by Babs Carryer
I remember Boris introduced us to the Russian venture capital firm. Of all the VC firms that I had to research for our funding round, Popov Brothers from Moscow had made me the most uncomfortable. “Is Popov the same family as the vodka?” I asked Gigi once as she walked into my office, snapped up a document from my desk, and plopped her pert fanny down on my loveseat.
“No,” she replied, like she was talking to a child. “It’s just their name. No connection to vodka. Although I might enjoy that,” Gigi snorted.
“Damn Popov. They’re not even related to vodka,” Errol said dismissively as he swept by my office door, trailing his long arm through the door jamb.
“Be quiet, Errol,” Gigi said arching her eyebrows at me. “We know that YOU love vodka.” She smiled at me, her dark eyes dancing. “Popov isn’t even Russian vodka. It’s English,” she quipped, curling her upper lip.
The next day, I saw Boris in the kitchen, making coffee. He must have known I’d been asking about Popov. Without asking, he assured me, “They will be investing. They like Parkinson’s program.”
I had asked, “How do they even know about that? You know Errol hasn’t even, well we don’t have… Anyway, how do you know they will invest? Why are they so interested in Parkinson’s? WE are focused on Huntington’s. We need the investment for the Phase III trial.” Boris had stared at me, big blue unblinking eyes. Then he wheeled and stalked off towards the lab. He forgot his coffee.
When I mentioned the interchange to Jim he laughed it off. “These Russians; they’re like the Mafia – they all know each other. Nothing to worry about. I think he’s right, by the way. They seem very keen to be in the round.”
“But are they interested in Parkinson’s or HD? We’re not going to slow down our HD efforts, are we? You know I hear a lot of stories about corruption in Russia. Maybe we should…”
“Oh, money is money. We just need to get it in the door. And don’t worry; we’ll still move forward with HD. But we need other potential drug candidates too. It lowers the risk for investors to have multiple programs.”
Jim is right. Even so, I’m concerned. Popov Brothers is thousands of miles away, and something about them just doesn’t seem right.
Gigi didn’t seem troubled either when I told her. “You know, they seem much more interested in Parkinson’s than HD. They talked to Matt about some sidebar agreements to accelerate development in Parkinson’s.”
“Don’t worry.” she admonished with a sniff of her perky nose. “I’m on top of them.”
“But they’re so secretive. It’s like they don’t want us to really know them, to know what they do, or who they do it with.”
“Hmph,” Gigi retorted. “It’s good for us that they’re that interested,” she said. “Who cares if it’s HD, Parkinson’s, or another condition? It’s money that we need. We’re a startup, right? We need money to survive.” She flounced away with a dismissive wave of her hand.
My background research on Popov had proved to be a challenging task. The firm consisted of three brothers, although we have dealt with only two of them. Alexei seems to be the only one who speaks English, but Grigorii had also been on the calls. They were constantly talking to each other – in Russian. I found Alexei hard to understand. “It isn’t only his accent, it’s his attitude,” I told Jim after one of the calls. “As an investment firm, they seem experienced, but they’re obscure. I can’t find what companies they’ve invested in. There’s no information on them. I can’t figure out what industries they prefer. Their website gives me nothing except short biographies with no specifics. I’ve searched and searched, and I find nothing.”
They told us during our third call, after a lot of emails and documents passing back and forth, that they were in for $3 million. I knew that we would take their money. It would help get us to the final clinical trial.
Boris brings me back to the present. “Popov, they very bad. Errol, he knew how bad.”
I remember how adamant Errol was that he didn’t want them as investors. “Did Errol know them from before?”
