“Right this way,” the maître d’ intoned. “Your guest has already been here for a few minutes.”
His guest was Ron Medras, a very well put together, athletic, mid-forties senior vice president with Biosynth, which until about eight years ago had been a small drug manufacturing firm. It had carved out a nice, survivable niche producing generic, mostly over-the-counter knockoffs of aspirin, Tylenol, baby’s cold and flu formula, and anti-inflammatories. At about that time, caught up in the feeding frenzy for mega-earnings and exploding stock prices that were overtaking the Silicon Valley, Medras and several other like-minded executives at Biosynth decided that three-bedroom homes in Mountain View or Gilroy were all well and good, but six-bedroom mansions in Atherton or Los Altos Hills, all in all, were better.
Biosynth knew it could easily produce equivalent, or near-equivalent, product of the stuff that was making billions and billions of dollars for Merck, Bristol-Myers Squibb, Pfizer. What it didn’t have was marketing, aggressive marketing to big clients—hospitals and HMOs. Instead, it merely worked the chain drugstores that comprised the bulk of its sales. That would change.
Tonight, Medras was on a typical sales call. Ross was not his biggest client by a long shot, but he remained an important one. This was because there was often resistance when a new drug of any kind came on the market, and Ross had been willing over and over again to list Biosynth’s new products on the Parnassus formulary nearly as soon as they were in production. This often had a snowball effect. San Francisco wasn’t a huge market, but it had very high visibility. That made it plenty big enough for Biosynth’s purposes. When Medras went to companies ten or twenty times the size of Parnassus, he’d be able to say to them: “This stuff is so good the main health care provider in San Francisco has listed it on its formulary.” And, either impressed or reassured, the other medical directors would buy.
A couple of preprandial drinks accompanied ten or fifteen minutes of expressions of regret and sympathy from both men over the loss of Tim Markham, remembrances of good moments with him, praise for his vision, leadership, personality. But in this phenomenal setting, with an hors d’oeuvres plate of perhaps the best sashimi in the Western Hemisphere, it was difficult to sustain a somber mood. By the time the wine steward offered Medras a tasting sip from the bottle of ’89 Latour that they’d ordered to go with their Asian lamb chops, they’d moved along to more enjoyable topics. They passed a pleasant hour discussing their golf games, new toys (Medras had just leased a new Saratoga aircraft), investment tips and opportunities.
Ross had developed a taste for hazelnut in the form of Frangelico liqueur, and he was enjoying his second snifter with his coffee when Medras finally got around to what they’d both come to talk about. Biosynth had been developing a new product for the past year or so. Top secret up until now, it had been waiting for FDA approval, and Medras had it on good authority that the good word would be coming down in the next month or so. The company had gotten ahold of a process that enabled them to make insulin at one-fifth of what it now cost to produce.
Ross put down his snifter. “Are you talking one-fifth as in twenty percent?”
Medras nodded, avarice lighting his eyes. “And we would pass the savings along directly to you.”
Ross quickly did the math in his head. “A dollar a dose? Copays would cover that by themselves. It would move the whole item from the red to the black.”
“Yes. We believe it would. Although, of course, there are some issues.”
“There always are.” But Ross knew that if a company such as Parnassus came onboard in a big way, many of these problems could be mitigated. Complaints about possible rare side effects, for example, might not be forwarded to the government. And if the new insulin made it to his formulary, its credibility could be nearly instantaneous.
“I wanted to let you know about this,” Medras went on, “because the sales force will be calling on your medical staff over the next couple of weeks. We’d like to have enough samples out there, with enough history, so that when we go on sale for real, people feel comfortable with the product, doctors and patients alike. This is really an incredible breakthrough, Malachi. It could really make a difference.”
Ross believed him, although he didn’t have to. The FDA would make sure. And if somehow it failed anyway, Ross didn’t consider it his job to be the FDA’s watchdog.
