The Target (17 page)

“If it was Friday, I’d have a beer.” Eric looked longingly at the table of drinkers next to them.

“So let’s call it Friday.” Dallas turned to the food server, who’d started to walk away. “And two bottles of Pliny the Elder.”

When she was gone, Dallas got right to business. “So what happened Friday to get Grissom’s panties in a bunch?” As if she didn’t know.

“The rumor is that someone broke in and stole some of Decker’s research data.”

So it was Decker’s.
“You mean like a competitor?”

“Probably. But ProtoCell is our main pipeline competition, and their weight-loss device is well ahead of ours.” He rubbed his head. “So why would they steal the data?”

Good question. “Maybe ProtoCell’s product has problems.”

“It’s about to launch, so it was probably another company. Or maybe a disgruntled ex-employee.”

The server brought their beers, and Dallas raised her bottle to Eric. “To Fridays.”

He laughed, clicked drinks with her, and took a long pull.

There was so much she wanted to know, but she couldn’t turn this into an interrogation. “How did you end up in sales at TecLife?”

“That’s a loaded question, but here’s the sad, short version. I washed out of med school and took the best paying job I could find with the education I’d acquired.”

“Do you like it? Or just tolerate it? Those pep rallies are hard to take.”

He laughed. “You’ll get numb to them. At least they don’t frisk us every day when we leave.”

What?
“Why would they do that?”

“Some tech companies do it so their lab employees don’t take home samples.”

She realized she should have known that—‌for someone who’d supposedly worked in the industry. “Does everyone in the company know about Slimbiotic? Decker acts like it’s top secret.”

“Some people do. But no one outside TecLife is supposed to know. They even conducted the clinical trials in Costa Rica to keep it away from the doctors who also do clinical trials for other companies.”

The server brought their salads, and they ate quietly for a few minutes. But Dallas was on task and needed more. “Do you know why Decker’s research is so personal to her? She kind of went off on me about it this morning.”

Eric leaned in. “She has a daughter with Prader-Willi Syndrome. I overheard her talking to a specialist once. But no one else knows. Except maybe Max.”

That was the personal connection. “What is Prader-Willi?”

“Insatiable appetite. People who can’t stop eating. There is no cure, so they end up morbidly obese with all kinds of problems.”

“That’s sad.” It also explained a lot about Decker. “How old is her daughter?”

“I think Amber is nine.”

Yes!
That would be her next password guess.

Eric reached out and squeezed her hand. “What about you? Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Not really. I like being single.”

“You date, don’t you?”

“Hell yeah,” she said, mocking the morning cheer. “I like men. I just don’t want a partner yet.”

“We should go out sometime.”

“Maybe this weekend.” Dallas pushed her salad aside and finished her beer. “I should get back. Decker is under pressure from the FDA, and I’m trying to find the data she needs.”

Eric dismissed the idea with a flick of his hand. “Decker is always under her own pressure. Don’t let her push you.”

“This is my first week, so I’ll try to be Miss Industrious. After that”—‌Dallas gave an impish shrug—‌“We’ll see.”

They paid the check, each asking for their own receipt, and headed out into the intense July sun. Dallas was mentally moving on to her next plan. She needed to get her hands on Decker’s phone and ensure that her boss would be occupied long enough for her to search it. Maybe even access Decker’s email if she could get the scientist out of her office. Dallas had an idea but it required a little finesse. But now that she had the daughter’s name, she could probably figure out Decker’s password and peruse the files from her own desk.

“What about Friday night? Dinner and dancing?” Eric broke into her thoughts.

“Would love to. Unless Decker wants me to work late. Even then, we could always make it a late evening.” He wasn’t her type—‌cute but soft and too metrosexual—‌but it didn’t matter. If Eric thought he might get laid, he could be manipulated. And she needed an ally in this crazy company.

They parted ways in the lobby, and Dallas headed for the stairs again. At her desk, she opened the data files she was supposed to be working on, then logged out of her own email. She found the internal email center, keyed in Decker’s address, and tried
Amber
as a password. No luck. She tried
Amber9
, then
AmberDecker
, followed by
AmberDecker9
. A strikeout. She wished she knew the kid’s birthday. Or her father’s last name, if it was different. Dallas keyed in
AmDeck9
on a whim, and an email dialogue box opened.
She was in!

