“Just have a seat, then.”
Marge parked herself on the sofa. It had all the give of a park bench. Oliver sat next to her. The lobby held several windows that looked out to the pond.
Marge said, “Nice view.”
“Plastic.” Oliver lowered his voice. “Or do you mean the ones in the cage.”
“Talk about plastic.”
He grinned. “Polymers have their place, Dunn.”
“Polymers is right,” she whispered. “All of them made out of the same mold-”
“Hey, you get a winner, stick with it.”
Marge turned to him. “Are you talking for my benefit only or are you really this shallow?”
“No, I’m really this shallow, Dunn. Get used to it.”
Marge laughed and so did he. A moment later, a man walked through a door marked PERSONNEL ONLY, a mellow voice introducing himself as Gordon Shockley. He shook Marge’s hand first, then Oliver’s.
Midforties. About six two, and well built. Curly, bronzed hair streaked with gray and thinning at the top. Deep brown eyes, aquiline nose, thin lips, and the smooth, almost wet-looking skin that comes from a very close shave. He wore a custom-made suit, the last button on the sleeve left undone to prove the point. Navy wool crepe. Oliver eyed it enviously. It spoke Italian. It said, “I’m Expensissimo.”
“This way, please,” Shockley led. “Were the directions adequate?”
“They were fine,” Marge answered.
They followed Shockley back through the PERSONNEL ONLY door to the elevator, and went up a flight. His office was a corner suite. Marge noticed another young cutie secretary as they passed through the receptionist’s office into Shockley’s chamber. Obviously, the same designer had done up the entire building. Same marble, same dark suede furniture and glass tables, and the same talentless art. Shockley’s desk looked to be eight feet long, constructed out of a single piece of black granite. Had as much warmth as a sarcophagus. The saving grace of the place was two walls of view. Green hills covered with wildflowers bleeding into a silvery-blue blade of ye olde Pacific. A whispery sky crowned the scene.
“Please, have a seat,” Shockley stated. “Can I get you some coffee?”
“Nothing, thanks,” Marge said.
“Detective?” Shockley looked at Oliver.
“Right now, I’m fine, thanks.”
“Easy customers.” Shockley’s expression turned grave. “Terrible thing about Dr. Sparks. I’m stunned.”
Oliver slipped out his notepad. “Did you know him well?”
“I knew him on a professional level. A very brilliant man.”
“Seems to be the general consensus,” Marge said, also taking notes.
“His genius is absolutely undebatable.”
“I heard he was also very exacting. Did you get along with him?”
Shockley eyed Marge. “Of course, he was exacting. With that high of an intellect, I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
Oliver repeated, “Did you get along with him?”
“Yes.” Shockley smiled. “We’re both exacting people.”
Ergo, both of you are of high intellect. Marge said, “No conflict?”
“What kind of conflict, Detective?”
“You were doing business with him, Doctor,” Oliver said. “There’s always negotiation in business.”
“We weren’t trading rugs, Detective.”
“No, you were trading millions of dollars.”
Shockley folded his hands and placed them on the desk. “I’m not sure why you people have decided to come out here. But let me clue you in on something. Fisher/Tyne is a major corporation in this country. We are public. Information about us is available to you through various K-forms and prospectuses. All very up and up. If you want to find out more about us, help yourself.”
Marge and Oliver traded glances. She said, “Doctor, what is your official position at Fisher/Tyne?”
“West Coast Vice President in charge of Research and Development. I also act as a liaison between the West Coast labs and our labs in D.C./Virginia.”
“I’m really ignorant on how all this works,” Marge said. “For instance, how did you come to buy Curedon? Who made that decision?”
“How’d you even find out about it?” Oliver said.
Shockley continued to sit with his fingers interlocked. “Why would this interest the police?”
Oliver said, “A man was murdered. We’re looking for reasons.”
“And what reasons did you hope to find here?”
“Money,” Marge said. “Lots of money.”
“Always a good reason for a homicide,” Oliver said.
“Like for instance, we all know that Dr. Sparks was paid a handsome up-front fee for Curedon,” Marge said. “And we all know he was promised part of the percentage of the profits if the drug came to market.”
“Now that he’s gone,” Oliver said, “we were wondering what happens to the percentage. Is it passed on like the rest of his estate?”
Shockley smiled. “And you expect me to divulge private information just because you’re the police.”
Marge said, “Maybe we can talk in general terms. Like if you promised Gentleman X a percentage of profits from drug B that you bought from him-”
“A percentage of profits if drug B comes to market,” Oliver added.
“And if Gentleman X happened to be murdered,” Marge went on, “who would inherit the percentage promised to him?”
Oliver smiled. “She’s just talking theoretical.”
Shockley’s face remained flat. But if his neck muscles grew any tighter, they’d pop his collar pin. “Who have you been talking to?”
Marge said, “Lots of people.”
“Everyone says the same thing.”
“But no one knows the exact numbers,” Marge said. “Not that we’re asking for exact numbers-”
“That’s good, Detective,” Shockley said. “Because the numbers are none of your business.”
Oliver frowned. “’Fraid you were going to say that. Let me ask you this, Doctor. By the way, are you a heart doctor like Dr. Sparks?”
A slight smile appeared on Shockley’s lips. “I’ve got a Ph.D. in both pharmacology and chemistry.”
Oliver said. “You answered that question real easily. We’ll try another. I understand that Fisher/Tyne was testing Curedon for the FDA. Just how does that work?”
Shockley said, “I don’t know what you’re asking.”
Marge said, “You are testing the drug for the FDA, correct?”
“Correct.”
“To test the drug, you need patients.”
“Correct.”
“Where do you get the patients from?”
“That’s confidential information.”
“We’re not asking for names and locations,” Oliver said. “We just want to know how you get the patients. Do you have your own hospital somewhere? Or do you talk doctors at hospitals into trying out the drug?”
“We don’t talk doctors into anything.”
“We’re just wondering how do you get patients to participate?” Marge said.
“That’s also none of your business.”
Oliver blew out air, sank back into the hard sofa. “You’re not being forthcoming.”
“You’re asking internal policy questions. I’ve neither the position nor the inclination to answer them.”
Marge turned to Oliver. “Maybe we should save these questions for Dr. Decameron? Betcha he’d know all about this.”
Shockley snorted.
Oliver said, “Ah, so you’ve met Dr. Decameron. Which means you’ve obviously worked with him. In what capacity?”
Shockley said, “If Dr. Decameron is so forthcoming with the police, why don’t you ask him?”
“You want us to go by his statement only,” Oliver said. “Fine with us.”
“Just what does that mean?”
Marge said, “That’s means, Doctor, if you and him have had any disagreements, you might want to tell us your side.”
“We’ve had no disagreements.” Shockley squirmed.
“No conflicts at all?”
“No business conflicts,” Shockley said. “Perhaps some personality conflicts.”