Читать книгу Under the Microscope - Jessica Andersen - Страница 9

“Shhh! Here comes the ad.” Raine Montgomery dug her manicured fingernails into her palms, trying to act boss-like when she really wanted to sing the “Hallelujah Chorus.”

On the other side of the conference table sat Jeffrey Wells, the sandy-blond, baby-faced child prodigy she’d hired fresh out of grad school to help her run the company. Beside him was Tori Campbell, the thin, dark-eyed young mother Raine had hired with no secretarial references whatsoever because she’d seen too much of her old self in the woman’s defeated eyes.

Taking them on had been two of the smartest decisions she’d ever made. Tori kept her organized. Jeff helped bring her visions to life.

The three leaned forward in their chairs and stared at the flat-screen TV she’d set up in the small, richly furnished conference room. As they watched, a mid-afternoon talk show cut to commercials—a household cleaner first, followed by color-enhancing shampoo. Targeted advertising, aimed straight at the prized twenty-five to fifty-something female demographic. When the screen switched from minivans to a rose-hued shot of an attractive couple, Raine swallowed against a churn of anticipation and tugged at the cowl neck of her dark blue cashmere sweater. “This is it!”

She’d seen the short advertisement a dozen times, at various points during its evolution, but watching it broadcast on national TV was different.

It was real.

“More than sixty million women in the U.S. suffer from libido problems,” a sexy female voice said over the images of middle-aged couples holding hands. Kissing. Staring at each other over candlelit meals. The images were all clichés, but the marketing consultants had assured Raine the triteness would trigger warm, fuzzy feelings.

Damned if they weren’t right, she thought, stifling a small sigh that she’d be headed home to an empty apartment after the impending office celebration wound down.

The images grew steamier, though still PG-rated. Then, the woman on the screen turned away from her partner, expression tight.

“Low libido is nothing to be ashamed of,” the voice-over soothed. “Sometimes it’s due to physical reasons. Other times there’s no obvious cause. But this serious condition can undermine our relationships. Our self-confidence.”

A small pink pill rotated on-screen as the voice said, “Now there’s a new option for couples everywhere. Ask your doctor about Thriller today.”

The final shot was one of lovers lying together in postcoital bliss, smiling.

But it wasn’t that image—or the memory of how long it’d been since she’d experienced postcoital anything—that drove a giant lump into Raine’s throat. It wasn’t the sexy, feminine logo the consultants had spent six months polishing. It wasn’t the short list of possible side effects—nothing worse than dizziness and insomnia—or the possible drug interaction warnings—none. It was the tiny words at the bottom of the screen.

A product of Rainey Days, Inc.

Thriller wasn’t something she’d developed for her previous employer, FalcoTechno.

It was all hers.

WHEN THE TV STATION SEGUED back to the talk show, Raine hit the mute button with trembling fingers, sat for a moment and exhaled a long breath.

She’d done it.

It had taken her more than three years, but she’d done it. After leaving—okay, abandoning—her position at FalcoTechno and fleeing Boston, she’d scraped together all her money, liquidated her minimal assets, floated a few loans and used the capital to buy a drug nobody else had believed in.

She’d built a company around a dream, and it was starting to look as if that dream was becoming reality.

After three months of free sample distribution to targeted areas, Thriller would go public tomorrow. The presale numbers were already off the charts. The accounting department had even started to use the B word.

Blockbuster.

The experts had said it couldn’t be done. They’d said the female sexual response was too complicated to reproduce in pill form.

Thankfully, all the clinical trials said the experts were wrong. Thriller worked. Women who hadn’t had orgasms in years were lighting up like Christmas trees and calling for more samples with their husbands’ voices in the background, urging them on. Which was a relief, as Raine had worried that men would be threatened by the little pink pills, that they would think Thriller an insult to their manhood.

But instead of saying Our wives don’t need that when they have us, they were saying Give us more.

Thank God. Raine squeezed her eyes shut and wondered if the dizziness was relief that Thriller was finally being released, or fear that the numbers wouldn’t hold. If the sales didn’t take off almost immediately, she’d be left swimming in debt, with a staff that needed to be paid and a slim drug portfolio that contained two flops and three promising compounds that had barely entered phase-two trials.

If Thriller tanked, it would take Rainey Days—and Raine—with it.

A hand touched her shoulder, and Tori’s soft voice said, “The commercial looks fantastic. Congratulations.”

