Fatal Reaction (26 page)

“Any chance they’ll reopen the investigation?”

“That’s hard to say. The wheels of justice always grind pretty slowly in this town, but even more so these days.”

“Then I want you to be sure to go ahead and check out Michael Childress.”

“Is he the crystallographer you were telling me about?”

“Yes. I’ve been asking around. Supposedly Danny hated his guts, but Childress was always in Danny’s office for one thing or other.”

“So you think it might have been window dressing?”

“That’s what I want you to find out. The other guy is a protein chemist by the name of Dave Borland. There was a lot of animosity between the two men on account of an EEOC suit against Borland.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll turn their lives inside out for you.”

“Did you ever find out anything about Hiroshi Toyoda?”

“Yes. He’s in the country right now, by the way.”

“I know. I’m flying to New York to meet him this afternoon.”

Elliott reached into his inside pocket and came out with a small spiral notebook, which he flipped open and consulted before speaking. “Hiroshi Toyoda, age thirty-four, born in Santiago, Chile.”

“Chile?”

“His father was attached to the consulate. He lived in Latin America until he was eleven, then his father was assigned back to Tokyo for two years. When he was thirteen, Hiroshi’s dad began a six-year stint in Washington, D.C. By all accounts our friend is a pretty cosmopolitan fellow, fluent in Spanish, Portuguese, English, and naturally Japanese. Smart, too—Georgetown, Harvard Law, M.B.A. from Wharton. Comfortably well-off until he married his wife, Fumiko, who is Takisawa’s only daughter. Now he’s rich, big-time rich. The couple live in Tokyo. They have a country house outside of Nagasaki and a place in Hawaii where they get away a couple times a year to play golf.”

“Children?”

“One. A son. His wife is ten years older than he is, by the way.”

“Was he in the country when Danny died?” I asked, though with what I now knew about PAFI was even less inclined to suspect Hiroshi of any involvement.

“We’re still working on that. But he travels to the U.S. a couple times a month, usually to New York, and always with his private secretary.”

“Really? Has she been with him for a long time?”

“You mean him. The secretary is a man. I called the house detective at the St. Regis, which is where he always stays when he’s in New York. It seems he always travels with a personal secretary, always a young man in his twenties, but...”

“But what?”

“But never the same one twice.”

The minister who officiated at Danny’s funeral was a downy-faced probationer who offered up a generic service filled with platitudes about eternity and redemption while a plump woman in a green dress played the piano and exuded the humid scent of alcohol.

There were perhaps two dozen people. Stephen and I sat alone together in the front row, and when I turned around, I saw mostly familiar faces. Tom Galloway sat between a representative of Azor’s bank and its firm of accountants. Carl Woodruff came, as did Lou Remminger, who, dressed entirely in black, actually managed to pass for just another mourner.

Stephen’s assistant, Rachel, looked terribly smart in a black suit from Ann Taylor. I was surprised to see her sitting in the last row beside Elliott Abelman, their heads close together in whispered conversation. Other than that there were perhaps five or six other people, all men, all young, none of whom I recognized. Later Elliott told me that one of them was Danny’s neighbor from across the hall. These were the people whom Elliott had come for, hoping one of them would lead him into Danny’s other, private life.

The lawyer in me still waited for some long-lost relative to come forward and make a claim on Danny’s estate, but so far none had materialized. Apparently Danny’s grandmother had been his only relative. The casket was a handsome one of burnished copper—the most expensive one they had.

Stephen delivered the eulogy. He talked feelingly about his long friendship with Danny and their early struggles. He recalled Danny’s judgment and his wit, but it was his obvious grief at his friend’s passing that provided the most eloquent tribute.

When he sat down, a young man with auburn hair rose and took his place beside the coffin. He was a soloist from the Chicago Gay Men’s Chorus. He stood for a moment, silent and perfectly still. Then simply, without accompaniment, he sang the old ballad “Danny Boy.” His voice was a gorgeous, lyrical tenor that rolled out of him effortlessly and filled the dim chapel like a warm light. Until I heard it, I had not realized that it was possible for music to actually pierce the heart.

