Hope this will do. A. Q.
She sat back. “Well, I just don’t know, Mr. Quantrell,” she said aloud. “Lemon yellow isn’t quite my color. But I suppose it will have to do.” Then she threw her head back and laughed.
At work, she stopped laughing.
Davis Wheelock told her the mayor had vetoed the idea of any press conference.
“You can’t be serious,” said Kat.
Wheelock looked genuinely apologetic. “I explained the situation to the mayor and his staff. I told them we’d had two deaths—”
“Three, Davis. Nicos Biagi died. I’ve had it classified an ME case.”
“All right, three. I told them the trend was not good. But they felt a press conference was premature.”
“At what point does this crisis become mature?”
Wheelock shook his head. “It’s not in my power to go around them. The line of authority’s clear. When it comes to press releases, the mayor has final say.”
“Maybe you weren’t persuasive enough.”
“Maybe we should ride this out a bit. See what develops.”
“I can tell you what’ll develop. And it won’t be good press.” She leaned across Wheelock’s desk. “Davis, we’re going to come out of this looking incompetent. When all hell breaks loose, do you think the mayor’s going to take the rap? We will. You will.”
Wheelock was looking more and more unhappy.
“Let me talk to them,” said Kat. “I’ll bring in Dr. Dietz from Hancock General as my authority. This news has to get out, and soon. Before South Lexington turns into a graveyard.”
For a moment, Wheelock said nothing. Then he nodded. “All right. You take care of it. But don’t be surprised if they slap you down.”
“Thanks, Davis.”
Back in her office, the first call she made was to the mayor’s secretary. She learned that His Honor had a hole in his appointment book at one o’clock and she might be able to slip in then, but there were no guarantees.
The second call she made was to Hancock General. Unfortunately, Dr. Michael Dietz was not on duty in the ER.
“Is there any way I can reach him?” asked Kat. “This is urgent. I’ve booked us into the mayor’s office at one o’clock.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” said the ER clerk.
“Why?”
“Dr. Dietz has left town. He resigned from the staff. Effective yesterday evening.”
During his three and a half years in office, Mayor Sampson had presided over the worst economic slide in Albion’s history. To be fair, it wasn’t entirely his fault—across the country, cities were reeling from the recession. But with three major plant closings, a host of business bankruptcies, and an inner city rotting at its core, Albion had suffered worse than most. So it struck Kat as more than a little ironic that the bicentennial poster displayed behind the receptionist’s desk showed a slick couple in evening dress, dancing before a view of the night skyline.
ALBION—A CITY FOR ALL REASONS.
Nolan Sampson, Mayor.
It was, of course, just your typical election-year hype. How convenient for His Honor that the celebration just happened to coincide with the kickoff for his reelection campaign.
She approached the receptionist. “I’m Dr. Novak, ME’s office. Is there a chance I could get in to see Mayor Sampson?”
“I’ll check.” The receptionist pressed the intercom. “Mayor Sampson? There’s a doctor here from the ME’s office. Are you free?”
“Uh, yeah. We just finished lunch. Send him in,” Kat heard from the speaker.
Him? He must think I’m Wheelock, she thought. She opened the door and masculine laughter spilled out. Just inside the office, she halted.
The mayor was behind his desk, puffing on a cigar. In a nearby chair sat the acting district attorney—Kat’s ex-husband.
“Hello, Ed,” said Kat stiffly. “Mayor Sampson.”
Both men looked surprised. “It’s you,” Ed said, for want of anything else to say. She noticed he’d spiffed up his wardrobe since their divorce. He had a new suit, Italian shoes, a shirt that looked like 100 percent linen. Just think of all those wrinkles. I wonder who he’s got ironing his shirts these days.
“Is this … official business?” asked the mayor, looking bewildered.
“Yes,” said Kat. “Davis Wheelock spoke to you yesterday. About that press conference.”
“What? Oh.” Sampson waved his hand in dismissal. “You mean the junkies. Yeah, we talked about it.”
