Disturb (5 page)

The machine was Italian, a top end model. It had been their first purchase together, after moving into the condo. Kristen loved making lattes, and double cappuccinos, and espresso so thick you could eat it with a fork.

Bill turned away from it. The microwave dinged and he stirred some sugar into his coffee and went back to the sofa.

The log he was currently reviewing detailed experiments with rhesus monkeys. An early version of N-Som had kept a test animal awake for almost eight months. Bill wanted to find out how the experiment ended.

Day 236—Sam continues to act strangely, refusing his usual morning fruit. Vitals are normal, though his eyes seem a bit glassy. After discussing the situation with Theena, I order for a complete blood work up.

Bill reached for the next page, but there were no more in file.

He looked by his feet, to see if it any had fallen under the table. Coming up empty, he sifted through the previous pages, then the pages of several other folders.

Nothing.

Bill frowned. The guy in charge of organizing everything, Dr. Townsend, had done an amazing job putting every relevant bit of information about the project into coherent, chronological order. Previous experiments had ended with a calculation of results and Dr. Nikos’s notes and conclusions. There were none to be found in this case.

Bill yawned. “Maybe back at DruTech.”

He took another sip of coffee and peeled off his socks, balling them up and taking them into the bedroom. As he undressed, he thought about the unlimited potential for this drug. Revolutionary didn’t begin to describe it.

A world without sleep. Where commerce existed twenty-four hours a day, and brilliant thinkers never became fatigued. There would be more time for work, to get things done, to make more money. And more time for play, to be with friends, to spend extra hours with loved ones. How much were those extra hours worth?

Bill knew. He knew more than anyone.

He yawned again, and glanced down at his coffee.

“You’re not doing your job.”

It was late, anyway. Tired as he was, he might actually sleep well tonight. Bill was just sticking his toothbrush in his mouth when the phone rang.

Theena?

She hadn’t come on to him again, after the scene in Manny’s bedroom, and had remained strictly business for the remainder of the tour. Their meeting ended with a brusque handshake. Had her flirting really been an act? Or did she really find him as attractive as he found her?

Bill picked up the phone.

“Dr. May?”

It wasn’t Theena. The voice was male, Midwestern, deep and cold.

“Yes? Who is this?”

“There’s a package for you in the hall.”

A click, and then Bill was left listening to the dial tone. He walked, warily, to the door. The peephole showed an empty hallway.

Keeping a firm grip on the knob, he unlocked the dead bolt and eased it open a crack.

There was a thick manila envelope sitting on his doormat.

Bill again peered down the hall, then snatched the envelope and locked his door.

It was unmarked, unsealed. Inside was a VHS videotape without any label.

Bill searched his mind for a friend or coworker that might pull a stunt like this, but he came up empty. No one he knew would do this. Especially this late at night.

He shivered.

Part of him didn’t want to play it, to put it away until the sun was out, until he had other people around him.

But curiosity overcame his trepidation. Bill popped the tape into his VCR.

After several seconds of black, a dimly lit room came on screen. It had concrete floors and walls. Possibly a basement. Bill could tell by the quality that it was home video.

“Come over here.”

The voice was off screen. Then two men walked into frame from the left. One had on a ski mask, and he was holding a gun to the back of the other man.

Michael Bitner.

Bill’s golf friend, the doctor who had been assigned to the N-Som case before him.

“Kneel down.”

Mike had some blood in the corner of his mouth, and his right eye was swollen almost shut. He looked terrified. His captor forced him to his knees.

“N-Som will get FDA approval.”

Mike whimpered. “Yes. I promise it will.”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

The shot made Bill bite the inside of his cheek. Mike flopped sideways, twitched twice, then was still.

The tape ended.

Bill double checked to make sure the door was locked.

Then he called the police.

“H
ow could he be gone? There was a cop outside the door.”

Captain Halloran scratched his graying mustache and shifted his bulk in the chair, which was small for him and seemed too low to the ground. He shouldn’t have taken the seat when offered. It hurt his back, his knees, and made him seem fatter, older and less important that he actually was. Halloran knew Rothchilde had bought that chair for those very reasons—his own was higher and wider, with armrests that ended in polished mahogany knobs, like a throne.

He didn’t like Albert Rothchilde. The man was whiny, arrogant, and spoiled. Whereas Halloran earned his rank by busting his ass for twenty plus years, Rothchilde was simply born into the right family. Halloran knew the guy wouldn’t last two minutes on the street.

But this wasn’t the street. This was Rothchilde’s twenty-two room house, the one that was featured in People Magazine. Halloran glanced at some stupid painting hanging behind Rothchilde’s desk. Rothchilde had casually mentioned its worth during a previous meeting, and then chuckled saying he’d bought the Mayor for less.

To make matters more uncomfortable, Rothchilde was completely right. Halloran’s men had screwed up. All Halloran could do was grit his teeth and bare the storm.

“The Officer said he’d gone to get a cup of coffee. When he came back, Manny was gone.”

“Coffee?” Rothchilde smiled, but his beady eyes showed no trace of amusement. He was a thin man, almost skinny, with soft hands and slender fingers that were always carefully manicured. His hair was black, parted on the side, and his hawkish nose and slight overbite reminded Halloran of a rat.

“This man is worth over a billion dollars to me, and you lost him for a fifty cent cup of coffee.”

“The guy just had surgery. Who would have thought he’d get up and leave?”

“How do we know he left? How do we know he wasn’t taken?”

Halloran tried to sound like the authority his title represented. “Couldn’t have happened. Patient in the room across the hall saw Manny steal some clothes from a drawer. He called the nurse, but too late.”

