“Dad, I’m awake.”
Luke opened her door to find her bed in the upright position.
“I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking all night that Dr. Sinclair is going to help us win our case. Will he?”
Luke sat on the edge of her bed as the sun began to stream through a crack in her curtains. “I don’t know, kiddo. He says what he has is going to blow Ceventa out of the water. Don’t get your hopes up. It may turn out to be nothing. Still, his plane lands in two hours. We should be back here before noon. Cross your fingers.”
Samantha crossed fingers on both hands. “I think I’ll say a few prayers, too.”
“That might just work,” Luke said as he leaned over to kiss Samantha good-bye.
When Luke went down the front steps, the deputy saw him and walked over from his car. “Mr. Vaughan, we didn’t expect you to be leaving this early. I’m the only one here. Let me call for another deputy to escort you to wherever you’re going.”
“Thanks, Brian. That won’t be necessary. I’m going to Bergstrom to pick up a witness. I’ll watch my backside. You stay here and take care of Samantha.”
“Okay, sir.” Brian frowned. “Only I’d feel better if I was going along with you.”
Luke drove slowly through an awakening San Marcos to I-35, where he turned north for the short drive to Austin’s Bergstrom Airport.
As he drove, his spirits were lifting. Finally they were getting a break. Maybe Whizmo was right about God opening that window. Sinclair hadn’t told him much, only that he had located a version of the clinical trial data that he was certain Ceventa had not produced, the complete study, he called it. Sinclair said he was sick of the FDA doing the bidding of the big drug companies, but he had been scared off by the threats to his family. Now he had changed his mind and realized that he had to do the right thing. He was willing to testify. Luke could only hope that his resolve would remain strong. He would find out in a few hours.
Luke parked his car in the visitor lot and flipped the lock as he shut the door. A glance at his watch told him he was an hour early. Time enough for an Egg McMuffin and another cup of coffee. He stopped at the Hudson News stand for an Austin American-Statesman and then found McDonald’s. Choosing a table away from other travelers, he flipped to the local section of the paper. There it was on the first page, a story about Samantha and the trial. The reporter, who had been in the courtroom when all of Samantha’s friends testified and Samantha appeared on video, had taken a human interest angle and had even gone to the campus to interview some of Samantha’s other friends. All in all, it was a well-written story. Luke could only hope that one or two of the jurors subscribed to the Austin paper.
Luke finished his Egg McMuffin and carried his coffee with him to the security checkpoint at the Southwest Airlines concourse. Sinclair had described himself and said he would be wearing a yellow golf shirt, tan pants, and Nike running shoes. Half an hour to go. Luke sipped his coffee and scrutinized each man who came through the checkpoint. As the time approached, he walked the few steps to the monitors displaying arrivals and departures. The flight from Baltimore was on time. Five minutes after the plane arrived at the gate, people were coming through the checkpoint, some hurrying to baggage claim, some being greeted by family and friends. Luke knew he was in the right place when a woman asked her husband how the flight from Baltimore was. He waited. After twenty minutes no one looking anything like Ryan Sinclair had approached. Luke looked at his watch and began to worry. Where was he? Did he miss his flight? Maybe he was on the next one.
Luke walked back to the displays to find that another flight by way of Dallas was to land in an hour and a half. Sinclair must be on that one. Luke took one last look down the concourse and cussed himself for not asking Sinclair for his cell phone number. No choice but to wait. The hour and a half crept by. Luke wandered through the airport shops, pausing at least every five minutes to check his watch. Again he returned to the Southwest concourse and checked the monitors. The plane was en route from Dallas, expected to arrive on time. Then he turned his attention to the disembarking passengers. When the plane landed, he edged closer to the checkpoint. No one fitting Sinclair’s description walked past. When he realized that Sinclair was missing in action, he found a relatively quiet place on the concourse and pulled out his cell phone. Maybe Sinclair had had a change of plans, maybe a family emergency. There was probably a message on his machine back home.
