of name you forget, and I’d heard it before.
Jacob Koehler had given Birnbaum a list of Lindsay’s friends to check out. He’d gotten to all of them except one. Sardis Kincannon.
CHAPTER 6
This was great. Here was a lady I wanted to meet and now I had an excuse. Maybe my luck was changing.
If she worked for Pandorf Associates, that meant she was probably a graphic designer; or maybe she was some sort of C.I. executive. Once I did a story on advertising, and I knew all about C.I. It meant corporate identity. That was something a high-priced firm like Pandorf could create for your firm for several hundred thousand dollars. Or you could pick a designer out of the yellow pages and have a logo done for about $500. As far as I could see, C.I. and logos were about the same.
Probably Miss Kincannon was whipping up a new corporate identity for Kogene now that the company had big plans. Probably Steve Koehler had recognized the importance of presenting an exciting new face to the public. The importance of that and a fat tax deduction.
If I could find out from Miss Kincannon what sort of identity the corporation was getting, maybe that would help me figure out what the mystery product was. It could be important, especially if I ever had any money to invest.
Anyway, maybe she knew where Lindsay Hearne was. Jack hadn’t asked her because she was out of town when he was in the asking business.
Furthermore, I could use a corporate identity myself. It had never occurred to me before, but suddenly I myself recognized the importance.
That made three reasons to call her. So I dug in my pockets for one of my last dimes. “Miss Kincannon? My name’s Paul Mcdonald and…”
“Who?”
“Paul Mcdonald. I’d like to talk to you about doing my corporate identity. Steve Koehler recommended you.”
“Oh. But…”
There was a long silence as she apparently reconsidered whatever it was she was about to say.
I seized the advantage. “Would you like to have lunch? I mean, if you haven’t already.”
“Uh, well… I was just going out. Are you in the neighborhood?”
“I am, yes. I’ll be right there.” And I hung up before she had a chance to think about it.
I wasn’t anywhere near the neighborhood. I wasn’t even on the right side of the bay. But my old Toyota was not only fast, but cunning. I figured I could be there in fifteen minutes if I didn’t have parking problems.
Needless to say, Pandorf Associates had put quite a bit of thought into its own corporate identity. From what I knew about the firm I figured it thought it was young, chic, hot, expensive, dynamic, going places, on top of things, sophisticated, cosmopolitan, glamorous, and at the same time a bit unconventional, eccentric even, as befits the artistic temperament. No doubt that’s why it had its 44 executive offices aboard an old ferry. The whole damn office was moored on the Embarcadero.
I made it in twenty minutes, but that wasn’t quick enough for Miss Kincannon. She was in the boat’s reception area, which was all cozy and gold and brown. There was even a wood stove in case you missed the point.
Miss Kincannon was wearing her coat and gnawing on her fingernails. I could tell by the look on her face that they weren’t satisfying her and that she was only seconds away from starting in on the furniture. She had two very serious-looking lines on her forehead, right between the peepers. I knew these signs— the nail-gnawing, the unsatisfied look, the lines. These were the signs of a woman who would soon be biting your bicep if you didn’t get a sandwich inside her instantly.
I panicked. Sinbad’s, which was where I’d planned to take her, would probably be crowded. I was trying so hard to think of another place that I forgot to introduce myself.
“Mr. Mcdonald?”
“Oh. Hi. Yes.”
“I remember you. You were at Kogene this morning.”
“I remember you, too. You didn’t look quite so hungry at the time.”
“I am faint from hunger. Weak.” She had very little southern accent, but she used the sort of dramatic intonation I associate with Dixie belles. I hoped it only came out under stress.
“We’ve got to do something about your blood-sugar level. Do you have to have food right away or will a drink do it?”
“I’d love a drink.”
Good. If there was a crowd at Sinbad’s, we could wait at the bar and my bicep would probably be safe. But there wasn’t a crowd. It was nearly two o’clock, and that was probably why. It also accounted for Miss Kincannon’s faintness and weakness.
