Читать книгу Prayers for the Dead - Faye Kellerman - Страница 12

The last registered event in Dr. Azor Sparks’s daily calendar was an in-house dinner meeting with three people: Reg, Myron, and Liz. It took only a quick call to Sparks’s secretary—Heather Manley—for Oliver to find out that Reg was Dr. Reginald Decameron, Myron was Dr. Myron Berger, and Liz was Dr. Elizabeth Fulton. This entry was one of many that had appeared in Sparks’s business book—a semiweekly research meeting of some sort, according to the secretary, Heather. And the dinner meetings were always held in Sparks’s conference room, not at Tracadero’s. That was all he could glean before Heather’s hysteria broke through.

Oliver’s eyes moved off the pages of Sparks’s daily planner and scanned the office. Place was twice as big as his apartment. A hell of a lot nicer, too. Wood-paneled walls, plush hunter green carpeting, surround-sound stereo speakers, wet bar, and fridge—all this plus a canyon view of the nearby mountains. True, there was no booze in the bar, only fruit juices, but that could be remedied. He cast his gaze on the ceiling-mounted television set. To Marge, he said, “Maybe we should turn on the TV.”

Marge shut Sparks’s top desk drawer. Nothing of substance in it. She tried the file drawers in his walnut desk, then the ones in his credenza. Locked, of course. “Think you’re outta luck, Scotty. He probably doesn’t subscribe to Adam and Eve.”

“How kind of you to sum me up as a horndog.” Oliver began putting stickums on Sparks’s planner. “I just wanted to see if the murder hit the networks yet. Because as soon as it gets out, hospital’s going to be thrown into a panic. Just like his secretary. Where the hell is she? She said she only lives fifteen minutes away. It’s not exactly rush hour.”

Marge investigated a wall of built-in bookshelves, her finger moving over the spines of thick medical tomes. “Didn’t she say she was going to call up his coworkers?”

“Three doctors. How long does it take to call up three doctors?”

Marge shrugged. “Sure, turn on the set.”

Oliver stretched and flipped the power on the ceiling-mounted TV. The monitor filled with a dark image—the climax of some series cop show. He watched an actress in a police uniform chase a bad guy, her breasts jiggling and heaving as she followed him to an alley. Her pants were skintight, showed off a well-formed ass as she peeked around a garbage can. Oliver’s eyes crept over to Marge. She was dressed in a baggy pantsuit and had gunboats on her feet.

“See anything interesting in his book?” Marge asked.

“Nothing that means anything to me.” Oliver paged through his notes. “Patient names, procedures, surgeries, staff meetings, reminders for birthdays and anniversaries … quite a few of those. Maybe he owned stock in a greeting card company.”

Marge glanced at the wood paneling. Interspersed with numerous diplomas and certificates were family photographs. “Looks like Sparks had lots of children and grandchildren. What a shame!”

Zing went the bullet against the trash can on TV. The heavy-breasted actress jumped back. Her makeup was still perfect, not a drop of sweat sullied her brow. Man, if that had been him, he’d be browning his jockeys. Oliver said, “Sparks had lots of meetings with various companies.”

“Which ones.”

“Biolab, Meditech, Genident, Bloodcell, Armadonics, Fisher/Tyne—that name came up on a regular basis. About once a month. Isn’t that a drug company?”

“Yeah.” Marge scratched her head. “My God, he was a busy bee. Wrote two medical textbooks, coauthored another four, and was an editor of a dozen others. Where did he find time to do all this?”

Oliver’s eyes went back to the TV. The big-boobed cop was now draped in a filmy nightie. She lay in bed, nestled in the arms of a stud with a deep voice and a cleft chin. As she talked, Mr. Cleft looked at the babe with the expression “Jesus, I’m an earnest guy” stamped across his puss. Okay, so he wasn’t humping her bones. Which would have been the real picture if this was real life. Okay. So maybe they had just humped, and he was older and had a long refractory period. Oliver could maybe buy that. What he couldn’t buy was the fact that he was listening to her. In real life, the guy would be completely zoned out, thinking about tax dodges or rotary baseball.

Marge checked her watch. “Manley does seem to be taking her time.”

“Lucky the janitor had a key,” Oliver said. “What’d you think about her reaction to the news?”

“After I got my hearing back?”

“Yeah, I could hear her scream across the room. Most people, upon hearing news that their boss was popped, are stunned. They don’t say anything.”

“Heather’s obviously the hysterical type.”

“All women are the hysterical type,” Oliver pronounced. “But Manley letting go with a wallop like that … weird. My head’s still ringing.”