“I think it’s time to go to the press, sir,” said Kat. “We’ve had three deaths.”
“I thought it was two.”
“Another OD died last night. At Hancock General.”
“Have you confirmed it’s the same drug?”
“Let’s just say my suspicions are running high.”
“Ah.” Sampson sat back, suddenly at ease. “So you don’t have confirmation.”
“Toxicology screens take time. Especially when the drug’s an unknown. By the time we get a positive ID, we could have a full-blown crisis in South Lexington.”
Ed laughed. “South Lexington is a crisis.”
Kat ignored him. “All I’m asking for is a statement to the press. Call in the local news stations. Tell them we’ve got some bad stuff on the streets. Junkies are dying.”
The mayor glanced at Ed with an amused expression. “Some would say that’s progress.”
“Sir,” said Kat, trying to stay calm, “you have to let people know.”
“Now, therein lies our problem,” said Mayor Sampson, shifting forward in his chair. “Dr. Novak, in case you’re not aware of it, we have a bicentennial celebration coming up. Parade, marching bands, the whole nine yards. We have the heads of eight major corporations coming to town to join in the fun. And to look us over, see if they like us. We’re talking jobs they could bring to Albion. But they won’t bring a thing to town if they start seeing headlines like Junkie Epidemic or Grim Reaper Stalks City. They’ll just move their companies to Boston or Providence instead.”
“So what do you suggest?” asked Kat. “We sweep it under the rug?”
“Not exactly. We just … wait awhile.”
“How long?”
“Until you’ve got more information. Next week, say.”
“A lot of people can die in a week.”
“Lighten up, Kat,” Ed cut in. “These aren’t the pillars of society we’re talking about. These are the same folks who mug old ladies and hold up gas stations. The same folks I’m already sticking in jail.” He paused. “The same folks who ripped off your car.”
“How did you hear about that?” Kat snapped.
Ed grinned. “We hear a lot of things at the office. Like who’s been filing stolen car reports.”
“Forget my car. I want to know when we can see some action on this.”
“I think I answered that question, Dr. Novak,” said Mayor Sampson.
“You’re making a mistake.”
“Christ,” Sampson said with a sigh. “You can’t even prove to me these deaths are related. Why go and get the whole town panicked about it?”
Ed added, “They’re only junkies.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “You know what, Ed?” she said with a laugh. “It’s a continuing source of wonder to me.”
“What is?”
“What the hell I ever saw in you.” She turned and walked out of the room.
Ed followed her through the receptionist’s office and into the hallway. “Kat, wait up.”
“I’m going back to work.”
“Just love those stiffs, huh?”
“Compared with present company? Don’t ask.” She got into the elevator, and he slipped in beside her.
“Looks like life’s been rough since you left me,” he said, glancing at her bruised face with a grin.
“Not nearly as rough as it was with you. And you left me, remember?”
“You know, you really blew it in there
with Sampson. Next time you should try a little honey, not so much vinegar. It’d be better for your career.”
“I see your career doesn’t need any help,” she said, glancing at his tailored shirt.
He grinned. “You heard that Sampson endorsed me? The campaign coffers are already loaded.”
“Be careful whose coattails you grab onto. Sampson’s days are numbered.”
They stepped out of the elevator and left the building.
“It’s just a stepping-stone,” he said. “Today, DA. Tomorrow—who knows? Are you coming to the campaign benefit? I could use you there. Show of support from the ME’s office.”
“I’ve got better ways to spend my money.”
He reached in his pocket and produced an invitation. “Here.” He dropped it in her purse. “My compliments. Will you vote for me, at least?”
She laughed. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re gonna need a friend in high places. Especially with the rut your career seems to be—” He broke off and stared as Kat unlocked the door of the Mercedes. “This is your car?” he asked.
“Nice, isn’t she?” Kat slid into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. She smiled sweetly out the window. “Those of us in career ruts have to find some way to compensate.”