We got a table outside, right on the water, practically under the Bay Bridge, with Treasure Island nearly at arm’s length. It was gorgeous, and so was Sardis Kincannon in my book, even with those two funny lines in her forehead.
They smoothed out after about half a glass of white wine.
“So, Miss Kincannon”— what a suave devil I am— “what part of the South are you from?”
“For heaven’s sake, call me Sardis. This is California, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and very few of its residents bear the name of the ancient Lydian capital. You have to go south to find much of that.”
“Well, I am from the South; it’s true. But I’m not named after any old ancient city.” She’d dropped the italics; thank God.
“There’s another Sardis?”
“Yep. A reservoir in north Mississippi. I was conceived on its shores, in the back seat of a car.”
“Mississippi! I knew it.”
But enough about her, apparently. She went right from there to business. “What about you, Paul? What kind of corporation are we identifying?”
“Well, now, if I had,you people do my corporate identity, what would I get? I mean, a logo and what else?”
She laughed. “People always think it’s just logos. C.I.’s a lot more than logos.”
“Well… like what?”
“It’s how your corporation projects itself to its various publics— your employees, your stockholders, your clients, and the general public are your four publics. We like to call C.I. an identity system that visually separates and distinguishes a firm from its competitors.” She was warming to her subject, slipping into her own corporate identity. Her voice was getting crisp, and to my mind, a little phony. She was starting to sell. People always get earnest when they’re selling something and I don’t like them as well. She was no exception, but it was my fault she was on the subject and I’d just have to take the selling side of her.
I interrupted her. “But what could I get? Business cards and stationery, right?”
“On our corporate identification checklist, we have nineteen classifications under stationery alone. Then there’s your literature— your annual reports, quarterly reports, brochures, catalogs, newsletters, and what-have-you. All that’s got to be designed. Then there’s transportation: your trucks, company aircraft, all that— even your parking lot decal. People forget about things like that. After that, there’s your packaging, your architecture, signage, marketing and sales material, employee relations designs, dining accessories, operational materials. To name a few.”
“What, pray tell, is an ‘employee relations design’?”
“Well, let’s see— how about a five-year pin?”
“You people don’t miss a trick, do you?”
“A lot of people seem to feel they need our services.” She was getting huffy, but I didn’t care. I th
ought this stuff was garbage, and as you know, I’m not very emotionally mature. I did not exercise the self-control and tact the situation called for.
“Need it for what?” I said.
“Look, do you know what a corporate image is?”
“Isn’t that what we’ve just been talking about?”
“No, indeed. Your corporate image is the way your company feels it projects itself to its publics. Your corporate identity is the actual impression it’s making. You follow that?”
I nodded.
“So the extent to which the two things are disparate is the extent to which you need me. Or would, if a small time detective agency had any publics to impress.”
For a while there, I was pretty bored and busy with my crab salad. But that last sentence got my attention. I was so surprised, I blurted the first thing that came into my head: “I’m not a detective.”
“You aren’t?” She blushed, seeing several hundred thousand Pandorf dollars go down the tube.
I shook my head.
“There was just a story in the Examiner about a guy with your name… for some reason I thought…” She was stammering. She’d been damned sure I was the Paul Mcdonald in Ben McGonagil’s story, which meant she’d taken careful note of the name. It also meant she’d been leading me down the garden path for the last half hour— she knew as well as I did that I wasn’t going to buy any high-priced C.I. But what the hell? The whole point of this lunch was to get some questions answered, and now I was spared the trouble of exposing my own fraud.
I gave her a break: “I am that guy. But I’m a writer, not a detective. In fact, at the moment I’m a reporter. I’m working on a story about Birnbaum’s death.”
I filled her in on the ghosting and my current job at the Chronicle. She was understandably confused.
“But what do you want from me?”
I told her about the Koehler case. Or I started to, anyway. She got big tears in her eyes almost as soon as I mentioned Lindsay’s name, and they started running down her face when I said she was missing.
“That’s what Jacob meant. This morning.”
“Jacob?”
“Jacob Koehler. He came into Steve’s office, looking all wild-haired, and said something about how he had to have her back.”