The dark-haired woman slipped out of the room. The human embodiment of the word unobtrusive, Tori wasn’t comfortable with crowds, but she gave great phone and kept Raine’s professional life organized to a tee.

Jeff punched the air in victory. “That rocked!”

Raine grinned at the younger man’s enthusiasm and at the excitement that lit his mid-blue eyes. Something loosened in her chest. “Hopefully it didn’t rock too hard. That’s the ad targeted at our older demographic. The younger targets—music channels and some of the reality shows—will get a version that’s heavier on the sex and the ‘I am woman, hear me come’ message.”

Her face didn’t heat anymore when she said stuff like that. As the Thriller mania had geared up over the past months, she’d grown used to thinking of orgasms as a marketable commodity. Jeff, on the other hand, still blushed.

The faint pink on his pale cheeks made him look younger than his twenty-three years and less worldly than his double degree would suggest. But he manned up, swallowed and nodded. “Good. That’s good. You’re booked on three local radio shows this week, and the Channel Four news is thinking about doing an interview. If we’re lucky, that’ll generate enough buzz to get you picked up by the national media.”

Raine fought the wince. “Yeah, and I already know two of the interview questions, guaranteed. Is there a personal reason you chose to develop a female sex-enhancement drug, and the ever-popular, have you tried it yourself?”

The answers were no and no. She’d developed Thriller because the corresponding male sex-enhancement drug had made its parent company approximately a bazillion dollars, and she hadn’t tried the product herself because, well, it was back to that whole empty-apartment thing.

She didn’t have anything against dating, but she was thirty-five, divorced, childless and focused on building her company. Most of the men she met were either post-midlife crisis and looking for arm candy, or late-thirties and wanted to start a family yesterday. In the absence of someone tall, dark, handsome and not looking to sow his seed at the expense of her career, she’d decided to go with the better off alone theory.

Jeff avoided her eyes and the pink deepened. “I’m sure you’ll come up with some clever answers between now and then.”

“Let’s brainstorm while we party. Everyone’s headed to the New Bridge Tavern, right?” She could hear the muted sounds of celebration out in the main office lobby, where she’d set up another TV so the rest of her employees could watch the launch ad.

Sure, it was 3:00 p.m. on a Monday, but who really cared? They deserved to blow off some steam.

Their lives were about to change. They could bear the chilly winds of winter in New Bridge, Connecticut, long enough to walk around the corner for a party.

Jeff grinned. “That was supposed to be a surprise, boss. We thought—”

Tori burst into the room at a run. She leaned over the conference table and punched a button to activate one of the built-in phones. “You’ve got to hear this.”

Raine grinned. “Another crank call? Something more creative than heavy breathing and fake moans?” Then she got a good look at Tori’s expression and a knot formed in her stomach. “What’s wrong?”

“Listen.” Tori stabbed another button and cranked the speakerphone volume.

After a moment of hissing silence, her recorded voice said, “Rainey Days, Incorporated, this is Tori speaking. How may I help you?”

“Thriller killed my wife.”

The oxygen evaporated from the conference room. Raine couldn’t breathe. She could barely hear over the roaring in her ears.

After a long pause, Tori’s voice said, “I’m sorry to hear about your wife, sir, but—”

“Cari… She had a sample packet.” The man swallowed loudly, and the sound echoed on the tense air. “The doctors say she had a heart attack. She was only twenty-eight. We have a baby….”

More hissing silence.

“Oh, God. Oh, no. Nonononono—” Heart pounding, Raine looked around to see who was saying that and realized it was her. She clamped her lips together and fought the nausea. Fought the panic.

Think. She had to think.

She was in charge.

On the recording, Tori’s voice said, “Will you hold, please? I’m going to connect you to—”

There was a click, and the line went dead. After a long moment, Tori moved to punch off the speakerphone. “I called back, but nobody picked up. Caller ID says it’s registered to James and Cari Summerton in Houghton, Pennsylvania, a suburb of Philly. He must’ve used Google to find the company and gotten the main number rather than the help line….” She trailed off. “Do you think it could be a prank?”

Raine didn’t know what to think. She didn’t know what to do. She could barely feel her body—everything was numb besides her brain, which pounded that same panicked litany of no-no-no-no.

This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be.

Fear for her company bubbled up alongside basic human horror. A woman was dead. A mother.

