Frameshift

  He put down the phone, his hand shaking.

  “Well?” asked Molly.

  “Condor,” said Pierre, as if it were a swear word.

  “Christ,” said Molly.

  “One more,” said Pierre, putting away the Berkeley phone book and pulling out the much thicker San Francisco one.

  “Hello? Hello, Mrs. Proctor. It’s Pierre Tardivel. I’m really sorry about calling so late, but…yes, that’s right.” He did his best Peter Falk. ‘“Just one more little thing.’” Back to his normal voice. “I’m wondering if you can tell me who provided your husband Bryan’s health insurance. No, no, I don’t mind holding on.” He covered the mouthpiece and looked at Molly. “She’s checking.”

  Molly nodded. Amanda was now fast asleep in her arms.

  “Yes, I’m still here. Really? Thanks. Thanks a million. And sorry to have disturbed you. Bye.”

  “Well?” said Molly.

  “Do the words ‘the Pacific Northwest’s leader in progressive health coverage’ mean anything to you?”

  “Holy shit,” said Molly.

  “Where’s that Condor annual report?”

  “Down in the den, I think. In the magazine rack.”

  Pierre left the dining room, hurried down the half flight of stairs—and tripped at the bottom, an unexpected movement of his left foot having caught him off guard. Molly appeared at the top of the stairs, holding Amanda, who, having been awoken by the crash, was now crying.

  “Are you all right?” Molly called, her face contorted in fear.

  Pierre used the banister to haul himself back to his feet. “Fine,” he said. He continued on down the short corridor and emerged a moment later holding the annual report. He came up the stairs more carefully and sat down on the living-room couch. Amanda had stopped crying and was now looking around curiously.

  Molly sat next to Pierre, who was rubbing his shin. He handed her the report. “Find that part you read aloud when we first got it—the part about how many policies Condor has.”

  She folded back the yellow-and-black cover, flipped past the first couple of pages, then: “Here it is. ‘With foresight and a commitment to excellence, we provide peace of mind for one-point-seven million policy holders in Northern California, Oregon, and Washington State.’”

  Pierre tasted bile at the back of his throat. “No wonder their stock is doing so well. What a great way to increase profitability: eliminate anyone who is going to make a major claim. Huntington’s sufferers, diabetics going blind, a superintendent about to have a kidney transplant…”

  “Eliminate!”

  “Eliminate—and for that, read ‘kill.’”

  “That’s crazy, Pierre.”

  “For me or you, maybe. But for a company that coerces abortions? A company that forces people to take genetic tests that might drive them to suicide?”

  “But, look,” said Molly, trying to bring a note of reason back to the conversation, “Condor’s a big company. Think of how many people they’d have to get rid of to have any real effect on their bottom line.”

  Pierre thought for a moment. “If they knocked off a thousand policy holders, each of whom were going to make claims averaging one hundred thousand dollars—the cost of a bypass operation, or a couple of years of at-home nursing—they’d increase their profits by one hundred million dollars.”

  “But a thousand murders? That’s crazy, Pierre.”

  “Is it? Spread them out over three states and several years, and no one would notice.”

  “But how would they know who to go after? I mean, sure, they knew you were going to come down with Huntington’s because you told them, but they wouldn’t know in advance in most cases who was going to end up making a big claim.”

  “They could get genetic reports from the policyholders’ doctors.”

  Molly shook her head. “Not in this state. That’s part of the same law that prevents them from doing genetic discrimination: it’s illegal for an insurance company to request genetic data from a person’s doctor.”

  Pierre got up and began pacing in a shaky fashion. “The only way to pull it off would be by doing their own genetic tests on all their policyholders, detecting in advance the ones who might file claims. After all, if you wait until the claims are filed before killing the person, someone would surely notice the connection.”

  “But insurers don’t routinely take tissue samples. Lots of medical insurance is granted based on questionnaires, and if a checkup is required, it’s usually done by the family doctor. But, again, the law says the doctor can’t turn over genetic results to the insurer, at least here in California.”

  “Then they must get tissue samples some other way—some clandestine way.”