Marge smiled, continued going over the books in Sparks’s shelves. “Heather reacted as if she was more to Sparks than just a secretary.”

“I have no trouble believing that,” Oliver said. “According to his daily calendar, he spent most of his waking hours at the hospital. And Heather is a nice piece of pie.”

“How do you know what she looks like?”

“Pictures on her desk.”

“She keeps pictures of herself on her desk?”

“Nah, pictures of her and some guy. But you know how it is. Secretaries and their bosses. Especially someone like Sparks. Power is the ultimate lady-killer. How else do you explain ugly, old guys getting laid by nymphets?”

“Well, if Sparks was boffing her, he’s your typical religious fanatic hypocrite.”

“Don’t let Decker hear you say that.” Oliver paused. “Why do you say that?”

“Because he’s got three bookshelves filled with religious material—Christian newspapers and magazines, lots of prayerbooks and numerous Bibles.” Marge shrugged. “Maybe Sparks and Heather read Bible together.”

Oliver laughed. “Well, I have no trouble believing that sweet Heather was on her knees.”

The door pushed open. A female voice screaming, “Just what do you think you’re doing!”

Marge brought her index finger to her right ear and rubbed it against the skinflap. Oliver held out ID.

The young woman was in her late twenties with big, big hair. Lots of it spilling down her shoulders and back. She was slim, wore a red knit dress that showed off curves. She whacked Oliver’s shield away. “I don’t care who you are. You have no right to invade my boss’s privacy!”

The news came on the TV. Sure enough, Sparks’s death had made the headlines. The young woman burst into a crescendo of wails. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it!”

“Ms. Manley,” Oliver said tentatively, “why don’t you sit down.”

She pulled on her overteased tresses, her saucer eyes spilling tears as she yanked. “Who would hurt the doctor? He was the gentlest person on the face of the earth! Why would anyone hurt him?”

“Ms. Manley, why don’t you sit down.” Marge mouthed to Oliver, “Turn the damn thing off!”

Oliver cut off the newscaster midsentence. Heather was still moaning. He said, “Why don’t you sit, Ms. Manley?”

She continued to pace.

Oliver said, “Sit down, ma’am … as in sit down in a chair.”

The secretary stopped treading, stared at Oliver. He pulled out the chair. “Please?”

She sat, the hem of her dress resting mid-thigh over smooth, white legs. Oliver did a rapid once-over, then said, “We need your help, ma’am. Did you get hold of any of the doctors that were at Sparks’s six o’clock meeting?”

Heather sniffed loudly. “Dr. Decameron said he’s on his way over here. Dr. Fulton … she can’t come down because she can’t get a baby-sitter. And her husband isn’t home yet. The dirty rat is never home. He’s a real jerk, suffers from a Peter Pan complex.”

Marge took out her notepad. “Now this Dr. Fulton is one of Dr. Sparks’s co-workers?”

“Yes.” Heather pulled a Kleenex out of her purse, blew her nose, and dried her eyes. “She works with Dr. Sparks on Curedon. They all do.”

“Who’s all?” Oliver was having trouble following Heather’s train of thought.

“Dr. Decameron, Dr. Fulton, and Dr. Berger. They work with Dr. Sparks, testing his drug, Curedon.”

Oliver perked up. “Dr. Sparks discovered a new drug?”

“He didn’t discover a drug,” Heather corrected. “He developed one. After years of research in his laboratory. Curedon is an antirejection drug. Fisher/Tyne bought it.”

“What do you mean bought it?” Marge asked.

Heather sighed. “I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask Dr. Decameron and hope for the best.”

“Hope for the best?” Oliver asked.

“Reggie is a jerk. Try getting any answers out of him. I don’t know why Dr. Sparks puts up with him.” Heather wiped her eyes again. “Actually, I do know why. The doctor was the best boss I’ve ever had. The most honest, sincere, nicest, gentlemanly … not that he didn’t have his moments. But once you understood his genius …” She exploded into a new wave of sobs.

“How long had you worked for him, Ms. Manley?” Oliver asked.

“Five years,” she cried.

“You were close to him?” asked Marge.

“I loved him!” she wailed.

Marge and Oliver exchanged glances. Heather caught it. “Not in the way you think. I loved him as in ‘hopelessly in love’ with him. He never laid a finger on me.”

Maybe not a finger, Oliver thought.

Heather said, “He was a gentleman in every way. Completely devoted to his wife and family. He wouldn’t ever think of touching another woman, much less have an affair. He was deeply religious.”

Again, Marge and Oliver looked at each other. Oliver said, “You sound like you’re pretty sure about that.”

“I’m positive!”