“Yes, that is so. Not from me. This was before me. But he know them, yes.” Boris tells me about his dealings with the firm. With the principals. I can tell that he both fears and hates them. Apparently, Popov has a vast network of pharmaceutical drug representatives. I don’t understand the finer details of the Russian economy, but I gather from Boris’ story that there’s a lot of corporate pillaging and graft. The companies, the reps, as they are called, and the purchasing folks in the hospitals all receive money that ranges from bribes to over-pricing. There is no transparency. Everyone is on the take. Popov Brothers feature largely in this ecosystem. Apparently, wherever there is a need in hospitals, clinics and practices for drugs, Popov is involved. They have an acute interest recently in drugs relating to Parkinson’s. Boris doesn’t know why that is. He tells me that they knew about Errol’s work. They wanted access to a Parkinson’s drug. They wanted to distribute it in Russia. Was Errol standing in their way?
Boris pauses. I can tell that he wants to say something, but waits while the waitress – Ethyl, who has been at Ritter’s a hundred years and probably owns the place – pours steaming coffee into our cups. He resumes his story as Ethyl walks away. “Popov tried license Errol’s Parkinson drug direct from university. They not welcomed there. But they tried anyway.”
“You mean that they wanted to license the Parkinson’s drug out from under Errol? I ask. “And us, at Quixotic? I’m not even sure it was a drug – yet. Errol told me he hadn’t…”
Boris chuckles. I gather from what he said next that their scheme didn’t work, so they wanted Errol to license the Parkinson’s drug into Quixotic where Errol could finish developing it. Then they could license it out, for a fee of course. What they didn’t figure was that Errol would not play ball. By the time they realized that, they were already investors. They had been looking for a cure to Parkinson’s for some time. Errol’s work was the most promising. Did they know that we really didn’t have anything for Parkinson’s yet? That Errol was still working on it? Didn’t they care about our almost-certain cure for Huntington’s?
Boris keeps silent for a few minutes. I had ordered French toast, which came loaded with butter, a side of bacon, and a large pitcher of syrup. Full of high fructose corn syrup, I’m sure, but, glancing at my phone, it was 1 a.m., and I didn’t care. Boris watches while I munch. My mind is going a hundred miles an hour. If Popov Brothers are as devious and scary as Boris intimates, then they could have killed Errol to get him out of the way, so that they would have a clear path to get what they wanted.
“OK, Boris, I get the picture,” I tell him as I sop up the last of the French toast with leftover syrup. This is huge. But I still am confused. “Why are you telling me?” I ask, genuinely wondering, why me.
Boris slurps his coffee noisily and gestures impatiently to Ethyl for more. I wait, fork paused. Syrup drips slowly onto my plate making small pools. “Errol, he gave me the job. He knows my skills. When I send him my resume, he called me. Errol gave me the chance in the U.S. I am grateful, thankful for this man to have done this for me.”
“Wow, Boris, that’s great – for you. But, can I ask, why me? Why are you telling me and not someone...?” I ask, stirring the pools of syrup with my now-empty fork.
He takes a big gulp of coffee. “You found me in office that night, morning really it was, and I, thinking to myself, you might think I killed him – Errol. I wet, Errol die on river. You put two and two together – you get five. I know these things. How mind works.” He looks at me intently. His clear blue eyes look troubled. “I did not kill Errol. I owed him. I wish I could have…” He puts more sugar into his coffee even though it’s half gone and stirs. “I tell you because you wondering how-why this happened. You are the person, Brie. I trust you.”
I am honored by his words. I pause and sip my coffee, which is cold. Boris waves his hand at Ethyl and points at my cup. Burnt coffee a minute later. I ask, daring to lif
t the cup to my lips. “Why were you wet, Boris?”
“Rain.” That’s all he says.
In a heartbeat I realize that he is telling the truth. And he just told me who killed Errol. “What now?”
“I leave for California tomorrow, umm today,” he announces glancing at his phone. “I will not stay here. But I give you this,” and he hands me a folded scrap of paper. “It my cell number,” he says. “Not known.” He pauses. “Not to them. To nobody. Just in case.”
I glance at the phone in his hand. Brand new. Holy crap, Boris is leaving. He just told me who murdered Errol, and now he is leaving? “Boris, I…”
But he is already standing. He puts a finger to his lips and dons a beat-up leather jacket. “Brie, I sorry to do this, but I will not leave without telling you. You are smart,” he says with a smile. There is that chuckle again. It gets louder instead of softer as he makes his way out the door. A few minutes later I hear a motorcycle rev up, and I see him zoom past the window.
