Shelly wiped the jelly off her mouth. “Espionage costs industry billions each year and from what our research people tell me, Kendall Pharmaceuticals is in financial trouble.”
“How so?”
“Two of their moneymakers come off patent in the next two to three years and so far, they don’t have anything to fill the void.”
“That’s going to make their stockholders unhappy.”
“You see, Matt, that’s why we’ll always be working stiffs. The stock has gone up substantially based on speculation about their new vaccine under study at PAT. You ought to know all about that since Terri is the principal investigator. Maybe she’ll get us stock options.”
“I don’t get it,” Matt said. “If Kendall has anything to do with Lisa’s death, it makes no sense. They wouldn’t mess with Lisa or Terri. That’s shooting the Golden Goose.”
Shelly pulled out another folder and handed it to Matt.
“This is our tasty friend, Holiday Spice’s criminal arrest records.”
Matt paged through and read of two arrests for possession of controlled substances and three for prostitution.
Matt smiled. “I think we need to talk with her again.”
“Sure,” Shelly said. “It’s in the line of duty, right?”
“Strictly.”
“Maybe I should go alone.”
“It’s too dangerous, Shelly. I’ll just tag along to make sure you’re safe.”
“You shouldn’t sacrifice yourself too much.”
“I’m well beyond the adolescent fascination with tits and ass.”
“Why sure you are.”
They entered the Beaver Club as Ms. Spice was striding off stage.
When they caught her as she was entering her dressing room, Holiday frowned. “Not you two again. I ain’t got nothing more to say.”
Shelly grabbed her arm. “Get dressed. Meet us out front.”
“Like hell I will. You got no right...”
“We’ll be outside. If you’re not there in ten minutes, we’re closing down the place. Let’s see how your boss feels about that.”
Shelly and Matt sat in the black Crown Victoria and when Holiday came out, Matt stepped out, opened the back door, and slid in next to her.
“You’re going to get me killed,” Holiday said.
“Not if you help us out,” Shelly said.
“I can’t.”
“You’re sure Karl Muller was at the Beaver between 9 p.m. and 2 a.m. on that night.”
“I told you all I can. Put Karl Muller in jail, and maybe I can help you.”
When Holiday started for the door, Matt grabbed her arm.
“If I’m under arrest,” Holiday said, “I want to talk with my lawyer.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Shelly said.
Holiday looked at Shelly and Matt. “Either you just don’t give a damn about an exotic dancer or a poor working girl, or you don’t know who you’re dealing with in Karl Muller.”
Henri Charles was in a frenzy. In spite of the informed decisions to go ahead with the vaccination at Cambridge, he knew that when the first patients developed prion related disease, nobody would be safe from the media storm that would follow. Trial lawyers would flood in like paparazzi to a starlet.
He’d called each research lab and had found no reports of adverse effects of the BCG on laboratory animals.
Perhaps it’s too early, he thought.
His final call was to Genentech Hall in San Francisco.
After listening, Mandy Cohen said, “At least we’re not in clinical trial yet with Laval’s BCG although there’s a BCG vaccine trial going on at San Francisco General in association with PAT in Emeryville.”
“PAT? I don’t know them,” Henri said.
“They’re a subsidiary of Kendall Pharmaceuticals. Their original purpose was the search for orphan drugs, that is until Kendall got in the picture.”
“That’s no surprise,” Henri said. “Kendall is a paradigm of all that’s wrong with the pharmaceutical industry today. Do you know where they got their BCG?”
“From some supplier in France. Something like Alamein or Alamend Labs.”
“We know and exchange information with all the major suppliers of BCG,” Henri said. “Never heard of anything remotely like that name.”
“Do you want me to look into it, Henri?”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll do it.”
Henri scanned the research databases for any reference to labs working with BCG. He found nothing close to that name. Finally, he did discover an Alamand Laboratory in Provincial France, but all he found were references to viral vaccines, nothing on BCG. He called Alamand, but they refused to discuss business matters with a competitor.
I don’t like this, Henri thought. What’s going on here?
He turned back to his window and stared out over the St. Lawrence, the Port of Quebec, and the marina. When he saw the waters of the marina, he flashed on Emile Gigot’s murder and the missing BCG chest.
What if it isn’t missing at all?
My God, where is it?
What are they doing with it?
Chapter Forty-Two
Terri had reached the sixth month mark in the BCG study.
Patty Herman, Terri’s research nurse, sat at the small circular table in Terri’s office for their regular Monday morning meeting.
Terri brought over two cups of coffee.
“Of our seventeen patients,” Terri said, “only four have died. When we consider these patients had aggressive melanoma in an advanced stage, the results are remarkable.”
“Have you seen the actuarial analysis on our enrollees, Terri?” asked Patty who’d abandoned her scientific detachment. “Twelve patients should have died.”
“Easy girl,” Terri said. “It’s early in the study.”
“That says nothing about how they’re doing. At least eight of the remaining thirteen look disease free. If that doesn’t make you a believer, nothing will.”
“The medical literature is full of remarkable results that didn’t last, or worse.”