“You know, Heather, if you’re trying to lead us down the wrong path—”

“I’m not—”

“I’m not saying you are,” Oliver said. “All I’m saying is that if something was kinky with Sparks, it’s going to come out.”

“Nothing … and I mean nothing … was ever kinky with Dr. Sparks! The only thing he ever got into trouble for was being too good.”

“How’s that?” Marge asked.

“Like I said, he was deeply religious. He had tremendous faith in God and didn’t understand those who didn’t—”

“Oh please, Heather, spare them the Jesus on the cross routine.” A forty-plus man stuck out his hand to Marge. “Reginald Decameron. This is just horrible! It’s already made the news! I heard it coming over. Someone want to tell me what’s going on?”

Marge regarded the doctor. Slender, well-coiffed, well-dressed. Thin features, piercing dark eyes. Self-assured to the point of haughtiness. He wore white shirt, gray slacks, and a blue cashmere blazer. Pocket handkerchief in the blazer, silk hand-painted jacquard tie around his neck. She took the proffered hand. “Thank you for coming down.”

“How could I not come down.” He turned to Heather. “Where are Dr. Berger and Dr. Fulton?”

“They can’t make it—”

“What?” Decameron was outraged. “Azor is … murdered, and they can’t see fit to talk to the police?”

“Dr. Fulton couldn’t get a baby-sitter, Dr. Decameron. Her husband wasn’t home when I called.”

“And what was Myron’s excuse?” Decameron raised his brow. “Bad hair day?”

Heather glared at him. “How can you be so awful at a time like this?”

“What better time,” Decameron snapped back. He hugged himself, looked Oliver up and down. “This is truly horrid. What in the world happened?”

Oliver squirmed under Decameron’s intense but rapid scrutiny. Overt, sexual overtones. The man was gay. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out, Dr. Decameron.”

Marge stepped in. “As we understand it, Dr. Decameron, you, Dr. Berger and Dr. Fulton last saw Dr. Sparks at a dinner meeting.”

“Yes, one of our weekly staff get-togethers. Started around six, ended around eight.”

“Anything unusual happen at the meeting?”

It was Decameron’s turn to squirm. “Well, I might as well fess up. Myron’s going to jump at the opportunity to tell you this. It might as well come from me.”

The room fell silent.

“Azor was miffed at me,” Decameron admitted.

“What happened?” Oliver asked.

“Well, our research meetings are ostensibly an open forum to exchange ideas. Sometimes I get a little aggressive in my opinions offending our great Grand Imperial Wizard.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Heather piped in.

“I’m getting to that, child. Hold your hair, for goodness sakes.” Decameron turned to Marge. “Azor became miffed at me. I peeked at some of the great doctor’s data on his fax machine before he had a chance to see it. Not a terrible thing. But not courteous, either.” He paused. “Azor was angry. After the meeting … after Myron and Liz had left … I smoothed things over with him. Of course, they weren’t around to witness it. But I am telling you the truth.”

“What time was this, Dr. Decameron?”

“A little before eight. I remember it distinctly because we ended earlier than usual. Azor had received a call from one of his sons and cut the meeting short.”

“Okay.” Marge wrote furiously. “Does this son have a name?”

“Paul.”

“Was Dr. Sparks planning to meet Paul somewhere?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. His sons call often. They’re always hitting him up for money.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Heather interjected.

Decameron paused. “Okay. Paul and Luke are always hitting him up for money. True or false?”

Heather snapped her lips together, folded her arms across her chest.

“How many sons does Dr. Sparks have?” Oliver asked.

“Four,” Decameron said. “The youngest one, Michael, he’s what we call a legacy med student. Someone who gets in because of … connections. I call them capons.”

“Michael’s not bright?” Oliver asked.

“Neon, he’s not,” Decameron replied. “But he is young. He could season if he’d cut the strings. He still lives at home, so the little snot gets whatever he wants—”

“You don’t like his kids, do you?” Oliver said.

“I don’t like anyone, so don’t go by me.” Decameron sighed. “No, I don’t like his children. They’re all suck-ups. Except the priest. He’s independent so far as I can tell. And a good man.”

“Who’s he?” Oliver asked.

Heather said, “Father Bram.”

Decameron said, “Azor was livid when Bram took his orders. First, Bram had the nerve to convert from Azor’s strict Fundamentalist Church to Catholicism without asking Daddy’s permission. And then when he became a priest … well, what can I say? The truth hurts.”

“What truth?” Heather said.

“Darling, what do you think?” Decameron’s eyes roved between Oliver and Marge. “Bram is clearly gay—”

“What are you talking about?” Heather said.

