Dante's Poison (26 page)

I heard a quick intake of breath followed by an epithet. “What the fuck?” He hurriedly lowered his voice and said, “I told him never to call me here.”

“Right. Sorry about that. But you see, we've lost Mr. Gallagher's notes. If there's another number where I could reach you—”

“
Please
,” he said, sounding genuinely frightened. “Please don't call me anymore. There's nothing I can do to help you. My wife just had a baby and the heat's turned way up on the investigation. I can't risk losing my job!”

“What investigation?” I asked sharply.

“Go to hell,” he said and hung up.

I sat back and thought for a bit. Then I dialed the same area code and prefix—832—followed by the number 1000. A dulcet-toned recording came over the line: “Hello. You have reached the offices of Atria Laboratories. Our normal business hours are eight to five, Monday through Friday . . .”

“So this is what a shrink's office looks like,” Bjorn said the following morning after Yelena had shown him in.

He stood just inside the doorway, presumably surveying the modest furniture, the shelves crammed every which way with books and papers, the collection of sixties memorabilia on the credenza behind my desk—including my prized King Zor and my
Man from U.N.C.L.E.
THRUSH gun—and the Grateful Dead dancing bears poster hanging above them. The office standards committee—headed by Jonathan, of course—was always on my case about adopting a more polished appearance, but so far I had managed to fend them off with the claim that the blind were in special need of familiar surroundings.

“Who's this?” Bjorn asked, walking over and picking up the framed photograph of Louis I kept on my desk.

“A nephew,” I lied.

“I should have guessed. He resembles you.”

Another thing Louis wouldn't have to thank me for. “What do you make of the stuff I e-mailed you?” I asked, anxious to get to the topic at hand.

Bjorn replaced the photo and settled himself into one of the chairs opposite my desk, putting a foot up against the top. “To tell the truth, I feel like a right idiot.”

He and I both.

The night before, I'd lain awake again for hours excoriating myself for not making the Atria connection sooner. As soon as I'd hung up the phone, it had hit me like a lightning bolt what the Dwyers—the couple who had witnessed Jane and Gallagher's argument at Gene & Georgetti's that night—had overheard Jane repeating several times. It wasn't the name Lucy. It was Lucitrol. I remembered what Rusty had speculated, that instead of a lover's quarrel, Jane and Gallagher had been arguing over confidential information that Gallagher had somehow latched onto. The new information I'd wrested from Mr. Murphy confirmed that Gallagher had been talking to someone at Atria, and that Atria was under some kind of investigation, probably involving the same drug. But what kind of investigation? And what had Gallagher found that was enough of a threat to a person or persons to get him killed?

“In our mutual defense, we were led astray by the girl's name,” I pointed out, feeling no less stupid.

“True,” Bjorn conceded. “But that doesn't excuse us being such dunderheads. Not when Hallie's still lying in hospital. I went to see her last night, you know.”

“How was she?” I asked, reminded once again how I'd abandoned her.

“Pale as a sheet, but breathing steadily. I met some of the members of the clan. Nice folks. Why haven't you gone, too? It might do you some good to see her.”

“Well, that
is
part of the problem,” I said, wishing it didn't sound so puerile.

“You know,” Bjorn said, “If I didn't think . . .” He stopped himself. “Oh, never mind. It's none of my business.”

I hastened to change the subject. “So can you get the names of the other people at Atria Gallagher was in contact with?”

“Already on it. And I'll be chatting with each personally as soon as I can track them down. The problem will be getting them to talk. If that fellow Murphy was as worried as you say he was, chances are the others will be as well. I'm not the coppers. I can't force anyone to tell me what they don't want to. By the way, we did get a lead on Gallagher's other whereabouts that night.”

“And?” I asked hopefully, thinking this might be another break.

“Seems he spent an hour or so in a booth with another gentleman at a tavern on Rush. But it was dark and nobody could give us much of a description. Big guy, Caucasian with dark hair. A drink apiece and Gallagher paid the bill in cash.”

“Time?”

“Just before Gallagher toddled off to the Billy Goat. I gave the bartender an incentive to call me if the fellow showed up again, but if it's our murderer he'll be smart enough to steer well clear of the place.”

So Gallagher
had
met with someone else that night. But who? The only way to find out, it seemed, was to chase down whatever was going on at Atria.

After Bjorn had taken himself off, I ambled over to the office coffee room, taking the back way so that I wouldn't risk being seen by Sep, whose office was located just across the hall. Since I was supposed to be home resting, I didn't want to run into him by accident. I almost never used a cane in our suite, whose warren of corridors and felt-covered cubicles was as familiar to me as a rat's maze, and I was going at my usual fast clip, grazing the wall with my knuckles to stay on course, when I collided with a stack of boxes that someone had thoughtlessly left standing outside the file room. The stack went over and I went with it, ending up sprawled on the floor and swearing, with the change from my pockets rolling in several different directions. Fortunately, no one was around to witness the high comedy. I hurriedly gathered up what I could find of the money, shoved the boxes to one side, and continued on, making a mental note to ask Yelena to be sure everything was put back in order later.

