He had his own mission, which was demonstrating that good medicine and profit were not incompatible. The relationships that he and other like-minded medical executives forged with Biosynth and other similar companies were helping to make universal health care a reality. Lower-cost insulin was but one example of hundreds. Someone had to ram it down people's throats, if need be. There really was no other way, and simply no such thing as a free lunch.
Reassured that his new product would appear on the Parnassus formulary as soon as the FDA approved it, Medras paid the bill, finished his own coffee, and said goodbye. After he'd gone, Ross stayed at the table to finish his Frangelico. The room was coming alive now with well-dressed couples and foursomes and he sat back for a last moment to enjoy this perk of his position. Then he reached down by his right foot and picked up the thin leather briefcase that Medras had left for him. He pushed his chair back a few inches, enough so that he could open the briefcase on his lap. Inside were three wrapped bundles of hundred-dollar bills, a credit card-style room key, and a page of Biosynth letterhead on which Medras had written a room number.
Five minutes later and forty-two floors above the city, Ross carried the briefcase with him as he exited the elevator and crossed the enclosed glass walkway that joined the two towers of the Mandarin Oriental. It was full dark now and the city lights glittered far below him. He always stopped here, enjoying the sense of vertigo, of floating above it all.
When he got to his door, he inserted the card, knocked, and pushed the door open.
"Mr. Ross?" A voice sweet as music, cultured and mellifluous. Naked, she appeared from the bedroom around the corner, a young and very pretty Japanese woman. Ross's eyes fastened on a small tattoo of a dagger over her right breast. It pointed straight down and ended with its tip at her nipple, which was pierced by a tiny gold ring. "Hello," she said, with a respectful bow. "I am Kumiko. Come. Let me help you with your clothes."
19
Something weird was happening with the weather again-the night had become nearly balmy.
Bracco and Fisk were parked in the street in front of Glitsky's. Bracco was behind the wheel; his window was down and he rested his elbow on it. He was chewing a toothpick that he'd picked up from the counter at the sandwich shop on Clement where they'd bought their Reubens and Dr Peppers.
Fisk had his window down, too, and fidgeted in his seat. He slurped the last of his drink. "He's not coming. This is stupid."
Bracco turned his head. "You don't have to stay. I'll just tell him you had someplace to go. You can take the car. I'll get home somehow. You've got a family, Harlen. So does he. He'll understand."
"He didn't seem all that understanding this morning."
This was true. Glitsky had come to Harlen's desk first thing and loudly offered to transfer him to any other department immediately if he didn't want to be in homicide anymore. Homicide inspectors didn't cut out early. Did Inspector Fisk understand?
Although now, Fisk thought, it wasn't early. It was nine damn o'clock. "He's not expecting us, Darrel, I don't care what he told you. He left work early and pissed off and now he's out for the night, maybe the weekend."
"So go." Darrel took the keys from the ignition and flipped them into his partner's lap. "But I'm staying."
Fisk slammed his hand on the outside of the door. "I can't go alone, is my point. If we both go, okay, we say we tried. But if it's just me and you're still here…"
Bracco still had a lot of his Dr Pepper left, and he put the straw to his mouth. When he took it out, he swallowed and said, "He told me to report every day. In person."
"Yeah? Well, he's not here, if you haven't noticed. He wasn't in the detail when we checked in. He doesn't expect you to hunt him down to report. He obviously forgot all about us."
A shrug. "Maybe."
But Fisk continued to rave. "What if he died, then what? Would you go report at his gravesite? There's exceptions to things, you know."
"This is the first day, Harlen. You don't make exceptions on the first day you're doing something. That makes them the rule." He looked up in his rearview mirror, saw some headlights turn into the street. "Here comes somebody."
Fisk turned all the way around in his seat. "It's not him."
"Five bucks says it is."
"You're on."
Furious at what he had taken to be Jackman's and Ash's usurpation of his arrest prerogative, as well as Hardy's scheming lawyer games at his expense, Glitsky hadn't been in the mood for any more work today. They could all go to hell.
By the time he got home, he'd decided to take the whole weekend off as well. He pitched his beeper and cell phone into the dresser next to his bed, then saw Orel's note reminding him that he and Raney had both left directly after school with their snowboard club for one last chance to maim themselves before the summer. So no kids for the weekend. He really was taking it off.
When Treya got home, he asked her if she was up for a night on the town. He didn't have to ask twice. They went to a Moroccan place on Balboa, where they sat on the floor and ate with their fingers, washing everything down with sweet, hot tea that the waiter poured from the height of his waist down to the cups on the floor, never spilling a drop. Good theater.
The night was so beautiful that they decided to walk to Ocean Beach. On the way back, something about their hips remaining in contact made them decide to head back home.
A free spot at the curb just four driveways from their place had them both thinking it was their lucky night, all the stars aligning to give them some privacy and peace. Glitsky's arm was over Treya's shoulder, hers around his waist.
"Don't look now," Treya said. Two men had just stepped out of their car and were walking toward them. She whispered, "Let's hope they're punks thinking about mugging us. We can kill them quick and get inside."
"They're punks, all right," Glitsky answered sotto voce. Then, a little louder, "Gentlemen. Out for an evening stroll?"
"You said to report every day, sir," Bracco explained.
"If this isn't a good time…" Fisk made it clear he didn't think it was, either.
"No, this is a great time, Harlen."
"A great time," Treya agreed, nodding at Fisk. "A terrific time."
Glitsky touched her arm. "I don't believe either of you know my wife. Treya. Inspectors Fisk and Bracco."
"Enchante ´," she said in a passable French accent. Her smile possibly appeared sincere. "I've heard so much about you both."
On the one hand, Glitsky was marginally happy that Darrel Bracco took him so literally. On the other, he didn't want his men getting into the habit of dropping by his place. But now it was a done deal. His romantic night with his wife continued as she sat next to him on the couch. Bracco and Fisk were on chairs they'd carried from the small, small kitchen.
"This is Parnassus then?" she asked sweetly. "Does anybody mind if I stay?"
There were no objections.
Bracco had placed his little notepad out on the coffee table in front of him. He regularly checked his notes. "We began at the hospital, first thing. Did you know Kensing was late for work Tuesday morning? An hour late."
"No," Glitsky said. "I don't know anything about what Kensing did that day. But why do you think that's worth mentioning, if he was?"
"The car," Fisk replied. "Where was he at the time of the accident?"
"The original accident?" Glitsky asked. "With Markham?"
"Are you still considering that part of the murder?" Treya asked. "I thought once they found the potassium, you pretty much ruled that out."
Actually, Glitsky had given it short shrift from the outset, and still did. But he realized that these guys had a bias and didn't want to dampen their newfound enthusiasm. "We're keeping an open mind on all theories at this point," he told her in their secret code. He came back to the inspectors. "So did you ask Kensing where he'd been?"