Because of the blustering wind I offered to order her an Uber, but Johanna waved her hand dismissively. She wrapped herself in her checkered scarf, pulled up her coat collar, and, instead of wearing her gloves, grabbed my hand and clung to me.
Compared to Vienna, this weather was child’s play. There the temperatures could drop below zero for two weeks in a row. When she noticed that I had turned blue and steam was emanating from the tip of my red nose, she lurched forward at a faster pace. I soon realized that my gym workouts weren’t enough; even when competing with women in leather boots I couldn’t keep up.
All the way to her car she was hopping like an antelope, humming “The Ride of the Valkyries” while I lagged a bit behind, being schlepped along by her hand. When we got to where her car was parked—a horseshoe asphalt slope, exposed to the wind—it had begun to drizzle. Johanna slipped quickly into the red Audi and opened the door for me.
“You’re without your car, right?”
“I walked. Only five minutes from the restaurant.”
“Hop on in. I’ll drive you home.” She cleared the seat of pharmaceutical notebooks, binders, and drug samples. “Or do you have other plans?”
“Like what?” I asked, like an imbecile.
This situation, where a meeting with a gorgeous blonde held more promise than a coffee, was completely alien to me. No wonder—it had never happened before. I began to suspect she might be drunk.
But what did it matter? I liked the new experience. If she wanted to take advantage of me, I’d let her.
“I don’t know. Maybe you like… ice cream?” We exchanged glances. She was not kidding. “Back in Austria we say it’s good for the throat, protects from ton-zi-llitis.”
We had just started making our way to an ice cream shop on Bardstown Road—one that I knew would be open late—when Johanna’s beeper went off. She glanced at it briefly and made a U-turn.
“Sorry, something came up.”
“Your company’s got you working weird hours.”
Johanna just shrugged. “We’ll have to reschedule our ice cream date.”
A few minutes later she pulled into my driveway. The rain fell in syncopated attacks, and the windshield wipers reacted accordingly. She apologized, leaned over, kissed me on the cheek, and said it was already late.
Thirty seconds later I was left alone on my soaking-wet grass, staring at my empty street and the fading taillights of her Audi.
9
Professor Lucy Efron did not go to sleep.
The university security guard was accustomed to the irregular activity in the lab on the seventh floor; recently they’d been working around the clock. So, he barely lifted his eyes from his paper when a messenger arrived just after two in the morning to deliver another square Styrofoam box.
Efron’s recent visit to the science park of Oculoris Biopharma, the Chicago-based pharmaceutical giant, had left a lingering and powerful impression on her. She danced in the narrow space between her many refrigerators, whistling the waltz from The Merry Widow, exactly as she had done in her heart when Bernie Cooperstein, the president of Oculoris, had led her through the endless labyrinth of laboratories to his office, the Holy of Holies, where he’d presented her with the contract for signing.
“A revolution in the world of ophthalmology, as well as in general medicine,” Bernie had announced excitedly to the group assembled in his office and wore his yarmulke for a toast. He was a head taller than everyone in the room.
Cooperstein was still recovering from open-heart surgery after suffering a cardiac arrest a few months ago. He had dropped over forty pounds since the surgery, and his suit hung loosely on his gaunt body. Even his eyes were sunk in their sockets, the dark circles around them resembling permanent sunglasses. Though he had been easily irritable before his heart attack, afterward he had become relaxed to such a degree that everyone around him tended to carry his worries on their own shoulders. Since the bypass operation, he had not missed one of the weekly Talmud classes.
Now he stood at his desk, surrounded by his five vice presidents, a handful of marketing staff members who had been invited to the event as a token of special recognition, researchers from the University of Chicago, and medical affairs correspondents from the major TV channels and the print media. And the star of the show was Professor Lucy Efron, visiting from Louisville.
Later they would gather in a huge hospitality tent on the rooftop terrace for a Vivaldi concert performed by a string quartet, followed by a lecture delivered by the guest of honor. But for now, they milled around a table loaded with dips, veggies, fruit, and cheese.
“Cataracts—who the hell doesn’t have them?” Cooperstein wondered aloud. “Do you have any idea how much money is currently being spent on surgeries?” he asked rhetorically. He didn’t wait for a reply. “One fifth of the Medicare pie. One fifth! Here, ladies and gentlemen, are the numbers.”
Bernie clicked his laptop’s mousepad and an image appeared on the wall behind him.
“Half of all Americans sixty-five and over have a cataract in at least one eye. In this country, over three million cataract surgeries are performed each year, each operation costing around twenty-five hundred dollars, with Medicare covering eighty percent of the cost. In simple arithmetic, our mega-drug—yes, as of this evening it is ours—is going to shake up the system, change it entirely. It will save the system nearly six billion dollars a year.” His eyes darted over his glasses. “Do you know anyone who would not want to buy such a drug? Except, of course, for the cataract surgeons.” He paused to chuckle at his own joke. “Do you see? Do you understand what’s going to happen? I must admit that even I am finding it hard to digest.” He raised his hands in the traditional Jewish priestly blessing, the fingers of each hand split into two sets of two fingers each, to form the Hebrew letter Shin. That moment Bernie resembled the Vulcanic Mr. Spock. “And most important of all: Oculoris is going to be spearheading this revolution.”