I did not go to the cemetery. I told myself that Danny would understand. Instead I took a cab straight from the funeral home to the airport for my flight to New York. Because Azor was paying for my ticket I’d had Cheryl book me to New York in coach. When I got on the plane I was rewarded for my virtue with half a soggy turkey sandwich in a Styrofoam container and a seat beside a three-hundred-pound man.

However, once I arrived at LaGuardia I found that Bud Hellman had arranged the full visiting-partner treatment. A driver met me at the gate holding a sign with my name on it—correctly spelled. He relieved me of my briefcase, inquired whether I’d had a pleasant flight, and ushered me to the black limousine that was waiting at the curb.

There was a time, in law school, when I had just assumed I would live and work in Manhattan. New York, after all, is where the big leagues of corporate law are played. Indeed, I spent the summer after my first year of law school clerking at Cravath Swain. Besides the obvious attraction of being asked to be a summer associate at one of the most prestigious law firms in the country, there was also the undeniable charm of living in a different time zone than my parents.

But while I’d found the work at Cravath intermittently interesting I’d ended the summer with a renewed appreciation of the Second City. Arriving in New York in June, I’d been thrilled by the hustle of the city that never sleeps, the sea of taxicabs rushing up Sixth Avenue like the tide. But by July Manhattan seemed hot and dirty, filled with people who, from the senior partners at Cravath to the addled beggars on the street, seemed to feel it was okay to yell at people without reason or explanation.

We fought traffic all the way into midtown. Finally, the driver delivered me to the St. Regis, left me with his beeper number, and went off to wherever it is that limo drivers disappear to. I crossed the sumptuous lobby and found the house phone. I had begun the day at Danny’s funeral and then flown a thousand miles to bring the news that he was dead. The fact that I also meant to try to persuade Hiroshi to use his influence with his father-in-law did nothing to lighten the burdens of the day.

I dialed Hiroshi’s suite and was instructed by the voice that answered to come directly upstairs. In the elevator I stared at my reflection in the polished brass of the doors. A grim and prim corporate attorney bearing a black briefcase and bad news stared back. As clearly as if she were with me I heard my mother’s voice. It said, “I don’t understand why you choose to do this.” As the elevator doors parted and I stepped out into the long hall that would take me to meet Hiroshi, I had to confess that at that moment I didn’t understand either.

I pressed the bell beside the double door to the suite and listened as the four notes chimed sweetly on the other side. A few seconds later the door was opened by a slim young Japanese in an expensively tailored double-breasted suit. I assumed he was the secretary. Indeed, in the manner of a good underling he made no attempt to introduce himself but instead stepped back to let me pass, announcing, “This way, please.” I suspected the phrase was the total extent of his English.

I followed him into the living room, which was enormous for New York, not to mention Tokyo. We stood smiling idiotically at each other for a few minutes amid the striped Regency chairs and tasseled curtains. He couldn’t have been much over twenty-two or twenty-three and I wondered what kind of services, secretarial or otherwise, he had come to New York to provide.

An inner door opened and another man emerged from the bedroom, hand extended, apologizing profusely for keeping me waiting. From the neck up Hiroshi Toyoda was pure Japanese, but everything else about him was disconcertingly American: his jaunty manner, his mid-Atlantic accent, even his pink Ralph Lauren button-down shirt and his crisply ironed khakis. We shook hands, and he waved me into a seat, dismissing his secretary with a few words of Japanese.

“Thank you for making the time to see me,” I said, feeling terrible about what I was about to do.

“My pleasure, my pleasure,” replied Hiroshi, “though I must confess I am surprised that Dr. Azorini didn’t send Danny to discuss whatever it is you have come to talk to me about.”

“I’ve come to discuss Danny.”

“Oh?”

I took a breath. There are no words that can soften the impact of what I had to say. No right way to catapult a person into grief. So I just came out with it. “Danny died a few days ago,” I said. “He had a perforated ulcer and he bled to death. It was very unexpected.”

For a moment I almost thought Hiroshi hadn’t heard me. His face was frozen, impassive, his body completely still. I waited awkwardly, reminding myself that the Japanese disdain the American need to talk all the time and instead value the ability to accept silence.

“I think I should go,” I said quietly, after several minutes had passed. “I do not wish to intrude on your sorrow.”

“No, no. You have come all this way just to bring me this sad news. You must at least stay and have tea with me.”

