like a wacko with active paranoia.
Finally, she hit print. Sula held her breath. Her printer was a garage sale special she’d picked up for five bucks. Sometimes it worked. Often, it did not.
She got lucky and the letter came out in the first try. The ink was more gray than black because she needed to replace the cartridge and was putting off spending the twenty-three dollars. Otherwise, she was pleased with her effort.
Working at the kitchen table, she stuffed the samples-plastic bags and all-into a small padded envelope, then put the letter and the small envelope into a bigger manila envelope. She scooted back to her computer to look up the FDA’s mailing address, then added it to the front and sealed the package.
Sula lay down again, but her brain kept buzzing from one thought to another. Scenes from her trip to Puerto Rico kept playing in her head. Marta had been so angry, and Lucia had been so helpful. Everybody reacted differently to death. She could see Lucia’s warm face suppressing a smile as she spoke into the tape recorder.
The cassette. Shit. She’d forgotten to put Lucia’s taped statement into the FDA package. Sula jumped out of bed and trotted up the hall. The recorder was still in her shoulder bag on the kitchen table. She dug it out and hit rewind. It seemed to take forever. Which struck her as odd, because Lucia’s statement had been quite brief.
When the machine finally clicked off, she pressed play to see how the recording sounded. All she could hear were muffled voices in the background. Had she accidentally been recording while the machine was in her purse? Sula let it play for a moment, waiting for Lucia’s voice to come on. Instead she heard Rudker say, “Nonsense. The percentage of suicides in the Puerto Rico trial was lower than the national average.”
Sula was stunned. It was the conversation she’d recorded outside the conference room last week. Before, she had only played back the first few minutes, but it had been so bad, she’d written the whole thing off. Rudker’s statement about suicides clearly indicated there had been adverse events in the Puerto Rico trial, and now those files were missing. FDA officials would be interested in the discrepancy.
Sula played out the tape. None of what Warner said was decipherable, but Rudker came though a few more times. Eventually, she heard Lucia’s voice talking about her husband’s lock of hair. While the cassette rewound, Sula wondered if the investigators at FDA would be curious enough about the tape-and her report of the conversation-to have it analyzed. The FBI, or even the Washington DC police, would have the technology to enhance the tape quality and volume. Maybe some of what Warner said could be understood as well. This tape was all that was left of Warner’s personal feelings about her discovery. Someone needed to hear it.
Sula peeled the envelope open and slipped the microcassette in. She resealed it with clear packaging tape, then headed back to the bed. After a minute, she got up for the third time and set her alarm for four o’clock that afternoon. She only wanted to nap for a few hours, so she sleep that night. Tomorrow was her day with Tate and it was time to get her life back to normal.
As Rudker left work, his secretary gave him a sidelong glance. It was his second day of leaving early after six years of staying late. Fuck her, the ugly bitch. Really, you should fire her for that. The voice was insistent. Maybe he would.
His first stop was at Enterprise Rent a Car on Garfield. Rudker parked his vehicle on 9th Avenue and walked to the rental. The young man behind the counter ignored him for a moment while he finished something on the computer, then greeted him cheerfully.
“I need a car for the next two days.” Rudker pulled out his wallet as he spoke.
“Small or mid-sized?”
“Mid-sized.” Rudker fingered the driver’s license he’d found in the taxi.
“How about a Ford Taurus?”
“Okay.” Under any other circumstances, he would have said no thanks. But being commonplace would be useful to his plans.
“Would you like to put this on a credit card?”
“No. What’s your daily rate?”
“Forty-seven plus taxes, plus mileage.”
Rudker pulled out four fifties and handed them to the clerk. “This will cover three days.”
The young man hesitated. “I need to see your driver’s license.”
Rudker gave him Richard Morgenstern’s ID. The clerk entered the number into the computer and handed it back without ever looking up to compare images.
“You need to fill it with gas before you return it or we charge for that too.” They went out to the lot, and five minutes later Rudker was driving away.
His next stop was the Wetlands tavern. The place was dark and packed with a happy hour crowd. Perfect. Rudker picked up a beer at the bar counter, then moved around the room, pretending to keep an eye on the basketball game. He was really looking for a cell phone. After a few minutes, he spotted one on a table, where two guys were watching the game. He leaned against a nearby wall and focused on the TV, while keeping an eye on the cell phone three feet away.
He hated sports, such a colossal bore. After ten minutes, the guy closest to the phone got up and headed for the bathroom. Moments later, a player scored a three-pointer and tied the game. The second guy at the table jumped up, along with a dozen other guys, and began to cheer. In a flash, Rudker grabbed the phone, spun around, and plowed toward the front door. He half expected to hear one of the guys run up behind him, but they didn’t.
Out in his car, he used the stolen phone to call in a couple of pizzas for pick up. Rudker got a charge out of being anonymous. It made him feel invisible, as if he could do anything and get away with it.
His next stop was Papa Murphy’s, where he picked up two sausage-and-mushroom pies. From there he headed up to Friendly Street. Jimmy’s blue sedan was parked three houses from Sula’s. Rudker eased in across the street from the sedan and walked over with the pizzas. He caught Jimmy snoozing and rapped loudly on the window. Jimmy bolted upright, grabbing for the gun under his jacket. Rudker laughed. He’d forgotten Jimmy carried a weapon.
“Jesus. Don’t ever fucking do that.” Jimmy yelled as he rolled down the window.
“Don’t sleep on the fucking job.”
“I wasn’t. Yeah, I close my eyes every once in a while. But only for a minute or two a time. I’m trained at this. I don’t sleep on stakeouts.”
“Hungry?” Rudker pushed one of the red-and-white boxes at him.
Jimmy set it on the seat beside him. “Am I done here?”
“I need you back at midnight. I have some things to do this evening, but I’ll be back before daylight, before she makes any moves tomorrow.”
“Okay.” Jimmy sighed. “I’m still on double pay.”
“Of course.” Rudker retuned to his piece of shit rental, watched Jimmy drive off, then dug into his pizza.
The last light in Sula’s house went off at 11:06. She hadn’t shown her face outside even once. Rudker looked around the neighborhood for a place to urinate, but nothing looked promising. Jimmy would be back in less than an hour, but he didn’t know if he could hold out that long.
Sitting in the car for five hours had been its own special brand of hell. He didn’t know how cops and government agents did it. Rudker had gotten out and walked around twice. He’d kept one eye on Sula’s house and worn a baseball cap to block his face from view. The second time, he’d seen a woman watching him from her front window, so he’d gotten back in the Taurus and driven off, only to circle the block and park out of her line of sight.
The hour passed slowly, and Rudker grew more anxious by the minute. It occurred to him he hadn’t taken his Zyprexa in days. He loved the unbridled energy he was experiencing even though it was dangerous. He would have to settle himself back down eventually, but for now he wasn’t ready. He wanted to stay sharp. And aggressive.
He had important things to accomplish. This morning, after dozing for only an hour or so, he’d woken up to a terrifying realization. Even though he’d arranged to have the files removed from the Puerto Rico clinic, he’d forgotten to track down and destroy the Rios cousins’ paperwork that was still filed somewhere in the bowels of Prolabs. The thought that the paperwork was still there, just waiting to be discovered, freaked him out. That was the reason he was sitting here now. If Sula would steal from Warner’s office and fly to Puerto Rico for her crusade, then she might also try to enter Prolabs in search of the files. She could have a key and might have done it already, before he started watching her.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. You are your own worst enemy. Rudker agreed with his internal critic this time. Tara’s
