Come Home (32 page)

Jill felt stumped. She navigated out of
PROGRAMS
to the
START
menu, to see what other programs William had. The only one she hadn’t seen yet was Excel, for financial spreadsheets. She clicked, and the program opened to a list of spreadsheets, dating from three years ago. She clicked on the first one, and it blossomed into a sheet that showed dollar amounts, in large chunks: $20,000 on June 6, $20,000 on June 22, and another $20,000 on June 29.

Jill’s eyes opened wide. Somebody was paying William for something, and it had to be inside information about Pharmcen drugs, and which were potential recalls. He wasn’t trading on the information himself, but he must have been selling it to someone who did, and Jill bet that man was Joe Zeptien.

She sat back, amazed. She had figured out his plan, and all of it was contained in his laptop, hidden in his secret identity, behind his stupid little password, AMDB90701. Then a thought struck her, like an epiphany. Her own passwords were about Megan and Megan’s birthday, like Megan 0112, or Megan and her old nicknames, like Miggy0112, or Megan and Beef, MGBF0112. Jill’s passwords were about what she loved the most, and that’s why she’d remember them the easiest; they were what came first to her mind, at all times. Jill guessed that lots of mothers, and fathers, were the same way, and a password could speak volumes about a person, like a modern-day key to the soul.

Jill blinked, eyeing the screen. William’s passwords were about himself and cars, not Abby, Victoria, or anyone else he loved, because deep in his soul, he didn’t really love anyone. So it wasn’t that he didn’t love Jill, it was that he simply wasn’t capable of love. It simply wasn’t in the man. She had wanted to know what he was really up to, and the answer had been before her all along. It was right in front of her face now, on his laptop.

Money. He had wanted money, not for what it bought, but for what it said about him, as a man. It was as simple as that, because the wish itself was nothing, as substantial as an electronic transaction. Money was nothing but a construct ultimately, a collection of paper and ink, printed at will, no longer backed by anything, and signifying nothing. We all agree that money has value because we all agree that money has value, and William was the same way. Inside, he felt valueless. And so, he was.

And suddenly, as soon as Jill thought about him that way, she understood William a little better. She wasn’t as angry at him, or as hurt. She just felt sorry for him, going through his life, so hollow, so empty, feeling absolutely worthless. Oddly, the fact that he was dead now was beside the point. He was dead to her, beginning right this minute. It had taken Jill a long time to heal, but she had done it, finally.

Physician, heal thyself.

Jill smiled at the revelation, then set up a plan. She’d work all night to get this information together, and she’d meet with Nina tomorrow to fill in the details, tell her what was going on, and answer her questions. Then Jill would turn it all over to the police, and they could decide whether to talk to Nina, find Joe Zeptien, or figure out if William had been murdered, why, and by whom. Something must have gone wrong with William’s scheme, and the police would figure it out. Jill had figured out what she wanted to know.

The truth about William.

It was awful, but it had set her free.

Chapter Fifty-one

The next morning, Jill waited for Nina at the Starbucks, dressed in her sweater, jeans, and loafers uniform, feeling surprisingly fresh after an all-nighter spent going through William’s laptop. Her theory about William’s scheme had proved correct, and now she had the financial details. He’d had had two big paydays with Deferral and Riparin, equaling about $1 million over the last three years, and he’d also been paid another $500,000 for a stream of smaller insider tips. Memoril looked as if it was going to be his biggest score of all, and he’d already been paid $1.1 million for information about it. Jill had with her a manila folder that contained printed emails and spreadsheets, in case Nina needed convincing.

She checked her watch. It was 10:15
A.M.
Nina was running a little late, although Pharmcen’s sprawling complex in Parkertowne was just down the street, a series of brown brick buildings with a campus that boasted a man-made pond, a walking track, and an employee parking lot surrounded by manicured hedges. Jill had never been to central New Jersey before, but she could see the appeal, with lovely horse farms still managing to coexist with strip malls and corporate centers.

Jill checked her email for Rahul’s bloodwork, but it wasn’t in yet. She sipped her coffee, which was strong and hot, and looked around. The baristas worked quickly behind the counters, amid the squishy noises of espresso machines, and a long line of customers stood waiting to order, business people wearing laminated corporate IDs, young girls in black yoga pants, and moms with strollers, negotiating around kiosks with breakable logo mugs.

