Dead Calm
Page 24
Joey nods, a concerned expression on his face. “Be careful, Mattie,” he says, looking very serious. “I don’t want you to get into trouble.”
“Believe me, neither do I,” I say with a smile. “I’ll be fine. Now go.”
He turns and heads off at a lope toward the back of the hospital. I watch as his red cape flutters and waves in the night breeze, disappearing into the darkness. Then I ease the door closed and turn toward David’s office.
Once inside, I settle into David’s chair behind his desk and boot up his computer. It takes a minute or so for the thing to fully come to life, and I keep my eyes focused on the thin band of light beneath the door to the hallway, watching for any shadows that might indicate feet. I remember Roger’s nightly routine. He always started on the first floor at the end by David’s office, and after making his way to the opposite end, he would then take the stairs up to the second and third floors. The basement was always his last place to check, and from there he would return to the first floor and exit out the back entrance.
My hope is that he not only still practices this routine, which never varied during the years I knew him, but that he will simply go by David’s office and exit without checking it out since he already would have done so. Worst-case scenario, I hope to be able to convince him that my presence here is nothing to be alarmed about. I’m sure he knows David and I are divorced, but I figure I can argue that my current job requires me to do some research on one of David’s patients. Why I am sitting here doing it in the dark will be a little harder to explain, but I’ll deal with that problem if and when it happens.
I stay as quiet as I can, and when the computer is done booting up and prompts me for a password, I type in David’s “A1Surgeon,” thanking my lucky stars that my ex is a creature of habit. I hit the mute key and then find the one that darkens the screen, lowering the light as much as I can. Off in the distance I hear the ding of the elevator returning to the first floor, and I freeze.
I listen as Roger’s footsteps draw closer, and then I see the shadow appear beneath the door. The shadow pauses, and for a few seconds I figure I’m done for. He’s coming into the office. But then I hear him say, “Hey, Marty, it’s Roger. What are you up to?” This is followed by the sound of the back door opening and closing, and Roger’s voice growing suddenly distant.
I breathe a sigh of relief and shift my focus back to David’s computer. I open his Outlook mail program and scroll through the most recent messages he has sent, reading the subject lines to see if anything looks pertinent. None of them do. Next I do a search for Leptosoma, targeting his recent e-mails as well as his archives. Five e-mails pop up, all of them from last year. I open the first one and read it. It’s from David to a man named Jim Horner, who works at a company named Drake Industries. David starts by saying how nice it was to meet this Mr. Horner at the conference in Seattle and then goes on to say he has someone who might be a good candidate for the trial. What the trial entails is never referred to, but it’s not hard to guess after reading the remainder of the e-mail. David writes that he has a male patient in his thirties named Freeman Kohl who is suffering from morbid obesity, weighing in at just under 600 pounds. David goes on to say that Mr. Kohl came to him requesting gastric bypass surgery, but he is too great a risk because of a preexisting heart problem. After explaining this to Mr. Kohl, David then explained about the Leptosoma study, and Mr. Kohl indicated a willingness to participate. He understands that this will require him to either relocate or travel to Madison on a weekly basis.
The second e-mail, which is dated two months later, is a short thank-you to Mr. Horner for making the necessary arrangements to get Mr. Kohl into the Leptosoma program. The third e-mail is an inquiry dated three months later—a year ago almost to the day—asking how Mr. Kohl is doing. This e-mail apparently went unanswered because the fourth one, sent a month later, was a second request for this information, mentioning the previous inquiry.
David’s final e-mail was a bit of a shocker. Mr. Horner’s reply to the previous e-mail was attached to David’s final message. In it, Mr. Horner regretted to inform David that Mr. Kohl had suffered a fatal case of liver failure, brought on by a secret drinking habit he had apparently hidden from everyone. But when Mr. Kohl was found dead in his hotel room in Madison, an autopsy was performed that revealed a severely cirrhotic liver. A subsequent investigation by the ME’s office in Madison had revealed a trail of receipts to a variety of liquor stores over the past eight months, indicating a significant level of consumption. They also discovered a large stash of empty booze bottles in Mr. Kohl’s house.
Horner’s e-mail goes on to say that because of this discovery, Mr. Kohl was excluded from the trial results, but that Drake Industries was open to any other candidates David might want to send their way. He also mentions that David can keep the professional fees paid to him for his role in getting Mr. Kohl into the program. Horner then goes on to say that there is a weeklong conference in Hawaii coming up the following spring, and if David is open to doing a presentation on the benefits and risks of the various weight-loss surgery options, Drake Industries would be happy to provide him with a generous honorarium as well as hotel and travel accommodations.
David’s reply to this e-mail is a two-parter. First, he expresses his sorrow that Mr. Kohl died and his shock regarding the drinking problem, stating that he never had a clue the man was hiding such a habit. The second part of his e-mail thanks Mr. Kohl for the invitation to speak but says he will have to pass for now. He closes with a request to keep him in mind for future opportunities.
