Cheryl dished up fruit salad for both of them, giving Amber most of it, then sat down at the table. “There’s a new medicine we can try, if you’re up for it.” Assuming K, her freelance agent, came through tonight.
Amber looked wary. “What do you mean?”
“It’s an implant, so I’ll have to make a tiny incision in your abdomen.” That was the only downside to ProtoCell’s soon-to-launch device.
“Will it hurt?”
“No, we’ll numb the area first. I’m optimistic that it will help you.” She gave her a special smile. “It’s one of my best projects.”
The SlimPro was based on her glucagon-peptide research via a slow-release implant. A decade earlier, Brickman, the bastard, had dumped her, stolen her idea, then fired her. She’d recently learned he was weeks away from launching the product and had decided to sabotage his first, small batch to force a recall and setback. Which is why she needed K to steal a few from their lab before she contaminated the test run. That way her daughter would have a few that weren’t tainted. Each device would last six months or so, and during the next year, Cheryl could reverse engineer the device to see what Brickman had used to encapsulate it. Cheryl desperately wanted the SlimPro to fail because Brickman didn’t deserve the profit. Even more, she wanted the SlimPro to work—because it would validate her peptide idea and possibly change Amber’s life.
Because Prader-Willi was so rare and profitless, no pharma companies were working on a cure. The one clinical-trial drug Amber had tried a few years back—which had failed to get approved—had been developed by a parent, like her, whose child had the disease.
Amber had wolfed down her snack and looked at her with pleading eyes.
“No, sweetie. Get a drink of water and go back to bed. I’ll make you a big breakfast.”
“I don’t want the implant. I just want to eat!” Amber slammed her bowl into the sink, cursed like a sailor, and stalked off.
Cheryl bit the inside of her cheek to keep from yelling. As much as she loved her daughter, she often hated living with her. Again, Cheryl considered her options. Institutions wouldn’t take her, and Amber’s father didn’t know about her. The girl was better off without him. The black forest thought crept in again. Amber might be better off dead than living with her condition. The girl’s IQ was far below average, her facial features were unusual, she lacked muscle tone, and suffered from insomnia. Her daughter would probably never live on her own. The thought terrified Cheryl. Was it too late for mercy?
A moment later Amber came into kitchen and hugged her. “I love you. Thank you for making medicine for me.”
Cheryl blinked back tears. “I love you too.”
Her daughter went back to bed. Watching her pudgy body shuffle away was bittersweet for Cheryl. After growing up with a father who’d been obsessive about her own weight, followed by years of research into weight-loss products, the universe had given her a child with Prader-Willi Syndrome. A bitter slap in the face. Yet, Amber’s condition had recharged her drive to pursue the world’s most important—and potentially rewarding—research. Too bad her grandfather had been a jerk, who’d become ashamed of Amber and had avoided seeing the girl. Cheryl would never forgive him.
Her cell phone beeped and she went to find it. A text from an unknown number. The message was simple: I have the devices.
Thank goodness. Her freelancer had been successful. Cheryl texted back: Meet me at the Cantina in twenty minutes.
She threw on clothes from earlier and pulled fifty thousand from the safe under her bedroom floorboards. Half for the job K had just completed and the rest as a down payment for the sabotage she needed next. She’d borrowed the money, plus more, from one of TecLife’s investors and hoped it was the last personal loan she would need before Slimbiotic hit the market and sold well enough to pay it all back. Max Grissom, her founding partner at TecLife, didn’t know about the spying or sabotage. He thought great research and optimism would take them to the top. Cheryl knew better. The business was full of people who would do anything for money, recognition, or both. She was done playing by the rules. Amber’s life depended on her success.
She stuffed the cash into two zippered pillowcases, then put those into an old backpack, hoping it would be less likely to attract a mugger’s attention than a briefcase would. Next she tucked her Smith & Wesson into her waistband under her shirt. She wasn’t going far and she lived in a nice neighborhood, but still, her heart pounded with anxiety. This was the most she’d ever paid the woman she knew only as K. And bad things happened to people every day. That was why she’d stopped reading and watching the news. It only escalated her natural paranoia and made her reach for her own medication too often.
Cheryl looked in on her daughter, double-checked all the windows and locks, then hurried out into the humid darkness. She almost never left Amber alone, but the girl was sleeping and this was an important exception. Cheryl needed to get the SlimPro now so she could begin analyzing it first thing tomorrow. The product was set to launch next week, and she planned to hire K to sabotage it as well. If SlimPro hit the market with success before her product, Slimbiotic, would always be second and possibly have a fraction of the sales—even though it was less invasive. Doctors were creatures of habit like everyone else. Once they started prescribing something or using a technique that worked, they were reluctant to try something else. Especially one that would be hard to explain to patients without making them squeamish. But with the right marketing message and branding, they could get around public perception.
Hurrying down the block, Cheryl reminded herself that Amber’s cure was the most important issue. The millions in debt she’d accrued, both personally and professionally, while pursuing the research was a close second. Crushing Brickman’s product—which he’d stolen from her—and setting him back a few million was a sweet incentive too. She had an idea for how to sabotage the first batch of devices, but it was risky and she didn’t know if K could pull it off.