“I would like that. Thank you.”

“If you would be so good as to excuse me for a few minutes, I will make the necessary arrangements.”

He rose and retreated into the bedroom. I got up and walked over to the window and looked down at the city traffic. Either Hiroshi was a tremendous actor or his surprise at learning of Danny’s death was genuine. I was glad. The negotiations with Takisawa were going to be hairy enough without suspecting our future partners of murder.

Hiroshi returned a few minutes later looking composed and serious. He had changed into a business suit and tie. His demeanor had changed as well. Somehow with the news of Danny’s death the Western-style openness he’d displayed when I first arrived was gone, replaced if not by an Eastern reserve, then by a greater formality. While he no longer seemed precisely grief stricken, he did somehow seem more Japanese.

The doorbell rang and a room service waiter appeared with our tea. I stood near the window as Hiroshi fussed over the tray making sure everything was exactly as it should be. When he was finished and the check signed, I took a seat opposite him.

“You know how strongly Danny believed in a strategic alliance between the Takisawa Corporation and Azor Pharmaceuticals,” I said, once the tea had been poured. “He believed it presented a unique opportunity to not only make a lifesaving drug, but to put our efforts at the forefront of pharmaceutical research for many, many years. Danny’s death has not changed that.

“I have not yet had the honor of meeting your father-in-law, but I have read much of what has been written about him. Everyone speaks of his wisdom and his vision. But I know how difficult it is for American and Japanese companies to establish a relationship of trust. , From what Dr. Azorini tells me Danny and your father-in-law had mutual respect for each other based on the value of your long friendship with him. I have come to ask for your help and support in continuing the friendship between our companies even though our friend Danny is no longer with us.”

Hiroshi sipped his tea thoughtfully before responding. “In some ways we are not so different in Japan as you in America may think,” he said. “Fathers are still fathers, and sons-in-law unfortunately are still the ones who have stolen the affections of their beloved daughters. My father-in-law has achieved much in his long life, but the men of his generation are deeply suspicious of dealing with the West. I would be lying to you if I told you that my father-in-law has no reservations about Dr. Azorini. That he is a doctor, a chemist, and a businessman is something my father-in-law finds difficult to understand. He wonders why Dr. Azorini has not chosen one path as opposed to trying to walk many.”

“Dr. Azorini’s background has prepared him well for the path he walks as president of a pharmaceutical company,” I replied.

Hiroshi nodded, but I could not tell whether he was agreeing with me or merely indicating that I had his attention. “I think it is also a concern that Azor Pharmaceuticals seems to be one man’s company.”

“Unlike Takisawa?” I countered quickly.

“Ah, but the Takisawa Corporation is more than forty years old, and it will live on long after my father-in-law has gone.”

“Then there was a time your father-in-law well remembers when his company was six years old.”

“But never a time when it was the product of such a dynamic personality as Stephen Azorini. You must understand, Miss Millholland, I am only playing the devil’s advocate. I believe as Danny did that through our investment in Azor Pharmaceuticals our company would be making an investment in the future. But if I am to help you as you ask, I must tell you what concerns you will face from my father-in-law.

“Tatsuro Takisawa lost half his family in the bombing in Nagasaki. You can understand that experience has made him deeply suspicious of the intentions of the West. That Stephen is so unusual, in his background as well as his demeanor, makes my father-in-law very nervous. Danny’s death is most unfortunate in that it is unexpected. Tatsuro does not like anything that rocks the boat. He does not like change and he does not like surprises.”

“You have my word,” I assured him gravely. “From here on in, I promise, there will be no surprises.”

CHAPTER 21

When I arrived at LaGuardia, it was in its usual end-of-the-day nightmare state. Beleaguered businessmen in crumpled suits wearily humped their briefcases and laptops down crowded concourses that reeked of popcorn and seemed to go on forever while babies cried and electric carts beeped. I got to the gate only to learn to my disgust that my plane would be delayed for some unspecified amount of time by fog in Boston. After twenty minutes or so of serious jockeying at the ticket counter I anted up my gold card and snagged the last first-class seat on a flight that left in twenty minutes. Sprinting to the farthest gate on the most distant concourse I managed to make it on board just as they were closing the doors.