He dialed information for the FDA in Silver Spring and was directed to another number for the Center for Drug Evaluation and Research. Finally a female voice answered, “Dr. Sinclair’s office.”
Not wanting to give his name to a stranger in CDER, Luke just said, “Dr. Sinclair, please.”
The voice on the other end replied cautiously, “May I ask what this is about?”
“Yes, ma’am. I was supposed to meet with Dr. Sinclair this morning, and he didn’t keep the appointment.”
“Sir, I have access to his appointment calendar, and it shows only that he was taking a personal business day today.”
Luke was getting exasperated. “Look, that personal business was with me. Can you please give me his cell phone number?”
There was silence on the other end of the phone. Luke wondered if his cell phone had disconnected. “Ma’am, are you still there?”
“Sir, Dr. Sinclair died last night.”
Stunned, Luke almost dropped his phone. “What happened? A car accident?”
“Sir, I’m not at liberty to discuss his death. I suggest you call the Rockville police. Good day, sir.”
93
Luke slowly closed his phone and stood quietly, oblivious to the crowds around him. Now what? Nothing came to mind. Then he paced the corridors, trying to sort out all that had happened.
What the hell is going on? Luke thought. Sinclair calls me yesterday. Says he can blow Ceventa out of the water. Now he’s dead and the police are involved. He knew nothing about Sinclair. Car wreck? Suicide? Murder? That was a distinct possibility. Who would want to murder a young doctor? There was only one logical suspect. After what had happened to him and Josh, it had to be Ceventa. But why? Why would Ceventa engage in murder and kidnapping because of a new drug? Just how big were the stakes in this game he was playing? Only one way to find out more about Sinclair’s death. He checked the departure monitors. A flight to Baltimore left in twenty minutes. He made his way to the Southwest counter. “You have a seat on the next flight to Baltimore?”
“Let me check, sir,” the agent said. After studying her computer, she continued, “Two seats left. It makes one stop in Nashville. Shall I book one? You’ll have to hurry. The flight leaves in fifteen minutes.”
“Please. Here’s my driver’s license and American Express card.”
“Checking baggage?”
“No, ma’am,” Luke said, “just carry-on.” Luke had nothing with him but didn’t want to take a chance that a passenger with no bags would trigger some kind of security alert.
The agent checked his license, glanced at his face for comparison, and returned it and his credit card. “Here’s your ticket. Have a good flight.”
Luke trotted back to the security checkpoint and paused to get his breath before handing his ticket and license to the first agent. Fortunately, the line was short. He emptied his pockets, took off his belt and shoes, and walked through the metal detector. As he hurried down the concourse he called home. Mary Sanchez picked up. “Mary, I’m in Austin. Is Sam awake?”
“No, Luke. She went back to sleep after you left.”
“Don’t bother her. Just tell her I’m flying to Baltimore. I should be back tomorrow night. I’ll explain later.”
Luke clicked off the phone and punched in Whizmo’s number. Whiz picked up on the first ring. “You got him?”
“Sinclair’s dead, Whiz.”
“What? When? You just talked to him last night.”
“All I know is he’s dead and his secretary told me to talk to the police if I wante
d more information. I’m catching a flight to Baltimore in ten minutes. Get on the Internet and find the address of Maxwell Sinclair. That’s Ryan’s dad. Sinclair and his wife have been staying with Ryan’s parents since their house was bombed. I hate to bother his wife or family, but I don’t have any choice. If I can catch her today, I’ll be out of here first thing in the morning.”
“You got it, Luke,” Whiz replied. “Call me when you land. And I think I’ll do a little more Internet research this weekend. Good luck.”
94
Luke’s plane landed in Baltimore at five thirty, an hour late after a delay in Nashville. He checked his watch as the plane taxied to the gate. When the plane stopped, even before the attendant announced they could disembark, Luke was out of his seat and bolting down the aisle.
“Sir, you’ll need to return to your seat. The captain hasn’t given the signal,” the voice on the speaker commanded. Luke ignored her. What could she do? Kick him off the plane? The tone sounded and passengers started scrambling from their seats. Luke was first to the front, where the attendant met him.
