Touched by Fire (9 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Lilah spent most of the day getting the lab back up to speed, then went about processing the group of blood samples that had been collected prior to the fire—the group that included Kauffman’s and her own.

It was mid-afternoon when Serena returned from her lecture and blew into the lab where Cardenas and other staffers were working with a crew of General Services personnel. Some were moving office equipment and records to a suite down the corridor. Others were removing the collapsed ceiling grid from Lilah’s office. Serena saw her standing outside the charred cavern and quickened her pace. “I must say,” she said in a cutting tone, “he does possess a certain animal magnetism.”

Lilah looked puzzled. She glanced at a workman hack-sawing the twisted aluminum and mouthed,
Him?

“Hardly,” Serena scoffed derisively. “Your favorite arson investigator. You really think I had a bloody hand in this?”

“No, of course not,” Lilah replied defensively. “He asked questions and I answered them, Serena.”

“Oh? Did you tell him about Jack Palmquist?”

Lilah’s hand went to her mouth. “Gosh no, he completely slipped my mind.”

“Mine too.” Serena’s eyes took on a sly feline glint. “We’d all like to forget him, wouldn’t we?”

“Hey, boss,” Cardenas called out, emerging from the maze of workstations before Lilah could reply. “Your dad’s CBC and plasma came back.” He handed her the printout, then added, “And Knoble’s office just called. He wants to see you ASAP.”

“Well,” Serena intoned, “it seems they ran our press release up the chain of command straightaway, doesn’t it?”

Lilah nodded apprehensively as she slipped the printout into a pocket in her lab coat and headed for her boss’s office.

Dr. Raymond Knoble was the embattled director of UCLA’s Center for Health Sciences. Burdened with a health care system demanding that providers reduce charges for their services, he was also responsible for funding the medical school, neuropsychiatric institute, and research programs. A gifted cardiologist, he had the action-oriented personality of a surgeon and a reputation for unfailing integrity. “Lilah,” he cooed as she entered the wood-paneled office. “Thank God you’re all right.”

Lilah shrugged with uncertainty. “Some patients are a lot sicker than they look, Ray.”

Knoble hugged her affectionately, then escorted her to a chair. “This put you out of business?”

“Yeah,” Lilah sighed. “But not for long.”

“Good. By the way, I appreciate the look-see,” he said, holding the press release by the corner as if it were contaminated. “The authorities concluded this fire bomb was directed at you.”

Lilah nodded glumly. “Lieutenant Merrick thinks someone tried to kill me.”

“And you concur.”

“The damn thing blew up in my face, Ray,” Lilah snapped, her eyes softening with remorse the moment she said it. “Sorry, it’s been a tough couple of days.”

Knoble absolved her with a nod. “You’re certain it wasn’t directed at the university or at your lab?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Either way, the lieutenant thinks it’s a possibility. Serena just reminded me about Jack Palmquist.”

“Palmquist,” Knoble ruminated. “Tall, ascetic-looking fellow . . . from Sweden. A bit of a misfit as I recall. You think he’s capable of this kind of behavior?”

“I never ran his DNA, Ray,” Lilah quipped.

Knoble’s stone face cracked a smile. “Seriously.”

“Well, he was an outspoken critic of OX-A, figured that meant he’d never get tenure, and resigned.”

Knoble stepped to a file cabinet. “I vaguely recall he’d returned to Europe. Signed on with one of the big drug companies.” He slipped a piece of correspondence from a folder and scanned it. “Here it is. He used this office as a reference. It was well over a year ago.”

“Sort of rules him out, doesn’t it?” Lilah prompted with a mixture of surprise and short-lived relief. “Though I guess he could’ve come back.”

Knoble nodded pensively, deciding if he’d go the next step. “While we’re on the subject, any chance we’re into something like this Imanishi-Kari/Baltimore mess at MIT a few years ago?”

Lilah looked stunned. Dr. Thereza Imanishi-Kari, a gifted immunologist at MIT, had been accused of publishing an article supported by faked test results. She and her coauthor, Nobel laureate Dr. David Baltimore, forced the junior researcher who made the allegation to resign from the lab; but National Institutes of Health investigators
verified her claim. Imanishi-Kari lost her funding, and Baltimore was reprimanded for not giving the charge an honest hearing. The incident rocked the entire research community.

