by Tim Downs
“It’s about twenty miles up the Allegheny, across the river from New Kensington and Lower Burrell.” Nick leaned forward. “You have heard of Lower Burrell, haven’t you?”
“Of course,” she lied. “You know, you didn’t have to drive all the way down here.”
“You have offices in Tarentum?”
“We have offices in twenty-nine western Pennsylvania counties.”
“That’s remarkable for a company as young as yours,” Nick said. “I hope you plan to buy stock.”
“I’ll be first in line,” she said with a wink. She opened the chocolate-colored folder in her lap. “So you’re here to join our Keystone Club.”
“I’m here to learn more—this is all very new to me. I know the basics, of course: PharmaGen’s goal is to develop personalized medicines by identifying disease-causing genetic variants in the general population.”
“That’s very good, Mr. Polchak.”
“My mom says I have an aptitude for science. Tell me, does PharmaGen have a marketable product yet?”
“Not yet, but we’re very, very close. Currently, we’re focusing most of our resources on our population study. That’s the Keystone Club.”
“Half a million strong,” Nick quoted. “That’s an enormous research base. Do you have anywhere near that number signed up?”
“We will—with the help of people like you.”
Nick nodded. “Tell me, how does one go about enlisting the cooperation of half a million people? They can’t get that many people to vote.”
“By making it easy to do, Mr. Polchak—that’s the key. PharmaGen has formed a partnership with the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center. UPMC is the largest healthcare system in western Pennsylvania. Their facilities include twenty hospitals, four hundred doctors’ offices and outpatient centers, fifty different rehab facilities—they even do in-home care. There are five thousand physicians in the UPMC network, and every one of them can sign you up for the Keystone Club. It’s as simple as going to the doctor—even people who don’t vote have to go to the doctor.”
“Very clever,” Nick said. “And what’s in it for UPMC?”
“A big chunk of the company I’ll bet—but you didn’t hear that from me.”
“OK, so I go to the doctor for my yearly exam. What happens then?”
“First of all, you’ll find our brochures in every waiting area and exam room—brochures like this one.” She handed Nick a slick four-color trifold with many of the same images and graphics from the Web site. “We also train nurses and phlebotomists to introduce our program to their patients, so you’re very likely to hear about us face to face.”
“And if I agree to participate? What happens next?”
“Here’s the beauty of it, Mr. Polchak. All it requires of you is a signature, a blood draw, and a brief interview.”
“The blood gives you the DNA sample—what about the signature? What exactly am I signing?”
“A simple release form, allowing PharmaGen access to your personal medical history.”
“Whoa,” Nick said. “I’m signing over my entire—”
“Anonymously,” she interjected with surgical precision, anticipating the objection. “Your name is removed from all medical records and replaced by a numerical code—the same code is attached to your blood sample. Our researchers never know who you are, Mr. Polchak; they only need to know that this blood sample goes with this medical history. Complete confidentiality is assured.”
“And the interview—what’s that about?”
“It’s a family history questionnaire. We want to know about your environment and background, especially the incidence of certain diseases and conditions in your family—but once again, the information is encoded and remains completely confidential.”
“So PharmaGen has my blood, my personal medical record, and the history of disease in my family—and that allows them to search for predictable variants in my DNA.”
“Variants that could predict diseases like asthma, diabetes, hypertension, and certain cancers—those are some of the ones we’re working on first.”
“Let’s go back to the subject of confidentiality for a minute.”
“Everyone does,” she said with a reassuring smile. “It’s perfectly understandable. Let me tell you this: The results of your DNA analysis will not be revealed to employers, insurance companies, or anyone else who doesn’t have a legal right to know. In fact, PharmaGen has obtained a Certificate of Confidentiality from the National Institutes of Health. That certificate prevents our researchers from revealing any information that might identify you, even if subpoenaed by a court.”
Her presentation was polished, and her enthusiasm was genuine. Nick smiled.
She was, without a doubt, a future stockholder.
“You’re very good,” he said. “Would you mind if I asked a couple of … harder questions?”
She gave him a mischievous grin. “I’m ready for you. Fire away.”
“When is my name removed from my medical records—before they leave the doctor’s office or after they arrive at PharmaGen?”
“Well, I … I have to admit, I’ve never been asked that—”
“Think it over. The doctor’s role is merely to release the medical records and to obtain the blood sample. Who assigns the confidential numerical code?”
She knew this one. “PharmaGen does that.”
“That means my records are not confidential when they leave the doctor’s office, and not when they first arrive at PharmaGen.”
“Perhaps—but immediately after arrival, they—”
“How long after arrival? And who specifically removes the name and assigns the numerical code? Do you know?”
The young woman said nothing.
“Let me try a different question. We have an aging population in the United States. In the future, the demand for safe and effective pharmaceuticals will continue to skyrocket. I can see how PharmaGen is poised to make an enormous amount of money—if they can come up with a product. My question is: just how far away is the first personalized medicine?”
