Due Diligence (24 page)

When he disappeared from view, I yanked open the van door and hopped down. Inching toward the front of the van, I peered around the hood toward the right. I saw his glistening bald head off in the distance, moving away.

I started in the opposite direction, walking briskly toward the exit sign beyond the BMW section. My gait quickened as my anxiety continued to build. I cringed once, half expecting to feel a bullet rip into my back. I reached the exit and stared down the vast hallway. The rotunda was visible in the distance at the end of the hallway, maybe one hundred yards away.

I turned to look back, adjusting my backpack. My feet were killing me. As I scanned the crowd, I slipped off my pumps and shoved them into my purse. I didn't see him, and then I did. He was over to the left, maybe seventy-five yards away, moving along the edge of the showroom. For one horrible second our eyes met.

I whirled and sprinted down the hallway, my brief case in one hand, my purse slung over my shoulder. The purse swung wildly against my hip as I ran barefoot toward the rotunda that loomed up ahead. It seemed to take forever until I reached it. I burst through the door into a drizzling rain. My cab was idling on the street in front of the entrance. I jumped into the back seat as it pulled away with a screech.

I looked back. No sign of him. I continued to stare, sweaty and flushed, until the cab turned and the convention center disappeared. I slumped back against the seat. I was getting sick of this chase routine.

Chapter Twenty-six

Flo stood in the doorway, obviously baffled.

“It's me,” I said.

Her eyes widened. “Holy shit.” She grabbed my arm and yanked me into her hotel room. After triple-locking the door, she turned to me. “You okay?”

I shrugged. “I'm alive.”

“You weren't followed?”

“I don't think so.”

She checked me out from blond head to high-heeled toe. “Rachel Gold in fuck-me pumps.” She chuckled, shaking her head. “If only those goobers on the Harvard Law Review could see you now.”

“The man who invented these…” I grumbled as I kicked them off.

“…ought to be whipped like a circus monkey,” Flo said.

“…for starters.”

“Right on.” Flo walked over to the miniature refrigerator. “Here,” she said, handing me a bottle of Amstel Light. “You look like you could use one.”

“Thanks.” I twisted off the cap and tilted the beer to my lips.

“What happened to you tonight?”

I told her. When I was finished, Flo shook her head and said, “You've got to extricate yourself from this.”

“I can't anymore.”

“Why not? I can poke around some to see whether there's a story.”

I shook my head helplessly. “I can't, Flo. I'd love to, but I'm in it too deep. I'm a target. In fact, I'm probably the main target. People are definitely trying to kill me, and they're definitely going to keep on trying. My only hope is to solve this fast and turn it over to the press or the police or both. Otherwise, I'm dead.” I stood up and turned to her. “Those are my options. Solve it or die. I don't want to die.”

She stared up at me, her lips pursed. After a moment, she nodded decisively. “Then let's solve it, goddammit.”

I smiled warily. “My thought exactly.”

“So fill me in.”

I opened my briefcase and walked her through what I had discovered since we spoke last night and how it seemed to fit into what I already knew.

Flo listened intently. When I finished, she stared down at the two death certificates. “Guillain-Barré,” she mused. “What about the other thirteen?”

“Won't know that until tomorrow. The clerk said they'd be ready before noon.”

She reached for the Beth Shalom/Labadie Gardens list and asked, “The only deaths were women?”

I nodded. “All fifteen.”

“What about the ones that didn't die during that period? The ones that got sick but recovered. Are they women, too?”

“I don't know. That's why I need to talk to Mordecai Jacobs' widow. The medical files on these people are the key to everything. If he saved the old files from the Jewish nursing home, maybe she'll know where they are.

“What about the Labadie Gardens medical records?”

“Gone,” I said. “Destroyed in the fire.” I picked up the death certificate for June Bailey. “But look at this.” I pointed at the entry for attending physician: Peter Todorovich. “He may be far better than the files. Were you able to locate him?”

“Forget about him,” she said grimly.

“Why?”

“He's dead.”

“Oh, no. When? How?”

“In 1983. Two bullets in the chest.”

I sat down on the edge of the bed, numb. “What happened?” I asked quietly.

