The Suicide Effect (22 page)

“Are we done?”

“Do you have a plastic bag?”

“Of course.” Marta brought her an empty bread bag. Sula decided it would be fine.

“Would you please write a note, indicating that you gave me these items and who they belonged to?”

Marta rolled her eyes. “I don’t have any paper.”

“I do.” Digging with one hand, Sula pulled the yellow tablet out of her shoulder bag. She found a pen in the side pocket and handed both to Marta.

Marta stepped over to the small table near the window. “What do I write?”

“Just say, ‘This pipe and hairbrush belonged to my husband Luis Rios. I gave them to Sula Moreno to give to the FDA.’ Then sign it and date it, please.”

Without sitting down, Marta scrawled the first half of the note. “How do you spell your name?”

Sula recited it slowly. Marta finished and signed with a flourish. “Is that it?”

“Yes. Thanks.” Sula tucked the note into the bread bag and stuffed the bag and notepad back into her purse. “I’m very sorry for your loss. Thanks again for helping me.”

Marta brought her hand to her mouth and looked as if she might cry out. Sula hurried from the apartment.

Román looked relieved to see her. Sula gave him a bright smile. “All set.”

As they rode the elevator down, Sula felt like humming. Overall, her day had gone well, starting with Felisa’s unexpected cooperation. As they walked toward the car, Román asked, “Where to now?”

Good question. Sula knew she should go back to the clinic and thank Felisa again, but then she would have to take a taxi back to the hotel. Now that she had the DNA samples, she really wanted to get on the next flight home and ship to the FDA as soon as possible. “The El Canario Inn, if you don’t mind.”

It would take months for the agency to compare the men’s DNA for a common mutation, but if Dr. Warner was right, they would find the genetic vulnerability. In the meantime, the regulators would ask to see Prolabs’ records for Luis and Miguel—along with the rest of the Puerto Rico participants. When Rudker couldn’t produce a paper trail, the agency would shut down the Nexapra trial until the company proved it had established a compliant system for storing data. At least she hoped it would play out something like that.

San Juan rush hour traffic was as bad as any big city, and the trip to the hotel took thirty minutes. Román grew impatient and muttered things like “idiota” and “mierda” under his breath. Sula called Felisa to share the success of her visits and promised to be in touch with her.

When they reached the El Canario, she gave Román a twenty as a thank you. She worried he might me offended by the amount, but he happily took the money and wished her “buena suerte.” Once inside her room, Sula called American Airlines to check for departing flight times that evening. After eight minutes on hold, she learned there was a flight out to Newark New Jersey, leaving at 7:05. From there, she could catch a connecting flight to Portland, Oregon, followed by a puddle jumper to Eugene, arriving home at 8:15 in the morning. She checked her watch: 5:37. With only carry-on luggage and a ten-minute ride to airport, she decided she could make it.

She called the front desk for a cab, then quickly packed up her bathroom stuff and dirty clothes from yesterday. A normal person would have taken a walk on the beach, had a nice dinner, and flown home in the morning. At the moment, Sula didn’t feel like a normal person. Her life was so unsettled, she couldn’t make herself relax. She had to get back home, get the DNA samples to the FDA, and find a job.

She also had to call her custody lawyer. Sula couldn’t believe she hadn’t done it yet. She dreaded having to tell Barbara she’d lost her job, but it was only fair that the lawyer know before they got to court. Now that the Nexapra business was taken care of, Sula could focus and start moving her life forward again. She took a Xanax to brace herself for the first of three back-to-back flights and felt more optimistic than she had in weeks. Sula hurried downstairs and stood outside to wait for the taxi, taking in all balmy air and sunshine she could while she still had the chance.

Shortly after entering the airport, Sula was selected for a bag search. After digging around, the young black woman pulled out the plastic bag containing the lock of Miguel Rios’ hair and Lucia’s handwritten label.

“What’s this?”

“Hair, for a DNA analysis.”

The woman raised one tightly coiffed eyebrow.

“Paternity suit. Trying to make a deadbeat dad pay up.”

“Good for you.” She stuffed the hair sample back into Sula’s cheap black bag and sent her on her way.