There is an attachment to the e-mail, and when I click on it, I see it’s the medical examiner’s report on Freeman Kohl. I print this last letter and the report, stashing both in my pocket along with the list I had from downstairs. I do an additional search of the e-mails, looking for any mention of Drake Industries, but the same e-mails are the only ones that come up. I close the e-mail program, and I’m about to shut down the computer when I see an icon for a financial management software program. Curious, I open it.
I scan the current year’s info, finding little in the way of surprises. I go to the file menu and find many other years of data, going back more than a decade. I pick last year’s and open it. When I scan the fee data entered during the time that Kohl was in the program for Leptosoma, I see several monthly entries for fees earned from Drake Industries, and it’s a tidy little sum. Curious, I launch the electronic chart program and use David’s login and password to access Mr. Kohl’s medical record. I scroll through the info until I find the entries made by David: notes on his current weight-loss progress, which was significant—the man dropped nearly fifty pounds in a matter of a few months—some lab test results, and a couple of physical exams. The last exam done, according to the chart, was three months before Kohl died. Some routine lab work was done at that time, and sure enough, the man’s liver enzymes were slightly elevated. According to David’s note, he believed this to be a by-product of the drug; the numbers were low enough at that point that they failed to raise any concern. He also documented that he told Mr. Kohl about this information and cautioned him against using alcohol and certain drugs, including over-the-counter pain relievers, lest the numbers worsen.
I shut down his computer, but not before printing the financial data relating to Drake Industries. Then I drop David’s ID badge on the floor next to his chair, and leave the office and the clinic building.
Back outside, I make my way through the grounds and the front parking lot, alongside the hospital building and into the back parking lot. I find Joey sitting inside the hearse, chewing on his fingernails, which I note are gnawed down to the skin.
“Are you done?” Joey asks me in a voice that sounds like it’s on the verge of panic.
“I am. Thank you for helping me, Joey. And remember, this has to remain a secret between the two of us. No one can know what we did tonight, okay? That’s very, very important.”
Joey nods vigorously. “
Okay,” he says.
My phone buzzes with a call, and when I look I see it’s from Arnie. “Hey, Arnie. What’s up?”
“I have some interesting news for you. Laura and I got a hit on that investigation she was doing into the homes around that cell tower in Kenilworth.”
“A good hit?”
“I think so. We found a home near the cell tower that is owned by a man named Desmond Townsend, who happens to be the CEO of a company called Drake Industries.”
At the mention of the company name, my heart speeds up a notch.
“So we did a little research into Drake Industries and discovered they specialize in R&D for a number of other companies, including a pharmaceutical company called Algernon Medical. And Algernon Medical happens to be the company that produces Leptosoma. What’s more, Algernon Medical is also a subsidiary of a company called Kupper Products, which according to their website specializes in medical research and product development. And the CEO of that company is Marilyn Townsend. Marilyn (née Kupper) Townsend.”
“Oh my,” I say, feeling a thrill of excitement. “Who is she in relation to Judge Kupper?”
“His sister, which makes her Jason Kupper’s sister also.”
“Wow,” I say, thinking. “This is great info, but I’m afraid it only complicates things for us. How on earth are we going to bring down a family as powerful as the Kuppers? Especially if we don’t have any direct evidence connecting them to anyone else involved. I mean the phone thing is neat, but it’s hardly concrete evidence of their involvement in anything.”
“We’re still working on digging into the corporate relationships,” Arnie says. “Maybe we’ll come up with something that connects them to Miller-Weiss.”
“Okay. Let me know if you find anything. This is good work, Arnie. Thank you, and tell Laura thank you for me, too, please.”
“I will, but don’t hang up yet. I have something for you on the Knowlton/Lansing case, too.”
“Arnie, you are just full of surprises.”
“Arnie is very good,” Joey says with exuberance. He punctuates the compliment by clapping his hands.
“Is that Joey I hear?” Arnie asks.
“It is.”
“Should I ask?”
“You should not. Tell me what you have on the Knowlton /Lansing case.”
“I should let Laura fill you in because she’s the one who came up with it.”
“No!” I say quickly. “You tell me, please. I don’t have the patience for Laura’s rambling right now.”
The phone is quiet, and for one horrifying moment I think Arnie has already handed Laura the phone and she is now stunned into a rare silence by my rude comment. But then Arnie says, “Yeah, there is that. So here it is. She did some digging into the financials for both parties, and she discovered that Pamela Knowlton is quite well off. It looks like the business she and Craig ran was doing quite well, and she has a substantial savings account that should hold her over just fine even if she doesn’t cash in on the life insurance. We’re talking well over a million dollars.”
“Interesting,” I say.
As I try to puzzle out the meaning behind this, I stifle a huge yawn. I’m so tired, and I realize I’ll be able to think things through better after a few hours of sleep.
“That’s all I have for now,” Arnie says. “But we’ll keep digging.”
“Thanks, Arnie. You’ve been a big help, as always. And do tell Laura thanks, too.”
“I will,” he says with a hint of suggestiveness in his tone. It makes me wonder just how he’s going to reward Laura for her job well done.
“I have to go,” I say. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
After bidding one another good night and letting Joey holler a raucous good night to Arnie, I drive Joey home, reminding him once more that our little escapade tonight needs to remain top secret. He assures me he will keep quiet, and as a way of saying thanks to him for his help, I lean over and give him a kiss on the cheek. This makes him blush three different shades of red, and he takes on an aw shucks look that is utterly adorable.