“Sir, I’ll need to get your name. You put our passengers in danger.”
Just then, another attendant opened the door. Luke pushed past both of them and was on the gangway. He sprinted to the Hertz counter, wishing that he had called ahead to use his Gold Card so that a car would be waiting.
“I need a car,” Luke said to the agent. “Here’s my driver’s license and my American Express. I’m a Gold member.”
The young woman behind the counter popped her gum as she pulled up his information. Come on, come on, Luke thought.
“You have a preference?”
“I’ll take any car you’ve got as long as it’s quick. I’m late for a meeting. Oh, and I need one with a GPS.”
“You’re in luck, Mr. Vaughan,” she said as she handed his license and credit card back. “I don’t need your credit card. We have it on file. A Malibu just came from the wash. Catch the bus across the street and look for your name on the display when you get to the lot. The keys will be in the car.”
Luke thanked her and ran for the door just as a Hertz bus pulled away. Dammit, he thought. Now I just lost five minutes I can’t afford. He reached into his pocket, yanked out his cell, and called Whizmo.
“I thought I’d hear from you sooner. You have a problem?” Whiz asked when he picked up his phone.
“Yeah, thunderstorms in Nashville, and I couldn’t even get cell service. I’m trying to get to the Sinclair house before dark. You get the information?”
Luke dug through his pockets until he found a scrap of paper and took down the address and phone number. There was still no Hertz bus in sight. Realizing he had a couple of minutes, he rushed back into the terminal and found a newsstand, where he bought the Montgomery County Sentinel and the Washington Post.
When he left the terminal for the second time, he saw the bus stopped and its doors starting to shut. He yelled at the driver, who nodded at him and opened the doors.
“Thank you, sir,” Luke said as he climbed aboard.
“Hertz is here to please,” the driver said, smiling. “Find a seat, and it’ll be a five-minute ride to the Hertz Center.”
Luke took a seat and started reading the headlines in the Sentinel. The story was on the third page.
A doctor with the FDA was found dead in Rock Creek Park this morning. An early morning jogger found the body near the trail that winds through the park. The doctor was Ryan Sinclair, an infectious disease specialist with the Center for Drug Evaluation and Research. Dr. Sinclair was found, dressed in a suit and tie, one hundred yards from the east parking lot, where he apparently left his car. There was a gun in his hand and one bullet wound in his head. A police spokesman stated that it appeared to be a suicide, but the investigation is ongoing.
Luke skimmed the rest of the article and was interrupted by the driver’s announcement. “Gold Club members, please exit here. Please look for your name on the display and you’ll find the number of the space where your car is located. Have a great stay in Baltimore or wherever you may be going.”
Luke got off the bus and found his name. His car was in space 341. While the other customers were retrieving their baggage, Luke jogged to his rental car. He started it and input the Sinclair address into the GPS. The estimated driving time was over an hour. Too late. By then it would be dark. He decided a visit to Sara Sinclair would have to wait until morning.
95
Luke put Rock Creek Park into his GPS and discovered it was about thirty minutes away. I’m not a detective, he thought, but I’m too close not to check out the scene. Luke parked at the east lot, where Sinclair’s car was found. Several other cars were in the lot. Probably joggers. There was only one path leading from it, following the creek that meandered through the park. Estimating he had about fifteen minutes of daylight, he started down the path at a brisk walk, passing occasional joggers heading in the other direction. Quite a bit of activity for this time of the evening. Suicide or even murder, it must have occurred later, when the trail was probably deserted. Luke rounded a curve and found crime scene tape blocking the trail. Chalk outlined the position of the body. As he studied the scene, more joggers passed. One stopped.
“Hey, man, you a detective?”
“No.” Luke shook his head. “I’m just a friend of the victim. Wanted to have a look at the scene.”
“Tough, man. I heard he was a doctor. Don’t know why he was out here in the dark, dressed in a suit and tie. See you.”
