The RX Factor (23 page)

McNally pointed out an imposing plant with leafy arms that reached all the way up to the ceiling. "That thing's from South America. I forget the name, but it's a man-eater."

"What?"

"It can grab you, suck you up, and eat you."

The last stop was the boardroom. The mammoth table had been shined to a high luster, and the high-backed leather chairs that surrounded it were individual works of art clearly not meant to accommodate the asses of mid-level managers.

Off to the side, a shiny brass-railed bar stretched the length of the room, backed by an impressive array of bottles from all over the world. Two bartenders in starched whites stood ready to serve their distinguished clientele.

Wiley was happy to see that he and McNally were the first to arrive. After they ordered their drinks, McNally quietly filled Wiley in on Mr. Jacob Stedman. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, as the senator put it, Stedman wouldn't rest until that spoon turned to gold. He was part of a business family with roots a mile deep in American industry. His position at FSW had been ordained since childhood, and he had been groomed for it from his earliest days. As the CEO of the world's leading pharmaceutical company, he was a well-respected man and considered by many in the corporate world to be the cream of the crop as a result of his success at the helm of FSW.

The senator had barely finished filling Wiley in when Jacob Stedman strode into the room, followed closely by two subordinates. Stedman looked the part: silver-haired, square-chinned, cold-eyed. He appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties. His associates, too, played their parts well. One was clearly a lackey, there to keep his mouth shut unless asked for technical information. Perhaps his job was to take notes. The other, well dressed but menacing, looked every bit as Machiavellian as Stedman. He introduced himself as William Craven before heading to the bar.

The lackey followed Stedman to the table, where they beckoned the senator and Wiley to join them. The bartenders gave the new arrivals their drinks and left the room, securing the doors behind them.

Stedman took a quick sip of his drink before getting down to business. "Senator," he said, "we have a problem that must be dealt with. You're aware of Dr. Ryan Matthews and the tragedy he suffered five years ago."

The senator nodded. Wiley did not give any assent; he knew nothing about it.

Stedman continued, "After that we left him alone, keeping an eye on him from time to time. Each report came back that he had turned into a drunk island-dweller and represented no threat to our operations."

"And?"

"About a year ago, we learned that a Dr. Jordan Carver out of Chicago was constructing a medical clinic in Sayulita, Mexico, just a few miles away from our clinic in Punta de Mita. At first, we had no real concern. These clinics are all over, and none of them compare in quality to our operations. In fact, they cater their so-called 'natural' medications to anyone who can afford them. But they can't successfully market their product to someone about to take their last breath."

The senator nodded knowingly.

"About nine months ago, we learned that Dr. Carver had gained access to several of our drugs, the same ones we offer at NHCA."

Wiley spoke up for the first time. "How can that be?"

Before Stedman had a chance to answer, the senator asked, "When were you going to tell me this?"

Craven walked over from the bar and took a seat next to Stedman. "You're being told now. And we don't know how she did it. When we found out, our biggest concern was not that she had these drugs, but that she was going to sell them for a fraction of our price. We approached her about joining up. We offered her everything under the sun, but she refused. After that, we tried to get the permits pulled for her clinic, but it became apparent that, at the time, she had influential investors backing her, and we were unsuccessful."

"What do you mean 'at the time'?" Wiley asked.

Craven ignored the question. "After all else failed, we concluded that Carver had to be eliminated. We wanted to keep it clean and off U.S. soil which is why we decided to take care of the problem on her next trip to Mexico."

Wiley felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He wanted to leave before he heard another word. He finally grasped the senator's warnings. He was in deep.