Inside the dark tavern, she found a small booth away from the bar counter and TV. She hated television, especially the news, and limited her internet use to research only. As a result, her world had become closed off, but it was the only way she could focus. The meds she took for paranoia could only do so much. She controlled it best by limiting what she exposed herself to.
Sitting in the bar, so close to home, made her nervous. Her previous meetings with K had been more clandestine, but with Amber home alone, Cheryl didn’t have time to travel. And K already knew who she was. The woman was resourceful and had let her know that she not only knew who Cheryl was and where she lived, but that she “understood her motive.” Which she’d interpreted to mean that K knew about Amber. Cheryl hated the thought, but backing out wouldn’t change the past or accomplish her goals. K might try to blackmail her someday, but she was prepared for that. She always had a backup plan, and K wasn’t someone who would be missed. If things got sticky, Cheryl would head for Saul’s ranch near the border. Her long-time friend, and sometimes lover, would help her get into Mexico if she ever needed to run.
K strolled in moments later, wearing a blond wig and a long black skirt. Cheryl didn’t know it was her until she’d bought a beer at the counter and headed her way. The woman was a master of disguises and a capable thief and arsonist. Cheryl wondered who her other clients were and what she did for them.
“Mind if I sit here?” she asked.
As if anyone was paying attention to them. But Cheryl respected her careful approach.
K sat down across from her. “I had a great evening. How are you?”
A tremor of excitement. Did that mean she’d acquired the SlimPro files too? Cheryl pulled out the little notepad she always carried and wrote: Did you get the research? She slid the note across the table. The bar was noisy, so even if K was recording their conversation, it wouldn’t be worth much. Still, Cheryl tried to be as cautious as possible. This woman was a criminal.
K nodded and
held out her hand, a closed fist. She rotated her wrist and opened her fingers. In her palm lay three implants, each about an inch long and cased in a dissolvable polymer-sucrose blend. An electric charge ran up the back of Cheryl’s neck. The culmination of her insight into peptides’ role in appetite. She couldn’t wait to see how well the device worked. How frustrating that she would never get credit. She reached for the implants.
K yanked her hand back and closed it into a fist again. “You first.”
Cheryl slid one of the cases out of the backpack and pushed it across the floor with her feet. K casually pulled it into her lap and examined the cash. After a moment of small talk, K slipped the implants into a napkin and discreetly slid it across the table. Cheryl scooped it up, checking with her fingers for all three devices, then stuffed the napkin into her pants pocket. Too excited to bother with paper and pen, Cheryl leaned forward and whispered, “Where’s the thumb drive?”
The woman’s expression was deadpan. “That will cost extra.”
No! The bitch. Cheryl wanted to scream. She bit her lip, then grabbed a notepad and scribbled: That wasn’t our deal. I don’t have enough cash.
K shrugged. “So get it. Same amount.” She scooted to the edge of the booth seat.
Another twenty-five grand? She could feel her pulse pounding in her ears, but she fought for control. Maybe she didn’t need the data. But she did need K for one more job. “Wait.”
K turned back. “I’m listening.”
Cheryl grabbed the notepad and wrote: I have another project. Let’s take a walk and discuss.
K nodded and slipped out of the booth. Cheryl tore up the paper with their exchange and stuffed it in her other pocket. She paid for her drink and left the tavern. K waited in front of the closed business next door. Cheryl walked past her, heading in the direction of her home. K called out, asking for a cigarette she didn’t really want, then quickly caught up and matched her stride.
“What’s the job?”
Cheryl kept her voice low. “Sabotage the SlimPro units in the factory before they ship. I have a contaminating agent you can add to the peptide solution.”
“What is it?”
“A bacteria that will cause minor infections.”
“What’s the timeline?”
“It needs to be done this weekend. The first scale-up batch starts Monday.” Her informant inside ProtoCell had given her the update that morning.
“That will cost you another fifty, with half up front. But I have to check out the location and security and see if it’s doable.”
They walked past a young couple waiting for a cab and were quiet for a moment.
“I may be able to get some of the information you need. And I have the first payment with me.”
“What’s the address?”
Cheryl relayed the location and slipped her the cash.
“I’ll be in touch.” K handed her the thumb drive, then abruptly turned and darted across the street.
Cheryl hurried home, racking her brain for where she could borrow more cash, so she didn’t have to touch her emergency supply. Her father would probably give it to her—he’d gotten more generous with age—but she hadn’t spoken to him in six years. Not since he’d been ashamed to be seen with Amber as a toddler—before they’d diagnosed the disease that explained her bizarre behavior. Cheryl couldn’t bring herself to ask him for a favor now.
Chapter 14
Friday, July 11, 6:35 p.m.
Dallas grabbed Thai takeout on the way to the condo. She was eager to check in with River but didn’t want to drive and talk on the phone until she was more confident about getting around San Diego. Her hometown of Phoenix was laid out in a massive grid, so driving there required little skill or attention. At home, she called River on the BioTech burner phone, eating bites of fresh summer roll while she waited for her to pick up. Dallas was about to click off when River answered. “Hey, how was work?” They didn’t use personal names, even on their case phones.
