On Borrowed Time

by David Rosenfelt

  “Now that you know about it, is there any chance you could learn the details?”

  He started to answer, but then stopped himself. The length of the hesitation became uncomfortable, so I said, “If you don’t want to…”

  “To use a term from your profession, I would say that I have a reluctance to become part of the story. It’s an instinct we psychiatrists have.”

  “I understand,” I said. “But I’m not your patient, even if I once was.”

  “If you could be specific about what it is you want to know…”

  “Everyone but me has forgotten Jen. I think Lassiter is a crook, and I was obviously investigating him. He hates me, and right now he’s involved with something regarding memory. The connections and coincidences are too much for me to disregard.”

  He shook his head slightly, as if saddened to have to enlighten me. “Memory drugs, no matter how advanced, don’t change homes or apartments. They can’t erase all physical traces of a person.”

  I asked the question that was most worrisome to me. “Can they create memories?”

  He knew what I was talking about. “No. Not to the degree you are experiencing them. Not even close. Memories can be false. You can be positive that something happened, even remember details of it, yet it may never have happened at all. But it’s a trick that only your mind can play on itself, and never voluntarily.”

  He was closing doors one after the other, but finally opened one a crack. “I’ll make some discreet inquiries,” he said.

  “Thank you for that.”

  I ordered another dark and stormy, and we drank to it.

  Dr. Harold Gates surprised Kentris.

  That in itself was highly unusual; Kentris could count on one hand the number of times he was surprised in the last five years. And each of them involved either sports or women.

  It had taken a while to arrange the meeting, and Kentris had believed that Gates was avoiding him. He expected to have a difficult time getting information, and thought he would have to get a court-ordered warrant.

  That wasn’t the way it turned out at all, though it took a little prodding. “I’m interested in the business you’re doing with a company called Biodyne, run by Sean Lassiter.”

  “That seems to be going around lately,” Gates said. “A journalist named Kilmer was here with the same goal.”

  “I’m not a journalist,” Kentris replied.

  “So you’re not. May I ask why you are interested?”

  “It’s part of an investigation I’m conducting.”

  “That’s not very specific,” Gates asked.

  “It wasn’t meant to be. Now, about your business with Mr. Lassiter…”

  “I know you understand that we try and keep such matters confidential, releasing only as much information to the relevant government agencies as we are required to do.”

  “I have no interest in spreading the word, nor do I have a lot of time to spend here,” Kentris said, looking at his watch. “If I have to get a court order, my whole day will be shot.”

  Gates shrugged. “Very well; I certainly intend to cooperate. What would you like to know?”

  “Let’s start with the nature of your business together.”

  “We are conducting a trial of an experimental drug that Mr. Lassiter’s company is developing. The trial is in its late stages.”

  “What’s the name of the drug?” Kentris asked.

  “Amlyzine.”

  “Is it an extensive trial?”

  “Very much so. And it has the potential to be a very important drug.”

  Gates went on to describe the procedure in some detail, actually more detail than Kentris needed at that point. There were 250 people in the trial, half taking the experimental drug, half taking a placebo.

  “So the people taking the placebo think they might be doing something to save themselves, when actually there’s no chance?” Kentris asked.

  Gates nodded. “That’s unfortunately the nature of these things; it’s the way medical tests like this are conducted in this country. There are good reasons for it, I assure you.”

  “I’d be pissed if it was my father taking a damn sugar pill.”

  “It’s for the greater good.”

  “How’s the test going?”

  “I have no idea,” Gates said. “We do not monitor the results as they come in; that would not be proper science. We conduct the study, and then we analyze the data.”

  “I would like to see whatever information you have related to the study,” Kentris said.

  Gates hesitated. “You won’t know what you’re looking at.”

  “It won’t be the first time.”

  “There will need to be some restrictions,” Gates said.

  “I don’t like restrictions. They have a tendency to feel restrictive.”

  “Nevertheless, if you don’t agree to them I will not give you what you want. You would have to seek your court order, and waste your whole day.”

  “Let’s hear them.”

  “The names of the patients participating in the study will have to be withheld; the data will have the names redacted for reasons of privacy. You can look at it, but you must do so here, and you must promise to keep what you learn confidential. We have a responsibility to our patients.”

  Kentris thought about it for a moment; the conditions were something he could live with, at least for the time being. “Agreed,” he said. “Though I retain the right to share it with other people who are my partners in this investigation.”

  Gates was fine with that, and said so. It took forty-five minutes to assemble the information, and Kentris was led to a private room. The books filled with information about the drug study were brought in on a cart, and Kentris was left alone to look at them.

  Gates was right; he didn’t understand hardly any of it. But if the time came when it was called for, he could bring in plenty of people who would know exactly what they were looking at.

  For now, Kentris was pleasantly surprised by the relative ease in getting Gates to cooperate. That didn’t necessarily mean that Gates was clean in all this.

