Due Diligence

by Michael A. Kahn

  “Go!” I shouted to the driver.

  I turned to look back as we zoomed off. The other car pulled away from the curb with the headlights off.

  “Oh, no,” I groaned, still watching out the rear window.

  “Where to?” the driver asked.

  I was surprised by the voice. I hadn’t realized the driver was a woman. I moved to the side for a better look. She was a stout woman in her late forties with short black hair and crow’s feet around her eyes. She was wearing a white, short-sleeved bowling shirt. There was a wedding ring on her plump left hand.

  “Uh, downtown,” I said.

  “Where downtown?”

  “I don’t know. Just head in that direction.”

  I checked my watch, my mind racing. It was almost nine o’clock. Flo would be in her room at the Hyatt by now. But I couldn’t go directly there. He’d see me go in. I’d be a sitting duck if they knew where I was. They could simply post people round the clock and wait for me to emerge.

  The headlights flicked on behind us. It was the same headlight configuration as the car that had followed me last night. Last night? It seemed like last year.

  I evaluated my position as we got onto Highway 40 at Forest Park. There was only one person in the tail car. My advantage, though slim, was that I had only me to worry about. He had me and his car. That meant that if I suddenly got out of the taxi, he had to get rid of his car and follow me. An office building with two entrances might work. But at this time of the night, there was probably only one entrance open. A shopping center? The only one downtown, St. Louis Centre, was probably closed for the night by now. A big hotel? Possibly. But at a hotel he’d have an easier time dumping his car.

  “Is there anything at the convention center?” I asked the driver.

  She nodded. “Auto show. Tonight’s opening night.”

  “Perfect. Let’s go there.”

  “You got it.”

  I looked out the rear window. He was right behind us.

  “You trying to shake that guy?” the driver asked.

  I turned toward her. “I’m trying to get to the Hyatt without him finding out. If I can lose him at the convention center, I might be able to reach the Hyatt without him knowing.”

  There was a burst of static over her dispatch radio. I stared at it.

  “If you tried to contact someone over that radio,” I asked, “can the signal be picked up by others?”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh,” I said glumly.

  “What do you need?”

  “I need to find out the room number of a friend of mine who’s staying at the Hyatt, but I can’t risk anyone eavesdropping on the conversation.” I had an idea. “Listen, if I went in one entrance at the convention hall and hung around for ten minutes or so, would you have enough time to call the Hyatt from a pay phone and then pick me up at another entrance?”

  “Sure.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  ***

  She stopped at the intersection just east of the main entrance to the convention center.

  “I’ll meet you there,” she said, pointing at the main entrance. She turned right and headed north down the street toward the side entrance. Three-quarters of the way down the block she started to brake. She looked at me in the mirror. “Ready?”

  I nodded. My free hand was on the door handle.

  She stopped the taxi. “Go!”

  I yanked open the door, ducked out, and sprinted up the stairs toward the side entrance. As I pushed through the revolving door I saw my taxi pull away. The tail car hesitated in the middle of the street.

  I ran down the enormous hushed hallway toward the auto show area, passing people heading in and people heading out. My feet and ankles were killing me. There’s a reason why joggers don’t wear pumps.

  I passed an entire squad of high school cheerleaders who were leaving the showroom area laughing and swishing their pom-poms. I turned down another main hallway. Sashaying toward me were three Hooters girls, dressed in knee-high white boots, white fishnet pantyhose, white short-shorts and Hooters tank tops. Off in the distance was the entrance to the auto show. I looked back. The black man wasn’t in sight. I continued toward the auto show signs.

  As I approached the entrance, I slowed to a walk. My breath was coming in jagged gasps. The large placard in front of the entrance read:

  OPENING NIGHT—BY INVITATION ONLY

  There were two entrance gates. A severe-looking woman was checking passes at one. A middle-aged man was checking passes at the other. I moved toward the man.

  He gave my blond hair and tight jeans an appreciative look. “Do you have your pass, young lady?” he asked with a flirtatious wink.

  Perfect.

  I gave him a perky, wide-eyed expression. “I jes’ can’t believe myself sometimes,” I said with a syrupy twang. “I’m Cheryl Ann, honey. You know, one of them Hooters girls.” I gave him a saucy swing of my hip. “Well, I must have got myself so worked up over the hot cars y’awl have in there that I plumb forgot my boots and little shorts in the changing room.” I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “Have you ever?” I put my hand on his wrist and asked, “Honey, can I jes’ scoot myself back there real fast and get my stuff?”

  He chuckled. “Why certainly, Cheryl Ann. Go ahead.”

  I crinkled my nose at him. “Well, aren’t you a sweetie pie? What’s your name, darlin’?”

  He blushed. “Fred.”

  “Well, thank you, Fred. Next time y’awl are down at Union Station, y’awl better come by Hooters and see me, you hear?” I blew him a kiss as 1 wiggled past. “Bye-bye.”

  I moved quickly into the huge showroom area. It was filled with hundreds of automobiles, pickup trucks, and vans, grouped by manufacturer. The Dodge section was to my left. Further off in the distance was the BMW section. To my right was a display of dozens of conversion vans.

