The research area had glass on the top half of most of its interior walls, but the individual labs were separated by supply rooms with solid walls. In the first lab, Sula saw a young man sitting at a bench and peering into a microscope. She kept moving.
The second lab appeared empty, so she entered it and reached for the door to its supply room. Locked again. She used the master key, stepped inside, and closed the door behind her. Her watch said 4:48. The five-by-eight room was lined with shelves filled with clinical supplies: beakers, Petri dishes, and an assortment of things she didn’t recognize. Sula got her bearings, turned the light off, and took a seat on the floor. She planned to stay until it was dark enough to sneak out.
She crossed her legs, straightened her back, and turned her palms up on each knee. Meditating would be the only way she could get through the long, claustrophobic wait. It took ten minutes just to get her heart slowed down. Emptying her mind proved to be more difficult. The process was abruptly interrupted by someone entering the lab. The sounds were soft but distinctive, the creak of a door, the click of a light switch, soft footsteps across the floor. Her heart took off again, like a startled bird in flight. Rudker had found her.
She heard whistling. A happy sound, very un-Rudker like. She let out the breath she’d been holding and hoped whoever it was didn’t plan to work late. The possibility that he would enter the closet kept Sula on edge.
She checked her watch, which glowed pale blue in the dark: 5:01. A few minutes later, she heard the lab door swing open again, and a different voice called out, “Peterson. Got a minute to talk?”
“Sure.” The scientist’s voice was barely audible in comparison.
Rudker’s voice boomed again. “I just got back from Seattle and a meeting with JB’s board of directors. They want some assurance that Nexapra is on track, that its efficacy is as good as we say it is, and that its side-effect profile is as good as we say it is.”
“It’s even better. We’re always cautious in our assessments just to be on the safe side.”
Sula stood and stepped toward the door. Peterson was hard to hear.
“Do you have any concerns about adverse drug reactions once the product hits the general public?”
“None. Of course, there will be some ADRs. You know that. It’s part of the business. Why the sudden concern?”
“The board is reacting to the regulators who say people under eighteen shouldn’t take SSRIs because of the possibility of suicide.” Rudker was clearly dismissive of the idea. “They want assurance-before they spend millions on clinical trials and advertising-that the product won’t be recalled or given a black box warning before it produces an ROI.”
Sula sensed that Rudker was probing to see what Peterson knew or thought about a genetic flaw.
“A black box warning?” Peterson’s scorn was unmistakable. “That’s ridiculous. SSRIs are one of the safest developments to ever enter the market, and Nexapra is going to be the safest in the class. Is this about Warner’s theory?”
“Partially.”
“It’s conjecture,” Peterson responded. “Warner is a brilliant scientist, but she’s wrong about this. Yes, there are genetic, metabolic differences in the rate at which patients process chemicals through their systems. But pharmaceuticals never made anyone kill themselves. The people who commit suicide while taking antidepressants are reacting to their own disease state. The drug just gives them the physical energy to act on their impulses.”
Sula slumped in despair. Was Warner wrong? Had she risked her job-and possibly custody hearing-for nothing?
Rudker, on the other hand, was pleased. She could hear the happy tone in his voice when said, “That settles it. I’ll reassure the board that their concerns are unfounded. Thank you.”
She heard the outer door open and the room went quiet. Peterson started moving around, but he didn’t whistle. She realized he probably didn’t know Warner was dead. One of the things Marcy had asked her to do was to write a memo to the staff about the R amp;D director’s death, but Sula hadn’t circulated it yet. People in the corporate building probably knew because Serena wouldn’t be able to keep quiet about it, but the news had obviously not reached the researchers.
Sula started to sit back down, then hesitated. Peterson’s footsteps were moving toward the door.
Chapter 13
Rudker picked up his travel bag and headed out the front exit. He did not feel as relieved as he should have. For one thing, Sula had been in Warner’s office and had taken some of her papers. He may not have caught up with her yet, but he would. More important, Diane Warner had specifically said she found a genetic marker that made the two patients susceptible. After hearing Peterson’s views on the subject, it seemed Warner hadn’t shared her latest discovery with her partner. Because she knew Peterson was skeptical of the whole concept? Or because she didn’t have proof?
It also seemed clear that Sula had overheard Warner’s concerns and was trying to investigate. But why? Rudker rarely understood other people’s motives. He worried that she would go to the press and the negative publicity would scare JB’s board. If the FDA demanded to look at the early data, the agency might request additional clinical trials. The drug could be delayed by a year or more. Investors would dump Prolabs’ stock at the first hint of bad news, the share price would plummet, and he would be bankrupt. Rudker did not intend to allow any of that to happen.
The best defense was a good offense, he remembered as he crossed the courtyard into the corporate office. A few sales and marketing people who occupied the offices on the first floor were gathered in the hallway. He hoped to get by them without wasting too much time responding to their compulsive butt kissing. That particular behavior made them good at their jobs, but it annoyed him, even on his good days. Today did not fall into that category.
“Mr. Rudker.” One of the men spoke first.
“How was your flight?” a woman asked.
“It was fine. The merger is moving along efficiently.”
They fell silent for a moment. Talk of the merger reminded them that their jobs were on the line.
Alicia, a tall redhead with plenty of cleavage, said, “It’s too bad about Diane Warner.”
The comment took him by surprise. “What do you mean?”
“You haven’t heard?” Alicia looked uncomfortable.
“Heard what?”
The marketer who had spoke first, Kyle he remembered, said softly, “She’s dead, sir. They found her body near the river. They think a homeless man killed her while she was jogging.”
Rudker scanned his brain for the right response, choosing, “That’s terrible. When did this happen?”
“We don’t know for sure.” Alicia spoke up again. “Sula identified her body this morning, but apparently she’s been dead for a few days.”
“This is tragic news.” Rudker blinked a few times to convey he was having an emotional reaction. “You’ll have to excuse me.” He walked away and boarded the elevator. As the doors closed, he saw them lean together to continue the gossip. He thought he’d pulled off the right reaction, but maybe not. Often when he believed his behavior to be perfectly appropriate, it turned out to be characterized as offensive or odd. For a long stretch, that offended person had been his first wife.
On the third floor, he hurried to his big corner office. Eventually, he would have to talk to the HR director about whether to replace Warner. With the merger, it might not be necessary. Marcy would handle the details, the flowers and financials and such. Rudker unlocked his office door, tossed his travel bag on the floor, and plopped in his custom-made Italian leather chair.
He closed his eyes and tried not to think about anything for a minute. He knew it was important to quiet his mind on occasion. Especially when he had critical decisions to make.
Sula, that PR girl, was a wild card. How had she accessed Warner’s office and what had she found? Someone in the hallway group, Alicia maybe, had said Sula had identified the body. Was that why she’d gone into the R amp;D director’s office? Was the girl looking for Warner’s genetic data or was she just a busybody?