“No shit.”
The documents Shellee had found were from a consumer protection Web site devoted to medicine. They reported that the FDA was having doubts about Luminux because the drug trials showed that it had hallucinogenic properties. Several people in the trials had had psychotic episodes believed to have been caused by the drug. Others reported violent mood swings. Those with serious problems were a small minority of those in the trials, less than a tenth of one percent. But the reactions were so severe that the FDA was very doubtful about approving it.
But Shellee also found that the agency had approved Luminux a year ago, despite the dangers.
“Okay, got it,” LaTour said. “How’s this for a maybe, Einstein? Montrose slipped some money to somebody to get the drug approved and then kept an eye on the patients taking it, looking for anybody who had bad reactions.”
The cops speculated that he’d have those patients killed — making it look like suicide — so that no problems with Luminux ever surfaced. LaTour wondered if this was a realistic motive — until Tal found a printout that revealed that Luminux was Montrose’s only money-maker, to the tune of $78 million a year.
Their other postulate was that it had been Karen Billings — as patient relations director — who might have been the woman in the hat and sunglasses at the Bensons and who’d left the tire tracks and worn the gloves at the Whitleys. She’d spent time with them, given them overdoses, talked them into buying the suicide manual and helped them — what had Mac said? That was it: Helped them “exit.”
“Some fucking patient relations,” LaTour said. “That’s harsh.” Using his favorite adjective. “Let’s go see ‘em.”
Ignoring — with difficulty — the clutter on his desk, Tal opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out his pistol. He started to mount it to his belt but the holster clip slipped and the weapon dropped to the floor. He winced as it hit. Grimacing, Tal bent down and retrieved then hooked it on successfully.
As he glanced up he saw LaTour watching him with a faint smile on his face. “Do me a favor. It probably won’t come to it but if it does, lemme do the shooting, okay?”
Nurse McCaffrey would be arriving soon.
No, “Mac” was her preferred name, Robert Covey reminded himself.
He stood in front of his liquor cabinet and finally selected a nice vintage port, a 1977. He thought it would go well with the Saga blue cheese and shrimp he’d had laid out for her, and the water crackers and nonfat dip for himself. He’d driven to the Stop ‘N’ Shop that morning to pick up the groceries.
Covey arranged the food, bottle and glasses on a silver tray. Oh, napkins. Forgot the napkins. He found some under the counter and set them out on the tray, which he carried into the living room. Next to it were some old scrapbooks he’d unearthed from the basement. He wanted to show her pictures — snapshots of his brother, now long gone, and his nieces, and his wife, of course. He also had many pictures of his son.
Oh, Randall...
Yep, he liked Mac a lot. It was scary how in minutes she saw right into him, perfectly.
It was irritating. It was good.
But one thing she couldn’t see through was the lie he’d told her.
“You see him much?”
“All the time.”
“When did you talk to him last?”
“The other day.”
“And you’ve told him all about your condition?”
“You bet.”
Covey called his son regularly, left messages on his phone at work and at home. But Randy never returned the calls. Occasionally he’d pick up, but it was always when Covey was calling from a different phone, so that the son didn’t recognize the number (Covey even wondered in horror if the man bought a caller ID phone mostly to avoid his father).
In the past week he’d left two messages at his son’s house. He’d never seen the place but pictured it being a beautiful high-rise somewhere in L.A., though Covey hadn’t been to California in years and didn’t even know if they had real high-rises there, the City of Angels being to earthquakes what trailer parks in the Midwest are to twisters.
In any case, whether his home was high-rise, low- or a hovel, his son had not returned a single call.
Why? he often wondered in despair. Why?
He looked back on his days as a young father. He’d spent much time at the office and traveling, yes, but he’d also devoted many, many hours to the boy, taking him to the Yankees games and movies, attending Randy’s recitals and Little League.
Something had happened, though, and in his twenties he’d drifted away. Covey had thought maybe he’d gone gay, since he’d never married, but when Randy came home for Ver’s funeral he brought a beautiful young woman with him. Randy had been polite but distant and a few days afterward he’d headed back to the coast. It had been some months before they’d spoken again.
Why?...
Covey now sat down on the couch, poured himself a glass of the port, slowly to avoid the sediment, and sipped it. He picked up another scrapbook and began flipping through it.
He felt sentimental. And then sad and anxious. He rose slowly from the couch, walked into the kitchen and took two of his Luminux pills.
In a short while the drugs kicked in and he felt better, giddy. Almost carefree.
The book sagged in his hands. He reflected on the big question: Should he tell Randy about his illness and the impending surgery? Nurse Mac would want him to, he knew. But Covey wouldn’t do that. He wanted the young man to come back on his own or not at all. He wasn’t going to use sympathy as a weapon to force a reconciliation.
A glance at the clock on the stove. Mac would be here in fifteen minutes.
He decided to use the time productively and return phone calls. He confirmed his next appointment with Dr. Jenny and left a message with Charley Hanlon, a widower up the road, about going to the movies next weekend. He also made an appointment for tomorrow about some alternative treatments the hospital had suggested he look into. “Long as it doesn’t involve colonies, I’ll think about it,” Covey grumbled to the soft-spoken director of the program, who’d laughed and assured him that it did not.
He hung up. Despite the silky calm from the drug Covey had a moment’s panic. Nothing to do with his heart, his surgery, his mortality, his estranged son, tomorrow’s non-colonic treatment.
No, what troubled him: What if Mac didn’t like blue cheese? Covey rose and headed into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and began to forage for some other snacks.
“You can’t go in there.”
But in there they went.
LaTour and Tal pushed past the receptionist into the office of Daniel Montrose.
At the circular glass table sat the president of the company and the other suspect, Karen Billings.
Montrose leaned forward, eyes wide in shock. He stood up slowly. The woman too pushed back from the table. The head of the company was as rumpled as before; Billings was in a fierce crimson dress.
“You, don’t move!” LaTour snapped.
The red-dress woman blinked, unable to keep the anger out of her face. Tal could hear the tacit rejoinder: Nobody talks to me that way.
“Why didn’t you tell us about the problems with Luminux?”
The president exchanged a look with Billings.
He cleared his throat. “Problems?”
Tal dropped the downloaded material about the FDA issues with Luminux on Montrose’s desk. The president scooped it up and read.
LaTour had told Tal to watch the man’s eyes. The eyes tell if someone’s lying, the homicide cop had lectured. Tal squinted and studied them. He didn’t have a clue what was going on behind his expensive glasses.