He had his own mission, which was demonstrating that good medicine and profit were not incompatible. The relationships that he and other like-minded medical executives forged with Biosynth and other similar companies were helping to make universal health care a reality. Lower-cost insulin was but one example of hundreds. Someone had to ram it down people’s throats, if need be. There really was no other way, and simply no such thing as a free lunch.
Reassured that his new product would appear on the Parnassus formulary as soon as the FDA approved it, Medras paid the bill, finished his own coffee, and said goodbye. After he’d gone, Ross stayed at the table to finish his Frangelico. The room was coming alive now with well-dressed couples and foursomes and he sat back for a last moment to enjoy this perk of his position. Then he reached down by his right foot and picked up the thin leather briefcase that Medras had left for him. He pushed his chair back a few inches, enough so that he could open the briefcase on his lap. Inside were three wrapped bundles of hundred-dollar bills, a credit card–style room key, and a page of Biosynth letterhead on which Medras had written a room number.
Five minutes later and forty-two floors above the city, Ross carried the briefcase with him as he exited the elevator and crossed the enclosed glass walkway that joined the two towers of the Mandarin Oriental. It was full dark now and the city lights glittered far below him. He always stopped here, enjoying the sense of vertigo, of floating above it all.
When he got to his door, he inserted the card, knocked, and pushed the door open.
“Mr. Ross?” A voice sweet as music, cultured and mellifluous. Naked, she appeared from the bedroom around the corner, a young and very pretty Japanese woman. Ross’s eyes fastened on a small tattoo of a dagger over her right breast. It pointed straight down and ended with its tip at her nipple, which was pierced by a tiny gold ring. “Hello,” she said, with a respectful bow. “I am Kumiko. Come. Let me help you with your clothes.”
19
Something weird was happening with the weather again—the night had become nearly balmy.
Bracco and Fisk were parked in the street in front of Glitsky’s. Bracco was behind the wheel; his window was down and he rested his elbow on it. He was chewing a toothpick that he’d picked up from the counter at the sandwich shop on Clement where they’d bought their Reubens and Dr Peppers.
Fisk had his window down, too, and fidgeted in his seat. He slurped the last of his drink. “He’s not coming. This is stupid.”
Bracco turned his head. “You don’t have to stay. I’ll just tell him you had someplace to go. You can take the car. I’ll get home somehow. You’ve got a family, Harlen. So does he. He’ll understand.”
“He didn’t seem all that understanding this morning.”
This was true. Glitsky had come to Harlen’s desk first thing and loudly offered to transfer him to any other department immediately if he didn’t want to be in homicide anymore. Homicide inspectors didn’t cut out early. Did Inspector Fisk understand?
Although now, Fisk thought, it wasn’t early. It was nine damn o’clock. “He’s not expecting us, Darrel, I don’t care what he told you. He left work early and pissed off and now he’s out for the night, maybe the weekend.”
“So go.” Darrel took the keys from the ignition and flipped them into his partner’s lap. “But I’m staying.”
Fisk slammed his hand on the outside of the door. “I can’t go alone, is my point. If we both go, okay, we say we tried. But if it’s just me and you’re still here…”
Bracco still had a lot of his Dr Pepper left, and he put the straw to his mouth. When he took it out, he swall
owed and said, “He told me to report every day. In person.”
“Yeah? Well, he’s not here, if you haven’t noticed. He wasn’t in the detail when we checked in. He doesn’t expect you to hunt him down to report. He obviously forgot all about us.”
A shrug. “Maybe.”
But Fisk continued to rave. “What if he died, then what? Would you go report at his gravesite? There’s exceptions to things, you know.”
“This is the first day, Harlen. You don’t make exceptions on the first day you’re doing something. That makes them the rule.” He looked up in his rearview mirror, saw some headlights turn into the street. “Here comes somebody.”
Fisk turned all the way around in his seat. “It’s not him.”
“Five bucks says it is.”
“You’re on.”