Will he get a helmet by the time he arrives in California, I wonder? How the heck will I explain this to Jim?
My cellphone buzzes. It must be Boris. “Boris,” I say into it, “Look…”
“Who’s Boris?” Neal asks.
“Oh, sorry, honey,” I say. “That’s someone at work, you know, one of the scientists, with Errol. You remember, I’ve mentioned him to you. The Russian who works for, worked for, Errol.”
There is silence on the other end. “Where are you?” he asks hesitantly.
“Ritter’s. I’m just wrapping up.” The line goes dead. He doesn’t trust me.
My phone buzzes again. “Neal, I’m coming home. Don’t be…”
“Neal? I’m sorry. This is Detective Straler Henrik. Do I have the right phone number for Brie Prince?”
Chapter 16
July 20, three years before the incident
Shala looked around the lab. Furtively, she opened the door into the hallway, and peered right and left. No one. She moved to the computer and logged in.
Dearest sister,
I have been so lonely and missing you. But I have done something to make me forget that I am missing you. This will make you laugh. I am in a rowing club. Ha ha! I wish that I could see your face as you read this. Are you not amazed?
You cannot imagine how much fun this is. We go out on the river. In boats! We all row with long wooden oars. Very fun! Ha! Can you imagine, we have so much water here in Pittsburgh? Three rivers! Another rower told me that there is even a fourth river running under the ground! You cannot see it, but it is there. So much water here.
Ha! I am now strong from rowing. Imagine, your sister rowing a boat on a river! Is very much fun and I wish that you could see me on the river. You would laugh and I would laugh, and we would know that only in America can we be having so much water that we can be rowing all the time! Ha!
I am thinking of you in my thoughts.
Your happy now sister,
Shala
Chapter 17
March 17
I’m late getting into the office the next Monday. My thumb hurts from cutting myself making a salad to bring for lunch. Rubbing my clumsy bandage, I review my game plan. I still haven’t told anyone about the second person on the boat. When Straler called last night we talked about Boris. I was really late getting home and Neal wasn’t speaking to me. He left in a huff this morning. Although he made me coffee, so he can’t be that upset.
The voicemail from Errol is another secret. I know that it’s a cure. I have to find the killer to find it.
I email Matt, Jim, and Gigi for a huddle in the small conference room. “It’s important,” I write. I text Straler.
“What’s up?” Matt asks as he takes his seat at the head of the table.
All eyes turn toward me. I dial Straler’s number, explaining that he needs to listen in. I gulp and begin. I tell them about Boris and what he told me about Popov. “I think that they killed Errol,” I conclude.
Straler talks through the speaker phone, “If we’re right – that it’s H – then our department would be willing to entertain any information or leads you might provide. We do appreciate that you have information beyond what we can access,” Straler says, speaking what had to be the uniform language of cops and detectives – his newness to the force mitigating his excitement. ”The Popovs are definitely persons of interest.”
“If this is true, I wonder how they,” but Matt doesn’t have time to ask the question.
I interrupt by handing out a sheet of paper to each of them. “Straler, you have this by email. This is my suggested bullet point list of how we should proceed.” I explain my logic: “Look, they are not from here, they don’t know the U.S. or our ways. We want to be very careful that we don’t reveal anything on our side. We let them do the talking.” I nod at Jim who smiles at me with one eyebrow cocked.
“Do you agree with this approach, Henrik?” Matt asks into the phone, glancing at me with a frown. Gigi stares darkly at me.
“Yes, completely,” Straler agrees. “We want to judge their reaction. Step by step. As a detective, I want to proceed slowly but thoroughly. Have you let them know anything about Errol? Do they now that he has died even?”
“No,” I respond. We wrote something but never sent it out.”
“We wanted to wait until this phase is over,” Jim said quietly, looking at Matt.