“What could be worse?” Patty asked.
“An unexpected complication that robs patients of the time they have left or leaves them in misery.”
Patty picked up a chart. “Look at Becky Norton. When she got here, I didn’t think she’d make it a week. Now, look at her. She’s eating like a horse, gained ten pounds, and her liver scan shows the melanoma melting away.”
Becky was an eighteen-year-old Cal Berkeley student who came just four month before to the student clinic with loss of appetite. Her tests showed minor liver function abnormalities, but her liver scan was every oncologists’ nightmare; multiple tumors—metastases. Liver biopsy showed cancer and afterward, they found a small melanoma on the sole of her left foot. She’d failed conventional treatment and since the tumor was so rapidly growing and spreading, they sent her to Terri.
“Can’t you do anything?” Becky’s mother Judith asked the doctors. “I’ll get the money to send her anywhere that can help.”
“It’s not a money issue,” the doctors said. “Becky will get everything she needs.”
As Becky’s illness progressed, Judith became depressed and withdrawn. She’d prepared herself for the worst, yet she restrained her joy as her daughter responded to the experimental treatment.
I won’t tempt the fates again.
“You know I’m thrilled, but as principal investigator,” Terri said, “I must remain objective.”
Patty smiled. “Was that objectivity when we all went for a celebratory beer last week?”
Terri smiled. “That’s for patient-physician rapport.”
“Jennifer’s doing great too,” Patty said. “You’ve got to be overjoyed.”
“I am. When are they due back?”
“Becky’s due tomorrow. Jennifer will be in at the end of the week.”
“I hope nobody’s talking to reporters, Patty.”
“Not us, but these p
atients don’t live in a research lab. Friends and relatives are going to talk about how well they’re doing. Reporters are nosing around.”
In clinic the next day, Becky sat on the examining table while Terri listened to her lungs then leaned back so Terri could examine her liver.
“Sounds normal,” said Terri, “and I can’t feel your liver anymore.”
“I feel great except I’m having trouble sleeping,” Becky said.
“What do you mean by trouble?”
“I can’t sleep.”
Terri turned to Patty. “Where’s my gun?”
“I’m sorry, Terri. I go to bed tired and sleep for an hour at most then I’m awake for the rest of the night.”
“Have you noticed anything else?”
“A few times, I managed an hour or so just before dawn, but I had terrible dreams—like something’s chasing me.”
“Anything else?”
Becky looked at her feet then at Patty. “I had a panic attack.”
“Are you sure?”
“I had them when I was twelve or thirteen for about a year. I had counseling and tried antidepressants and then they disappeared on their own, I think.”
“You’re positive they were panic attacks?”
“Of course I’m sure. Once you’ve had one, you never want to go through another. I couldn’t breathe, my hands shook, I began to sweat and feel dizzy, and finally, I was sure I was going to die. That’s classic, Doc.”
“You’re right. Let’s get your clothes off. I have a lovely gown for you.”
Terri did a complete examination this time, looking into Becky’s eyes and performing a complete neurological assessment.
Afterward, Terri said, “You still look great to me. Let’s give it some time. I can give you something for sleep if you need it.”
“I’ll try avoiding it, but there’s only so long I can go without sleeping.”
“Let me see you in a week, Becky. You’ll call if you notice anything else.”
Becky stared at Terri. “Should I worry? I’ve just begun to think of a future. I haven’t done that in a while.”
“I’m not worried, only cautious. When I begin to worry, you’ll be first to know.”
Jennifer came in Friday. She wore a yellow sundress with red flowers. Her strappy sandals showed red toenails to match her dress.
“Every day, I feel a little better, Terri. How are my labs?”
“As expected.”
“What does that mean? Don’t give me doctor talk. It’s me...Jennifer...your friend.”
“Your kidney function is still impaired. I expected that, but all the rest of your tests are improving.”
“You’re too much, Terri. Give a girl a break. Look at me,” she said, twirling around. “I’m back.”
Terri did a brief examination. Everything was normal except for a little swelling in her feet.
“You see those indentations from the straps of your sandals?”
“Yes. They were a little tight this morning.”
“That’s fluid accumulation in the tissues. It’s probably from your low kidney function and too much salt.”
“We ate a whole bag of nachos last night.”
“That will do it. If it gets worse, you’ll have to cut back on the salt or perhaps I can give you a diuretic, a water pill to get rid of it.”
“Whatever you say, Doc.”
Jennifer walked up to Terri and gave her a hug. “We owe you so much...I can’t begin...”
“You don’t...”
“You saved my life. I’ll. We’ll never forget it.”
“Let me see you again in two weeks.”
“Can you and Matt come over Sunday? We’re having a barbeque.”
“I think so. Let me check with Matt.”
“No shop talk. I promise.”
Terri sat at her desk by her office window in Building 100, one of the oldest on the San Francisco General Hospital campus. The U-shaped building sat adjacent to the general hospital wards and during the day, she had a view of one of the few grassy areas on the campus.