Panic brushed at the edges of her soul, trying to take over everything, but she beat it back. She wasn’t the weak woman she’d once been, ready to crumble and let someone else take over and fix things. She couldn’t be.

She was the boss now.

She placed her palms flat on the conference table and pressed until the numbness receded and she could feel the wood grain beneath her fingertips. “Cancel the party. We have work to do.”

THAT NIGHT, RAINE SLEPT a couple of hours stretched out on the couch in her office, waiting for new information. She had to have new information because what little they had didn’t make an iota of sense.

Thriller hadn’t killed Cari Summerton. It couldn’t have.

The fast-track clinical trials had shown that it was safe for human use. The toxicities were so minor as to be nonexistent. The drug researchers hadn’t noted anything unexpected—certainly nothing had suggested a connection between Thriller and heart attacks. There had to be another explanation for the woman’s death.

But what, exactly?

Coincidence? Fraud? Something else? As the cold winter dawn broke outside her office window, her mind buzzed with the possibilities, each of which seemed equally unlikely, but none more unlikely—at least to her—than the thought that her drug was a killer.

Please, God, let there be another explanation.

By ten that morning, as Raine downed her third cup of coffee, changed into the spare power suit she kept in the office closet and headed for a council of war, she wasn’t any closer to an answer. She just hoped to hell they found one soon.

Tension hung heavy in the conference room, which was crammed with nearly half of Raine’s forty-person staff. She sat at the head of the table and gestured for Jeff to begin with the first report. “What have we got on the caller? Is James Summerton for real?”

A sleepless night was etched in the young man’s earnest face, but he shook his head. “Not much. I’ve confirmed the names and the address, but nobody’s answering the phone. I can’t find an obituary on Cari Summerton in the local paper, but they may not have gotten it organized yet.” He paused. “Sorry. I wish I had more for you.”

So do I, Raine thought, but she didn’t say it aloud because she knew Jeff was already working as hard as he could. They’d each taken a chance on the other—her in hiring a young genius with no managerial experience, him in working for a startup company with only one major product in the pipeline. He was putting his sickly younger brother through college. She was trying to grow up at the age of thirty-five and learn how to take charge of her own life.

They both needed Thriller to succeed.

“Keep looking,” she said. “We need to be absolutely certain this guy is for real before we proceed.” Scam artists had planted severed fingers in fast food before, looking for a quick settlement. It was possible that Summerton was looking to cash in on an unexpected—or faked—death, figuring the company would pay rather than risk Thriller’s reputation on the eve of its launch.

If that was the case, she’d be tempted to pay, just to keep things quiet. But, if there was a problem with Thriller, they needed to know about it before the drug went on sale. She was trying to do this right, trying to protect the consumer while covering her own butt.

She had already called the Food and Drug Administration—FDA—where she’d filed an unexpected toxicity report that likely wouldn’t get read for a few days or even a week. Then she’d called her distributors, delaying the launch.

She’d said there were problems with the print ads and the commercials, that the hype wasn’t where she needed it to be. “Push it back a week,” she’d said. “We’ll have everything straightened out by then.”

She hoped.

That had taken care of the new prescriptions, but there were thousands of sample packets already in use. Were they safe or not? One possibly fraudulent death report wasn’t sufficient evidence for her to recall the samples, but if another user died and the press got wind that Rainey Days had known about the problem…

Instant media crisis. How could she balance the company’s welfare against the possibility that she might be endangering lives?

Raine pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to fight back the impending headache. She gestured to her head epidemiologist, Red, who was a sharp-faced woman with wild auburn hair, a mercurial temper and a photographic recall for facts and figures. Raine asked, “Did your department find any cardiac problems in the toxicity databases?”

Red scowled, apparently taking the question—and the death—as a personal affront. “Of course not. There’s nothing to find. Thriller is safe for human use. Hell, it scores better in terms of side effects and cross-reactions than aspirin. This is a setup. It has to be.”

Raine, who’d butted heads with Red on more than one occasion, fixed her with a stern look. “You did check the clinical-trial databases for cardiac toxicity reports, right?”

The epidemiologist bristled. “Of course. There were none. Headaches. Sleeplessness. A few sniffles. Nothing more, like I already told you six times.”

Ignoring the attitude because Red was the best at what she did, personal style notwithstanding, Raine called on the other department heads. They didn’t have much to add until she reached Phillip Worth, the gaunt, forty-something head of the legal department.

