by Thomas Locke
The gym held only one woman. She was in her late twenties and worked the heavy bag with fists and feet. At first Reese thought she wore a bodysuit. Then she realized the woman was heavily inked. Her legs and arms and neck. One continuous tattooed design, or so it appeared.
The woman must have known Reese was watching. A woman like this did not miss anything. Reese opened the door. Stepped inside. Let the door shut behind her. And waited.
The woman’s strikes became harder, swifter, more vicious. She was not hitting the leather bag. She walloped Reese. Her every blow was a warning. Back off.
Reese waited her out. Finally the woman kicked the bag so hard the chain rattled. She halted the swings with her two fingerless gloves. She did not look over. Reese remained silent as the woman’s breathing eased somewhat, then said, “Can I ask your name?”
The woman let her sweat drip onto the mat at her feet. Weighing an answer. Finally she said, “Ridley.”
“I’m Reese.”
Ridley nodded to the floor.
Reese opened the door and stepped back into the hallway. Only when the door clicked and she was alone did she allow herself to smile.
Reese climbed the stairs and was halfway across the lobby when she spotted the man outside. She veered around the reception desk and walked through the sliding doors and entered the warm blanket of a Florida dusk. The overweight guy from her Orlando trials, Carl, leaned against the forecourt pillar. There were four metal benches arrayed around the perimeter, positioned for the smokers. The big man made no motion at her approach, gave no sign he noticed her at all. He sucked hard on a cigarette, the ash long and dangling. There were several stubs at his feet. He stared into the western sky streaked with clouds turned gold by the dimming light.
Reese stood there, taking her time. No need to rush, nothing to do that was more important than this. Finally she said, “Most people, they would look at you and think one of two things. Either they’d say, ‘That guy is working toward an early grave, smoking and carrying all that extra weight.’ But you’ve been hearing that all your adult life, and you don’t let it even touch you anymore.”
The guy’s only response was to drop the butt onto the pavement, reach into his pocket, and pull out a pack of Marlboros and a plastic lighter. He fished out another cigarette, lit up, dragged deep, and went back to watching the sky.
“Others might think, ‘Here’s a guy looking for a little solitude,’” Reese went on. “‘Just grooving on the sunset and his smokes. Cool dude just chilling on the beauty.’ But we both know what you’re really doing is marking time. We know you haven’t even noticed the sunset any more than you do the movement of the hands on your watch. The sunset is nothing. The beauty is a joke. You’re out here because you crave the night. You can move easy then. The dark is your friend. People don’t notice you. You only live easy during the hours when others hide away in their safe little burrows. You’re just like me.”
He took in a quarter-inch of the cigarette with one drag, then said, “It’s the same gig here, the same lies. Nothing’s changed except for the money.”
Reese started to touch his arm, then thought better of it. Guys like this really detested the touch of others. “What you just said, that’s why I came out here.”
His gaze flickered, a tight, splintered look her way. No more than a nanosecond. Like any direct look at reality was just too painful.
Reese put as much force into the softly spoken words as she knew how. “Don’t give up on me yet.”
She was almost at the door when he called her name. She turned around, and he asked, “What makes you think you can do anything about it?”
Reese wished it was easier for her to smile, or simpler for him to trust. “Go down to the gym and ask Ridley if she’ll give me a chance. Either way, join me in the conference lobby. I’ll show you what I have in mind.”
26
Lena and Robin and Chester were joined late afternoon by Brett. Since leaving the class, Lena had spoken with Brett twice by phone, running through their research as it unfolded. At six thirty Lena had Chester order up dinner for everyone, asking only that the food come from somewhere nice. They ate a Greek-style meal of a dozen or so dishes, lamb and salads mostly, but with fries because Robin asked for them. Chester made them tea. They worked for another two hours, then Lena sent them home at nine. She ordered them to not work another minute. Do something nice, then get a good night’s sleep, and be back at eight. Chester looked shocked at the idea of leaving the office with the task undone and coming in so late. But Lena was less concerned about having everything in place than she was having her team look rested and ready. Her final words were a reminder to dress accordingly.
Lena’s room at the suites hotel was large for Manhattan, almost five hundred square feet, and shaped like an L. The kitchen ran along the same wall as the entrance and was flanked by a dining table that separated the living room with its giant flat-screen TV from the sleeping area. She was tired, but pleasantly so. She channel-surfed for a few minutes, then turned off the television and sat listening to the city’s frenetic din. She thought about Brett, and how he had remained silent and watchful through most of the afternoon, speaking only when he was asked a direct question. His responses were thoughtful, measured. Lena hesitated a long moment, then reached for her phone and dialed the number he had given her.
When Brett answered, Lena said, “You’re holding something back.”
He replied, “I’m glad you called.”
“There’s something you’re not telling us.”
“That’s right,” he said. “There is.”
“Something big.”
“Very.”
“Is it your research project?”
“Yes.”
“Does your research impact our presentation tomorrow?”