She’d loved this venerable building although at times, in the night-time silence, she thought she could hear the mournful cries of ghosts of times past—victims of less pleasant days in medicine.
It was nearing midnight and the kidney dialysis center staff would be closing up. The elevator motors droned as the ancient cage moved between the fourth and ground floors. Each time it stopped, the accordion gate opened and closed. The pattern reassured her.
Terri tried to concentrate on her work, but her mind kept returning to the phone calls, the sense that somebody was following her, and the threat to Abbie.
This is exactly what he wants.
She’d finally fell into deep concentration when the elevator motors droned as it moved. She looked at her watch, 1:45 a.m. After midnight, the elevators moved only with an access key.
Maybe it’s the housekeeping staff or security, she thought, although housekeeping staff were gone by 1 a.m. and security didn’t make rounds in her area until 3 a.m.
The elevator stopped on her floor and then the gate clanged open. She listened for footsteps, a door opening or any sign of life, but heard nothing.
Don’t do this.
Terri picked up her phone—it was dead. Her cell phone was in the anteroom inside her coat pocket.
The lights flickered then the room fell into darkness. After 20 seconds, the battery operated emergency lighting came on leaving the room in dark shadows. Terri moved to her office door and was about to open it when she heard a click immediately outside. She quickly turned the deadbolt lock on her door, grateful for the previous break-ins that demanded their installation. Terri stepped back from the door her heart raced. She saw the knob turn a few degrees then stop.
“I’m calling security,” she shouted, backing further away from the door.
Suddenly, she heard the distinctive ring tone of her cell phone outside the room. It rang six times then stopped.
Maybe it’s Matt—he’ll know something’s wrong when I don’t answer.
The door knob turned more vigorously and she heard scratching and clicking around the deadbolt.
He’s trying to pick the lock.
Terri looked around the room for a weapon—nothing. She moved to the window and struggled to pull at it open. It was painted shut.
When the deadbolt clicked, Terri grabbed her desk chair and threw it through the window, then scrambled through and onto the fire escape and felt a sharp pain against her arm. She raced down two flights, released the ladder and scrambled to the ground. When Terri turned, she ran into the dark outline of a man and nearly fainted.
“Dr. Powell,” said the uniformed security guard. “What’s wrong?”
Terri grasped him and began to cry.
Matt arrived thirty minutes later as the ER physician inserted the last of eight stitches in her laceration. She hugged Matt with her free arm.
“What did they find?” she asked.
“Someone pulled the breaker switch and cut the phone lines,” Matt said. “I think this was more than an attempt to frighten you this time, Terri.”
“My life is getting too exciting,” Terri said with a forced smile.
“This is no joke.”
“Tell me about it!”
Chapter Forty-Three
Evan Klack had never been so busy. His thin brown hair, normally carefully combed across his scalp, hung askew. His desk, usually neat, was piled with folders, chart, and thick stacks of data forms.
I can’t stand this!
The work wasn’t the problem. Free time was the lubricant for his creativity. His best thoughts often came while daydreaming or looking out over the bay. He had no time for that now.
He thumbed through his inbox looking for the autopsy reports on the affected mice. When he came up empty, he called the consulting pathology laboratory.
“Where are the path results of our specimens, PAT3245 to PAT3287?”
“Let me check, sir,” the clerk said.
After a minute, she returned. “They went out six weeks ago.”
“Six weeks. I never saw a thing.”
“I’ll send you a copy.”
“Thanks. Can you read me the summary?”
“Of course.”
When Evan heard the phrase ‘extensive amyloid deposits, needs clinical correlation’, his mouth felt dry and he trembled.
“Listen carefully, miss. I want you to retrieve that tissue for further study. I’ll send further instructions.”
“I’ll get right on it, sir.”
After he hung up, his mind rushed through possible permutations. The BCG, the bizarre behavior of the mice, the missing emails. Lisa’s death and now amyloid in the brains of these animals. Amyloid deposits were common in the brain in a variety of neurological diseases, most commonly, in Alzheimer’s.
How does this all fit?
The phone startled him.
“Dr. Klack? We just talked on the phone.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, sir. We incinerated that tissue.”
“What?”
“Yes, sir. When you get the report, you’ll see it’s our policy to destroy all remaining tissue in thirty days unless we heard from you.”
“There’s nothing left?”
“I’m sorry. All we have are the slides used by our pathologists.”
“I’m sending a courier for the reports and the slides.”
Evan slipped off his lab stool and waddled into the far corner of the vivarium. The cages that had contained the most recent cohort of brain damaged mice were empty. He went to the storage refrigerator where they kept the BCG. Their entire stock of BCG had disappeared.
What is going on around here?
Evan couldn’t reach David Birch, so he left a message. He phoned San Francisco General and when he got Terri on the line. “I need to speak with you ASAP.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t want to talk on the phone.”
“Of course. I’ll be right over.”
“No,” Evan said. “I’ll come to you.”
Terri tried to review her study data as she waited for Evan, but couldn’t maintain her attention. Life had never been this complicated even during the miserable days following Richie’s death.
A Simple Cure Page 19