The main inbox had only a dozen emails, all from the previous two days, but the saved folders contained thousands of messages. The labels had names such as FDA and San Carlos Clinic, and none looked personal. Dallas scanned the dozen in the inbox and spotted one from AmberGrace. She opened it and learned that Decker had missed a parent-teacher conference the week before and her daughter wasn’t happy about it. Three of the other emails were a conversation with the FDA, and two were from Curtis Santera. Before she could access one, the door between their offices flew open, and Decker stepped in.

“I can’t seem to access my email. Will you contact Pete, the tech guy?” Decker gestured impatiently. “I need the problem corrected immediately.”

“Sure.” Dallas logged out of Decker’s account. Would the IT person know she’d accessed it? “I was having a problem with mine earlier, so I restarted my computer and that fixed it.”

“I’ll try it, but send Pete an email anyway. He needs to know we’re having issues.” Decker stepped toward her with a sealed manila envelope. “When you’re done, take this over to Curtis Santera in the R&D building. His office is near the front, but he’s probably in the lab. I’m about an hour behind schedule and don’t have time.”

“Happy to. I haven’t seen the lab yet.”

“Don’t bother taking a tour while you’re there. We need to finish this project and send the files to the FDA by tomorrow.”

“All right.” Dallas reached for the envelope, noticing a small lump in the middle. A product sample? A thumb drive? “I’ll send a quick email, then scoot over and back.”

“Thanks.” Decker pivoted, rushed into her office, and closed the door.

Dallas didn’t bother to send the email, not wanting to alert the tech guy, and instead fingered the envelope. Could she open it, check the contents, and reseal it? Not without the proper tools, which she didn’t have at the moment. She checked the pocket in her purse and still had the handcuffs and evidence bags.
The item in the envelope probably wasn’t important,
she told herself—‌unless it was a proprietary product stolen from ProtoCell.

She headed downstairs and out the back of the building. A sidewalk led to the nearby R&D building. The factory was farther back and had its own entrance on a side street, but she could see a covered walkway between the two back buildings. A young man passed her going toward the offices and smiled. An employee she would probably never meet—‌if she succeeded at her mission.

The air was stagnant and humid, so she hurried across the open space and flashed her ID at the camera on the drab building. Inside, she blinked in adjustment to the indoor light. The small foyer had no windows and no reception area, just a chair and table by the door. Dallas ventured into a circular open area with doors on both sides. A narrow hall lay straight ahead. At the end of the darkened space, loud voices caught her attention. She moved quietly and stood outside an open door. The space led into a rectangular room filled with stainless steel appliances, microscopes, and cluttered workbenches.

A dark-toned man with a delicate mustache shouted at a younger man in thick glasses. From his profile on LinkedIn, she recognized the shouter as Curtis Santera.

“We don’t have time to repeat every damn test. You have to be more careful!”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know the test bacteria was still stored in there with the microbiota.” The lab worker gestured with both hands, his voiced distressed. “We haven’t used it in a recombinant process recently.”

Bacteria.
She needed a sample for the CDC.

“It’s clearly labeled.” Santera squeezed his forehead, as if to calm himself. “Cheryl will be distressed. The FDA has already set us back by asking for more information.” His voice softened and he seemed to be talking to himself now.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Start over, work late, and don’t screw up again.”

The younger man walked away. Dallas watched him head toward a stainless steel vault with three big drawers. He opened the bottom one. Was that where she would find the right sample? The CDC had labeled it SA-13, but she had no idea what this company called it. She stepped into the room.

“Who are you?” Santera snapped.

“Jace Hunter. Cheryl Decker’s new assistant. She asked me to bring this to you.”

He snatched the envelope out of her hand, tore it open, and extracted a small container. Santera noticed she was still standing there, so he paused and waved her away. “You can leave.”

Dallas nodded and turned, pausing in the hallway.

Behind her, Santera said, “SlimPros. Where the hell did Cheryl get these?”

Monday, July 14, 10:35 a.m.

Jonas Brickman was sick of hearing about his weight, but he worked to keep his anger in check. This potential supporter was too important to alienate. “Do you really think voters care? I’ve been active in city politics for a decade, plus I’m a generous philanthropist. Shouldn’t that be all that matters?” He’d been seeding his career shift for years.