The look on his face was enough to keep her smiling for a block. Then the anger hit, anger at Ed and Sampson and Wheelock. And at herself, for acknowledging defeat. She could go around them all. Ignore the lines of authority, call up the news stations herself, and announce a crisis …
And promptly get herself fired.
She gripped the steering wheel, silently railing at herself, at election-year politics, at a system that made you park your conscience if you wanted to stay employed. She just didn’t have the evidence to force the issue—not yet. What she needed was a pair of matching tox screens—just one pair, enough to link two of the deaths. Enough to go to the press and say, We have a trend here.
The minute she got back to her office, she called the state lab. “This is Dr. Novak, Albion assistant ME. Do you have results yet on Jane Doe number 373-4-3-A?”
“I’ll check,” said the technician.
A moment later the tech came back on the line. “I have a blood, urine, and vitreous on Jane Doe number 372-3-27-B.”
“That’s a different number.”
“It was ordered by a Dr. Clark, Albion Medical Examiner. Is this the one you want?”
“No, that’s the wrong Jane Doe. I want 373-4-3-A.”
“I have no record of any such request.”
“I sent it in yesterday. Name’s Dr. Novak.”
“My log for yesterday doesn’t show any Jane Doe specimens from Albion. Or anything from you, Dr. Novak.”
Kat tugged at a loose hair in frustration. “Look, I know I sent it in. It was even marked expedite.”
“It’s not in the log or in my computer.”
“I can’t believe this! Of all the lab requests, you have to lose this one? I need those results.”
“We can’t run a test without specimens,” said the tech with undeniable logic.
“Okay.” Kat sighed. “Then give me the results from another case. Xenia Vargas. I sent that in this morning. You do have that one?”
“It was logged in. Let me check …” There was a brief silence, punctuated by the clicking of fingers on a keyboard. Then the tech said, “It was shipped to an outside lab.”
“Why?”
“It says here, ‘Nonspecific opioids detected. Unable to identify using available techniques. Specimen referred to independent lab for further tests.’ That’s all.”
“So I will get an ID? Eventually?”
“Eventually.”
“Thank you.” Kat hung up. Then it was something new. Something even the state lab couldn’t identify.
But it was only one case. To prove a trend, she needed a second case, at the very least.
She rose and pulled on her lab coat. Then she walked down the hall to the morgue. One of the day attendants was tidying up the room. He glanced at her.
“Hey, Doc,” he said. “What’s up?”
“Hal, you remember those specimens I sent off yesterday? For Jane Doe? I put them in the out-box. Did you see the courier pick them up?”
“Don’t tell me they went and lost something again?”
“They say they never got it.”
Hal rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I heard them give Doc Clark the same story. So what do you want me to do? Run another set over?”
“If you’re willing.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s four. Take an hour of overtime. That’ll cover the drive. And make sure they log it in.”
“Sure thing.”
Now there would be another long wait for results. Luckily, they’d retained several tubes of Jane Doe’s blood and urine, for just this situation. While it was rare for specimens to be lost, it did happen.
Her head was starting to ache again, a reminder of last night’s scuffle. She should go home early, put up her feet, and OD on the opiate of the masses—TV. But she’d accumulated too much paperwork.
Back at her desk, she shuffled through her in-box. There were dictations to sign, reports from ballistics, lab slips, pathology journals. She had just emptied her box when the mailroom clerk came in, whistling, and dumped another stack onto her desk.
“Forget this,” Kat muttered. “I’m going home.”
Then she saw the envelope on the stack. Dr. Novak was scrawled on top. No address, no stamp; someone must have dropped it off at the front desk.
She opened the envelope and read the note.
Nicos Biagi results just back, MIT lab.
Identified as new generation long-acting narcotic, levo-N-cyclobutylmethyl-6, 10 beta-dihydroxy class. Not FDA approved for use in humans. MIT says research patent application made six months ago. Trade name: Zestron-L. Applicant: Cygnus Pharmaceuticals.
