three visiting rooms. To the left was a small chapel. A man with pasty skin, brown teeth, and a black suit approached and said, “Good morning. May I help you?”
“Good morning, Mr. Grayber,” Wally said.
“Oh, it’s you again.”
“Always a pleasure.” Though Wally had once shaken hands with Mr. Grayber, he made no effort to do so again. He wasn’t sure, but he suspected him to be one of the morticians. He had always remembered the soft, chilly touch of his palm. And Mr. Grayber kept his palms to himself as well. Each man disliked the other’s profession.
“Mr. Marino was a client,” Wally said gravely.
“His visitation is not until this evening,” Grayber said.
“Yes, I see that. But I’m leaving town this afternoon.”
“Very well.” He sort of waved in the direction of the viewing rooms.
“I don’t suppose any other lawyers have stopped by,” Wally said.
Grayber snorted and rolled his eyes. “Who knows? I can’t keep up with you people. We had a service last week for an illegal Mexican, got himself pinned under a bulldozer, used the chapel there,” he said, nodding at the chapel door. “We had more lawyers here than family members. Poor guy’s never been so loved.”
“How nice,” Wally said. He had attended the service last week. Finley amp; Figg did not get the case. “Thanks,” he said and walked away. He passed the first viewing room-closed casket, no mourners. He stepped into the second, a dimly lit room, twenty feet by twenty, with a casket along one wall and cheap chairs lining the others. Chester was sealed up, which pleased Wally. He put his hand on the casket as if fighting back tears. Just he and Chester, sharing one last moment together.
The routine here was to hang around for a few minutes and hope a family member or friend showed up. If not, then Wally would sign the register and leave his card with Grayber with specific instructions to tell the family that Mr. Marino’s lawyer stopped by to pay his respects. The firm would send flowers to the service and a letter to the widow, and in a few days Wally would call the woman and act as though she were somehow obligated to hire Finley amp; Figg because they had prepared the will. This worked about half the time.
Wally was leaving when a young man entered the room. He was about thirty, nice looking, reasonably dressed with a jacket and tie. He looked at Wally with a great deal of skepticism, which was the way a lot of people initially viewed him, though this no longer bothered him. When two perfect strangers meet at a casket in an empty viewing room, the first words are always awkward. Wally finally managed to state his name, and the young man said, “Yes, well, uh, that’s my father. I’m Lyle Marino.”
Ah, soon-to-be owner of a nice collection of baseball cards. But Wally could not mention this. “Your father was a client of my law firm,” Wally said. “We prepared his last will and testament. I’m very sorry.”
“Thanks,” Lyle said, and seemed relieved. “I can’t believe this. We went to the Blackhawks game last Saturday. Had a great time. Now he’s gone.”
“I’m very sorry. So it was sudden?”
“A heart attack.” Lyle snapped his fingers and said, “Just like that. He was at work Monday morning, at his desk, all of a sudden he started sweating and breathing hard, then he just fell on the floor. Dead.”
“I’m very sorry, Lyle,” Wally said as if he’d known the young man forever.
Lyle was patting the top of the casket and repeating, “I just can’t believe this.”
Wally needed to fill in some blanks. “Your parents divorced about ten years ago, right?”
“Something like that.”
“Is your mother still in the city?”
“Yes.” Lyle wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
“And your stepmother. Are you close to her?”
“No. We don’t speak. The divorce was ugly.”
Wally suppressed a smile. A feuding family would run up his fees.
“I’m sorry. Her name is…”
“Millie.”
“Right. Look, Lyle, I gotta run. Here’s my card.” Wally deftly whipped out a business card and handed it over. “Chester was a great guy,” Wally said. “Call us if we can help.”
Lyle took the card and stuffed it into his pants pocket. He was staring blankly at the casket. “I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
“Figg, Wally Figg.”
“And you’re a lawyer?”
“Yes. Finley amp; Figg, a small boutique firm with lots of business in all major courts.”
“And you knew my father?”
“Oh yes, very well. He loved to collect baseball cards.”
Lyle took his hand off the casket and looked square into the shifty eyes of Wally Figg. “You know what killed my father, Mr. Figg?”
“You said it was a heart attack.”
“Right. You know what caused the heart attack?”
“Well, no.”
Lyle glanced at the door to make sure they were still alone. He glanced around the room to make sure no one could possibly be listening. He took a step closer so that his shoes were almost touching those of Wally, who by now was expecting to hear that old Chester had been murdered in some clever fashion.
In a near whisper, Lyle asked, “Ever hear of a drug called Krayoxx?”
T here was a McDonald’s in the shopping center next to Van Easel’s. Wally bought two cups of coffee, and they huddled in a booth, as far away from the counter as possible. Lyle had a stack of papers-articles pulled from the Internet-and it was obvious he needed someone to talk to. Since his father’s death forty-eight hours earlier, he had become obsessed with Krayoxx.
The drug had been on the market for six years, and its sales had grown rapidly. In most cases, it lowered the cholesterol of obese people. Chester’s weight had slowly climbed toward three hundred pounds, and this had caused other increases-blood pressure and cholesterol, to name the most obvious. Lyle had hounded his father about his weight, but Chester couldn’t stay away from the midnight ice cream. His way of handling the stress of the ugly divorce was to sit in the dark and knock out one pint after another of Ben amp; Jerry’s. Once the weight was on, he couldn’t get it off. His doctor prescribed Krayoxx a year earlier, and his cholesterol dropped dramatically. At the same time, he began complaining of an irregular heart rate and shortness of breath. He reported these to his doctor, who assured him there was nothing wrong. The dramatic dip in his cholesterol far outweighed any of these minor side effects.
Krayoxx was made by Varrick Labs, a New Jersey firm currently number three on Big Pharma’s list of the world’s ten largest drug companies, annual sales of some $25 billion, and a long, ugly history of bruising battles with federal regulators and tort lawyers.
“Varrick makes six billion a year off Krayoxx,” Lyle was saying as he sifted through research. “With an annual increase of 10 percent.”
Wally ignored his coffee as he scanned a report. He listened silently, though the wheels were turning so fast he was almost dizzy.
“And here’s the best part,” Lyle said, picking up another sheet of paper. “Ever hear of a law firm called Zell amp; Potter?”
Wally had never heard of Krayoxx, though at 240 pounds and with a slightly elevated cholesterol he was mildly surprised his doctor had not mentioned the drug. Nor had he heard of Zell amp; Potter, but, sensing they were major players in something important, he wasn’t about to admit his ignorance. “I think so,” he said, frowning, searching.
“Big plaintiffs’ firm in Fort Lauderdale.”
“Yep.”
“They filed suit in Florida last week against Varrick, a huge lawsuit for wrongful deaths caused by Krayoxx. Here’s the story in the Miami Herald.”
Wally scanned the story as his heart rate doubled.
“I’m sure you heard about this lawsuit,” Lyle said.