“I’m confused,” Lilah finally replied. “Are you saying someone’s accused me of fudging data?”

Knoble crossed his arms and studied her. “Have you?”

“You know me better than that, Ray,” she replied, sounding hurt. “I’m not out to prove a pet theory. I turn over stones, and whatever crawls out is fine with me. I’m sorry you had to ask.”

“So am I,” Knoble said softly. “But like it or not—and you know damn well I don’t—I’m the guy in charge of damage control.”

Lilah shrugged resignedly. “The media’s gonna say whatever it wants anyway.”

“Screw the media,” Knoble snapped in a rare loss of composure. “I have to deal with the regents, the chancellor, the provost, Congress, not to mention well-heeled alumni who are more picky about the research they’re willing to fund than the NIH. . . .”

Lilah nodded· vulnerably. She didn’t need to be reminded NIH was funding the OX-A study.

“Off the record,” Knoble resumed, “sources tell me NIH is coming down hard on informed consent violations, especially where politically sensitive protocols are involved.”

“We do it by the numbers in my shop, Ray.”

“Good. While I’m at it, have you conducted any unauthorized protos.”

“No.”

“Pushed the envelope beyond NIH guidelines?”

“No.”

“Played games with research funds?”

“No.”

“What’s in the OX-A hopper these days?”

“Convicted sex offenders.”

Knoble brightened with intrigue, then frowned at a thought. “Neuro-psy is involved in that, isn’t it?”

“Uh-huh. I’m working with Paul Schaefer.”

A dismayed hiss came from between Knoble’s perfect teeth. “The place is a political hornets’ nest. The top guy over there resigned months ago, and I’m having a hell of a time getting someone to sign on.”

Lilah nodded warily. “You’re not going to get politically correct on me, are you, Ray?”

“I may not have a choice. This is the last thing I need at Neuro-psy now. I’m tempted to pull the plug on the whole damn thing.”

“On OX-A?” Lilah asked, astonished.

“Genetic predisposition to antisocial behavior,” Knoble corrected. “This compulsion to prove that medicine can explain and, as many are suggesting,
cure
,
crime and violence is a lightning rod for controversy, and you know it.”

“You’re starting to sound like Jack Palmquist,” Lilah said, stung by the blow. “Has it occurred to you that OX-A may
dis
prove it? My staff worked their butts off. I’ve landed a key slot at GRASP to present our findings, and—”

“Don’t remind me,” Knoble interrupted with a scowl. “The infamous conference on ‘Genetics and its Relevance to the Anti-Social Personality.’ As you may recall, it generated so much outrage when first proposed, NIH pulled the plug on funding.”

“Well, they’re not pulling it this time; and I have to be there. Don’t do this to me, Ray. Please?”

Knoble gave her a moment to settle. “Could that be
what it’s about? Some zealot who’s out to stop you from making that presentation?”

Lilah shrugged forlornly, then she reached up to her hair, twisted into a neat bun, and with practiced grace gradually undid the precise spiral until it came free in a flaming column, which she shook out with several snaps of her head.

Knoble watched the fiery waves cascading across her shoulders. He’d seen the performance before—at official dinners, fund-raisers, and seminars—where heads turned until all eyes were on the woman who ran his genetics lab. “I’m sorry, Lilah,” he said softly. “I sense you feel
personally
threatened by all this.”

“Yes, I do. Some wacko sends me a fire bomb; you’re on the verge of flushing my career—how else can I feel?”

“No, I meant, it’s as if you have another—for want of a better word—agenda, that’s also being endangered.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Ray.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“Neither can I,” Lilah said, clearly baffled. “Can we get back to OX-A? I mean, if this is an internal thing, you’re playing right into their hands. If it’s not, why should it have any impact on my work?”

“Good question,” Knoble conceded, steepling his fingers in thought. A suspenseful moment passed before he nodded. “Okay, you’re still in business; but you’re on the bubble. The NIH starts firing warning shots across my bow, that protocol is history.”

“Thanks a bunch,” she said flippantly, turning to leave; then paused, and, with a perky grin, added, “Of course, you could always fire back.”

Knoble smiled and put a concerned hand on her
shoulder, his fingertips grazing the waves of flame-red hair. “Take care of yourself.”