  I needed to figure out which exit from the showroom area would lead me to the main entrance of the convention center. As I stood there in the middle of the showroom, trying to get my bearings, I started to feel exposed, vulnerable—as if I had a bull’s eye painted on my back. I opened a side door to one of the conversion vans, stepped inside, and closed it behind me. It was extraordinarily roomy inside. The roof of the van was high enough for me to stand. There were shades on the windows and soft music coming from the stereo speakers. I sat down in the nearest captain’s chair and mentally retraced my steps through the building, trying to pinpoint my position. I peered through the blinds toward the BMW section. The exit beyond the BMWs ought to lead to the main entrance.

  As I surveyed the crowd through the blinds, the black man in the Dr. Dre sweatshirt passed directly in front of me. My head jerked back, I let the blinds close and crawled toward the front of the van. Crouching low, I watched him through the windshield. He moved toward the center of the showroom. Using the sleeve of his sweatshirt, he wiped the perspiration from his face. There was a bulge under the front of his sweatshirt. He looked to his left, scrutinizing the crowd, and then to his right. The BMW section was to the left. He moved off to the right.

  When he disappeared from view, I yanked open the van door and hopped down. Inching toward the front of the van, I peered around the hood toward the right. I saw his glistening bald head off in the distance, moving away.

  I started in the opposite direction, walking briskly toward the exit sign beyond the BMW section. My gait quickened as my anxiety continued to build. I cringed once, half expecting to feel a bullet rip into my back. I reached the exit and stared down the vast hallway. The rotunda was visible in the distance at the end of the hallway, maybe one hundred yards away.

  I turned to look back, adjusting my backpack. My feet were killing me. As I scanned the crowd, I slipped off my pumps and shoved them into my purse. I didn’t see him, and then I did. He was over to the l
eft, maybe seventy-five yards away, moving along the edge of the showroom. For one horrible second our eyes met.

  I whirled and sprinted down the hallway, my brief case in one hand, my purse slung over my shoulder. The purse swung wildly against my hip as I ran barefoot toward the rotunda that loomed up ahead. It seemed to take forever until I reached it. I burst through the door into a drizzling rain. My cab was idling on the street in front of the entrance. I jumped into the back seat as it pulled away with a screech.

  I looked back. No sign of him. I continued to stare, sweaty and flushed, until the cab turned and the convention center disappeared. I slumped back against the seat. I was getting sick of this chase routine.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Flo stood in the doorway, obviously baffled.

  “It’s me,” I said.

  Her eyes widened. “Holy shit.” She grabbed my arm and yanked me into her hotel room. After triple-locking the door, she turned to me. “You okay?”

  I shrugged. “I’m alive.”

  “You weren’t followed?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She checked me out from blond head to high-heeled toe. “Rachel Gold in fuck-me pumps.” She chuckled, shaking her head. “If only those goobers on the Harvard Law Review could see you now.”

  “The man who invented these…” I grumbled as I kicked them off.

  “…ought to be whipped like a circus monkey,” Flo said.

  “…for starters.”

  “Right on.” Flo walked over to the miniature refrigerator. “Here,” she said, handing me a bottle of Amstel Light. “You look like you could use one.”

  “Thanks.” I twisted off the cap and tilted the beer to my lips.

  “What happened to you tonight?”

  I told her. When I was finished, Flo shook her head and said, “You’ve got to extricate yourself from this.”

  “I can’t anymore.”

  “Why not? I can poke around some to see whether there’s a story.”

  I shook my head helplessly. “I can’t, Flo. I’d love to, but I’m in it too deep. I’m a target. In fact, I’m probably the main target. People are definitely trying to kill me, and they’re definitely going to keep on trying. My only hope is to solve this fast and turn it over to the press or the police or both. Otherwise, I’m dead.” I stood up and turned to her. “Those are my options. Solve it or die. I don’t want to die.”

  She stared up at me, her lips pursed. After a moment, she nodded decisively. “Then let’s solve it, goddammit.”

  I smiled warily. “My thought exactly.”

  “So fill me in.”

  I opened my briefcase and walked her through what I had discovered since we spoke last night and how it seemed to fit into what I already knew.

  Flo listened intently. When I finished, she stared down at the two death certificates. “Guillain-Barré,” she mused. “What about the other thirteen?”

  “Won’t know that until tomorrow. The clerk said they’d be ready before noon.”

  She reached for the Beth Shalom/Labadie Gardens list and asked, “The only deaths were women?”

  I nodded. “All fifteen.”

  “What about the ones that didn’t die during that period? The ones that got sick but recovered. Are they women, too?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I need to talk to Mordecai Jacobs’ widow. The medical files on these people are the key to everything. If he saved the old files from the Jewish nursing home, maybe she’ll know where they are.

  “What about the Labadie Gardens medical records?”

  “Gone,” I said. “Destroyed in the fire.” I picked up the death certificate for June Bailey. “But look at this.” I pointed at the entry for attending physician: Peter Todorovich. “He may be far better than the files. Were you able to locate him?”

  “Forget about him,” she said grimly.

  “Why?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Oh, no. When? How?”