Sula was less anxious about flying this time. Darkness made a huge difference. Because she couldn’t see that she was a mile in the air, it was easier to forget. The trip would have been uneventful, except for the couple sitting directly in front of her. Young, attractive, and clearly in love, they whispered, kissed, and nuzzled each other constantly.

Sula envied their joy in each other. She’d never had a real relationship before. There was the brief episode with Tate’s father and a few dates in college, including one unsatisfying sexual encounter. That was the sum of her experience with men. Sula became painfully aware of how alone she was—and had been since she lost her family. If she didn’t get custody of Tate…

It was hard for her to think about how she would feel or what she would do. But she had to
live
, no matter how things turned out. Sula made up her mind to call Aaron DeSpain as soon as she got back to Eugene. It couldn’t hurt to have coffee with him.

Chapter 27

Trina Waterman flipped through the white pages of the phone book and failed to find Walter Krumble. She called Cathy Cusenik, another city councilor she was friendly with. Cathy didn’t know the old guy’s home number, but after Trina told her about the possible bribe, Cathy said she would find out and call right back. Krumble was retired, otherwise Trina would have called him at work.

Cathy failed to get back to her within the hour, so Trina rounded up her cameraman and they went downtown to Willamette and Broadway to shoot a segment about the remodeling of a cornerstone building that had been empty for years.

After interviewing a few downtown employees—a more articulate crowd than those at the trick bicycle competition yesterday—they went back to the station. A message from Cathy with Krumble’s phone number and address awaited her. Krumble didn’t answer when she called and Trina didn’t leave a message.

She delivered the evening’s news, then grabbed a quick salad at Wendys on Willamette. She was on her way to Crest Street to drop in on Krumble. Trina mentally outlined her plan of approach. Nailing the city councilor on the bribe would be a major coup in her investigation of Prolabs. Her lawyer, David Sanders, whom she was also dating, was currently looking into KJR Enterprises for her. If it she could get proof that Karl Rudker had cashed $2.7 million worth of checks made out to a specialty company, then she would have enough to convince the SEC to launch an investigation.

Trina clicked on her defroster as the fog seeped into her Sportage. She went right when Willamette split in two, then made another right on Crest. Krumble lived near the top of the hill.

His house was an older cottage, smaller than most in the neighborhood. A dim light from somewhere inside indicated he might be home. Trina parked on the street and walked up to the door. Her digital recorder was in her jacket pocket and had fresh batteries.

Knocking did no good, so she pressed the doorbell a few times. Krumble eventually jerked open the door and flipped on the porch light. Rum vapors oozed from his pours. Trina thought the alcohol could work in her favor if she could just get inside. “Walter Krumble?”

“Yep.” His gray hair was pulled back into a short ponytail, making his round face seem too big for his frame. Trina knew he was 64, but he looked younger.

“Hi. I’m Trina Waterman with KRSL TV. I’d like to talk to you about your recent votes as a city councilor.”

“I’m no longer a city councilor. I resigned yesterday.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. You’ve served this community well for many years.”

“Thanks. What do you want?”

“To talk. Can I come in?”

“Sure.” He burped and stepped aside to let her in.

Trina looked around for a light switch. The glow from the thirty-six-inch TV was not enough for her. Krumble must have sensed her discomfort because he fumbled around the living room, turning on lamps. Trina sat on the couch and looked around, surprised by how tidy the house was.

“Would you like a drink? Rum and diet coke is the house specialty.”

“Sounds good.” She didn’t have to drink it, but alcoholics were always happier when someone joined them.

He served the cocktail in a short fat tumbler with lots of ice. Trina decided to consume a little. Her day was over and she didn’t have far to drive. “What made you decide to quit the council?” She reached into her pocket and turned on her tape recorder as Krumble flopped into the recliner across from her. He splashed his drink on himself and didn’t seem to notice.

“I couldn’t stand the sight of Betty Thompson anymore.”

Trina laughed out loud. Thompson was even older than Krumble, and a lot more rigid. “She’s quite a character.” After a pause. “I’d like to ask about your last vote. The one on Prolabs and its land-use permits.”

“What about it?”

“It seemed unusual for you. Were you pressured?”