I watch him go inside to make sure he’s safe and then head home. When I arrive at the house, I find Hurley in the kitchen at the table, his laptop in front of him, papers scattered around him.
“Hey,” he says with a tired smile. “How did it go?”
“Good,” I say. “Are both of the kids upstairs?”
He nods, and since we have the room to ourselves, I fill him in on what I found and show him the printouts. “I realized something earlier tonight,” I say. “When we were at Lansing’s apartment, I kept looking at the pill bottle and getting this nagging feeling there was something there that I was missing. I think I know what it was now. The doctor who prescribed the Leptosoma was named Richard Olsen. His initials are R.O.” I wait to see if Hurley makes the connection. It takes him a second or two, but I see his face light up when he gets it.
“The initials on Hal’s thumb drive,” he says.
I nod. “How much do you want to bet that if we look into Richard Olsen we’ll find that he had speaking engagements”—I make air quotes for those last two words—“in the places Hal noted.”
Hurley nods, his smile broadening. “Good work,” he says. “We’re getting there, slow but sure. But we still don’t have any solid proof we can use.”
“Let’s switch gears,” I say, wanting to keep the mood upbeat. “Did Arnie call you with his information?”
Hurley shakes his head, so I fill him in on that, too. He listens but makes no comments. He looks as exhausted as I feel.
“You look tired,” I say.
“I am. And I’m frustrated. I’m beginning to think we’ve been looking at this motel case all wrong. Jonas and I compared the tire tracks we found on the side of the road out by the motel to the tires on Meredith Lansing’s car as well as Craig’s and Pamela’s cars.”
“And?” I say hopefully.
He gives me a glum look. “No match.”
I feel my hopes and, with them, the last vestiges of my energy flag. “Let’s go to bed,” I say, walking over and massaging his shoulders. “We can start fresh in the morning.”
He leans back, his head resting against my chest, his eyes closed. “That feels exquisite,” he says. He opens his eyes then and looks up at me. “I’d love to return the favor. I can make many parts of you feel exquisite.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me suggestively.
I walk around and take him by the hand, leading him toward the stairs. We tiptoe upstairs and down the hall to our bedroom, shutting the door behind us. A moment later, we fall into the bed, wrapped in each other’s arms. We share a long, heated kiss, and I feel Hurley slowly stroke my back, his hand eventually working its way around to my chest.
It’s the last thing I remember until we both awaken the next morning, still in our clothes, our sexual appetites overruled by physical and mental exhaustion.
CHAPTER 25
We manage to get up before either of our kids, so we take advantage of this brief respite and sneak downstairs to share a quiet cup of coffee together. Our failed attempt at intimacy the night before goes undiscussed, but we make up for it some by touching hands frequently and playing a little game of footsie under the table. It’s a Saturday, not a normal day for either of us to work, but with all we have going on at the moment, it’s going to be like any other workday.
Though I know the cases we’re working are uppermost in both of our minds, we avoid discussing them through some unspoken agreement, reveling instead in a half hour of peace and quiet that we spend reading the morning paper, checking out the news online, sipping our coffees, and enjoying one another’s company.
I know it can’t last, and sure enough, I eventually hear the pitter-patter of little feet overhead and give Hurley a wan smile. “Rock, paper, scissors?” I say.
He gives me a grudging nod, sets down his coffee cup, and cups his fisted hand. I do the same and then count it out. “One, two, three.”
“I don’t suppose you’d consider two out of three?”
He gives me an amused look, one eyebrow arched.
“Didn’t think so,” I say. I slurp one more sip of my coffee and then head upstairs.
Matthew is in the bathroom sitting on his potty chair. I’m both surprised and impressed, until I realize he still has his PJs on.
“Matthew, are you going potty?”
“Potty!” he says excitedly.
“You need to take your pants off first,” I say, bending down to help him. But as my face gets nearer to his little body, a whiff of something tells me I’m too late. “Oh, Matthew. Did you go potty already?”
“Potty!” he exclaims again.
I suppose I should be happy he gets the general concept, but I really can’t afford the ten minutes it takes me to clean him up. When we’re done, we return to the bedroom so I can get Matthew dressed. This turns out to be another exercise in frustration when my son starts to cry because his right sock feels funny. I bite back the snapping retort that is brimming at my lips and spend a minute or so manipulating the sock on his foot in an effort to make the bad feeling go away. Matthew, however, is not so easily mollified, and in the end the only thing that makes him happy after he throws himself on the floor crying, rips the sock off his foot, and throws it to the dog, is letting him wear two mismatched socks: one blue and one orange.
I’m sure this duo will attract attention at some point during the day, most likely from some well-meaning, judgmental professional mother who will look at the socks and tsk with a sad little shake of her head, a head she’ll be lucky to have afterward lest I bite it off and spit it out. Hopefully, I’ll be able to head off any such smug judgments because I’ve honed that warning expression—the one that says, Go ahead and criticize my mothering skills, and I’ll demonstrate just how good my homicidal ones are.