I met him at a Starbucks.

Jill wondered if this was the Starbucks where Nina had met William. It would make sense. He could have met Nina, started the affair, and after all that pillow talk, realized there was money to be made from the information and hatched his scheme. Or maybe he had even preyed on Nina, choosing to hang at a Starbucks near Pharmcen, hoping to meet a young girl who worked there, knowing he could charm her out of anything, including inside information.

The door of the Starbucks opened, and Jill looked up, expecting Nina, but it was two van drivers in Pharmcen blue uniforms, laughing and talking. She checked her watch—10:30. Maybe Nina had trouble getting out of work. The door opened again, and Jill looked up. Two young women, more Pharmcen employees, entered the Starbucks, but they were distraught, their eyes puffy and makeup streaky. Customers in line turned at the sight, and baristas craned their necks.

“I can’t believe it,” the one woman was saying, as they both sank into the first empty table. “It’s so sudden. It’s crazy.”

The Pharmcen truck drivers walked over, and one asked, “What is it? Another round of cuts, in Corporate?”

“No,” the woman answered, rubbing bloodshot eyes. “A girl we work with was killed. Her husband shot her, then committed suicide.”

Jill felt thunderstruck, in shock. Her hand flew to her mouth.

“Jeez, that’s awful,” the driver said, taking off his blue cap. “Was she a friend of yours?”

“Yes, and she was really sweet. Nina was the best girl ever.”

“No, no, it can’t be,” Jill blurted out, stunned. She stood up, but went weak in the knees, and the Pharmcen employees turned to her, astonished.

“Miss, you okay?” asked the truck driver, in confusion.

“No, sorry, this can’t be.” Jill tried to recover, walking over, stricken. “Was it Nina D’Orive who was killed?”

“Yes,” the woman answered, teary. “Did you know her?”

“Yes, I know her, I knew her. What? How? When did this happen?”

“Late last night,” the woman answered, her throat thick. “She didn’t come in today, and she’s always on time, so Elliott called her at home, and the cops told him.”

“Elliott?”

“Elliott’s our boss, in Pharmacovigilance. He just called us all into the break room and told us.”

Jill thought of the E in the emails, fighting a wave of nausea. Her mind reeled. She prayed she hadn’t been responsible for Nina’s murder. That Nina hadn’t been crying over William’s death and Martin had caught her. Or maybe Nina had confessed to the affair, and he killed her for it. It couldn’t be a coincidence, after last night.

Jill felt her gorge rising, panicked at the frowning faces and puzzled stares, then grabbed her purse and manila folder, bolted for the door, and ran out of the Starbucks, reaching the edge of the parking lot just in time.

She bent over and vomited.

Chapter Fifty-two

Jill hit the gas and steered out of the Starbucks parking lot onto Weehawk Boulevard. Traffic was light, which was good, because she was in no shape to drive. Tears filled her eyes, bile coated her teeth. She felt wretched and horrified, and wherever she looked, she kept seeing poor Nina, so happy to show off her cute little puppy.

Corgis are dwarf dogs, bred to herd sheep.

Jill stopped at the traffic light, across from the blue-flagged entrance to Pharmcen’s campus, with its
PHARMCEN
sign and globe logo, in trademark blue. She thought of the laptop in her trunk, full of information about how Pharmcen’s confidential information had been bought, and after what had happened to Nina, she felt the need to talk to someone at Pharmcen, find out whatever she could about Nina, tell them what was going on in their own company, and show them the laptop.

The traffic light turned green, and Jill took a left into the parking lot, followed the signs to the visitors’ parking lot, and parked the car, cutting the ignition. She blew her nose, wiped her eyes, and grabbed her purse, then got out of the car, retrieved the laptop, and hurried to the glass entrance. She went inside and walked to the reception desk, a massive granite banquette with a panel of telephones and computer screens.

“May I help you?” The pretty young receptionist smiled, but Jill was too upset to smile back.

“My name’s Jill Farrow and I’d like to see Elliott, the head of Pharmacovigilance. It’s important.”

“Do you have some kind of appointment with Mr. Horton?”