Flo sorted through a folder and pulled out a photocopy of a newspaper article from the
St. Louis Post-Dispatch
. “In 1981,” she said, “he left Armstrong Bioproducts to return to private practice. Two years later, while leaving Powell Hall after a symphony concert, he was robbed and killed.”

“Did they catch the killer?”

Flo shook her head. “Nope.”

I leaned against the dresser and crossed my arms. “Do you think it was staged?”

She shrugged. “We'll never find that out.”

I shook my head in frustration. “Oh, brother.”

“Let me see those Bruce Rosenthal questions again.”

I handed them to her and stared at the document over her shoulder.

Primax? Where?

Cross-referenced materials not there—Filing glitch?—Need to locate—Need to ask

What's going on with Guillain B?

Where are Primax files???—must find

Be sure to look for LGB—Sounds like typical G-B syndrome

Cross-reference to Phase Two Trial?—Need to check date—Phase Two Trial?—Not possible!?

“Well,” she finally said, “we found someone on that list who died of Guillain-Barré. Maybe two.”

“And maybe more after we get the other death certificates.”

“And presumably the LGB here”—she pointed—“refers to the same thing.”

I nodded. “And I assume the phase two trial refers to the second phase of human testing. Isn't that what the guy at the FDA called them?”

Flo nodded. “Yep. Once the FDA approves your Investigational New Drug application, you start with the phase one clinical trials on a small group of healthy people to determine whether there are any side effects. Once you get past that phase, you move to phase two clinicals on a large group who have the target disease.”

“So,” I said, pointing to the
Phase Two Trial
reference in Bruce's notes, “he thinks the dates are out of whack.”

She studied Bruce's notes. “For Primax?”

I shrugged. “Makes sense, doesn't it?”

Flo looked at me with a frown. “Except Armstrong Bioproducts never filed its IND for Primax. Right?”

I nodded. “They got as far as the galley proofs, but never went to the final version.”

Flo shook her head. “So what's going on? Where the hell is Primax?”

I stared intently at the Beth Shalom/Labadie Gardens list. And then, finally, another piece of the puzzle dropped into place. “Hmm,” I mused. “I wonder…”

“What?”

I reached for my pile of papers. “Wait.”

I found the trademark registration printouts for Phrenom and Primax. I held them side by side. Then I looked down at the Beth Shalom/Labadie Gardens list. “Good God,” I said.

“What, Rachel?”

I pointed to the Beth Shalom/Labadie Gardens list of names. “Do you know who these people really are?”

“Who?”

I shook my head in wonder. “These are the people in the phase two trials.”

“Of what?”

“Of Phrenom and Primax.”

Flo looked down at the list and then back at me. “Huh?”

“Look at this trademark printout for Phrenom,” I said, handing it to her.

She studied it. “Okay?”

“Do you see the generic name for Phrenom?”

Flo read, “Phenylpyrrole Sodium.”

“Now look at the trademark registration printout for Primax.”

“It's a registered trademark?” she said with surprise as she took the printout.

“Was.” I showed her the entry. “It was canceled in 1975. What's the drug's generic name?”

She read aloud, “Primillamine Acid.”

“So Phrenom is Phenylpyrrole Sodium, and Primax is Primillamine Acid.”

“Okay,” she said uncertainly.

I handed her the Beth Shalom/Labadie Gardens list. “Take a careful look at this list.”

I came around to look with her:

Flo studied the list for nearly a full minute before it clicked. She looked at me, her eyes widening. “You think?”

I nodded. “What else could they stand for? According to the trademark registration materials, Armstrong Bioproducts filed its registration papers for Phrenom and Primax on the same day. They also had drafts of IND applications at the printers for both drugs around the same time, too. That tells me that they were working on the two drugs in tandem, right?” I pointed at the headings on the lists. “P/S has to stand for Phenylpyrrole Sodium and P/A must be Primillamine Acid.”

“Let me get this straight,” Flo said. “If you're right, then the people in the first column at each of these nursing homes were getting Phrenom.”

“And the other group was getting Primax.”

“But these people,” she said, pointing to the fifteen names I had checked off, “were dead by…when?”