"Then we found out she planned to visit her aunt and uncle in Exuma," Craven continued. "Her uncle happened to be Henry Carver, who was also her big investor. We decided this would be the perfect opportunity to not only take her out, but to eliminate any prospect of old Henry Carver continuing his niece's efforts in her memory. The plan was—"

The senator motioned for Craven to stop. "Let me save you the trouble," he said. "I already know about the failed attempts on Dr. Carver's life. I know about the explosion in Exuma and the one in Chicago. I know about the two Haitians who went over a cliff and burned to a crisp. I know Dr. Carver has befriended Matthews. I know they broke into your clinic in Punta de Mita last Saturday night. I know that the FBI has opened an investigation into the attempted murders and that they have cobbled together enough evidence to give themselves jurisdiction—looks like your former employee has made use of his contacts at the Bureau. I also know that an old friend of Matthews's, David Butters, was incinerated in his car in North Carolina, and that one of your associates was successful in intercepting that package yesterday morning outside the offices of Kalliburton."

Wiley's jaw dropped. If the senator was worried about going up against the big boys, he didn't look it. It was Stedman and Craven who were sweating bullets now.

"Here's what I wish you would have known," Senator McNally continued. "Six months ago, an informal investigation was opened against Carver and her new clinic in Mexico. It appears that some of the drug formulas she plans to dispense at her clinic are being obtained through some not-so-legal means. With a little nudging, I could have gotten her charged with corporate espionage, patent infringement, and a whole host of other charges. But you had to go and start this war with her and Matthews and now they are out collecting evidence that could bring us all down."

Stedman's face went pale. "Senator," he said, "I had no idea. If we had known—"

The senator cut him off. "Let's not forget, gentlemen, that we're on the same team. If one of us goes down, the rest will surely follow. If you have a problem outside of your normal course of business, you come to me first." He placed his hands on the table and leaned toward Stedman and Craven. "Now, you need to stop making headlines and leave Jordan Carver to me."

Craven frowned. "What about Matthews?"

The senator straightened. "Do whatever you have to do. Just keep it off the evening news."

Jordan plopped down on the hotel bed and
kicked off her shoes. "Do you believe in coincidence?" she asked.

Ryan sat beside her and removed his own shoes. "Not in this case, hell no! My friend tries to do us a favor, and before he can deliver, he's incinerated? No! He was murdered. And I feel like shit for getting him involved."

Her voice soft, Jordan said, "It's not your fault, Ryan."

He buried his face in his hands, and she rubbed the back of his neck until he got to his feet and started pacing. "It is my fault. I knew we were up against someone well connected and should have been more cautious."

They became quiet for a while, and as Jordan drifted off to sleep, Ryan relived their frustrating day. . . .

Ryan and Jordan approached the receptionist at Kalliburton Labs, a twenty-something bleached blonde wearing too much makeup in a failed attempt to hide her swollen eyes; it was obvious she'd been crying. She greeted them with a slow Southern drawl and a tragic half smile. With grief heavy in Ryan's own voice, he asked to see the person in charge.

The receptionist picked up her phone, dialed a few numbers and moments later a man appeared through an interior doorway. Hello, I'm Tag Donaghan." His voice was sullen. "How may I help you?"

"Hi, Tag. I'm Ryan Matthews and this is Jordan Carver."

They exchanged handshakes before Ryan continued. "Dave Butters was an old friend of mine. I'm still shell-shocked."

"We all feel terrible." Donaghan dropped his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Dave was not only our leader, but a good friend."

Ryan swallowed hard. "I spoke to Dave on Saturday from Mexico. I had a serum that was in urgent need of analysis and he agreed to come in on the holiday to get the package. I don't mean to be callous at such a time, but the contents of that package are irreplaceable. I'm wondering if you can find out where it is?"

"I'll see what I can do. Wait here. I'll check the mailroom."

Ten minutes later, he returned empty-handed. "There is no record of any package arriving from Mexico today or over the holiday weekend and your name is not anywhere in our system. I also checked Dave's office to make certain a mailroom employee didn't deliver it there first thing this morning."

"That's strange," Ryan said, disappointed, but not shocked. "This would have been a UPS delivery. What's the normal procedure for logging in such a package?"

"During business hours, it would be delivered to Reception and Misty here would log it in both manually and in our computer system and then call the mailroom to have it delivered. If a package arrives after-hours or on a weekend or holiday, the delivery drivers all know to leave the package in our drop box. Then first thing the next business morning, one of the mailroom staff logs in all the packages and makes the rounds."