  “Oh, come on, Pierre. How could they possibly do that?”

  “It would have to be during the initial interview with the customer—that’s the only time someone from the insurance company normally is physically close to the policyholder.”

  “So what about your own interview? Did the salesperson touch you?”

  “No. No, we didn’t even shake hands.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded. “I don’t remember everyone I meet, but, well, I remember her.” He shrugged. “She was, ah, quite fetching.”

  “Well, if she didn’t touch you, she couldn’t have taken a tissue sample.”

  “Maybe,” said Pierre. “But there’s one way to find out for sure.”

  “Hello, Ms. Jacobs. I’m Tiffany Feng from Condor Health.”

  “Won’t you come in?” said Molly.

  “Thank you—my, what a charming place you have.”

  “Thanks. Can I get you some coffee?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Well, then, please, have a seat.”

  Tiffany sat down on the living-room couch and removed a few brochures from her attaché case, then placed them on the pine coffee table, next to the blue-and-white transmitter for the baby monitor. Molly sat down next to her, putting Tiffany inside her zone. “Maybe you can tell me a bit about yourself, Ms. Jacobs,” said Tiffany.

  “Please,” said Molly, “call me Karen.”

  “Karen.”

  “Well, I’m divorced. And I’m self-employed. I’ve got a preschooler.” Molly gestured at the baby monitor. “But she’s with a neighbor right now. Anyway, I got to thinking I should probably have some health insurance.”

  “Well, you can’t go wrong with Condor,” said Tiffany. “Let me start by telling you about our Gold Plan. It’s our most comprehensive package…”

  Molly listened intently to everything Tiffany said. All of Tiffany’s thoughts were benign: how much commission she’d get for landing the policy (Molly was surprised to learn that it was more than an entire year’s worth of premiums), the other appointments she had for the rest of the day, and so on.

  When Tiffany’s spiel was over, Molly said, “Fine, I’ll take the Gold policy.”

  “Oh, you won’t be sorry,” said Tiffany. “I just need you to fill out a form.” She took a legal-size sheet from her attaché case and placed it on the table. She then opened her jacket, revealing an inside pocket with a row of pens clipped to it. She selected one and handed it to Molly. It was a retractable ballpoint. Molly pressed on the button with her thumb, the tip clicked out, and she began filling in the form.

  Suddenly, there was the sound of a door opening upstairs.

  Tiffany looked up, startled. “I thought we were alone.”

  “Oh,” said Molly, “that’s just my husband.”

  “Your husband—but I thought…Oh, my!”

  Pierre was staggering down the stairs; for once, he didn’t mind the monster-movie sight he made as he did so. His left hand was holding on firmly to the banister, and in his right, which was swinging wildly, he held the receiver for the baby monitor. “Hello, Tiffany,” he said. Tiffany’s lipsticked mouth was open in shock. “Remember me?”

  “You’re Pierre Trudeau!” said Tiffany, her eyes wide in recogn
ition.

  “Not quite,” said Pierre. “It’s Tardivel, actually.” He turned to his wife. “Molly, I want to have a look at that pen.”

  Tiffany tried to take the pen from Molly, but Molly jerked it away. Pierre closed the distance, took the pen, sat down on an easy chair, unscrewed the barrel, and spilled the contents out on the coffee table. There was a refill in there, with a spring wrapped around it. But the components of the button at the top of the pen were unusual. Pierre held the chrome-plated button up toward the window. There was a tiny, almost imperceptible spike projecting from its rounded top. He turned it toward his eye and squinted at it. It was hollow.

  Pierre made an impressed face. “Nice piece of work,” he said, looking over at Tiffany. “When the customer presses down on the button with his thumb, a small core of skin cells is dug out. He wouldn’t feel a thing.”

  Tiffany’s eyes were wide, and her voice was full of pleading. “Please, Mr. Tardivel, give me back the pen—I’m going to get in so much trouble!”

  “I’ll say,” said Pierre grimly. “It’s against the law in this state to discriminate based on genetic tests—and I bet stealing cells from a body meets the legal definition of assault.”