Brett had adopted the same measured cadence he had used in the classroom. “The two issues, your project and my research, are joined at the hip. They could not be more involved. As for impacting the presentation tomorrow, I can’t say.”
Lena hesitated. There was a sense of facing an unseen boundary. Asking her next question crossed her into alien territory. Brett waited with her, seemingly content to give her all night. Lena tasted the air, then asked softly, “Will you tell me what your research is about?”
“Yes, Lena. I will tell you everything.”
She disliked the tight tremors that coursed through her middle, and knew she could not handle anything more just then. “Tomorrow, then. After the presentation.”
“Whenever you say,” Brett replied. “Whatever you want to know.”
Lena was still struggling with the sense of being drawn toward this man when they gathered the next morning. She had slept well, all things considered, and felt comfortable with the day ahead. But there was still a lot of ground to cover. By the time they left for Roger’s office, Lena felt her team was as prepped as they possibly could be. She knew Robin and Chester were both worried about the project’s huge downside risks and nervous over taking part in the presentation. But Lena’s strongest impression, as the unseen wind drew her toward the next unfolding quest, was that she did not go into this alone.
They traveled to Wall Street in three limos. Lena shared one ride with Robin and Brett. Chester rode with the Baker Meredith partners. The third car held a clutch of nervous aides.
Lena found Brett’s presence both comforting and unsettling. She was determined to maintain a firm boundary between her professional work and any romantic entanglement. Even so, the prospect of involving herself with a man who promised only heartbreak should have been a lot more repugnant than it felt.
The Baker Meredith partners were ushered into the conference room, while Lena’s team was asked to wait. Lena took out her phone, called Don Metzer, and said, “You won’t believe where I am.”
The lawyer replied, “Hang on a second.” Lena heard a door shut, then Don came back on with, “Tell me.”
“Roger Foretrain’s recepti
on area. Seated in the same waiting room, on the same sofa, in the exact same position.”
“Only the last time, you were waiting to get fired,” Don said.
Lena made no attempt to hide her conversation from the team. “The only problem this time around is, you’re not here with me.”
“You’re going to do fine,” Don said. “Colorado still has me running flat out. I’m representing our partners in the sale of their respective forty-nine percents. Charles Farlow wants to own the whole shooting match.”
“Ask him for a whole lot of money,” Lena said.
“I’m going for a lot more than that. And I’m not asking, I’m demanding.” Don spoke with the languid ease of a man who lived for battles like this. “Speaking of money, are you as prepped as on your last acquisition?”
“Not even close.”
“How long have you had?”
Lena checked her watch. “Thirty-nine hours and counting.”
Don laughed out loud.
“But I have a team. We know what we need to know. What we don’t know, we can learn. What we’re missing is our lawyer.”
Don cleared his throat. “Lena, about that.”
She knew what he was going to say. The absence of any messages from him since the acquisition had left her suspecting that Charles Farlow had recognized Don’s skills and offered him a job. One he’d be foolish to turn down. But Lena did not want to hear that, especially not before she entered her first session with the Baker Meredith team.
Roger’s secretary chose that moment to set down her phone, rise to her feet, and signal Lena and her team with a professional smile.
Lena said, “I have to go.”
Two steps inside the First American conference room, Brett was already extremely not impressed.
The conference room was far grander than anywhere he had ever worked. He assumed the Gauguin oils on the side wall were genuine. The view out the windows opposite was jaw-dropping. But none of this changed a thing. By the time he had settled into his fine leather chair, the surroundings had paled to insignificance.
Brett had endured too many meetings like this. Anyone involved in university-level research was forced to suffer through gatherings of opponents who pretended to listen. Today the people with money sat at the oval table’s far end, clustered together like a battalion of enemy troops. They were already busy loading their guns. The atmosphere was charged with the compressed tension of unexploded ordnance. There were nine of them. The three senior executives from Baker Meredith were clustered together, with five aides seated directly behind them, pads and pens at the ready. Then came an empty seat, then Roger Foretrain. The man Lena spoke of with awe was seated apart from the others. He was the only one whose expression remained open, watchful. Even when he spoke, it was with a tone that suggested he hoped he was wrong to note, “No one expected you to ready a pitch your first week, Lena.”
“This project is highly time sensitive,” Lena replied.
One Baker Meredith partner was a male whose skin was an olive blend of various races, perhaps Indonesian or Filipino. The other male partner was an Anglo in his late thirties with weary eyes behind tortoise-rim glasses. The woman at their center was narrow and pinched and angry. She even managed to sniff in an aggressive fashion. “It is not a project until we say it is.”
Lena did not give any indication that she had heard the woman at all. “Thank you for coming.” She launched straight into a brief overview. Two minutes, start to finish. Then she nodded to Robin.
Brett thought Lena’s two assistants both gave fair assessments. They were extremely sharp and good at their jobs. They had to be, to survive the notorious Wall Street culls.