Ryan gazed up towards the ceiling trying to think of his next step, all the while realizing that his friend had been murdered because of him. "Thanks for trying."

Ryan wrote down Jordan's cell phone number and handed it to Donaghan.

"If the package does show up, will you please give me a call?"

"Will do."

Back in the car, Ryan called UPS.

"Hi, my name is Ryan Matthews. I have a tracking number for a package sent to a Mr. Dave Butters at Kalliburton Labs in Mebane, North Carolina. I need the status of the delivery."

"Yes, sir, just a moment, please," came the customer service representative's reply. As Ryan rattled off the tracking number he heard the representative punching her keyboard, and within seconds, she had the information. "It looks like it was delivered to David Butters this past Monday at 10:44 a.m."

Ryan turned to Jordan, even though she couldn't hear what was being said. "That's not possible."

"Sir?"

"Dave Butters was killed in a car accident on Saturday night."

"Oh god, I'm so sorry to hear that. But according to our records, David Butters at Kalli-burton Labs signed for the package. There's only one Kalliburton Labs in Mebane, North Carolina. My records show that they're a major account, and we deliver there all the time."

"The company tells me that it never arrived. Could you give me the name and contact info for the delivery driver?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but that's against company policy. But I can give you the street address for the local office."

It was better than nothing.

At the UPS office in Durham, Ryan spoke to the supervisor who simply restated the company's privacy policy. Ryan was getting close to losing his temper when Jordan intervened.

She brushed her hair back and licked her lips. "I appreciate your company policy, and we're not looking to cause anyone any trouble. It's just that we need to find out what happened to this package. It contained sensitive medical data and the person we sent it to is now dead and the package is missing."

"Oh jeez, I'm sorry. I wish I could help, but I can't give out the driver's name or address. I could lose my job."

Jordan gave him a sad puppy-dog look but didn't say a word.

He fidgeted in his chair and scratched his head before speaking again. "But, the driver will be back to work on Thursday. He worked the weekend and holiday and is off today and tomorrow. If you want to come back then, eight a.m., you can speak with him personally."

Jordan gave the supervisor a big smile, thanked him for the information, and then she and Ryan headed for police headquarters to try to get more information about Butters's accident. Predictably enough, the police would not provide them with anything beyond what had already been reported in the news. They merely confirmed that, because of the intensity of the flames and the lack of any other vehicle at the scene, the accident was under investigation.

Ryan and Jordan phoned Jim Crawford in Chicago to give him an update on their latest adventures. Crawford was a typical Bureau man, calm and cool, but Ryan heard the concern in his old friend's response.

"Look, you guys, I want you to come in. You need Bureau protection."

Ryan shook his head, as if his friend could see him over the phone. "Thanks, Jim, but we have too much to do. I have to find out what's going on."

Crawford knew enough about Ryan Matthews to drop the Bureau-protection plea. "It's your call, Ryan, even though I don't agree with it. But lay low—no credit card purchases or paper trails, switch hotels, switch rental cars, and ditch the cell phone and replace it with a prepaid cell that can't be traced. I'll be there with my people in the morning. Where can we meet?"

Ryan complied. "I'll call you back with our new number, and then you can call us when you arrive. We'll figure out where to meet then." After disconnecting, Ryan contemplated his next move before announcing, "I'm going to call Eric Maynard and let him know what's happened."

"Why?"

"Let's just say I'm curious to get his reaction." He placed the call, listened carefully, and hung up. "His voice mail said that he would be out of the office all day, but that he'll be back tomorrow morning."

"Why didn't you leave him a message?"

"I want to hear his immediate reaction. Besides, Eric knew Dave as well as I did. It's not a message to leave on his voice mail."

Fifteen minutes after purchasing a prepaid cell phone and phoning Crawford with the number, they pulled up in front of a stylish three-bedroom ranch in Chapel Hill. The house had a spacious front lawn and a back yard full of Carolina spruce. It was now late afternoon and the big trees shadowed the house. With a heavy heart, Ryan rang the doorbell.