Rothchilde let out a slow breath. Truth be told, Halloran was afraid of him. It didn’t matter that he could break Rothchilde’s skinny little canned-tan body over his knee like a broomstick. Rothchilde’s power was greater than physical. The President of the United States took his calls. So did the capos of the biggest families on both coasts.

“We need him found, Captain.” Rothchilde used the rank as if it tasted foul in his mouth. “Whoever killed Dr. Nikos obviously wanted Manny dead too. We can’t let that happen. It would cause an unforgivable delay.”

“We’ll find him.”

“Then why is your fat ass still sitting here?”

Halloran ground his teeth. The extra money wasn’t worth it. He should tell this bozo off right here and now.

Instead, he left the office and went to check on the search for Manny.

Albert Rothchilde watched him go. Insulting Halloran was normally a fun activity, but there was no joy in it today. There was too much at stake.

Rothchilde swiveled around in his leather chair and stared up at his Miró. He found the use of color garish, and didn’t think the composition was correctly balanced. But it was a Miró, and status couldn’t be much more symbolic than that.

If things went according to plan, he’d be able to plaster every wall of his mansion with Mirós. That was frivolous yet lofty enough to make people talk about him. He could make his home the largest Miró museum in the world.

But that was only the beginning. Art was a hobby. Rothchilde wanted power. He wanted American Products to expand, for his corporate empire to grow.

And grow it shall. Perhaps he would become big enough to take over Microsoft. Or Disney. General Motors might be fun to run. He imagined launching a new sports car, calling it the Rothchilde GT.

“Maybe I’ll buy it all.”

Rothchilde had his people come up with projected sales figures for N-Som. It staggered him, and he’d been around money all his life. With a conservative estimate of only ten percent of the US population taking the drug, Rothchilde would be making nine billion dollars a month. Of course, more than ten percent would take it. Within five years, half the population of the world would be taking it. And that didn’t even include the proposed military contract, which would make him richer than the combined fortunes of the next seven runners-up.

Rothchilde idly wondered if France was for sale. He’d have his secretary make a few calls.

But first things first.

Someone was trying to sabotage the N-Som project, and Rothchilde needed to find out who.

There was a chance, however slight, that Dr. Nikos’s murder had nothing to do with N-Som. Perhaps the doctor had personal enemies. Or perhaps it was just some unfortunate random lunatic. Rothchilde hoped that was the case, but he had to plan for the worst.

Besides the CPD, Rothchilde had enlisted his friends in the government for help. He also sent feelers out to all of the families he supported, to see if anyone in the underworld had issues with him. So far, nothing had come up.

“Could be anyone. Anyone at all.”

In his more creative moments, sipping hundred year old port and snorting coke off a call girl’s welted backside, Rothchilde imagined he was being challenged by another pharmaceutical company. Sleeping pills were a billion dollar industry. Perhaps the manufacturer of Dalmane or Halcion was trying to keep their bread and butter.

It could even be the Sealy Mattress company, afraid of losing long-term sales. Soon, the bedroom would be a thing of the past. The same with pajamas, hotels, night lights, caffeinated beverages, and a slew of other products related to the sleep/wake cycle.

Rothchilde delegated it to the back of his mind. All the wheels were in motion. Manny would be found, and his attacker would be dealt with. The important thing now was Dr. Bill May and FDA approval.

He opened a side drawer in his desk and took out Bill’s file. The doctor had been a medical officer with CDER for over ten years. During that time, he’d overseen clinical trials on forty-eight different drugs. Only eight of these had gone on to receive FDA approval. Bill was responsible for killing the other forty.

Like most governmental offices, the FDA worked by committee. Besides the clinical review, new drugs must submit to Toxicology and Chemistry panels. Rothchilde had been able to pass these already—the chemistry reviewer had children. It was easy to coerce her into approval without having to reveal the secret manufacturing process. As far as pharmacology went, N-Som wasn’t toxic. The way it was made didn’t negate the fact that it worked, and worked well.

Unfortunately, the previous clinical reviewer asked too many questions. Rothchilde stared at Bill’s file and hoped this wouldn’t end up the same way. The doctor’s history showed him to be smart, ethical, and stubborn. Three times in the past, companies had attempted to bribe him. Those companies were no longer in business. Even if Rothchilde threw an obscene amount of money at him, he knew Bill wouldn’t take it.

Especially after the unfortunate occurrence with Bill’s wife.

Perhaps there was a way to work that angle. It warranted some thought. Unfortunately, there was no other person in Bill’s life that they could use to squeeze him.

Rothchilde wondered if the video tape was having its desired effect. Was Bill terrified and eager to please?

Doubtful. But that wasn’t Rothchilde’s plan. He hoped to unhinge Bill just enough to keep his full concentration off the review process. A scared man might miss the things his predecessor had uncovered.

Rothchilde predicted Bill’s course of action. He’d call the police, who wouldn’t help—Halloran would see to that. Bill might look closer at N-Som to find out its secret, but Rothchilde had disposed of all the risky paperwork. Another threat or two, maybe an actual physical encounter, and Bill would have no evidence that N-Som was dangerous, but every incentive in the world to approve it.

In a way, it was lucky that Dr. Nikos was murdered. He would have had to be dealt with sooner or later. The same as his daughter, and the rest of the team.

The grandfather clock in the corner of the den chimed four times. Rothchilde smiled. He was fully awake and alert, and would be for another eighteen hours. And the total cost? Only eighty cents a pill.

“I’m going to be the wealthiest man in the world.”

Rothchilde’s mirth disappeared when he remembered how N-Som was made. He couldn’t get the antacids out of his pocket quick enough.

“Chemicals. That’s all. Nothing more than chemicals.”

But it took the whole roll to calm his stomach down.