“It should. But it’s not. Your weight sends a message.” Don Tavakole—‌fifty-eight and not exactly slim—‌shifted in the chair across from him, clearly uncomfortable. The millionaire and political activist had come to Jonas’ office to talk about the mayoral campaign, but Tavakole was still in a negative mode. “People will make assumptions that you’re lazy or unhealthy. Even if it’s not a conscious thing. Even if they say they like you in political polls. At the voting booth, they’ll abandon you. I’m sorry. But unless you start losing weight, my group can’t support your campaign.”

There it was. The PAC was withdrawing the money they’d promised. A hot rage filled his chest, and he wanted to punch Tavakole’s ugly pinched face. Everything he’d been building for years was being snatched away. He would never be governor if he didn’t get elected as mayor first. “I can lose the weight. I’d planned to anyway.” He scrambled to form a convincing plan. “My company is ready to launch a revolutionary weight-loss product. It’s called SlimPro, and I can be one of the first patients to get one implanted.”

“I don’t think there’s enough time. The election is three months away.”

“It’s plenty of time. In fact, this is a great public relations opportunity.” Liking the idea, Jonas leaned forward in his leather chair. “I’ll issue a public challenge for people to join me in a city-wide weight-loss program. Then I’ll do a series of interviews and talk about the challenges of losing weight. I think people will relate to it.”

Tavakole was silent for a moment. “I don’t know. It sounds like a great promotional idea for your product, but I don’t think it will help your political campaign. It shows weakness.”

Jonas’ hands clenched into fists.
Weak?
He wanted to punch the prick in the mouth and show him some brute strength. But he forced himself to sound calm. “People love rooting for the underdog—‌as long as he wins in the end. And I intend to win.” Rage, fear, and excitement drummed in his veins and he had to stand up. “I can lose three or four pounds a week for three months. By election day, I’ll be transformed and voters will be won over.” Jonas could see himself in front of City Hall, talking to reporters after the election, looking slim and healthy like he used to. He could do this.

“You have a lot of faith in your product.” Tavakole’s mouth turned up. “If it’s that good, you’ll end up so rich you won’t need my money.”

Jonas forced himself to smile back. “In time.” SlimPro would be a moneymaker, for sure. But it didn’t work for everybody. No drug did. Most medications only helped half, or fewer, of the people who took them. He’d already tried the peptide implant, back when they first tested it in humans. After losing only ten pounds, he quickly gained it back. His second implant had been even less effective. It just didn’t work with his genetic structure. But fortunately, enough people in the clinical trials had benefitted, so it was approved and marketable.

Don Tavakole stood too. “We have another candidate in mind, but we’ll wait and see how this goes. If you can lose forty pounds in the next two months, we’ll fund your TV campaign.”

“Still at two million?”

“We’ll see.” Tavakole reached out his hand.

Prick.
Jonas shook it, smiling. “You
will
see. I’ll get this set up immediately and do the implant and video in a couple of days.”

Tavakole breezed out, taking his potent cologne with him. Jonas plopped down, sweat pooling in his armpits and soaking the back of his pressed white shirt. He yanked off his jacket and forced himself to breath slowly. He’d just committed to losing five pounds a week for eight weeks. The only way to make it happen was to cut out the carbs and live on protein and vegetables. And exercise every day. Oh god, he’d have to get up early and start swimming laps again.

He was about to become the public face of SlimPro, and its success was dependent on his success. Now his political future was dependent on him losing weight too. Something he hadn’t been able to do in the decade since he’d gained it all.
Fuck!

Jonas opened his top drawer and reached for a small flask of scotch he kept for occasional stress. He’d have to be careful and not let small sips become long gulps. His thoughts turned to Cheryl. She and her TecLife team were working on a new weight-loss product, but damned if he could find out anything. The freelancer he’d hired to steal their files had brought back a thumb drive full of data, but none of it was that useful. The target—‌for him and Cheryl, first as a team, then as competitors—‌had always been a widely effective weight-loss product. The peptide implant had resulted from her research, and she had to be gleeful that it hadn’t worked for him personally. He wouldn’t blame her, except that the bitch had set fire to his warehouse, costing him thousands in lost sales. He couldn’t prove she’d done it, but who else?