'I never could type,' Rosa muttered, studying her notes, then again entering the sequence. 'Next time I will let the computer do it.'
In just seconds, data began to appear on the screen.
Unknown matched to access number ACX9934452; probability of confluence — 100 % — Please type access number and your security code to continue.
'Bingo,' Rosa said.
She did as the mainframe requested. And almost instantly, George had a new name… and a home.
CRV113 — BI0-Vir Corporation, 4256 New Park, Cambridge, MA 02141; (617) 445-1500; U.S. Patent # 5,665,297; RDV332, 210 (1984).
Adenovirus spliced with thrombin- thromboplastin producing genes; potential application: rapid wound healing, hemostasis. No further information available.
Rosa turned to Sarah. The epidemiologist's expression was, at once, triumphant and grim.
'Thrombin,' she said. 'Unless I am mistaken, it is also factor two in the biological cascade of blood clotting.'
'And thromboplastin is a clotting factor, too,' Sarah said excitedly. 'Rosa, this is it. I just know it is.'
Rosa was already dialing the BIO-Vir number.
'Well, that was easy enough,' she said, after a brief conversation. 'I have an appointment tomorrow morning at ten with Dr. Dimitri Athanoulos, president of the BIO-Vir Corporation.'
'I wish I could go with you,' Sarah said. 'But I have a case, and I'm on call.'
'Fortunately, I have no such obligations,' Mulholland said. 'My wife and kids could use a little vacation from me. And I wouldn't miss this for the world. Does that landlady of yours have any spare rooms?'
'If she doesn't,' Rosa said with a wink, 'I have a double bed.'
CHAPTER 32
Black Cat Daniels was treading on thin professional ice, and he knew it. Sarah had rejected the decision by MMPO claims adjuster Roger Phelps to settle her case. All charges against her would be dropped, she insisted, and no settlement paid, or she would go to trial at her own expense. And despite the love relationship that was deepening each day between him and his client, Matt had chosen to continue representing her.
The truth was, he admitted now, he wished it was over. Deep down, he wished she had simply said 'Pay the man. Pay the man the two hundred thousand and close the book. I want to spend some time getting to know this lover of mine without having this suit hanging over our heads.'
The plastic, fortune-telling eight-ball on his desk doubled as a paperweight. It was a gift from Harry several Father's Days ago. Matt knew in the most sensible, practical parts of his intellect that it was a toy-molded plastic, filled with water, enclosing a floating octahedron, or whatever. It had been manufactured and sold for decades now… by the millions. And certainly this particular one had no more predictive ability than any of the others.
'Are we going to win this thing?' he asked, hefting the eight-ball in his hand.
If anyone knew the number of major life decisions he had made after consulting the plastic sphere, he would probably be disbarred, he thought.
Ask again later, the ball replied.
As expected, Roger Phelps was furious that despite his offer to settle, Sarah had elected to continue fighting the malpractice suit against her. Her obstinacy, Matt knew, left doubt at the MMPO about the $200,000 Phelps had instructed them to give away. That doubt would linger for however many months-or years-it took for the case to come to trial. Then, if Sarah lost for a big jury reward, Phelps would be Hero for a Day. But if she won, Phelps would have approximately $200,000 worth of egg on his face. Even for someone without Phelps's arrogance, that was the fixin's for a big league omelette.
But Matt also knew that he had no less at stake in this game than Phelps. For starters, he would have to bill Sarah to maintain appearances should his motives and ethics be called into question. A loss in court, and he could be accused of convincing Sarah to continue the case in order to keep his billable hours going as well; a win, and the best he personally could hope to come away with was some positive publicity. To all intents, he had earned his last dollar from Grayson v. Baldwin.
And in addition, Matt knew that lose or win, he had also seen his last malpractice case from the MMPO, by far the largest medical liability carrier in the state. Thanks to Phelps's insistence on settling, what had started as a huge break for him, with unlimited potential, was now doomed. He snatched up his glove and ball and began to pace. With his credit cards maxed out and much of his time to be spent on Sarah's case, flying Harry east for Thanksgiving or Christmas was going to be the longest financial stretch yet. Left alone, he quite possibly could have won Sarah's case while he continued to have a decent income for his work. Why in the hell couldn't Phelps have just let him be? His fees to defend Sarah would have stayed well below $200,000. And bit by bit, Mallon's case was beginning to crumble. Why hadn't Phelps been able to see that?
Something wasn't right about this whole business, he began to think, something he already knew but simply could not put a finger on. How could Phelps not believe that the families of Alethea Worthington and Constanza Hidalgo would go after similar settlements? It stood to reason they would. The cost of his move wasn't $200,000, it was $600,000. With the case Matt was beginning to build, and with the possibilities raised by Rosa Suarez's discoveries, a $600,000 giveaway was a hell of a vote of no confidence.
Something wasn't right.
For five minutes he paced, snapping the old ball into his mitt. The source of his concern remained vague-a hazy mist, swirling in his mind. He thought about Peter Ettinger's deposition. He had spent much of the day-most of the past week, in fact-reading and rereading the two-inch-thick document. Much of it he knew by heart. Perhaps what was troubling him wasn't Roger Phelps, but something Ettinger had said. Something…
The pops of ball against leather were like rifle shots now. Beneath the paper-thin pocket of the glove, Matt's palm was beginning to sting. His problem-solving ritual was threatening to break a bone in his hand. But stopping wasn't an option. Black Cat Daniels never gave up on a ritual until it absolutely let him down. He had to stuff a sponge in there, as he did when playing catch with Ricky and the boys. Or better still, he thought, he might get a grip on himself and snap the ball in a bit more gently. What was bothering him so? Some strange wording in one of Ettinger's answers? Some odd reference? Something…
The intercom from the waiting room crackled on.
'Mr. Daniels,' Ruth said. 'I'm leaving now. You do remember I said I had to leave early?'
'I don't remember, no, Ruth. But that's okay. I'm sure you told me. Have a good time.'
Ruth was another problem he would have to face, he thought. She had been with him since day one, and he did feel loyal to her. But she had made no effort to curb her chattering to clients about anything and everything. The feedback from several of them was downright embarrassing. Besides, the way things were going, it might be coming down to her paycheck versus a plane ticket for Harry. Damn you, Phelps!
'Mr. Daniels, what do you mean, 'Have a good time'? I told you I had a dentist's appointment. No one has a good time at the-'
'Ruth, that's it!'
'What?'
'The dentist. That's it. That's what was eating at me. Put yourself in for a raise… On second thought, better make that an extra day off.'
The secretary muttered a bewildered thanks, but Matt did not hear her. He had dropped his glove and ball on a chair, and was skimming through the deposition once again. But this time, it wasn't a response by Peter Ettinger for which he was searching. It was something said by Jeremy Mallon. It took about twenty minutes, but he found it. He knew he would.
D: Shipping, too? E: In a separate building, but yes. Shipping is done at Xanadu also. D: Mr. Ettinger, just how much money are you two raking in off this powder? M: Objection. Peter, don't answer. Mr. Daniels, the form and content of that question are amateurish. In the baseball terms you might better understand, strictly bush