  “But we don’t discriminate!” said Tiffany. “The tissue samples are just for actuarial purposes.”

  “What?” said Pierre, startled.

  “Look—the new law, it’s crippling the insurance companies. We’re not allowed to get any genetic information from doctors unless it’s stripped of all other personal details about the individuals tested. How can we keep our actuarial tables current? We’ve got to have our own tissue database, do our own tests.”

  “But you’re doing far more than that,” said Pierre. “You’re going after the policyholders—”

  “What?” said Tiffany.

  “The policyholders,” repeated Pierre. “If they’ve got bad genes, you—”

  “We don’t keep any records relating the tissue samples to specific individuals. I told you, it’s just for actuarial studies—just for statistics.”

  “But you—”

  “No,” said Molly, still sitting next to Tiffany on the couch. “No, she really believes that.”

  “It’s true,” said Tiffany emphatically.

  “But then—” Pierre shut up. Maudit, she really didn’t know.

  “Look,” said Tiffany, “please don’t say anything to anyone about that pen—it’ll cost me my job.”

  “Do all the Condor salespeople use these pens?”

  Tiffany shook her head. “No, no—only the top producers, like me. We get paid extra commissions for it, so—”

  Pierre nodded grimly. “So no one ever leaves the company.” His voice was hard. “You want some advice? Quit your job. Quit today, right now, and start looking for work with another company—before everyone else from Condor is out there pounding the pavement with you.”

  “Please,” said Tiffany, “my secretary doesn’t even know who I was seeing this morning. Just don’t tell them you got the pen from me, I beg you.”

  Pierre looked at her for a time. “All right—if you don’t let anyone know we’ve got the pen, I won’t reveal where we got it. Deal?”

  “Thank you!” said Tiffany. “Thank you!”

  Pierre nodded, and pointed with a shaking arm at the front door. “Now get the hell out of my house.”

  Tiffany rose, grabbed her attaché case, and scurried out the door. Pierre leaned back in the chair and looked at Molly. They were both silent for a very long time. Finally, Molly said, “So what do we do now?”

  Pierre looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “Well, a conspiracy like this would have to be at the very highest level of the company, so we need to get in to see the president—what’s his name?”

  Molly went and got the Condor annual report, and flipped pages in it until she found the officers’ listing. ‘“Craig D. Bullen, M.B.A. (Harvard), President and CEO.’”

  “Okay, we get in to see this Craig Bullen, and—”

  “How on earth do we do that?”

  “They might not have cared about what I had to say about their coercing abortions, but they will damn sure pay attention to me as a geneticist.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ll send him another letter on Human Genome Center stationery, telling him there’s been a breakthrough—something that will revolutionize actuarial science—and that I’m prepared to give him an advance look. Hell, even salespeople like Tiffany know all about the HGP; you can bet the company’s president is following it closely and will jump at the chance to get ahead of his competitors.”

  Molly nodded, impressed. “But even if he does agree to see you, what do we do next?”

  Pierre smiled. “We put Wonder Woman to work.”

  C h a p t e r

  36

  Molly and Pierre drove up to the Condor Health Insurance Building in Pierre’s Toyota. The building was located on a well-treed thirty-acre lot on the outskirts of San Francisco, not far from the ocean. The tower in the center of it all was a Bauhaus monolith of glass and steel, stretching forty stories above the landscape. It was surrounded by parking lots on all four sides. The whole property was contained by a high chain-link fence.

  They pulled up to the gatehouse, told the guard they had an appointment with Craig Bullen, and waited while he confirmed that by telephone. The barricade, painted with black and yellow chevrons, swung up, and they drove in, parked, and made their way to the front door.

  The spacious lobby was done in brass and red marble. Two giant American flags stood on poles in the atrium, which also contained a pond with goldfish the length of Pierre’s forearm swimming in it. Another guard was sitting behind a wide marble desk. Pierre and Molly presented themselves there and received date-stamped visitors’ badges.