“We’re very, very close—”
“It wasn’t a fair question,” Nick said, ignoring her stock response. “That’s PharmaGen’s deepest secret, now, isn’t it? You haven’t gone public yet, so you’re surviving off venture capital and up-front investments—and to keep those investments coming in, success has to seem very, very close. This company survives on the promise of success, and you’re very good at promising. The waiting area, this room, even you, Kelli—everything about this place says, ‘I promise.’ ”
She did her best to maintain her confident smile, but she seemed to grow awkwardly self-aware.
“PharmaGen survives on trust,” he said. “It’s worth more to you right now than any amount of venture capital. For you to succeed, the public has to trust you. What I want to know is: can you be trusted, Kelli?”
The young woman closed the folder in her lap. “I think your questions are a little over my head,” she said. “If you’d care to speak to my supervisor—”
“Better yet,” Nick said, “who runs the company?”
She did an obvious double take now, the first real crack in her flawless image.
“Well … I … our founder and CEO is Tucker Truett, but—”
“Where can I find him?”
“Mr. Polchak, you can’t just—”
“Is he here? Is his office in this building?”
“No. I mean yes, but you can’t possibly see him without—”
“You never know. Let’s give it a try,” Nick said, rising from the chair and heading for the door. “Let’s see: We came from that direction, so the offices must be … this way.”
“Mr. Polchak! Wait!” As Nick disappeared out the doorway, she grabbed for the phone and dialed a single number.
Just a few yards past the reception area the cosmetic image of success suddenly fell away, revealing underneath the raw flesh and driving pulse of an ambitious young co
mpany. Nick picked up a coffee mug from the first unattended desk and walked confidently past a series of crowded desks and buzzing cubicles.
“Hey, Bob,” he called to a man at a computer screen, snatching the appellation from a desktop nameplate.
“Hi, Jenny. Great sweater,” he smiled at a passing woman. If you can’t look familiar to them, he thought, make them think they look familiar to you. Nick could fake it with the best of them, but he knew this is where his eyes worked against him; the guy with the funny glasses never blends in. It was only a matter of time before someone called his bluff.
He moved quickly through the maze of cubicles and file cabinets, seeking the nerve center of the office, following his instincts like a blowfly tracing the scent of blood in the air. The CEO of PharmaGen would not have a cubicle; he would enjoy the privilege of an enclosed office. Tucker Truett would have a window; not just a window, a corner window; and not just any corner window, but the window with the best panorama of downtown Pittsburgh. Nick headed directly for the opposite corner, where a break in the surrounding buildings allowed an impressive overlook of the Allegheny River and PNC Park. He stopped at the administrative assistant’s desk directly in front of the closed door.
“Is he in?” Nick said casually.
The young man cocked his head and squinted at Nick. “And you would be—”
“Just a quick question. I know he’s busy today.”
At that moment, a security guard hustled up behind Nick, with an anxious Kelli following a safe distance behind. Inquisitive coworkers began to fill in behind them, seeking the source of the disturbance. The security guard stepped squarely in front of Nick, then craned his neck backward to get the full effect of Nick’s imposing spectacles.
“Can I help you sir,” he said, the last word dropping like a flatiron. It wasn’t a question at all; it was a shot across the bow.
“I’m a potential investor,” Nick said. “I had a couple of questions Kelli couldn’t answer, so she suggested I take them up with Mr. Truett.”
The guard glanced over Nick’s shoulder; Kelli vigorously shook her head.
“I only need a minute,” Nick said. “What’s the big deal?”
“Do you have an appointment?” the guard said, folding his arms.
“For one simple question? He said if I ever had a question, I should just drop by.”
“You’re acquainted with Mr. Truett?”
“With Tuck? I’ve known him for years.”
There was a long pause.
“No one calls him ‘Tuck,’ ” the guard growled. “No one. Ever.”
Nick nodded. “I thought that was probably over the top—but it was worth a try. Are you required to throw me out, or can I walk?”
The guard pointed firmly to the door. Nick turned to the crowd of onlookers and handed one of them the coffee mug. “If you people can find a variant in thirty thousand genes, why can’t you make a decent cup of coffee?”
The crowd shuffled aside as he passed through.
“I’ll be out of the office today, Bob,” he called back. “Tell Jenny I meant what I said about the sweater.”
This isn’t how I thought I’d be spending the Fourth of July,” Riley said.
Nick pulled hard on the oars, urging the skiff silently forward on the black waters of the Allegheny River. Each time he leaned back and pulled, Riley watched the lights of the city flash blue or white or yellow off the face of his glasses. The Boardwalk Marina disappeared into the shadows behind them, and they passed under the lights of the Sixth Street Bridge and out into the darkness of the river.
“Where did you expect to be on the Fourth of July?”
Riley shrugged. “Not on a rowboat in the middle of the Allegheny, that’s for sure. Maybe up on Mount Washington, standing on the platform at the top of the incline, watching the fireworks at the Point.”
“Then this is a definite improvement. You’re going to have the best view of the fireworks you’ve ever seen.”
Two hundred yards downstream, a fleet of boats large and small basked in the afterglow of the Bucs-Astros game earlier that day at PNC Park, dotting the river like a gaggle of geese. Within the hour the lights would die entirely, and the annual Fourth of July fireworks display would erupt from a series of barges opposite the Point at the mouth of the Ohio River. Nick pulled for the shadowy flotilla.