  It just meant that if he wasn’t clean, he didn’t view Kentris as a particular threat.

  If Robby Divine burns through his fortune, it won’t be because he spent it on clothes.

  According to Forbes’ annual list, Robby, as he is known to everyone, is worth in excess of a billion dollars. But he is always in sneakers and jeans, even in his Wall Street office, and they look like they came from Target or Walmart. A while back.

  I got to know Robby when I interviewed him for a couple of articles I did on the stock market maybe five years ago. His reputation for picking stocks for himself and his clients is legendary, as is his outspoken, forthright manner of speaking. In short, he has always been the perfect go-to guy for financial journalists.

  When I called Robby he said to come right over, and within forty-five minutes I was sitting in his office. The same designer he used for his clothing obviously decorated his office as well; it was a dump, with papers strewn almost everywhere. The only area that was cleared off was part of his carpeting, to enable him to putt golf balls into a cup.

  After we said our hellos and reminisced about the stories I’d interviewed him for, he asked, “So, did you find your girlfriend yet?”

  “Still looking,” I said.

  He nodded. “Bummer.” Then, after making a ten-foot putt, he asked, “So what’s up?”

  “There’s a company called Biodyne, run by Sean Lassiter.”

  Robby raised his eyebrows a notch; he obviously remembered Lassiter, and probably my contentious relationship with him. “And?”

  “He’s testing a drug for Alzheimer’s. I want to know how much he would stand to make if the test turned out to show that the drug was effective.”

  Robby looked at me for a moment, then put the putter down and went to his computer. He started punching keys, making notes as he did so. The process took at least ten minutes, a
long time when you’re just standing there waiting.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “Biodyne has a market cap of eleven million dollars, which makes it a very small company, even in that world. There are six million shares, trading at around a dollar eighty-five. Sean Lassiter owns eighty percent of the company, meaning four million eight hundred thousand shares. He has a hundred percent of the voting shares, but that shouldn’t matter to you.”

  “So what effect would a positive stage-two drug trial have?”

  “Depends on the drug and what it does, and on how successful the trial is.”

  “Let’s say it reverses Alzheimer’s symptoms and the trial is very successful.” I was probably overstating it, but I wanted to get an outside figure.

  “Then the potential is unlimited. A cure for Alzheimer’s? You could be looking at a two-hundred-dollar stock. Maybe more.”

  “Which would mean what for Lassiter?” I asked.

  It didn’t take him long to mentally compute the numbers. “Just under a billion dollars. And that’s just the stock; the drug itself would have mind-boggling ongoing value.”

  “If it works.”

  “I thought you told me to assume it worked.”

  “I told you to assume the trial was positive,” I said. “There’s a difference.”

  “So the fix is in?” he asked.

  “I don’t know for sure. I’m trying to figure out what’s going on, and the best way to do that is to follow the money.”

  He nodded. “There’s precedent for this, to a degree. Small companies have exploded in value as the result of successful trials, and some have even gone back down when later trials didn’t go so well. But I’m not aware of any where fraud was suspected.”

  I smiled. “Glad I’m able to expand your horizons.”

  “And all this is supposed to help you find your girlfriend?”

  “Could be.”

  “Good luck,” he said, picking up his putter. “You know, the real shame in all this is I can’t even buy the stock. Lassiter has a stranglehold on it, and there’s no way he would sell. I hate when I know something but can’t make money off of it.”

  “Sorry about that. What are you going to do for food and shelter?”

  He shrugged and made the putt. “Maybe I’ll go on the PGA tour. I hear it’s a great way to get women.”

  When I left Robby’s office, I went home and knocked out the third installment in the series about Jen and my efforts to find her. Scott had been bugging me to do so, and I could still see the value in keeping the issue in front of the public.

  I wasn’t really satisfied with the piece when I finished it, because I left out Sean Lassiter. The magazine’s legal counsel advised strongly against including him, feeling that in the absence of proof it would give him a strong legal case against myself and the magazine. I went along; the last thing I wanted was to give Lassiter any potential weapon to use against me.

  So I filled in many of the details, and while the piece was compelling, it didn’t go nearly as far as I would have liked. For instance, while I was positive that Ardmore Hospital was complicit in whatever was going on, the only time I was free to mention the hospital was in revealing that the murdered plumber, Frank Donovan, had worked there.

  I sent the piece off to Scott, and he promised to run it immediately. The magazine’s circulation was soaring each time one of my articles ran.

  Suffice it to say that this was of small comfort to me.

  Kentris knew the look beyond any doubt.

  The man waiting in his office when he got back from lunch was a federal agent. He knew it as surely as if the man had a sign on his forehead proclaiming it. FBI agents had a look about them, and this guy was right out of central casting.

  “Hello, Lieutenant, Special Agent Emmett Luther,” he said, his hand held out for Kentris to shake it. Luther was a large man, at least six-three and two hundred thirty pounds, with a handshake to match.

  “What can I do for you?” Kentris asked.