“So, for the Russians, no accusations, no tipping our hand that we suspect them,” I finish.
“We have to tell them that he’s dead,” Matt states evenly, “but we don’t need to… what’s the term? Cast aspersions?”
“That’s right,” I say. “Let’s just say that there has been an accident and let them ask questions. Only tell them what they need to know.” Jim gives me a tight smile, both eyebrows raised – does he think I’m too involved with this, that as a marketing executive I have no role here? I glance at Matt, “Not any more than they need to know.”
“OK, Miss Sleuth, you’re on,” Matt replies.
I check my email on my phone. “There’s a response from Popov.” I had emailed them yesterday about a call this morning. “10 a.m. our time. That gives us a little over 30 minutes.”
Matt’s face tightens. “Tell everyone to meet in the conference room just before 10.”
“I’ll be there,” says Straler and signs off.
Left alone, I toy with my notepad as I think through the different scenarios. Why would Popov want Errol dead? What would that accomplish? It only makes sense if Errol was in their way of getting something. What could that be? They wanted something from him. Did Errol say no? If he disappeared would they get it? Errol had something for me, but I can’t find it because he’s dead. Why would it be different for Popov? Even if they did get something once Errol was out of the way, what good would it do unless it was finished? Did Errol have something that was worth his death? Worth killing for? My phone buzzes. I’d set the alarm. 9:55 a.m.
Jim, Gigi, and Matt stand uncomfortably in the conference room. Matt motions for me to move and sit at the head of the table. He takes a seat on the side. Gigi looks at him with a frown.
Straler shows up a few minutes later, slightly out of breath. “Thanks for waiting.” He nods to us, and signals to Jim that he doesn’t need a chair. “We ready?” Straler asks.
“Yes,” Jim replies. “Since Brie contacted them, we want her voice to be the first that they hear.”
I hand out revised copies of the briefing document. Straler looks my way and smiles. I ignore the little flutter in my stomach. Nerves, that’s all it is, I tell myself.
At precisely 10 o’clock I dial the international number. Alexei’s secretary, Marina, picks up. “Oh yes, Brie, Alexei and his brother Grigorii are awaiting your call. I transfer you.”
A few clicks later Alexei booms into the phone, “Hello Quixotic, Miss Brianna. Who do we have on your end?”
I want to correct him, tell him, “it’s Brie, like the cheese, not Brianna,”
but I can’t bring that up now. “Hello Mr. Popov. Jim, Gigi and Matt are here. I’m putting you on speaker phone.” I pushed the orange button and nod to Jim.
“Alexei? Jim Reichert here. How are things in Moscow?”
“Peachy,” Alexei replies. “We are fine. What is new with you and why this urgent call?”
“We have some news on our end. Important news.” Jim pauses, a bit too long, before continuing. “Alexei, I have bad news.” I can hear Russian on the other end. Swearing perhaps?
“It’s not about the Parkinson’s is it? You know we are very interested,” he hastily adds. “We have plans. But we can wait; you know we Russians have much patience.” I hear what sounds like laughter in the background.
“No, it’s not about the Parkinson’s drug. You know, of course, that Errol was working on that in his Centre lab, and we have taken the necessary steps to secure the asset through an exclusive option.” He pauses.
“That would convert to an exclusive license for the new indication,” Matt clarifies. “For Quixotic. Any dealings about that drug would have to go through us. I think you know this, but I want to be clear,” Matt finishes firmly.
“Good, very good,” Alexei says. “Of course we know this when we invest.” I hear a deep-throated chuckle. “It makes investment more possible.”
My mouth drops open; I can’t help it. I hear more Russian on the other end, then a booming laugh. Then he clears his throat and in a more commanding voice says, “We read about NGX and HD cancelling. This not good for Quixotic. Investors are not happy. Things go wrong, eh? But now clear way to focus on Parkinson’s, eh? We can help. Is this why you call?” More Russian in the background, voices rising, laughter booming in the background.