  “In 1983. Two bullets in the chest.”

  I sat down on the edge of the bed, numb. “What happened?” I asked quietly.

  Flo sorted through a folder and pulled out a photocopy of a newspaper article from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. “In 1981,” she said, “he left Armstrong Bioproducts to return to private practice. Two years later, while leaving Powell Hall after a symphony concert, he was robbed and killed.”

  “Did they catch the killer?”

  Flo shook her head. “Nope.”

  I leaned against the dresser and crossed my arms. “Do you think it was staged?”

  She shrugged. “We’ll never find that out.”

  I shook my head in frustration. “Oh, brother.”

  “Let me see those Bruce Rosenthal questions again.”

  I handed them to her and stared at the document over her shoulder.

  Primax? Where?

  Cross-referenced materials not there—Filing glitch?—Need to locate—Need to ask

  What’s going on with Guillain B?

  Where are Primax files???—must find

  Be sure to look for LGB—Sounds like typical G-B syndrome

  Cross-reference to Phase Two Trial?—Need to check date—Phase Two Trial?—Not possible!?

  “Well,” she finally said, “we found someone on that list who died of Guillain-Barré. Maybe two.”

  “And maybe more after we get the other death certificates.”

  “And presumably the LGB here”—she pointed—“refers to the same thing.”

  I nodded. “And I assume the phase two trial refers to the second phase of human testing. Isn’t that what the guy at the FDA called them?”

  Flo nodded. “Yep. Once the FDA approves your Investigational New Drug application, you start with the phase one clinical trials on a small group of healthy people to determine whether there are any side effects. Once you get past that phase, you move to phase two clinicals on a large group who have the target disease.”

  “So,” I said, pointing to the Phase Two Trial reference in Bruce’s notes, “he thinks the dates are out of whack.”

  She studied Bruce’s notes. “For Primax?”

  I shrugged. “Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  Flo looked at me with a frown. “Except Armstrong Bioproducts never filed its IND for Primax. Right?”

  I nodded. “They got as far as the galley proofs, but never went to the final version.”

  Flo shook her head. “So what’s going on? Where the hell is Primax?”

  I stared intently at the Beth Shalom/Labadie Gardens list. And then, finally, another piece of the puzzle dropped into place. “Hmm,” I mused. “I wonder…”

  “What?”

  I reached for my pile of papers. “Wait.”

  I found the trademark registration printouts for Phrenom and Primax. I held them side by side. Then I looked down at the Beth Shalom/Labadie Gardens list. “Good God,” I said.

  “What, Rachel?”

  I pointed to the Beth Shalom/Labadie Gardens list of names. “Do you know who these people really are?”

  “Who?”

  I shook my head in wonder. “These are the people in the phase two trials.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of Phrenom and Primax.”

  Flo looked down at the list and then back at me. “Huh?”

  “Look at this trademark printout for Phrenom,” I said, handing it to her.

  She studied it. “Okay?”

  “Do you see the generic name for Phrenom?”

  Flo read, “Phenylpyrrole Sodium.”

  “Now look at the trademark registration printout for Primax.”

  “It’s a registered trademark?” she said with surprise as she took the printout.

  “Was.” I showed her the entry. “
It was canceled in 1975. What’s the drug’s generic name?”

  She read aloud, “Primillamine Acid.”

  “So Phrenom is Phenylpyrrole Sodium, and Primax is Primillamine Acid.”

  “Okay,” she said uncertainly.

  I handed her the Beth Shalom/Labadie Gardens list. “Take a careful look at this list.”

  I came around to look with her:

  Flo studied the list for nearly a full minute before it clicked. She looked at me, her eyes widening. “You think?”

  I nodded. “What else could they stand for? According to the trademark registration materials, Armstrong Bioproducts filed its registration papers for Phrenom and Primax on the same day. They also had drafts of IND applications at the printers for both drugs around the same time, too. That tells me that they were working on the two drugs in tandem, right?” I pointed at the headings on the lists. “P/S has to stand for Phenylpyrrole Sodium and P/A must be Primillamine Acid.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Flo said. “If you’re right, then the people in the first column at each of these nursing homes were getting Phrenom.”

  “And the other group was getting Primax.”

  “But these people,” she said, pointing to the fifteen names I had checked off, “were dead by…when?”

  “They all died between August twenty-third and September fourth, 1974.”

  She stared at me. “According to the printer’s records, neither of the INDs had been filed with the FDA by then. In fact, the IND for Primax was never filed.”

  I nodded.

  She looked back at the list. “Which means,” she continued, “Jesus, Rachel, these were illegal human tests.”

  “Exactly. Don’t you see? That’s what got Bruce so agitated. Look at his notes on the phase two trials. He said he needed to check the date on them, right? Because the date he had found was, quote, ‘Not possible!?’ He thought there had to be a mistake on the date of the clinical trials because he knew the INDs hadn’t been filed yet.”

  Flo sat down and shook her head in wonder. “This is some major league heavy shit. Illegal drug tests? Resulting in deaths? Involving Senator Armstrong’s former company? Former? Hell, this was back when he was running the damn place.” She looked up at me.