“You need to get yourself an investigator,” Phil said. “We can’t plan a strategy without more information. Is the dead woman really dead? Did she actually take Thriller? Was an autopsy performed? Tox screen?” He spread his hands. “There’ll either be a monetary demand or a lawsuit. We need to be prepared for both.”

Raine nodded. “You’re right. I know you’re right.” Both about the preparations and the investigator. “I’ll work on it.”

She dismissed the meeting soon after, knowing that the longer they sat there, the more unanswered questions they’d accumulate.

Tori lingered while the others filed out. She was quiet for a moment, then said, “What’s wrong?”

Raine nearly laughed because at this point what wasn’t wrong? But she knew that wasn’t what Tori was asking.

The women weren’t close, weren’t even really friends, but they shared an unspoken bond of two people working to figure out who they were when everyone around them had been defining them for too long.

Tori had an ex-husband with quick fists.

Raine didn’t have that excuse.

Aware that her receptionist was waiting for an answer, Raine blew out a breath. “There are three major pharmaceutical investigation firms in the northeast. The top two won’t take the case without a six-figure retainer.” She dug her nails into her palms and felt success trickling away. “Everything I have—and then some—is tied up in Thriller. I had to borrow against the office computers to pay for the TV spots.”

Saying it aloud only made it sound worse.

“You said there were three companies. What about the third?”

“Vasek and Caine Investigations,” Raine said, trying to ignore the fine buzz of warmth that ran through her when she said the name. “It’s a small company, fairly new, but it’s gotten a hell of a cachet in the past few years. They have the reputation of taking on the impossible cases and making them possible.”

Tori’s eyes narrowed and she studied Raine’s face. “Which one are you avoiding, Vasek or Caine?”

Raine winced. “That would be Maximilian Vasek. Max. We had a…”

She wasn’t even sure what to call it. They hadn’t dated, hadn’t been lovers, hadn’t even kissed. He had known her during the worst weeks of her life, three years earlier. She’d leaned on him, depended on him, formed a connection with him.

And then she’d taken off.

She hadn’t even said goodbye. She hadn’t known how to.

“We knew each other,” she said finally. “It didn’t end well.”

“Did it end badly enough that he’d turn you down flat if you called and explained the situation?” Tori asked.

“I don’t know.” It was possible the emotion had been all on her side, that he’d been relieved when she left. And hell, it’d been three years. Surely she was little more than a bad memory by now?

Surely, he didn’t still think of her, didn’t still wonder what might have happened if she’d stayed and worked through her problems back in Boston rather than running away?

“Call him,” Tori ordered, sounding bossier than Raine had ever heard her before.

“There’s got to be something else we can try first.” Raine heard a pleading note creep into her voice. She’d stared at the New York phone number off and on all morning, knowing she had to make the call.

She wasn’t sure which would be worse—having him hang up on her, or having him not remember her at all. In fact, it would probably be better just to show up. He wouldn’t throw her out of the office.

Would he?

A knock brought Raine’s head up in time to see Jeff enter the room. His expression was grim enough to send a chill racing across her skin when he said, “You need to see this.”

He clicked on the TV, the one they’d used to watch the debut of her commercial—was it only yesterday? It felt like a week ago.

He tuned to one of the major twenty-four-hour news stations, and Raine’s stomach knotted. “Oh, God. Cari Summerton’s family went public?”

If they had, it meant this wasn’t a scam. There really was a dead woman. She really had taken Thriller. Those basic facts were too easy for the reporters to check.

It also meant the media bloodbath had begun.

Jeff shook his head, eyes hollow. “Worse. Whoever broke the story got three other families to come forward. It’s not just one dead woman, it’s four.”

Four dead.

The words buzzed in Raine’s brain like a scream that was echoed in the strident ring of the conference-room phone. Tori answered, and her already pale face went ghost-white. “Please hold.”

She held the receiver out to Raine just as the TV news crawl read, Four women die after taking the sex-enhancement drug Thriller. A spokesperson for the Food and Drug Administration reports that an investigation will be launched immediately.

Raine looked at the handset. “Is that the FDA?” When Tori nodded, Raine pinched the bridge of her nose, where a stress headache had taken up permanent residence. “I guess it’s time for that last resort.”

It looked like she was headed to New York.

And Max.