“The whole family’s in heavy denial. Because to Azor, et al., homosexuality is still an abomination before the Lord. He couldn’t deal with it—his beloved son being a faggot.”

“Dr. Decameron, there’s no reason to use pejoratives,” Marge said.

“Oh come, come. Surely you can tell I’m talking from personal experience. Yes, Azor can deal with gays like me on a professional level. Just like he can deal with Jews like Myron Berger. But between me and these walls, I’m sure he thought of both of us as hopeless sinners.”

“I think you’re wrong!” Heather exclaimed. “And what does it have to do with poor Dr. Sparks being murdered?”

“I’m just giving them background, Heather.”

“When did he receive this call from Paul?” Oliver said.

“About seven-thirty.”

“Was he upset when he came back to the meeting?”

“Well, he was upset with me. But he didn’t seem upset by the call.”

“What’s this project you’re working on?” Oliver asked. “This Curedon?”

“So you know about Curedon.” Decameron squinted at Heather. “We’ve been talking, haven’t we.”

Marge said, “Dr. Decameron—”

“All right, all right. What do you know about Curedon?”

Oliver said, “It’s an antirejection drug, whatever that means.”

“You know what Azor Sparks is noted for, don’t you?”

“Heart transplants,” Marge said.

“Yes.” Decameron looked upward. “Heart transplants. The man is … was one of the greatest surgeons ever to land on our fair planet. Even I can’t joke away his genius.” He gazed at Marge. “Because Azor was a genius in every sense of the word. Terrible. For someone to cut him down … and with his death, dies all his skill and knowledge. Too bad Azor didn’t live long enough to set up a protocol for a brain transplant.”

Decameron cocked a hip.

“Now that might have been interesting. His brain in my body.”

“That would have been obscene!” Heather muttered.

Decameron rolled his eyes. “Curedon was just one of Azor’s many contributions to medical science. One in which I was privileged enough to participate. May I sit?”

Marge pointed to an empty upholstered chair. “Please.”

Decameron sat. “How to explain this.” He thought. “Whenever a transplant of any kind is effected, the human body has a natural tendency to reject it.”

Oliver said, “I’m lost.”

“Our bodies are amazing inventions. It almost makes you believe in God.” Decameron paused. “Almost. We have a wonderful invention called the immune system. It recognizes the Huns out there, the invaders of our bodies, and wipes them out. Any foreign substance—a virus, a bacterium, a cancer cell—will eventually be discovered as an interloper and destroyed if one has a properly functioning immune system. A very good thing. Without it, we’d all take the route of AIDS patients.”

Decameron looked at Oliver.

“Okay, so far,” Oliver said. “Go on.”

“Well, sometimes you can have too much of a good thing. Sometimes the immune system is overactive. For most of us, if we get an irritant up our noses or get a bee bite, we might sneeze a bit … or swell up locally. But eventually everything settles down. A few unlucky souls have immune systems that overreact—send out droves of histamines to fight off a little interference. Cellular walls break down, fluid is poured into the tissues, and the body swells up.”

“An allergic reaction,” Marge said.

“Exactly,” Decameron said. “The most dangerous sequela of an allergic reaction is in the lungs. The breathing apparatus can become so inflamed that often air can’t pass through.”

“So what does this have to do with Curedon?” Marge asked. “It prevents an allergic reaction?”

Decameron nodded. “In a sense, that’s what it does. When a heart is transplanted into a body, the body’s in-place immune system doesn’t recognize the heart as a necessary part of the body. It sees it as a foreign substance, and sends out white cells to destroy it.”

Oliver said, “So it’s like the patient has an allergic reaction to his or her new heart.”

“Essentially, yes,” Decameron said. “Without proper medication, the immune system would eventually eat the heart away.”

Marge said, “I thought that transplant patients are tested to make sure there’s a fit between the new heart and the old body.”

“Of course, we type-match, Detective. We do the best we can. But often it isn’t enough. There’s a sad shortage of hearts and lots of people with heart disease. We have to make do. That being the case, we have to work around the immune system. We have to undermine it. Hence, the class of drugs known as immunosuppressants. Cortisone for example.”

“You give heart transplant patients cortisone?”

“No, but surgeons give them related immunosuppressants. Like prednisone. The most commonly used drugs are Imuran and Cyclosporin-A. With severely compromised renal patients, surgeons often use the more experimental class of immunosuppressants—Orthoclone or OKT3—and the other Ks like FK506. Sorry to bore you with details, but it will help you understand the importance of Curedon.”

The room fell quiet. Marge wrote as fast as she could.