Sorry I’m cutting out on you, but I don’t need the headache. Good luck, Novak. You’ll need it.
Mike Dietz
Cygnus Pharmaceuticals. She stared at the name, stunned by the revelation. Thanks, Dr. Dietz, you coward. You drop this can of worms on my desk, and then you turn and run.
She grabbed the phone and called the state lab once again.
“About that tox screen, on Xenia Vargas,” she said to the technician. “There’s a specific drug I want you to test for. It’s called Zestron-L.”
“You’ll have to talk directly to the outside lab. They’re handling it now.”
“Okay, I’ll call them. Where did you send it to?”
“Cygnus Laboratories, in Albion. Do you want the number?”
Kat didn’t answer. She kept staring at that note from Dietz, at the name: Cygnus. Pharmaceuticals. Diagnostic labs. How many tentacles did the corporation have?
“Dr. Novak?” asked the tech again. “Do you want the Cygnus phone number?”
“No,” said Kat softly, and hung up.
It took her a few minutes to dredge up the courage to make the next phone call. It had to be done; Adam Quantrell had to be confronted.
The phone rang once, twice. A male voice answered: “Quantrell residence. Thomas speaking.”
“This is Dr. Novak.”
“Ah, yes, Dr. Novak. I hope the new automobile is working out.”
“It’s fine. Is Mr. Quantrell in?”
“I’m afraid he just left for the evening. The mayor’s benefit, you know. Shall I give him a message?”
And what message could she leave? She thought. That I know the truth? It’s your company, your drug, that’s killing people?
“Dr. Novak?” asked Thomas when she said nothing.
She folded Dietz’s note and stuffed it in her purse. “No message, Thomas. Thanks,” she said. “I’ll catch him at the benefit.”
Then she hung up and walked out of the office.
IT TOOK KAT AN HOUR AND A HALF TO DRIVE home, change her clothes, and fight her way back through midtown t
raffic. By that time a major jam had built up along Dorchester Avenue, leading to the Four Seasons Hotel. All the red lights gave her time to shake her hair loose, dab on lipstick, brush on mascara while looking in the visor mirror. Even with a ton of face powder the bruises were still obvious, but at least she’d found a silk scarf to wrap around her neck and conceal the stitches. It actually looked rather dashing, that slash of red and purple silk trailing across the black dress. Too bad the whole effect required high heels; before the night was over, her feet would be killing her.
The ballroom of the Four Seasons was packed. There were probably enough furs and jewels in the room to fund the city budget for a year. A buffet table held platters of shrimp and smoked salmon, pastries and caviar, all of it served on real china, of course. A balalaika troupe was playing Russian music—a tribute to Albion’s equally depressed sister city on the Volga. Kat handed her invitation to the official at the door and headed into the thick of things.
She was reminded at once of why she hated going to affairs like this, especially on her own. Bring an escort and you were an instant social circle; go alone and you’re invisible. Sipping at the requisite glass of white wine, she wandered through the crowd and searched for a familiar face—any familiar face. Mostly she saw a lot of tuxedoes, a lot of mink, a lot of orthodontically perfect teeth bared in perfect smiles.
She heard her name called. Turning, she saw her ex-husband. “And I thought you weren’t going to vote for us,” he said as he approached.
“I didn’t say I would. I just can’t pass up a free invite.”
“Hey, I want to get a photo taken. You and the mayor together.” He glanced around and spotted Sampson off in a corner, surrounded by admirers. “There he is. Come on.”
“I don’t do photo ops.”
“Just this time.”
“I told you, I’m not here to endorse him. I’m here to partake of a few free drinks and—” She stopped, her gaze suddenly focusing across the room, on a man’s fair hair. Adam Quantrell didn’t see her; he was facing sideways, engaged in conversation with another man. Next to Adam stood Isabel, her equally blond hair done up in an elaborate weave of faux pearls. The perfect couple, she thought. A stunning pair in tuxedo and evening dress. The sort of couple you saw epitomized in Cosmo ads.