Furious at what he had taken to be Jackman’s and Ash’s usurpation of his arrest prerogative, as well as Hardy’s scheming lawyer games at his expense, Glitsky hadn’t been in the mood for any more work today. They could all go to hell.
By the time he got home, he’d decided to take the whole weekend off as well. He pitched his beeper and cell phone into the dresser next to his bed, then saw Orel’s note reminding him that he and Raney had both left directly after school with their snowboard club for one last chance to maim themselves before the summer. So no kids for the weekend. He really was taking it off.
When Treya got home, he asked her if she was up for a night on the town. He didn’t have to ask twice. They went to a Moroccan place on Balboa, where they sat on the floor and ate with their fingers, washing everything down with sweet, hot tea that the waiter poured from the height of his waist down to the cups on the floor, never spilling a drop. Good theater.
The night was so beautiful that they decided to walk to Ocean Beach. On the way back, something about their hips remaining in contact made them decide to head back home.
A free spot at the curb just four driveways from their place had them both thinking it was their lucky night, all the stars aligning to give them some privacy and peace. Glitsky’s arm was over Treya’s shoulder, hers around his waist.
“Don’t look now,” Treya said. Two men had just stepped out of their car and were walking toward them. She whispered, “Let’s hope they’re punks thinking about mugging us. We can kill them quick and get inside.”
“They’re punks, all right,” Glitsky answered sotto voce. Then, a little louder, “Gentlemen. Out for an evening stroll?”
“You said to report every day, sir,” Bracco explained.
“If this isn’t a good time…” Fisk made it clear he didn’t think it was, either.
“No, this is a great time, Harlen.”
“A great time,” Treya agreed, nodding at Fisk. “A terrific time.”
Glitsky touched her arm. “I don’t believe either of you know my wife. Treya. Inspectors Fisk and Bracco.”
“Enchante
´,” she said in a passable French accent. Her smile possibly appeared sincere. “I’ve heard so much about you both.”
On the one hand, Glitsky was marginally happy that Darrel Bracco took him so literally. On the other, he didn’t want his men getting into the habit of dropping by his place. But now it was a done deal. His romantic night with his wife continued as she sat next to him on the couch. Bracco and Fisk were on chairs they’d carried from the small, small kitchen.
“This is Parnassus then?” she asked sweetly. “Does anybody mind if I stay?”
There were no objections.
Bracco had placed his little notepad out on the coffee table in front of him. He regularly checked his notes. “We began at the hospital, first thing. Did you know Kensing was late for work Tuesday morning? An hour late.”
“No,” Glitsky said. “I don’t know anything about what Kensing did that day. But why do you think that’s worth mentioning, if he was?”
“The car,” Fisk replied. “Where was he at the time of the accident?”
“The original accident?” Glitsky asked. “With Markham?”
“Are you still considering that part of the murder?” Treya asked. “I thought once they found the potassium, you pretty much ruled that out.”
Actually, Glitsky had given it short shrift from the outset, and still did. But he realized that these guys had a bias and didn’t want to dampen their newfound enthusiasm. “We’re keeping an open mind on all theories at this point,” he told her in their secret code. He came back to the inspectors. “So did you ask Kensing where he’d been?”
“No, sir,” Bracco replied. “We haven’t talked to him again ourselves, but last night he never mentioned it when you were questioning him. It seems like it might have crossed his mind.”
“He told people that morning that he’d had car trouble.”
Cars again. Glitsky nodded, noncommittal, but privately convinced that they could bark under this tree forever and it wouldn’t get them a thing. “How about after Markham got to the ER? What was it like there? Busy? What?”
Bracco was ready with his answer. “Actually, it was a pretty slow morning. They had a kid who needed stitches in his head and a lady who’d fallen down and broken her hip. But they had already been brought into the back when the ambulance pulled up.”
“The back?” Glitsky asked.
“Yeah. There’s a waiting area when you first come in; then when they see you, they take you back to this big open room with lots of portable beds and a medical station—where the nurses and doctors hang out, in the middle. That’s where they brought Markham as soon as he got there, then into surgery, which is down the hall a ways.”