“Lister’s gonna have a stroke,” someone muttered under his breath.
Cooperstein hugged Efron and led her to the head of the table. “And to prove that your research is Oculoris’s top priority…” He winked at Efron and handed her an envelope.
They raised their champagne flutes, toasting each other. They each had a good reason: Bernie’s company expected a boundless market, skyrocketing shares, and legendary success. As for Efron—in addition to the academic prestige and having her name engraved in the pantheon of ophthalmology—she was getting a blank check and all the backing necessary to continue her research and perfect the final compound.
Efron had heaved a sigh of relief, glad all the negotiations were over. Now she would be free to complete the study and get back to the twelfth tube.
Later that night, after the event concluded, she had returned to Louisville. She’d stretched triumphantly in the luxurious seat in Bernie’s private jet and munched on a shrimp cocktail, with a whole bottle of Chardonnay all to herself. There was no point going to sleep on a one-hour flight.
But something disturbed her celebration, clouded her joy—someone, to be exact. Everywhere she looked during the flight, even when she closed her eyes, an image surfaced as if by necromancy, taking up her entire visual field.
An image with three pupils.
***
A strange stir at the window made Efron freeze.
The guy who worked night shifts at the blood bank across the floor had left the TV on and blaring. She chuckled and chided herself for being unnecessarily alarmed. All the strange events in her lab lately had simple explanations.
Nonetheless, she could not shake off the eerie feeling that someone was looking over her shoulder. Earlier that summer she’d fired her technician and had recently been joined by a very nearsighted medical student—Albert, Gilbert; she couldn’t remember the name. She would have to restrict his movement. He would be able to
move in a triangle between the space she allocated him at the desktop, the chromatograph, and the cold room. The bottom desk drawer in her office would remain off-limits.
Efron locked the front door of the lab. She didn’t want to be disturbed. On her way back she peered into the department’s seminar room. The long table remained covered with plastic cups and half-empty bags of potato chips. A forgotten umbrella lay on a chair near the entrance. The next-door lab technician should be arriving a little before seven a.m. The secretary’s office was locked.
Lucy Efron walked into the scanner room. She typed the access code and checked the printout of the latest tube. Then she returned to her desk and picked up the frozen package delivered earlier. The nylon was slippery with condensation. From a side pocket in her lab coat she pulled out a folded sticker bearing the words Belle Mohay, deceased age 81, childless widow. Cause of death: Heart failure.
The wall clock chimed three times. The time of death was 23:55, only three hours before. That was splendid—the enzyme would maintain normal tissue activity for no longer than five hours after oxygenated blood had ceased flowing to the eye.
She used her letter opener to tear the cord surrounding the package, which was padded with several layers of sealed bubble wrap. She removed the partition and dug into the crushed ice.
Professor Lucy Efron fished out two Styrofoam containers, each the size of a Rubik’s cube, and opened them. The old woman’s eyes stared back at her like two hollow gummy candies.
10
Thursday
All the results were in by six a.m.
The turbid lenses in tube #12 had cleared and now the quantitative measurements could finally confirm the words that Efron sang merrily to herself: “Once upon a time there were cataracts; now there are no more!”
The phone rang. Efron tried to ignore it, but finally gave in and reached for the receiver just before the answering machine was activated. Still holding tube #12 in her lap, she hesitated, bringing the receiver closer to her ear, saying nothing.
“I know you’re there.” She heard a puff. “Why the hell aren’t you speaking?”
Efron recognized the voice and remained silent. Petrified. Regretting she’d picked up the phone. Too late to disconnect. He must have heard her breath, the blood pounding wildly in her temples, because a moment later he spoke again. “Good morning, Professor,” Peter Lister said, more amicably now. “Why are you up so early? Don’t you have a home?”
Touching. How did he know to call precisely at this time, just as she’d successfully completed the experiment with tube #12? The guy knew when she sneezed.
Despite her silence, he continued. “Professor Efron, I’d appreciate if you were, well, more candid with me. Hell, what happened to decency between friends?” She moved the phone away from her ear with a shaking hand. He must’ve sensed it somehow, because he immediately cried, “Don’t you dare hang up on me!”
Now she was fully alert. “I… I don’t understand what you mean.”
“I expect a greater degree of honesty, of openness. It is customary among business partners.”
She stared at the phone as a bolt of lightning illuminated the skies. Darkness returned outside while the thunder rolled behind the quivering glass window. “We are not business partners. I already told you I’ve signed a contract with another company.”
“Yes, yes, Oculoris. With Bernie.”
“I’d rather not discuss it.”
“Professor, you are making a big mistake.”
“I really do not wish to—”
“Medionetyx gave you a generous offer. Extremely generous. We are prepared to add another million—a total of ten million dollars, Professor. It’s a nice round sum, a lot of money.”
“But I have a contract I cannot break.”