“They all died between August twenty-third and September fourth, 1974.”

She stared at me. “According to the printer's records, neither of the INDs had been filed with the FDA by then. In fact, the IND for Primax was never filed.”

I nodded.

She looked back at the list. “Which means,” she continued, “Jesus, Rachel, these were illegal human tests.”

“Exactly. Don't you see? That's what got Bruce so agitated. Look at his notes on the phase two trials. He said he needed to check the date on them, right? Because the date he had found was, quote, ‘Not possible!?' He thought there had to be a mistake on the date of the clinical trials because he knew the INDs hadn't been filed yet.”

Flo sat down and shook her head in wonder. “This is some major league heavy shit. Illegal drug tests? Resulting in deaths? Involving Senator Armstrong's former company? Former? Hell, this was back when he was running the damn place.” She looked up at me.

“What else do you need?” I asked.

She shook her head and whistled. “You're talking about a United States senator and a presidential candidate. I'll never get this story into print without confirmation.”

“I understand that,” I said calmly. “What else do you need?”

Flo chuckled. “A witness would sure be nice.”

“We're running out of them,” I said. “Todorovich is dead.”

“As for Fowler,” Flo said, “something tells me he's not going to be on Team Tribune.”

“What about the other two names I gave you on the phone last night?”

Flo shook her head. “Nothing. Tuck works for the European division of Toyota. I wasn't able to get through to him today, but he doesn't seem like a good bet. I checked his employment history with Armstrong Bioproducts. He didn't join the company until 1979. That was five years after these deaths. And he was only there for three years.”

“How about Ronald McDonald?”

Flo smiled. “Poor guy ought to legally change his name, eh? He lives near D.C. Works for a small munitions manufacturer in Arlington. I talked to him this morning. He claims he never knew a thing about the research and development side of the company, and I believe him. He joined the company in 1978 to head up their pharmaceutical production. His whole existence at Armstrong revolved around cutting costs and increasing production quotas. He was basically a glorified plant manager. Did it for seven years. Strike him from the list. Who's left?”

“Douglas Armstrong,” I said flatly.

“Don't forget his mouthpiece.”

I gave a rueful laugh. “Sherman Ross? Forget it. He won't talk.”

“And he sure as hell won't let Armstrong talk.”

I pointed to the list. “Which brings us back to the medical records.”

“If
there are any left.”

“That's what I'm going to find out tomorrow morning,” I said. “Let's hope Mrs. Jacobs has those files in her basement.”

“It's a long shot,” Flo said dubiously.

“It's just about our only shot.”

We divided up our tasks for the following morning. I would concentrate on Mordecai Jacobs' widow, and Flo would try to tie up the loose ends from today, which included obtaining the remaining thirteen death certificates and talking with someone at Mt. Sinai Hospital about any contractual arrangements it had with Beth Shalom or Labadie Gardens back in the mid-1970s.

It was close to midnight when we finished, and we were both starving. Flo called down to room service and had them deliver a huge quantity of shrimp cocktail and fried calamari, along with a bottle of chilled white wine. I hid in the closet when room service arrived. Just in case.

When the bottle was uncorked and the wine poured, Flo raised her glass in a toast. “To Colonel McCormick and his wonderful expense account. May that anti-Semitic, racist, right-wing prick rot in hell.”

“Here, here,” I said as we touched glasses.

We pigged out on the room-service goodies. Before long, the bottle of wine was empty and we were giggling like the school girls we once were. It was sheer bliss to be able to forget, even momentarily, David's death and my predicament.

It was nearly two in the morning when we started getting ready for bed. Flo was brushing her teeth over the bathroom sink. I stood next to her, staring at my face in the mirror.

“Time for another change,” I said with a sigh.

Flo rinsed her mouth. “Huh?”

“They know my disguise.” I touched my hair. “It's time to become a redhead.” I turned my head to the side. “I should shorten it, too.” I looked over at Flo. “Could you help cut it?”

Flo wiped her mouth with a face towel and grinned. Sure.

We brought a chair into the bathroom. I sat in front of the mirror with a towel draped over my shoulders while Flo intently snipped away.