  “The executive offices are on the thirty-seventh floor,” said the guard, pointing to a bank of elevators. The sign above the faux-marble door-skins said 31st to 40th Floors Only.

  They entered the cab, which had mirrored walls and pot lights in the ceiling, and headed up. The Muzak was an instrumental version of the old Supremes song “Reflections.”

  When they got off the elevator, a sign directed them to the president’s office. Pierre placed both his hands in his hip pockets to help control their shaking. As they came to the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, Pierre’s eyes went wide. Bullen’s brunette receptionist was gorgeous—Playboy Playmate of the Year gorgeous. She smiled, her teeth Liquid Paper white.

  “Hello,” said Pierre. “Drs. Tardivel and Bond, to see Mr. Bullen.”

  She lifted a telephone handset to her ear. Pierre thought briefly that this must be part of Silicone Valley. Molly, picking up the word “silicone,” whapped him lightly on the upper arm.

  Having gotten the okay, she rose and, hips swaying atop black stiletto heels, escorted Pierre and Molly to the inner sanctum, opening the heavy wooden door and gesturing them inside.

  A goodly hunk of Condor Health Insurance’s profits had clearly been spent on Craig Bullen’s office. It was twenty feet wide and forty feet long, paneled in rich reddish wood—California redwood, Pierre imagined—with intricate carvings of hunting dogs and deer along the frieze. Eight oil paintings of landscapes hung in the room, all doubtless originals. Pierre was astounded to see that the one closest to him, depicting the Scottish moors, was by John Constable, and, like every good Canadian, he immediately recognized the distinctive stylized work of Emily Carr next to it. Her painting included one of her trademark Haida totem poles.

  Bullen rose from behind his wide mahogany desk and strode down the length of the room. He was a broad-shouldered, athletic man of about forty, with the lined, dark face of someone who often spent time lying on southern beaches. He had a squarish head, brown eyes, and a hairline that had receded, leaving behind a graying dust bunny at the top of his forehead. His designer suit was dark blue, and he wore intriguing inch-wide cuff links made of gold-plated watch innards.

  “D
r. Tardivel,” he said in a deep voice as he extended a large hand. “How good of you to come.”

  “Thank you,” said Pierre, quickly taking the proffered hand and shaking vigorously enough to hide his own palsied movements.

  Bullen’s grip was firm, perhaps overly so—an aggressive, macho display. He turned to Molly, his eyebrows moving up for a conference with his dust bunny. “And this is?”

  “My wife, Dr. Molly Bond,” said Pierre, returning his hands to his pockets. He stepped on his left foot with his right, trying to keep it from moving.

  Bullen shook her hand as well. “You’re very beautiful,” he said, smiling right at her. “I hadn’t realized Dr. Tardivel was bringing anyone with him, but now that I see you, I’m delighted that he did.”

  Molly blushed slightly. “Thank you.”

  Bullen started walking. “Please, please, come in.”

  A long conference table of polished wood filled part of the room; it had seating for fourteen. Bullen walked along its length to a giant antique Earth globe and tilted off the Northern Hemisphere, revealing a stock of liquor bottles within.

  “Won’t you have a drink?” he said.

  Pierre shook his head.

  “No, thank you,” said Molly.

  “Coffee? A soft drink, perhaps? Rosalee will be glad to get you anything you’d like.”

  Pierre thought for half a second about asking for something, just to get another look at the spectacular secretary. He smiled ruefully to himself. You can’t escape your genes. “No, thank you.”

  “Very well,” said Bullen. He closed up the Earth and took a seat at the conference table. “Now, Dr. Tardivel, I understand you’ve had a breakthrough over at your lab.”

  Pierre nodded and gestured for Molly to sit down. She took the padded leather seat next to Bullen, then moved the chair slightly, bringing him into her zone; her right knee was now practically touching his. Pierre walked around to the other side of the long table, using the backs of the chairs as supports. He removed his sports jacket—he was wearing a pale blue short-sleeved shirt beneath—and sat opposite both of them. “I think it’s safe to say,” said Pierre, “that what we’ve discovered will shock the entire insurance industry.”