Sula’s taxi pulled up in front of a low-slung stucco building painted a pale creamy yellow. Fernandez Juncos Clinica was sandwiched between a Rite Aid and a restaurant offering “carne guisada puertorriquena” as the house specialty. Sula thought it ironic that a drug studies clinic would be next door to a pharmacy.
She paid the cab driver and asked him to return in an hour, then sat on a bench across the street. Soon she was sweating. The black skirt and beige suit jacket she’d changed into were too warm for the tropical climate, but fortunately she’d decided to skip the nylons.
A tall middle-aged woman approached the clinic and unlocked the door. Her red skirt and jacket set off her long dark hair. Sula guessed her to be in her mid-forties, and hoped she looked that good in twenty years. Felisa Quinton was the clinic’s director, a psychiatrist who had been born, raised, and educated on the island. Sula had stayed up the night before her flight, searching the internet and learning everything she could about the island, the clinic, and its staff. The person she really wanted to talk to was David Hernandez, the doctor who had supervised the Nexapra trial.
Sula forced herself to be patient, to let the woman get settled in with a cup of coffee before she barged in asking questions. After checking her watch for the third time, ten minutes had finally elapsed. She took a long deep breath as she stood. She’d tried to prepare herself for the possibility she might come away empty handed-after borrowing a small fortune and enduring six plane rides. The money would be a setback either way, but the idea that she would fail to find the data she needed to stop the trials was hard to accept.
Sula had gone back and forth a dozen times about how to approach the doctor and had decided to use the journalist scenario she had used with the clinic in Eugene. It was also mostly true. Her career goal was to be an investigative reporter, and this was her first story. She intended to write about her experience, regardless of the outcome, and hoped to get the story published.
She stepped toward the street and waited for a pink convertible with a group of young girls to pass by. A minute later, she entered the air-cooled clinic. Cream-colored walls alternated with sage green, and a plush maroon couch invited visitors to sit. The soothing sound of water rippling over rocks served as background music. The effect was quite calming. Sula imagined a fountain in the courtyard, surrounded by big, brightly painted pots filled with ferns.
“Buenos dias,” Felisa greeted her from the reception desk.
“Buenos dias.” Sula smiled. “Actually, I don’t speak Spanish.”
The director smiled back. “That’s fine. I like to practice my English with people who don’t speak with an accent.” She stood held out her hand. “Felisa Quinton.”
“Sula Moreno. From Eugene, Oregon.”
“You’re a long way from home. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to speak to Dr. David Hernandez.”
Felisa’s face closed up. “He no longer works here.” Anger flickered in her eyes. “I have no idea where he is or how to contact him. I’m sorry you came so far for nothing.”
A silence engulfed them, the director lost in an unpleasant memory while Sula reeled with disappointment and paranoia. Had Rudker paid off Hernandez? Or was it merely coincidence that the two people most familiar with the Nexapra suicides-Warner and Hernandez-were unavailable?
A chill ran up her spine. Did Rudker know she was here? What if he had followed her? For the first time, she realized she might be in over her head. Rudker obviously wasn’t taking any chances in letting the suicide data get out, and he undoubtedly considered her a risk.
“Did you know David? You look like you’ve just seen a paricion.”
Sula shook her head. “It was very important that I speak to him, but perhaps you can help me instead.”
Felisa shrugged. “If I can.” She touched Sula’s elbow. “Let’s go into the conference room.”
Sula followed her through an archway into a short hallway, then into the first room on the left. It seemed more like a cozy kitchen with a small dark-wood table and padded straight-back chairs. Sula glanced at the sink and refrigerator in the corner.
“Would you like something to drink?” Felisa moved toward the fridge.
“Please.”
The director came back with two bottles of cold frappuccino. Sula noticed Felisa’s eyes were light blue, contrasting with her dark skin. She’d read that Puerto Ricans were a racial melting pot of native Taino, Spanish, African, French, German, and Chinese. Her personal observation was that most of the islanders were attractive.
They sat at the table and opened their drinks. Sula took a long slug before speaking. “I’m a freelance writer, and I’m researching the Nexapra clinical trials. I understand that there were two suicides here.”
Felisa gave her an odd look. Sula couldn’t read the reaction.
“Where did you get that information? The trial was discontinued and the data was not released to the public.” Her impeccable English had picked up an accent.
“Were you involved in that study?”
“I assisted Dr. Hernandez with intake. What do you want to know?”
“Are the men’s files still here? I mean, is there a record of their participation and suicides?”
“Of course, but I can’t release any information to you. It’s very confidential.”
“Were you surprised when both Luis and Miguel Rios killed themselves within a month of taking Nexapra?”
Felisa stopped mid-air with her Frappaccino and set it down. She looked at Sula with a mix of surprise, respect, and fear. Sula decided to tell her everything. She had nothing to lose.
“I used to work for Prolabs. One day I heard Diane Warner and Karl Rudker arguing about Nexapra. Do you know who they are?”
“Of course. Dr. Warner discovered the drug when she worked for the Oregon Health and Science University. Rudker runs Prolabs.”
That was more than Sula had known. “Warner told Rudker she’d found evidence that the men who committed suicide shared a genetic mutation that influenced the way they responded to the drug. She asked him to halt the trials and give her two years to develop a screening test. Rudker said no. He also threatened to fire her if she didn’t drop the idea.”
“You heard all of this first hand?” Felisa let go of her drink and squeezed her hands together.
“Yes. I was waiting to talk with them about a press release I was writing.”
“Go on.”
“The next day, Dr. Warner didn’t show up for work. She didn’t call either. Two days later, we found out she was dead. Murdered while jogging along a riverside path.”
Felisa’s eyes flashed with speculation. Sula took a sip of the sweet caffeine and thought, wait until you hear the rest of the story.
“I became concerned that Dr. Warner’s theory and evidence would die with her and that a lot of people might kill themselves in the large Phase III studies.”
Felisa made a funny noise in her throat, then signaled Sula to keep going.
“I went into Warner’s office and found a disk tapped to the bottom of a desk drawer. I took it home. The files were labeled Miguel and Luis Rios.”
A young man burst into the room. “Hey, there you are. Sorry I’m late.” His dimpled cheeks and curly hair gave him a look of innocence.”
“Roman, I’m very busy right now. Please go watch the front desk and do not disturb me again.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.” He sheepishly backed out of the room.
Felisa shook her head. “Please continue. I’m intrigued by your story.”
Sula hesitated, ashamed of her night in jail. “Rudker had me arrested. While I was in jail, he broke into my home and took Warner’s disk.”
The director leaned forward, disbelief evident in her expression. “The CEO of a pharmaceutical company broke into your house and stole a disk that you believe contained clinical trial data for Nexapra?”
“Actually, it had their intake information and some kind of DNA files. I have no proof that it was Rudker, but the CD disappeared, and he is the only one who would have a reason to think I had it. Who else would break into my house and take only a disk with DNA information?”