When I arrived at the coffee room, the 10:30 a.m. klatch was in full swing, with a dozen or so colleagues companionably chitchatting around a table. Predictably, Graham Young was entrenched in the group's center, identifiable by his loud guffawing. I went over to the single-brew machine and pretended to be occupied with selecting a tea brand while I eavesdropped on the conversation. Alison was passing around photos of her partner's baby bump to collective expressions of admiration while Graham was giving Josh advice on his daughter's college applications. That was another thing that bugged me about Graham: he appeared to have a dossier on every doctor in our group, with information about spouses, children, recreational preferences—the names of pets, even—that he used to engage his sales marks while he was making his daily rounds.

I filled my cup and went over to join them. Josh spotted me coming and gave a swat to the empty chair seat next to him so I would know it was free.

“Dr. Angelotti,” Graham sang out as I was getting seated. “How nice of you to join us. Here, have a sweet roll.” He pushed a box of them across the table toward me. “I picked them up on Lincoln on my way down here this morning.”

Normally, I would have declined on principle, free food being another arrow in the big drug companies' quiver of bribes. Today, however, I thanked him and stuck my hand in the box, locating a sugary
drozdzowki
and pulling it out.

“How 'bout a napkin to go with?” Graham asked, sliding one of those over, too.

“Better give him more than one,” Jonathan said from his position at the head of the table. “He'll need it.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “Jonathan will have to have his SSRI refilled if there's so much as a crumb left on the table.” I gave the pastry a vigorous shake before biting into it.

“I wish you two would try to get along,” said Emily Weintraub, the office peacemaker, who was seated across from me.

“That would be like asking the British to embrace their similarities to the French,” Alison remarked to my left. She turned to me. “By the way, how are you feeling? I heard what happened, but none of the details.”

Everyone stopped talking then and plied me with questions about the attack. Between bites, I explained what happened.

“That's a shame,” Jonathan said when I was through. “To think we came this close to losing you.”

“I know,” I said. “Imagine all those insanely funny jokes going to waste.”

Jonathan said, “Speaking of which, did I tell you the one about Helen Keller and the Rorschach test?”

“Let me guess,” I said, rubbing my chin thoughtfully. “She tried to drink the inkwell?”

Everyone laughed except Emily, who pushed back her chair in disgust. “That's it. I'm out of here.”

“I am, too,” Jonathan huffed, rising after her. “Someone around here needs to be attending to their patients.”

“He's just pissed that you beat him to his punch line,” Josh said after Jonathan had sulked off.

“I'm so sorry,” Alison said, putting her hand on my arm in sympathy. “That must have been a horrible experience—for you and your friend. I'll send flowers.”

“Better yet,” Graham piped in, “we'll all send them. I'll get a collection going this afternoon.”

The idle chatter resumed, turning eventually—as I'd hoped—to the subject of the Atria conference Graham had mentioned to me some time back, which was scheduled to begin the next day. Graham was enthusiastically describing the resort where it was to take place, which occupied twenty-one acres amid the rolling hills northwest of the city. In addition to jogging paths along the Fox River, it sported an Olympic-size indoor pool, a fully equipped gym, tennis courts, a discotheque, and, naturally, a championship golf course. “You're gonna just love the food,” he was telling his eager audience. “The head chef trained at the Culinary Institute. And don't forget to stop by the hospitality desk when you arrive to pick up your complimentary spa pass, good for at least one massage after you've wrapped up your eighteen holes.” There were general murmurs of satisfaction.

“Can you believe how they're lapping this up?” Alison whispered conspiratorially to me. “Whoever said loyalty can't be bought?” Like me, Alison was a critic of drug-company events such as Atria's, which allowed doctors to meet their annual certification requirements at a significantly reduced cost. Under a new industry-ethics code, the companies couldn't pay for the doctors' attendance directly, but that didn't stop them from underwriting the expenses of the supposedly independent programs. And it was more than just coincidence that the speakers at these events tended to be those who'd accepted fees—sometimes upward of six figures annually—for touting the sponsoring company's products.

“I have a few spots still open for anyone who hasn't rsvp'd yet,” Graham was now saying. “How about it, Alison? I'm sure you and your partner could use a weekend away before the new arrival.”

“Thanks, but no,” Alison said tartly. “We'll be painting the nursery.”

“Anyone else?” Graham persisted. “I know better than to ask Dr. Angelotti. Not if I want to walk out of here with my head still attached to my shoulders. Ha, ha, ha.”

I raised my hand. “Actually, Graham, I was thinking I might take you up on the offer. If it wouldn't be too much trouble to get me in at this late date.”

“Really?” Graham exclaimed, like he wasn't sure I was pulling his leg.

“Really?” Alison and Josh said in unison along with him.

“Why not?” I continued, trying to sound genuine. “I could use the relaxation, and it sounds like it will be highly . . . informative.” I could feel Alison and Josh staring at me in shock. “Also, to tell the truth, I'm behind on my CME hours,” I finished with a flourish.

“Why, that's—” Graham began, still flabbergasted. “Why, that's absolutely wonderful! I'll get on your reservation right away. Will you be staying the whole weekend or just Saturday night? Do you want to be signed up for a foursome? Or tennis? I'm sure I can get you a special room if you need one. And you'll need to tell me whether you want the filet or the chicken at the opening banquet . . .”