“I know Bernie’s contracts. You should not take them too seriously. Our legal department will take care of freeing you from them. When you join us, you won’t have to cram in with the old Whirlpool, the crooked table, and that ridiculous Kentucky Derby Mug of yours. With us you’ll get a much bigger office—a panoramic view of the lake. Nothing that asshole Bernie can offer.”
Efron looked around her. Was he watching her through a window right now? Or a hidden camera?
She remembered that the dynamic president of Medionetyx could charm and be firm simultaneously. In recent years he had boasted about the many first-rank scientists who’d joined his rapacious little company. First on the list was Ashraf Nouri, with whom she had conducted her post-doc research at the NEI.
According to recent rumors, Nouri had left Medionetyx and joined Oculoris. Efron wasn’t surprised. She too felt more comfortable with Bernie Cooperstein.
She listened as Lister sipped something and coughed. “I ask you to consider my proposal seriously. You’ll find me much more generous than Bernie. I can send you a plane right now to show you the facility we’ve prepared for you here. A state-of-the-art lab. You can choose your own team.”
“Mr. Lister, I really am sorry if at any stage I let you feel—”
He did not let go. “I’ve already spent a lot of money on equipment and PR. But, as I told you, I’m willing to double what that miser Bernie offered you.”
“Mr. Lister,” she said, swallowing nervously, “when we met in Rome—”
“When we met in Rome you sounded very interested.”
“Yes, but that was in July. Things have changed.”
“I’m not calling without reason, Professor. Just remember how Medionetyx pampered you in the past—all the conferences, the Caribbean cruise, Lapland. Have I left anything out? Don’t I deserve another chance?”
“But…”
“Please, don’t do anything hasty until you hear from me.” She heard a splutter. A cough? Crunching ice cubes? Then the line went dead.
Lister hung up.
His limousine was less than a mile from the entrance to O’Hare. His private jet was waiting inside the Medionetyx hangar, glistening in the predawn light. In less than four hours he would be with Jessica, the only one who could help him forget his troubles with Medionetyx and the world.
If only for a few hours.
***
Efron picked up the test tube in her perspiring fingers, and almost dropped it to the floor.
Her agitation grew. Her instincts never betrayed her. Her suspicions were real, and she’d obviously been under surveillance. Nowadays there were electronic devices the size of a fish egg that could transmit signals to space satellites, and micro-cameras that could follow the dials on her wristwatch.
Slowly she rose from her chair and moved over to her bookcase, the tube in one hand. Her free hand fluttered over the picture frames, pushing them aside, feeling the cavities behind the shelves.
Then she left her office, placed the tube on a stand inside the closest fridge, and continued to the end of the corridor. She pushed open the door to the emergency staircase. She wanted to have a closer look at the rear entrance.
The chimney-like space was the only one in the building that had openable windows. As she pushed one open, the whistling wind became a freezing fist, and the drizzle made her wince.
Efron leaned out and scanned the windows on the opposite side. Most offices were dark. Her gaze lingered briefly as she traced a silhouette behind the window on the floor above hers. But then she recalled that Professor Littleton from the Department of Embryology grew creepers and chided herself for another false scare.
She tentatively resumed her whistling as she closed the window.
Efron peered inside the Kentucky Derby Mug that she used for pencils, pens, and clips; its bottom was empty. She took a stool and walked out into the hall, then headed to the fire extinguisher alcove. She tried to push up the lid of the emergency lighting, but the screw was too tight. She noticed a red flicker behind the cover—part of the university’s sec
urity system?
Efron descended from the stool, opened the incubator, and looked at the shelves. The trays were crowded. Last night, the student had prepared new tissue cultures and set the timer for ten a.m. He’ll be here soon.
She returned to her desk, sat at the computer, and navigated to the folder labeled LE12. It contained the seventeen files of the last experiment, LE12-A.doc to LE12-Q.doc. Due to her extreme caution—some might call it paranoia—none of these files were saved on the university’s mainframe; only on her personal computer. She entered each file and erased the existing data. When the file was completely empty, she tapped out a line of gibberish and saved the new entry, to make sure no one could retrieve the old data.
Nothing remained in the LE12 folder.
Every word she had written, the specifications of her solutions, the list of reagents, the reaction temperatures, the protein-degrading enzyme that she had named Cataractase, the chemical formulae—all these were now stored in only two places: Test tube #12, and her brain.
***
The professor took tube #12 out of the fridge and hurried into the cold room.
She opened the door, angling her body to obscure the view. She took a new stand and put tube #12 in it—but on a different shelf, behind a row of buffer solutions, and not next to tube #11. She covered the stand with aluminum foil and pushed it deeper in the refrigerator, behind two bottles of carbonic acid. Later, she thought, after the lectures and just before the piglet experiment, she would pick it up and store it in the animal care fridge, next to the cages. Always within reach.
But as she glanced, satisfied, at her hidden treasure, she started to have new thoughts as to a safe hiding place for it during the weekend.
Lucy Efron managed to turn around just as the cold room door closed behind her.
11
I awoke in a state of extreme agitation.
Unable to go back to sleep, I mulled over the way my date had ended. Had it even been a date?
An Eye For Murder: A Medical Thriller Page 6