  “You’ve been talking to people about Sean Lassiter.”

  “I’m not sure I detected a question in there.”

  “The Bureau wants you to suspend your investigation of Mr. Lassiter. And that’s not a question either.”

  “To tell you the truth, I can’t remember the last time I woke up in the morning and gave a shit what the Bureau wanted me to do. So why would I drop the Lassiter investigation, assuming there was one?”

  “Because I asked you to, and because our country’s national security is at stake.”

  “How exactly does my asking questions endanger our country?”

  “That’s not something I can share with you, other than to say it interferes with an ongoing federal investigation.”

  “You’re going to need to be more specific than that.”

  Luther shook his head. “Not possible. Can we count on your cooperation?”

  “No.”

  “You understand that we can go over your head and have you ordered to stop?”

  Kentris shrugged. “Take your best shot.”

  “You know, it’s not a scientific survey, but I have found that the percentage of hick cops who are also assholes is close to a hundred percent.”

  Kentris smiled. “They weed out the non-assholes at the hick academy.”

  Luther started to move toward the door, but then stopped. “What is it you suspect Lassiter of doing?”

  Kentris shrugged again. “Not sure; it’s more of a fishing expedition than an investigation. But based on this little chat, I must be after a pretty big fish.”

  “You won’t be on the case long, Kentris. But be real careful while you are.”

  Luther’s visit had exactly the opposite effect that he was hoping for. Rather than get Kentris to back off, it instead provided him a jolt of motivation. His interest had waned slightly when Gates was apparently so forthcoming at the hospital. But Luther knew that Kentris was asking Gates questions about Lassiter, which meant the feds had some connection to Gates.

  Kentris had been around the block more than a few times, and had had his share of dealings, both cooperative and contentious, with the feds. He therefore knew that Luther would not give up, and would probably have the juice to eventually get his way. There was every possibility that before long the mayor would call and order his cooperation.

  Which meant that Kentris had to act quickly to find out whatever he could. This case was his, and it was going to be big, and if he had his teeth dug solidly into it, the mayor would see the upside to his department pulling off a major coup. Or arrest. Or whatever the hell was going to be the result.

  “What have you got for me?” Kentris asked when I picked up the phone.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “Well, I assume you haven’t been sitting on your ass. What did you come up with?”

  “Are you familiar with the two-way-street concept?”

  “I am,” Kentris said. “But it no longer applies here. We’ve got ourselves a three-way street. The feds are involved.”

  I started bombarding him with questions about the federal intervention, but he had very few answers. Finally I switched subjects. “Did you check out the license plate and picture of the guy following me?”

  “Yeah. Plate was a fake; the number doesn’t exist. I sent an alert out on the photo, but nothing so far.”

  “You’re full of good news.”

  “I need you up here tomorrow morning,” Kentris said.

  “What for?

  “For one thing, so we can share information.”

  “What else?’

  “You’re an investigative reporter, right? Well, it’s time for you to investigate.”

  We spoke for a while longer, at the end of which I promised to drive up the next morning.

  When I hung up, Allie, who had come into the room near the end of the call, said, “Update me.”

  “Kentris wants to see me tomorrow morning. The FBI is pressuring him to get off the
case.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “He doesn’t know; all he did was speak to Gates, and Gates showed him everything … all the data from Lassiter’s drug trial.”

  “So why does he want you there?”

  “He doesn’t want to draw too much attention to what he’s doing, so I assume he thinks I can learn more by digging than he can. At least for now.”

  “How can you do that?”

  I shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out. You busy tomorrow? Because I don’t know where I can get another date at this point.”

  “You think you can ask me out tonight for a date tomorrow morning?”

  “That was my plan. Another part of the plan was to stop at a place I know that makes the best blueberry pancakes in America.”

  She thought for a moment and then nodded. “Seems like a workable plan.”

  Allie had cooked dinner, not exactly her specialty, but she liked doing it, so I let her. My only regret was that I had to eat it, but she had made spaghetti with meat sauce, and it seemed nearly edible if I swallowed quickly.

  While she was putting the final touches on it, I called Craig Langel to tell him about the FBI’s attempted intervention into Kentris’s work. Craig had many connections with law enforcement, and I wanted his insight.

  “If Lassiter’s screwing around with a drug trial, that’s the FDA’s area, and that’s federal,” Craig said. “It makes sense that the Bureau would be involved if they suspected something. I’ll ask around, but I’m sure there would be a tight lid on it.”

  “See what you can find out,” I said. “I’m going to see Kentris tomorrow morning to plan strategy.”

  “You want me to go with you?” Craig asked, the concern evident in his voice.

  “Why?”

  “Richard, I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but every time you take another step, you wind up deeper in dangerous shit. A little personal protection might be a good idea.”

  “Allie’s coming with me. I’m taking her to Aunt Patty’s Pancake House.”

  “Well, that should do the trick. Come on, man, I’m worried about you.”