Two steps more… She dodged a bellhop pushing baggage. She nodded to Maureen and Wang Lei Wu. She approached the glass table—her goal that chair—and continued down the lobby.
Chickened out.
At a coffee stand counter, she ordered an espresso and sat to check her profile on Twitter. When last she looked, Monday, she’d gained three new followers. But none were good-looking men.
She tapped her phone. Bangles jingled from a wrist. Then she spotted the guy, coming her way. His eyes swept the floor, as if hunting dropped nickels, then her legs, her phone, and her face.
He glanced away and back. He stroked his tie under his jacket. Then he veered sharp right toward a rising flight of stairs where a pink and gray sign with an arrow pointing upward read:
↑
BERNEWERNER INFORMATION POINT
THIS WAY
SHE GAVE it five minutes before making up her mind. Ms. Gelding and Dr. Mayr, or the guy with the eyes? She sprinted up the stairs, followed more arrows to the second-floor Montreal Room, pushed open the door and ambled, so casually, toward the BerneWerner promotions module B.
Resting on an apron of pale gray laminate, the module most resembled a Scandinavian summerhouse: about twelve by nine feet of clinical white fiberboard with pink and gray highlights and trim. LED display panels flashed from two of its four sides, while pairs of chrome poles flanked a rounded-arch entrance and supported a flat gray roof.
She’d seen it before: as part of a much bigger structure only assembled at major conventions. Bolted to modules A, C, and D, it was scaled like a rural airport terminal, with a video lounge, breakout booth, and juice bar. But module B—the “doctor’s office”—was the all-events essential: the place where hearts were won.
At first, Sumiko thought the unit was deserted. The focus was a pink desk with square chrome legs, supporting a monitor sized for a nightclub. Behind it, a video wall pictured a pretend examination room, with scrubs, sphygmomanometer, and X-rays. Three big cardboard cartons were stacked by the desk, and two rotating racks were loaded with brochures for the company’s big-push products. But, although the information point should be open all day, she saw no sign of the guy.
She reached for a copy of InderoMab: Setting the Standard, setting a rack clanking on its axis. Then she heard a scrape and noticed a pair of black Oxfords attached to white socks and navy pants.
He was sprawled almost flat, his feet on the desk, knees turned out, heels touching. His torso was invisible—hidden behind the monitor—so she took another step, and all was plain. He lay, eyes shut, in a gray swivel-and-tilt chair, his arms hanging like a sleeping gorilla’s.
She watched him breathe. There was strength in that breath.
She coughed.
No reaction. Still breathing.
“Excuse me.” She coughed again. “I was looking for information.”
The feet disappeared. The eyes appeared.
“I wonder if you could help me at all.”
He leaned forward, rubbed his nose, rested his chin in his palms, stretched his lips to a smile, and said nothing.
“I was hoping to get a word with Dr. Mayr. And I saw you were together downstairs.”
Now he replied. “Uh-huh.” If that counts. He’d a smile to break hearts or sell condos.
“I was wondering if you knew how I could do that, possibly.”
As she spoke, she realized that now she could smell him: a musky fresh smell. He smelled amazing.
He blinked at her name tag and conference credential, hanging from a red ribbon around her neck. “Hi, Dr. Honda. San Fran, huh? You want an iPad then? They’re free.”
He raised a puppydog hand toward the cardboard cartons. “Contains comprehensive data on all our products. You can wipe the memory clean when you’re done.”
Sumiko grinned and fingered her hair. “That would be great. Very kind. Yes please.”
“I’m Ben. You want it now? Or I can deliver it to your room. I can demo you its functions if you need that.”
“That would be lovely. Thank you. But what I really hoped was I was looking to speak with Dr. Mayr, if that’s actually possible before she leaves. She’s with Ms. Gelding now, so I didn’t want to interrupt.”
His fingers hammered the desk like he was playing piano. “Doc Wilson’s our guy in San Fran. Right?”
Wilson. Ugh. She felt a shiver of disgust. “You know him?”
“Big shot. Key guy.”
“He’s a loathsome toad.” She threw the brochure onto the desk. “He’s why I want to speak with Dr. Mayr.”
Ben rubbed his face, glanced through the entrance arch, then stood, letting the chair thump upright. He stepped round the desk and hooked a leg across the corner. “Don’t get along, huh? I can empathize with that. Don’t office politics suck?”
“They do.” She stepped back. “But it’s not office politics at the Clinical Evaluation Center. That man’s incompetent, abusive, definitely unethical. Everything he touches falls apart.”
Ben’s gaze traversed her like a CT scanner. His foot swung and brushed her knee. “Doc Mayr’s pretty big on old Frankie, you know? Like downstairs, didn’t you think? Pretty big.”
“Oh, I know what they’re like. She’s probably as bad as he is.”
He returned to the chair, restored his palms under his chin, and slid a middle finger into his mouth. “Hey, thass not fwair. We’re talking about the first AIDS vaccine.”
Sumiko felt a rush—that familiar tension—a moment for her secret sisters. One spotted an opportunity. Give him your room number. But the other seized control of her mouth. “Well, you should come to our center and see how Wilson runs the place. Frankly, I’m telling you it’s a joke.”
Ben leaned back and clasped his fingers behind his head. “Bad manager, huh? We got plenty in Atlanta. So, he’s your boss then is he?”
“Actually, I have complete clinical independence. He’s only the center director and principal investigator on the phase III study, God help us.”
“Okay. I know. First author of that research paper they were talking about downstairs.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Sounds like awesome stuff. So, if there’s anything I can help with, you let