“Splendid. If you like data entry.” Dallas washed down her food with a long slug of cold beer. “Did you get the text image I sent?”
“The number’s not registered, which makes the message suspect.”
“Is it enough for a subpoena of Grissom’s phone records?”
“No, but in combination with something else, it could be.”
“There’s more. We had a fire alarm during lunch break.”
“That’s odd.”
“It’s stranger than you think. While everyone was out of the building, I stepped into Max Grissom’s office. But before I could dig into anything, someone came into the outer office.” Talking about it recharged her energy, so Dallas got up to pace. “I ducked into the bathroom as a cover story, then watched to see if he would grab something and go. But it wasn’t Grissom. Some guy downloaded files from his computer to a flash drive, then left.”
“Good glory. A competitor spying on TecLife?”
“It had to be. I followed the guy, but he went out a side door and scaled a patio wall. Then a fireman forced me to exit.”
“Describe the unsub.”
“Five eight, slim build, maybe one-fifty or less. He had a beard, but it could have been fake. He wore jeans, a baseball cap, and loose black pullover. I took a picture on my cell phone from the bathroom, but it’s probably worthless. I sent it right before I called.”
“Maybe the facial recognition software will pick him out.”
“Unless he’s not in the databases. This was a dirty, white-collar crime. He could be from the competition.” Dallas sat and took another pull of beer. “We should look at a roster of ProtoCell employees. Maybe they know TecLife is engaged in corporate warfare, so they’re striking back.”
“Good idea. If they have nothing to hide, they should open up their files.
“Don’t count on it. The public isn’t very trusting of us watchdogs anymore.”
“I can be very charming.”
Dallas heard the smile in her voice. “Indeed you can.” River had kept an eco-terrorist from killing his shrink. Which reminded Dallas that she needed to talk to Dr. Harper.
“Did you find out anything else?”
“Mostly background details. For example, Max Grissom is a rally-the-troops kind of CEO who hits on all the women, and Cheryl Decker is a no-nonsense workaholic. But she’s developing a top-secret weight-loss product that she says will be a blockbuster and that her competitors would love to get their hands on.”
River made a skeptical sound. “I’m surprised she told you on your first day.”
“She had me sorting data and wanted to express how confidential the information was.”
“But today’s unsub stole files from Grissom’s computer?”
“Yes. But they’re likely networked, and Decker locks her door every time she leaves her office.”
“Do you have a feel for which is more likely the mastermind?”
“Grissom is more competitive, and that text asking him to bring cash is compelling.”
River added, “If you locate their IP addresses, I can get a tech guy to activate their computer cameras. Then we can overhear phone conversations.”
“I’ll prioritize it.” Dallas snuck a small bite of summer roll. “Do you have anything new for me?”
“The CDC was at our task force meeting for Joe Palmer. The ME had sent over tissue samples, and they say Palmer was exposed to a new bacteria, similar to a staph infection.” River paused, and when she continued, her voice was throaty. “The bacteria probably killed Joe, and if it came from one of the med-tech companies, then we need to be cautious. You especially, if you access the lab.”
“I’ll wear gloves and a face mask.” Dallas knew it probably wouldn’t be possible, but she didn’t want River to worry. “Decker’s product is bacteria-based.”
“If you can get a sample, we could compare it to Palmer’s tissue.”
“I’ll do what I can.” Dallas wasn’t optimistic, but she knew how i
mportant this was to River. “I’ll check in soon.”
They hung up, and Dallas finished her dinner while watching the news on her laptop. From the bedroom, she heard her personal phone ringing in its case. Damn, she’d forgotten to turn it off. Might as well see who was calling. She hoped it wasn’t Sam, or worse, her mother again.
But it was her mother. She let the call go to voicemail, then stared at the phone, trying to decide if she should listen to the message. This would be about her dad, and she didn’t want that responsibility right now. Her work was more important. She walked out to the patio to clear her mind, but moments later turned back inside. Her mother’s message was brief but typically manipulative: “Your dad is dying. If you don’t come see him, you’ll regret it.”
A white-hot rage burned in her chest. How dare her parents demand anything of her? She’d always been an afterthought to their addictions and self-indulgence. Except for two brief phases of sobriety. They’d had a good year when she was four. Dallas remembered trips to the park and her dad pushing her in a swing. Then after a short stint in jail, her father had been sober for a couple of months when she was thirteen. He’d apologized for past behavior and even come to one of her school plays. A mixed bag—joy that he’d come and embarrassment about his crappy clothes and unshaved face.
A groan escaped her, and Dallas shook it off. She went to her laptop, clicked open Skype, and called her shrink, not really expecting the older woman to respond. Why should she? It was after hours and the start of a weekend. But Dr. Harper’s wrinkled face came into view in the little box. Her brow was puckered, and Dallas couldn’t tell if she was worried or cranky.
“Are you okay, Jamie?”
Only her family, her best friend, and her shrink called her Jamie. Even her boyfriends called her Dallas because that’s how she introduced herself. “Yes and no. I’m sorry about bothering you in the evening.”
The Target Page 9