“There’s a half-dozen surgery rooms on that floor,” Fisk added. “Every one of them has a supply of potassium and other emergency drugs.”
“There’s also potassium at the station near the portable beds.”
“Okay.” This was nice, but Glitsky had already deduced that there must have been some potassium around someplace. As before, these two inspectors had no doubt gathered a lot of information. Their problem was in recognizing which of it was useful. If he wanted to get it, he realized he’d have to ask the right questions. “When they let Markham in, was his wife with him?”
They looked at each other, as if for confirmation. “Yeah. Outside and then while they prepped the operating room for surgery. Maybe ten minutes.”
“Then what? When he went to the operating room?”
Another shared look, and Bracco answered. “She was in the waiting room when he got out; then she moved up to ICU’s waiting room.”
“Okay,” Glitsky said. “But was she alone by the central nurses’ station by the portable beds at any time? Is what I’m getting at.” There was no way, he realized, that they would have pursued that question, so he went right to another. “How was she taking it? Did anybody say?”
Fisk took the lead. “I talked to both of the nurses that had been there—”
“How many are on the shift usually?” Glitsky interrupted.
“Two at night, which is ten to six. Then four during the day.”
“So there were four on duty? Where were the other two?”
Bracco came to his partner’s rescue. “With the other two patients, sir. Because one of the ER docs had been late that day, they were short a doc at the start of the shift. They’d prepped one of the other ORs for the hip, and one nurse was waiting for the surgeon with the lady there. The other one stayed with the kid and his mom and the doc sewing his head.”
“Okay.” Glitsky thought he had the picture finally. Two doctors, four nurses, three patients, two visitors. He turned to Fisk. “So you talked to Markham’s nurses about how the wife seemed? Male or female, by the way? The nurses?”
“Both women,” Fisk replied. “And yes, sir, I asked them both how she was.” Glitsky was still waiting.
Treya read her husband’s impatience and asked nicely, “And how was that, Inspector?”
“Distraught,” Fisk answered. “Very upset. Almost unable
to talk.”
“They both said that?”
“Yes, sir. They agreed completely.”
“Crying?”
“Yes, sir. I asked that specifically. She was crying quietly on and off.”
Glitsky fell silent. Bracco had been listening intently to this exchange, and consulting his notes, decided to put in his own two cents’ worth. “I talked to one of the nurses, too, sir, a Debra Muller. She walked with Mrs. Markham when they were bringing Markham into the OR and then back to the waiting room, where she—Muller—spent a few minutes holding her hand. Anyway, Muller, the word she used was ‘shell-shocked.’ Mrs. Markham kept repeating things like, ‘They can’t let him die. They won’t let him die, will they?’”
Glitsky was thinking a couple of things: first, that of course Mrs. Markham could have been a good actress, but this didn’t sound like a woman who was planning to kill her husband in the next couple of hours. Second, if Nurse Muller had accompanied her from the portable bed area to the surgery and back, then she hadn’t been alone to pick up a vial of potassium from the medical station in the center of the room. But he wanted to be sure on that score. “So she didn’t wait in the portable bed area?”
“No, sir. Outside in the waiting room, and then upstairs by the ICU.”
“All right,” Glitsky said. “Let’s move along. How long was Markham in the OR?”
Fisk cast a grateful eye over to Bracco, who’d taken not only good notes, but some of the right ones. “A little under two hours,” Darrel said, then volunteered some more. “And by the time he’d come out and gotten admitted to the ICU, some of the Parnassus executive staff were there. Malachi Ross, the medical director. Also Markham’s secretary, a guy named Brendan Driscoll, who evidently got in a bit of a discussion with Dr. Kensing.”
“About what?”
“Access to his boss.”
“Markham? He was unconscious, right? Did he ever regain consciousness?”
“No, sir.”
“Then why did he want to see him? This Driscoll.”
The Dismas Hardy Novels Page 72