Lilah nodded and left the office, trying to clear her head. She was getting into the elevator when she called Schaefer on her cellphone.

“Well, we’ll always have phone sex, won’t we, Lilah?” Schaefer cracked when he came on the line. “Or did you tell the lieutenant about that too?”

“Paul, please. I just had a meeting with Knoble. He threatened to shut me down. We need to—”

“My kind of guy,” Schaefer snapped, slamming the phone into the cradle.

“Paul? Paul, don’t hang up on me! Paul?” She clicked off, and slipped the phone into her briefcase. The floor indicator was emitting a steady stream of chirps like a monitor in an intensive care unit; but it
was Lilah’s spirits, not her vital signs, that were plummeting. By the time the elevator reached the lobby, she was paralyzed with anxiety. A long moment passed before she realized the door had opened and the people waiting for the elevator were staring at her. Lilah took a deep breath and propelled herself past them, then hurried outside, walking in the direction of Wooden Center. Vigorous exercise had a way of reinforcing her sense of well-being and ability to cope; and if they ever needed reinforcement, they needed it now.

The last rays of light streamed skyward, turning the smoke from the wildfires into deceptively picturesque clouds of pink cotton candy. Lilah didn’t notice them as she charged down the pathway, her attention drawn to a tall figure running toward her in the darkness. The man’s powerful strides closed the distance between them more swiftly than she expected. He was almost on top of her before she made out the headband and running shorts. No
sooner had the jogger passed than she became aware of another, shorter, bulkier figure lumbering in her direction on an intersecting walkway; and, lastly, of fast-moving footsteps behind her. Could one of them be the lunatic who had tried to kill her? Was she being stalked? Every sound, every shadow, every movement intensified her anxiety. Lilah quickened her pace, then broke into a run. Her face was glistening with perspiration by the time she arrived at the gym.

A short time later she had changed into workout gear and was giving one of the Nautilus machines a run for its money when she sensed she was being watched. Her eyes swept across the crowd of flushed, sweat-slick faces and found Kauffman’s.

The kid had just arrived and was standing inside the entrance, glaring at her. He held her look briefly, then broke it off with a disgusted scowl, did an about-face, and went through the double doors.

Lilah disengaged from the apparatus and went after him. “Kauffman?” she called, running down the corridor. “Kauffman, wait up!” He didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate, didn’t acknowledge her in any way. “Joel! Joel, come on, let me explain!”

He accelerated, chin thrust upward, eyes straight ahead, as if she weren’t there. She caught up and grabbed his arm. Kauffman yanked free without breaking stride, exaggerating the movement to communicate the depth of his anger; then, without so much as a glance, he charged through the exit into the darkness, letting the door slam in her face.

Lilah stood there feeling humiliated and confused. She hadn’t done anything wrong, she thought; she hadn’t hurt anyone. Hadn’t engaged in any maliciousness. On the
contrary, she was a victim, an innocent victim of a heinous crime. Yet, friends and colleagues had taken to treating her like a leper, her boss had threatened to ruin her career, and whoever had marked her for a fiery death was still on the loose. She felt persecuted and frightened and terribly alone, and longed to crawl into bed and pull the covers over her head.

She was driving home to do just that when, instead of angling up the hill, she impulsively made a left into Gayley and headed west toward Santa Monica. Traffic was moving at a crawl. Her stress level was already off the scale, but instead of further unnerving her, the slow movement of cars gave her time to sort her thoughts. Before she knew it, the Jaguar’s headlights were sweeping across her parents’ driveway.

“Hi, it’s me,” Lilah called out, letting herself into the house. She closed the door and peered into the den. Her father had nodded off watching television and was slouched in his slipcovered lounger.

“Lilah?” Marge Graham called from the kitchen. She’d been washing cookwear, and stood in the doorway in apron and rubber gloves. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, just thought I’d drop by.”

“Try dropping by some morning . . .” she said with a suspenseful pause that belied her chatty tone, “and come with me to see your sister.”

“You know mornings are hard for me,” Lilah replied, as if her mother had suggested they go shopping at the mall. “I have all I can do to get here for Daddy’s checkups. By the way,” she went on, changing the subject, “his tests were fine. He’s holding his own.”

“And then some,” Marge cracked, peeling off the
rubber gloves. “You should’ve seen him today ranting and raving.”