But Brett knew there were two problems with everything they said. One, they were clearly both scared of the power represented at the table’s far end. Two, they did not see what all the fuss was about. Robin covered the inventor, the apparatus, the record. Chester then dealt with the figures—the inventor’s cost structure, the intended acquisition. They had even managed to obtain the buyer’s in-house revenue projections.
Then they both hit the same brick wall.
About eighteen months earlier, the inventor had been approached by one of America’s largest conglomerates, which offered him a huge pile of money for his device. The inventor had used the acquiring company’s first inflow of funds to begin human trials. He had wisely started them in two different countries, Mexico and Italy. This was standard procedure for large pharmaceutical companies, which nowadays farmed out human trials to specialist firms. These firms used hospitals and subjects in lower-cost countries. They only returned to the United States for the final Stage Three trials, when the FDA was more closely involved, and they were counting down to payday.
But the inventor of this particular apparatus could not afford to use an outside company, even with the funds from his new backer. And the acquiring company did not offer to pay any more, because for them the inventor served the exact same purpose. He was their cutout. If something went wrong, the blame lay on him. Not them. The acquisition would not be finalized until the first human trials were completed. They were safe.
Which was good, because seven weeks into the first human trials, things went horribly wrong.
There were deaths. Five of them. Two in Italy, three in Mexico.
The families entered suit using US lawyers, which was completely within their rights, since the inventor and his entire production process were based in Savannah. Initially there were just two court cases, one representing the bereaved Mexican families and another for the Italians. Then the surviving subjects gathered together and entered their own suit, alleging potential long-term damages. One hundred and twenty plaintiffs in all.
The judges of all three suits found against the inventor. He declared bankruptcy. He was publicly disgraced. The backlash was enormous. The inventor was vilified, especially in the scientific press. Brett recalled reading something about it, but all this happened at the onset of his own downward spiral.
The company seeking to acquire the man’s invention and all his patents quietly slipped away.
End of story.
Brett listened to the two overviews and knew what he needed to do. The two aides gave it their best. Their loyalty to Lena, and their trust in her ability to protect them, was touching. But they clearly did not see what the rush was about.
Brett saw the change happen at the room’s other side because he was expecting it. He had seen it before. All too often. In his case, representatives of research-funding bodies had made their decision before he opened his mouth. They were officially required to enter into such funding pitches with an open mind. But the truth was, they sought a reason to shoot him down. Their secret objective was to detect some flaw in his proposal that would stand up to outside scrutiny. Once this was identified, they could relax. Their job was done.
Brett watched the bankers go through similar subtle shifts, how first the three partners seated at the table and then their aides all settled more comfortably into their seats. They could breathe easy now, enjoy the view, examine the artwork, drink their coffee, whatever. By the time Chester was midway through his analysis, Roger Foretrain was the only one still listening. Frowning, disappointed, but still alert. Looking for the reason that explained why Lena had felt a need to pitch this at all.
Brett pretended to follow Roger’s gaze over to Lena. Like he needed reassurance that she was for real. He gave it a couple of beats, long enough to enjoy her beauty, not so long as to draw suspicion. Even with her gaze downcast and her natural exuberance dampened by the room’s collective opposition, Lena Fennan was an astonishment. She radiated an intelligent intensity, an impatient grace. Her clothes were a bit rumpled and her hair somewhat confused, like she had not taken time for herself. Not just today. For months. Her rangy athleticism was overlaid by weeks of too little sleep. The banked-up fatigue bruised her features. Even so, Lena was . . .
Brett turned away when he finally settled up
on one word that described her impact.
Lena Fennan arrested him.
The senior woman from Baker Meredith was in her late fifties and sounded like she had downed a gravel smoothie for breakfast. “I’m not clear on several points. First, why are we here? I mean, really. If one of my first-year interns had fielded this, I’d have him on the bus back to Des Moines.”
Roger said, “We still haven’t heard Lena’s assessment.”
“Come on, Roger. What could she possibly say that would make any difference? Five deaths!”
Roger leafed through his copy of their analysis and did not respond.
The woman, Baker or Meredith—Brett couldn’t remember and didn’t really care—took that as her cue. “Let’s move on.” She pointed her gold pen at Brett. “Who is this guy and what is he doing on our payroll?”
Brett took that as the signal he’d been hoping for. Lena started to respond. But she caught sight of the hand he lifted slightly off the table. Her dark eyes sparked when they met his. Fear, suppressed adrenaline, some confusion of her own. Brett forced himself to look away.
He said to the woman at the table’s far end, “You’re missing the point.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re working under the mistaken assumption that Ms. Fennan has come here asking for money. Or your permission. You’re wrong on both counts.”
The woman squinted as the tension returned to the room’s far end. Only Roger seemed pleased. He had come to be surprised. He turned back to the first page and read, “‘Dr. Brett Riffkind, professor of neurobiology at UCSB, currently on a research secondment.’ Doing what?”
“I’ll come back to that,” Brett replied. He kept his gaze on the woman, Baker or Meredith. “Right now we need to focus on the essential. Ms. Fennan does not need your money. Or your approval.”