“That platform on top of Mount Washington,” Nick said. “Did you expect to be there alone, or with someone else?”
“What?”
“You know, to watch the fireworks.”
“With someone else, of course.”
Nick said nothing for a minute. “Someone else like a boyfriend, or someone else like a family member?”
“Yes,” she said. “Those would be the options.”
Riley looked down at her feet. A half-inch of water puddled in the bottom of the boat, sloshing toward her shoes each time the oars caught the water and the boat dipped forward. She lifted her feet; they were her newest shoes, patent-leather slides, and she was not about to get them wet. She smoothed the front of her black silk spaghetti-strap dress, straightened her pearls, and shifted to the exact center of the bench. She picked up her beaded purse and set it on her lap, glancing over the side of the boat at the inky water.
“Nick, why this fixation on PharmaGen? Why are we going to so much trouble just to meet Tucker Truett?”
“You said you were interested in anomalies. As far as we know, PharmaGen is the only other anomaly in Lassiter’s life. A quarter of a million invested in one company in a single year—don’t you find that interesting?”
“So he’s a lousy investor. What does that have to do with PharmaGen?”
“I can see why Lassiter might be interested in PharmaGen—but why is PharmaGen interested in Lassiter? A quarter of a million is a lot of money to your boss, but it’s chump change to a group like PharmaGen. This is a high-stakes game; you don’t sit down at this table unless you’ve got millions. Yet PharmaGen is letting Lassiter in on the ground floor. I’d like to know why. Besides,” he said, filling his lungs with the night air, “this is a lot more fun than waiting for something to show up on the spyware.”
“Is this your idea of fun?”
“Cheer up,” Nick said. “You could have been stuck with some loser up on Mount Washington.”
Riley turned and peered down the river. “Where is this yacht?”
“We can’t miss it. It’s seventy feet long, and it says PharmaGen across the stern. They say it’s the biggest thing on the river from here to Cincinnati. Truett keeps it up at the Fox Chapel Yacht Club.”
“Why couldn’t we meet them at Fox Chapel and sail down together? I feel like an idiot rowing around in this little dinghy.”
Nick said nothing.
Riley narrowed her eyes. “Nick—if there’s something you haven’t told me, this would be a good time.”
“Did you know that it’s exactly 443 feet, 4 inches from home plate to the river? A strong left-hander can reach the water on the fly—Daryle Ward did it just last year. If we had come earlier, and if we were in just the right spot—”
“Nick.”
“You’re a very suspicious person,” Nick said. “It’s very unflattering.”
“I’m a pathologist. I’m paid to be suspicious. You’re here because I’m suspicious.”
“You have a point there.”
They were approaching the rust-yellow trusses of the Roberto Clemente Bridge now, and the stadium loomed large on their right. Just past the bridge was the first circle of boats, the smaller craft dotting the perimeter of the flotilla like cruisers around ships of war. They could hear the rising sound of music and laughter now, and they could make out individual forms against the glowing deck lights.
“You told me we would spend the evening on Tucker Truett’s corporate yacht,” Riley said. “You told me you had arranged a meeting with Truett, and that we would get the chance to ask some questions about PharmaGen, and maybe get some
insight into Dr. Lassiter’s involvement.”
“All true. The rest is just details.”
“I want to hear the details.”
Nick let out a heavy sigh. “OK,” he said, “I arranged a meeting with Truett, but … he didn’t exactly arrange a meeting with me.”
“Oh, Nick. Oh, Nick, please … don’t tell me that Truett doesn’t know we’re coming.”
“What’s a party without a few unexpected guests?”
Riley’s jaw dropped. “You lied to me! You said we were invited to spend the evening on his yacht!”
“Actually, I said that we were going to spend the evening on his yacht. And we are—we just have to figure out how to get on his yacht.”
They passed the first of the boats now, and Nick nodded a friendly “Evening” to the captain and his crew of one. He rowed a little closer than necessary to the next boat, hoping to keep Riley’s temper in check. Like a lighthouse, her expression flashed between forced smiles at fellow seafarers and furious glances at Nick.
“Turn the boat around. Turn it around right now!”
“After we’ve come all this way? Come on, the hard part’s over. We’re almost there. See?”
As they passed the last row of medium-sized sport cruisers, they saw it. There, a respectful distance away, the gleaming hull of the PharmaGen stabbed up through the dark water like a white bowie knife. Its hull was so sleek and angular that it appeared to be in motion even at rest. A shining stainless steel railing outlined the contour of the deck from the tip of the bow to the stern. Three elliptical portholes poured orange light from the staterooms below deck, and a half-dozen extremely well-styled figures held champagne flutes and chatted on the sun pad and aft deck.
“Nick, we can’t just row up and knock on the side of the boat!”
“That would be silly, now, wouldn’t it?”
“You must have some kind of plan.”
“Of course I have a plan. I wouldn’t row all the way out here without a plan.”
She waited for him to continue, but he said nothing. They were almost alongside the boat now. Riley looked up at the yacht towering above them; she saw cream-colored skin showing through the draped back of a scarlet evening gown. She turned back to Nick.