Luke nodded as the jogger ran away. He realized he was out of his element but agreed with the jogger that something wasn’t right. Luke turned and walked slowly back to his car, started the engine, and returned to the freeway, where he started looking for a Target or a Walmart, somewhere to buy a clean dress shirt and toiletries, maybe even a sport coat for his meeting with Sara Sinclair the next day. When he spotted a Target, there was a La Quinta next door. Perfect, he thought.
Fifteen minutes later Luke left the Target with a blue dress shirt and a blue checked sport coat that was a little too big but okay, along with a razor, shaving cream, a toothbrush, and toothpaste.
He checked in, requesting a room in the back away from the freeway noise, and pulled around the motel. He entered his room, dropped his purchases on the bed, and flipped on CNN as he called home. To his surprise, Samantha answered.
“Dad, what are you doing in Baltimore? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, sweetie. Let me tell you about my day.”
Luke described the events that led him to a motel in Baltimore.
When he finished, Samantha exclaimed, “My God, what’s going on, Dad? Why would this Dr. Sinclair commit suicide, and where is the stuff that he was going to bring us?”
“I wish I could answer your questions, Sam, only I can’t. I’m going to Sinclair’s house tomorrow. Hopefully I’ll find the discs Sinclair was talking about. You doing okay?”
“I’m doing as good as I can, Dad,” Samantha said softly. “I was really excited about what Dr. Sinclair was bringing. Now I think I’ll just curl up under the covers and pretend this day didn’t happen.”
“I’m sorry, Sam,” Luke replied. “Don’t give up hope yet.”
96
Luke showered, shaved, and dressed, then checked himself in the mirror. He hadn’t bothered to buy a tie but concluded that he looked reasonably professional. After a quick breakfast at the motel buffet, he was in the car and headed to Maxwell Sinclair’s house.
Once he was in the neighborhood, the voice from the GPS directed him through several turns until he found the house. One car, an Infiniti, was in the driveway. Luke left his car and walked up the sidewalk. Jeez, I hate to do this, he thought. Then he thought about Samantha and rang the doorbell. An older man, dressed in gray slacks, a white shirt, and loafers, opened the door.
“Dr. Sinclair?” Luke asked.
“Yes.”
Luke fumbled for words. “Look, I’m s
orry to bother you, but could I talk to Sara for a few minutes?”
“Absolutely not,” the man replied sternly. “I don’t recognize you and Sara’s too upset to see anyone.”
The man started to shut the door, and Luke put his hand up to stop it. “Dr. Sinclair, my name’s Lucas Vaughan. I was supposed to meet Ryan in Austin yesterday.”
“Let him in, Max,” a woman’s voice from inside the house said.
Ryan’s father reluctantly opened the door. “You’ll need to make it very brief, Mr. Vaughan.”
Luke entered to find Sara Sinclair, obviously pregnant, sitting on the sofa with a television playing in the background. She appeared to be paying no attention to the program.
“Ms. Sinclair, I’m terribly sorry about your loss.”
“Thank you, Mr. Vaughan,” Sara replied as she wiped her eyes. “Please have a seat. What do you need?”
Luke chose a side chair close to the sofa. “Mrs. Sinclair…”
“Call me Sara.”
“Sara, I was supposed to meet Ryan in Austin yesterday. When he didn’t arrive, I started checking and found out what had happened. Again, I’m sorry about his suicide.”
Sara leaned forward. “Luke, Ryan didn’t kill himself. I’m his wife. He and I were ecstatic about a son coming into our lives. It was murder.”
“But he was found with a gun in his hand.”
“We don’t even own a gun.”
Luke hesitated and then asked, “This is not why I’m here, but would you tell me what happened?”
Sara rearranged herself and tucked her feet beside her on the couch. “Ryan came home, well, to this house, which is our temporary home, and told me he had confronted Boatwright, demanding some other version of the Exxacia clinical trial. Then he went into our bedroom, where he has a desk—”
The Trial Page 24