market a disease to sell the drug. Ever notice all the new disorders that pop up every year? Well, new, for-profit companies carry out trials or crunch the data from trials the pharmaceuticals run in-house. They're called contract research organizations-CROs. And guess who owns them?'
Denley, bored by his own cynicism, said, 'Big Pharma.'
'Worse.' Freed smiled, a wan, bitter shaping of his mouth. 'The advertising agencies employed by the pharmaceuticals. In some cases the ad execs are closer to the test tubes than the scientists.'
Tim had never seen Freed-a laissez-faire, highest-tax-bracket, fiscal Republican who'd worked landmark corruption and embezzlement cases-so fired up.
Guerrera, channeling his past, naive self, said, 'That can't be true.'
'There's a lot at stake,' Tim mused, 'in Dean Kagan's empire.'
Freed glanced at him. 'You're thinking if you've gone legit to the tune of a 4.7 billion annual gross, you don't risk it by offing some broad in a glorified trailer home.'
'No. You wouldn't.'
Thomas added, 'Not without a very compelling reason.'
Slumped in his chair, Bear livened up at the switch of topic. 'Did you get any information on Pierce?'
'I looked into it a bit,' Freed said, 'but got sidetracked with this stuff. I can say this, though-the guy may be a smaller fish than Kagan, but he's just as slippery. He's got corporations spun out of corporations. Not an easy trail.'
Bear stood, hoisting his pants in a manner that wouldn't have looked out of place in a western. 'I think whatever Tess had on her computer got her killed. As far as I'm concerned, the case turns on that missing hard drive. Guerrera, how are you making out with her phone records?'
'Whole lotta nada. But me and Haines found a red flag in her financials. Her bank statement shows she retained a lawyer on May twenty-eighth.'
Eleven days before her murder.
Tim snatched the bank statement across the table. The buzz of conversation in the room stopped at once.
Guerrera held up his hands. 'But we don't know what for.'
'May twenty-eighth is the same day she bought folic acid pills for the pregnancy,' Tim said. 'Maybe she'd just found out.'
'And hired an attorney,' Bear mused.
'We just got off with the lawyer, and he won't budge on discussing it,' Guerrera said. 'Client-attorney privilege, no way around it.'
'We gotta pay him a visit,' Bear said.
Haines said, 'You'd be wasting your time. I promise. We have no legal standing here, and the guy knows it.'
Bear said, 'Get him on the phone for me.'
'I'm telling you-'
'Just get him for me.'
Guerrera muttered something in Spanish, dialed, and flopped his wrist, offering Bear the cordless and a smart-ass introduction: 'Esteban Martinez, Esquire.'
Bear introduced himself as a deputy marshal and fellow attorney-at-law. Tim joined Guerrera in slipping on a headset, just in time to hear Martinez express his exasperation.
'I just explained to your colleague, I will not under any circumstances divulge the nature of confidential conversations I had with my client.' His English was clipped slightly by the cadence of his accent.
Bear asked, 'Even if she may have been murdered as a result of them?'
'Yes. Even if that. What would it mean to the security of future clients? To my reputation? I'm sorry, sir, and believe me I'm sorry about what happened to Ms. Jameson, but it simply is not an option.' The regret in his voice was palpable, but also his resolve.
'Will you at least tell me how many times you met?' Bear asked. A long pause, during which Tim could hear Martinez tapping his pencil against his desk. 'As far as I know,' Bear added, 'there's nothing confidential about dates.'
'Only twice.'
'May twenty-eighth when she retained you. When was the second?'
'June one.'
'That Friday? Seems like a quick job…?' Bear waited, hoping to get something back. Guerrera flicked his chin, his youthful features pulled tight in a told-you-so scowl. Keeping the phone pressed to his ear, Bear resisted additional prodding, sensing, as did Tim, that Martinez was not the kind of man who responded well to pressure. They listened to the sound of Martinez's breathing, banking on that note of regret that had found its way into Martinez's voice. A full minute passed-an eternity of silence.
Finally Martinez said, 'If you must know, she discharged me.'
'She spent two hundred and fifty dollars to fire you?'
'It was a decision we arrived at together.'
'Why?'
'Don't push your luck, Deputy.'
Bear rolled his lips over his teeth, then popped them back out. 'Might I ask if the subject discussed wasn't… General Foods?'
'I can assure you it wasn't.'
'Was it not…Hughes Aircraft?'
'It was not.'
'Was it not…Vector Biogenics?'
'I'll neither confirm nor deny that,' Martinez said, leaving them with a click and the hum of the dial tone.
Chapter 39
The churning of the roller bottles in combination with the moist warmth of the incubator augmented Dolan's stress hangover. He sped his pace through the passage, his skin reflecting back the red tint thrown from the hundreds of quarts of gently spinning growth fluid. The events of last night, from the party to the explosion's aftermath to the hum of the crime-scene cleaners' machinery, had left him so wired and rattled that he'd lain in bed agitated for hours after Chase disappeared out the window. He'd awakened with a sourness in his mouth to match the toxic thoughts that had pervaded his broken sleep.
He passed through the airlock into the test suite, the screeches of the monkeys making him smile for the first time in days. Huang wasn't at his desk, but on his chair, as promised, were the PowerPoint slides that Dolan needed for his talk at Friday's pre-IPO presentation. The magnifications depicted the stages of poxvirus's transformation into Xedral. Always a crowd pleaser.
The macaques settled from the excitement of Dolan's entrance, emphasizing the emptiness of the suite. Tuesday morning's departmental stratcom had drawn Huang's team into the conference room on the south corridor.
Grabbing the slides and turning to go, Dolan extended his arm to receive Grizabella's high five. His hand whiffed through air.
The cage was gone.
Dolan stood dumbly, regarding the blank space.
Across the suite the storage-closet door sucked open from an unfelt breeze, the latch bolt tapping back against the plate. Before the door a janitor's mop protruded from an abandoned rolling bucket.
Uneasy from the sudden calm of the monkeys, Dolan set down the slides. He crossed the lab and toed the bucket. It rolled to the side on squeaky wheels. He gripped the door handle and pulled.
An empty cage sat centered on the closet floor, Grizabella's name and ID number rendered on the affixed plaque.