“Curedon has a completely different chemical structure from the other immunosuppressants. The way it binds and interacts with T-cells through the production of interleukin 2 … Curedon seems to subdue the immune system without suppressing it. What that means is, we see far less unwarranted side effects. This is very, very important. Because transplant patients are on immunosuppressants for life.”

“Forever?” Oliver asked.

“Ever and ever,” Decameron said. “We put them on as minimal a dose as possible. But even so, there are side effects.”

Marge asked, “Such as?”

Decameron ticked off his fingers. “Pulmonary edema, ulcers from mucosal sluffing, chills, nausea, fever, dyspnea.” He shook his head. “It’s a long road for these patients, and our goal, as members of the healing arts, is to make them as comfortable as possible. Curedon is as close to any miracle drug as I’ve ever seen in my twenty years as a physician and researcher. Azor had worked years on it. I learned more about 2.2 resolutions and X-ray crystallography than I’d ever wanted to.”

Decameron fell quiet.

“But I did learn.” His eyes became moist. “I did learn. And it was an honor for me to be part of something so cutting edge.”

“What’s going to happen with Curedon now that Dr. Sparks is gone?” Oliver asked.

“Not much probably. The initial trials of Curedon have been quite successful in general.” Decameron’s smile was tight. “Although we have had a few ups and downs lately. That’s why I was so pleased when I saw Azor’s data coming through his fax. I just couldn’t wait for him to come out of surgery. But it was wrong. An invasion of his privacy.”

Marge tapped her pencil against her pad. “What do you mean ‘ups and downs’?”

Decameron looked pained. “A small rise in the mortality rate—”

“That’s death rate in common folk language,” Marge interrupted.

Decameron smiled. “Yes. Death rate.”

“With Curedon.”

“Yes, with Curedon.” Decameron looked at Marge pointedly. “The patients aren’t dying from the drug, they’re dying from heart and renal failure. The sharp rise is puzzling, but kinks aren’t uncommon. Ah, the glamorous life of a research physician. Probably data error. Or a transcription error … or, alas, it could actually be a problem with the drug.”

“And if it is a problem with the drug?” Oliver asked.

“We’ll work it out. Curedon’s been a marvel. Too good to be true. Some bumps are inevitable. But mark my words. The drug will come on the market within the next five years.”

He paused.

“For Azor not to see the fruits of his labors … that is a tragedy of Greek proportions.”

Oliver asked, “Who do you do the trials on?”

“Actually, our team doesn’t run the trials. The FDA—Food and Drug Administration—analyzes the numbers in conjunction with Fisher/Tyne, which actually runs the trials.”

“Wait a minute.” Marge turned to Heather. “I thought you said Fisher/Tyne bought the drug from Sparks.”

“They did buy it from Sparks,” Decameron stated. “I don’t know how much they paid for it. But I do know Sparks received a huge initial cash deposit and was promised a percentage of the profits after the drug hit the marketplace.”

“Who will get Sparks’s percentage now that he’s dead?” Marge asked.

“I don’t know,” Decameron said. “Certainly not me. Effectively, Fisher/Tyne owns the rights to produce and market Curedon. Those rights were sold to them by the cash deposit.”

Oliver looked over his notes. “I’m confused about something.”

“Sorry. Teaching isn’t my forte.”

Oliver asked, “What do you mean when you say that the FDA is testing the drug in conjunction with Fisher/Tyne?”

“Fisher/Tyne, under our guidance and protocol, is running the lab tests for Curedon. The FDA gets copies of the results and analyzes them. At the moment, I’m the liaison between Fisher/Tyne, Dr. Sparks, and the FDA.”

“Fisher/Tyne is running the FDA tests for a drug it owns?” Marge was taken aback. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

“Happens all the time, my dear,” Decameron said. “Who do you think ran the tests for Prozac? Eli Lilly, of course. The FDA doesn’t have the skill, manpower or knowledge to test all the thousands of drugs that get put on the market. The FDA is the drug police. They determine policy and safety, but in general, they do not test. They rely heavily on the drug companies for their results.”

Oliver and Marge traded looks.

“That’s incredible!” Marge shook her head. “Who protects the consumer?”

“The integrity of the drug company.”

“We’re in big trouble,” Oliver stated.

“Actually, it’s not as bad you think,” Decameron said. “It’s not that drug companies are the bastion of honesty. But they are practical animals. An unsafe drug goes on the market, it spells L-A-W-S-U-I-T-S. They have a vested interest in making sure the drug is safe.”

“How about safe and effective?” Oliver asked.

“Effective?” Decameron raised his brow. “Of course, the drug must be effective.” He paused. “How effective? Well, that’s another issue entirely.”