Krumble closed his eyes. He tried to chuckle, but it came out more like a dry hack. “This is Eugene, Oregon. There’s no Mafia here.”

“But there is a lot of money to be made in pharmaceuticals.” Trina pulled out her ace in the hole. “I have a copy of a withdrawal slip from a Prolabs’ bank account for fifteen thousand dollars. Your name is on the notation line.” She leaned forward with the slip.

Krumble made no move to take it.

“Why would the company give you fifteen grand?”

He sat very still, eyes closed.

After a very long moment, he said. “I couldn’t turn it down. My life has been pretty bleak since my wife died. I’d thought I’d take a trip. Maybe buy a Harley, something I’ve always wanted but Karen wouldn’t let me have.” He shook his head. “It was stupid. The money’s just sitting there. I couldn’t spend it. I couldn’t even stay on the council.”

“You can still give it back and call for a new vote.”

“You know what’s sad?” He gave her a pathetic smile. “I was going to vote in favor of amending the law anyway. This town needs those jobs more than it needs a few acres of scrub grass.”

“Who approached you and offered the money?”

“Neil Barstow, Prolabs’ chief financial officer. He called me at home and was, at first, very circumspect. He talked about an offer of stock in the company. I wasn’t impressed. Then he got serious with a cash offer.”

“Did he give you the money in person?”

“No. He had it delivered by courier service.”

“What day was that?”

“I don’t know, middle of March.”

“Mr. Krumble, I can’t keep this story quiet. Prolabs has some funny bookkeeping going on, and it’s all going to come out. I wish I could keep you out of it, but I can’t. I’ll give you one day to come forward on your own first. If you decide to do so publicly, please call me.”

He nodded.

She handed him a business card and stood to leave.

“I’m not a bad guy.” Krumble seemed close to tears.

“I know.” Trina smiled sadly. She had always enjoyed Walter’s cut-through-the-bull opinions at council meetings. “Call me if you want to go on camera.” She stood, carefully shut off the recorder, and headed for the door. She felt sorry for the old man and hoped he would do the right thing.

As she drove up Willamette toward her apartment, her cell phone rang. Trina fished it out of her purse. “Hello.”

A young male voice said, “This is Cricket. We met at the council meeting the other night.”

She remembered the odd name, but not much about the guy attached to it.
How the hell had he got her cell phone number?
“You’re an environmentalist, right?”

“With Love the Earth, founded here in Eugene by my father.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Our group is staging a protest at Prolabs’ building site. We’d like you to give us some news coverage.”

A bolt of excitement shot through her. “When?”

“We plan to set up camp sometime in the next few days. I’m still trying to round up volunteers.”

“Call me when you’re ready to move, and I’ll be there.”

Hot damn, Trina thought. If things came together, Prolabs would be her lead story every night for the next week.

Rudker stared at a competitive intelligence report on his monitor, but could not concentrate. It was late and he was the only one in the building, but he dreaded going home. Not only would the house be empty, but he would be reminded that Tara had screwed another guy there.

Oh hell.
Rudker turned off the computer. He was starving and he had to face the house sooner or later. A stop at Newman’s Fish Market for some deep-fried halibut took the edge off his physical discomfort. But as soon as he started up the stairs at home, where he’d seen Tara with her lover, fresh rage surfaced. In the bedroom he discovered his wife had stopped in while he was at work and taken most of her clothes. The finality of it hit home. Until seeing the empty closet, he’d thought she would come back, even ask his forgiveness. He hadn’t decided if he would take her. Now he didn’t have the option. The bitch.

You’ll have to punish her for that, you know
, the voice mocked.
You can’t let her get away with it
.

Rudker changed out of his suit and fled the bedroom. He heard the voice more often now. Sometimes he could ignore it and keep his own train of thought. Other times, it was so dominant, he couldn’t distinguish between its thoughts and his own.

A trip to the kitchen for macadamia nut ice cream and the new issue of
Pharmaceutical Executive
soothed him for an hour or so. Soon he was agitated again and found himself in the family room throwing Tara’s collection of Asian masks into a big plastic bag. He’d always hated the damn things with their big spying eyes.