“I’m a friend of Nina D’Orive’s. I need to see him, about her.”

“My condolences on your loss. It’s a terrible tragedy.” The receptionist gestured at a seating area on the right, which held a group of well-dressed businessmen and -women. “Please, have a seat in the waiting area, and I’ll call Mr. Horton.”

“Thanks.” Jill went over to the waiting area and sat down in a blue-patterned chair. She put the laptop and her purse on her lap, composing herself. The receptionist picked up the phone receiver, pressed in some numbers, and started talking in a low tone, then hung up, gesturing to Jill, who walked back to the desk with the laptop. “May I see him now?”

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Horton is unavailable at this time.”

“Can I see someone in security, then?”

“What’s this in reference to?” The receptionist glanced past Jill, to a black security desk on her right, at the back wall of the lobby.

“I’d rather not say. Can’t I please speak with someone in security? This is a matter of corporate security.”

“Please, relax.” The receptionist motioned to the security guard, who was already on his way.

“Hello, may I help you, Miss?” The security guard had a soul patch, which looked out of place with his Pharmcen blue uniform and billed cap. He wore a laminated ID, but his embroidered patch read
BARRY RONAT
.

“Yes.” Jill introduced herself again. “I need to talk to your boss. It’s a matter of corporate security.”

“And what would that be?”

“Can I just see him?” Jill could feel the heads turning, the men in ties and women in low heels eyeing her. “It’s not for public consumption.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”

“I’m a friend of Nina D’Orive, and I was supposed to meet her this morning, about an important matter.”

“I’m sorry, Miss. May I escort you outside, to your car?”

“No, thanks.” Jill could see it was useless. She didn’t know what she was thinking anyway, coming here. She’d let the police handle it. “I’ll go myself.”

“I’ll escort you, Miss,” the security guard repeated.

“Okay, thanks.” Jill walked to the entrance, sticking her hand into her purse for her cell phone. She went through the doors, found her BlackBerry, and walked to her car while the security guard stopped in front of the entrance and folded his arms. By the time she was in the driver’s seat, she was already pressing 411, for information.

“In Philadelphia, Pennsylvania,” Jill said into the phone. “Please connect me to Central Detectives.”

Chapter Fifty-three

Jill stopped at a red light on Weehawk Boulevard, holding her cell phone to her ear, waiting for the call to connect to Central Detectives. She felt sick at heart and flashed on Nina, smiling up at Jill, with pride at her new promotion.

I just became second-in-command. I’m a VP now.

The phone call connected, and a male voice said, “Detective Ramallah speaking.”

“My name’s Jill Farrow, and I’m calling about my ex-husband’s case, William Skyler.” She had to remember which detective to ask for. “I spoke last with Detective Hightower.”

“Wait, I just saw him. I’m going to put you on hold.”

“Thanks.” Jill waited for Detective Hightower, still upset about Nina. The traffic light turned green, but the cars barely moved because of a commotion, up ahead. White municipal trucks were on the scene, and water bubbled from the street, sloshing from a broken water main. Cops were diverting traffic off Weehawk Boulevard, using a trio of parked cruisers as a blockade, their lights flashing. Jill heard a click on the cell phone.

“Yes, this is Detective Hightower.”

“Detective, thanks for taking the call.” Jill fed the car gas as the traffic eased up, and she turned left in front of the waving policeman, driving slowly through the spreading water.

“Dr. Farrow, I thought we understood each other.”

“I need to bring you some new information. How long will you be there?” Jill didn’t have time to see Detective Hightower before her noon appointment with Padma and Rahul, and she couldn’t postpone that again. “I have to see a patient first, but that won’t take long.”

“I’m here all day unless we get a job, you know that we closed the case on William Skyler. Correction, we never opened one.”

“No, please, listen. My ex-husband was selling inside information on Pharmcen drugs, to the tune of two-and-a-half million dollars.” Jill followed the traffic left, then right, and the scenery changed almost instantly, from corporate campuses to wide open spaces.

“Do you have proof of this?”

“Yes, I do. He was using his girlfriend, who works there, and I have proof, in his laptop.” Jill passed a white clapboard farmhouse, with bay horses that grazed in a pasture near the road, their heads down and their black tails switching at unseen flies.