Due Diligence (16 page)

“I'm not giving up on them. Ross told me he's pulled some levers behind the scenes. He said to give it a couple weeks' time. I've got nothing to lose.”

“True.”

“Listen to what I found,” I said, gathering the trademark printouts and my notes. I explained what I had discovered about Primax and the other trademarks.

“What's it all mean?” he asked when I was through.

“I'm not sure, yet.”

“What about Guillain-Barré? Do one of those other drugs cure it?”

“I don't think so,” I said, “but I'm not sure. I thought at first that Primax might be the one, but it looks like it's another arthritis drug. In fact, it sounds almost the same as Phrenom. And maybe it is. Maybe they registered two names for the same drug and later decided to go with Phrenom.”

Benny said, “If your theory is right about the lag time between the name and the FDA approval, you need to look at the FDA files. That'll tell you a lot more about Primax.”

“Good idea. Do we know any good lawyers in Washington, D.C.?”

“We know someone even better.”

“Who?” I asked.

“A brilliant reporter with a law degree and a great set of knockers.”

“Ah, yes,” I said with a smile. “She'll be back in D.C. tonight, right?”

“Right.”

“Benny, would you do me a really big favor?”

“Anything, my dear.”

“Would you be a love and give Flo a call tonight to see if she could help us out over at the FDA?”

“It would be my pleasure, Rachel.”

“You're sure I'm not imposing, Benny?”

“Not at all, my dear. Not at all.”

Chapter Sixteen

When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping. At least I do.

At four-thirty that afternoon, fed up with trying to unravel the Primax puzzle and the rest of Bruce Rosenthal's due diligence jottings, I left my office, hopped in the car, and headed west to Town and Country Centre, my favorite shopping mall in metropolitan St. Louis.

I realize, of course, that the very notion of a glitzy suburban mall with glassed-in elevators and piped-in music might seem to be anathema for someone educated near the ten-ring circus of Harvard Square and trained in the flamboyant urban funk of Chicago, but I can't help myself. When I'm feeling blue, nothing beats a couple of hours in a sunny mall with cascading waterfalls, hanging sculptures, lush floral plantings, patterned marble floors, dramatic skylights, food courts, espresso bars, a Bloomingdale's, a Saks Fifth Avenue, a Famous-Barr, three bookstores, and dozens of specialty shops.

I know, I know. Call me an embarrassment to the Ivy League, but don't forget to call me when Banana Republic has a sale. Which, in fact, they did. Forty percent off on leather bomber jackets, thirty percent off on hiking shorts, fifty percent off on selected jeans. Such deals! Such bargains! What a pleasure it was to concentrate on denim and khaki after a steady dose of Guillain-Barré syndrome, Phrenom Injection, and the Principal Register of the U.S. Trademark Office.

I didn't zero in on him until I was having dinner at Pizzeria Uno's in the upstairs food courtyard around six-thirty. I had turned to gaze out the window toward Athlete's Foot and Blockbuster Music across the way when I saw him. He was standing in the smoking area over by the interior mall entrance to Saks. I studied him carefully. He was tall and lanky, with longish red hair that was parted in the middle and fell over his forehead. He was dressed in black—tight black jeans, a black leather jacket over a black T-shirt, black boots.

With a tiny shiver of recognition, I realized that I had seen him more than once over the past couple hours. He had been outside Banana Republic peering in through the window while I was trying on jeans. He had been leaning against the glass wall of Talbots and leafing through a magazine when I came out of the Mrs. Field's with a chocolate chip cookie. Later, he drifted into the National Geographic store when I was in there mapping out my fantasy trip to Belize.

I chewed on a slice of pizza as I stared at him. He was wearing dark aviator sunglasses and smoking a cigarette. He seemed to be observing me, but it was hard to tell with the sunglasses. As I watched, he turned slowly and strolled away. By the time I finished my meal and paid the bill, he was nowhere in sight.

I was edgy, and I was angry with myself for being edgy. After all, I had nothing to be defensive about. I wasn't wearing a micro-mini or a tiny tube top or spiked hair or thigh-high leather boots. I was just an ordinary shopper, wearing a fleece gray cowl-neck chemise, a black belt, black stockings, and sensible black flats. Out of all the comfortably dressed women browsing through the mall with a shopping bag in each hand, how was it that I got picked out by my very own rebel without a cause? He was probably lurking out there right now, lighting up another Marlboro and practicing a semiarticulate opening line.

The hell with him
, I said to myself as I headed down the corridor toward the garden courtyard area and my favorite store, Graphic Traffic. Fifteen minutes later, I had forgotten about him as I moved around the store, looking at the wearable art and handpainted crafts with a blend of enchantment and envy—enchanted by the creations, envious of the creators' talents.

But when I stepped back out, there he was, over near the escalators by Maverick Jewelers. I turned in the other direction and walked rapidly down the main corridor in the direction of Bloomingdale's, took the escalator up to the second level, and ducked into the Barnes & Noble. I walked back to the mystery section and turned into the aisle between the bookshelves, my heart still racing. Killing time and trying to get calm, I pulled out a paperback edition of Grisham's
The Pelican Brief
. I studied the cover photo of Julia Roberts. I thought back to how wonderful she had been in
Mystic Pizza
, still one of my favorite movies. I turned it over and looked at the picture of John Grisham. I didn't get the point of the unshaven look: if you're going to go to all the trouble of getting dressed up and traveling to the studio to pose for your portrait, who's going to believe you forgot to shave? I put the book back in the shelf—I had long ago vowed to avoid suspense novels written by attorneys.

I checked my watch. I'd been in the bookstore for ten minutes. I moved to the front of the store and, feigning a casual attitude, I strolled out and down the corridor toward Famous-Barr. No sight of him. I paused at the entrance to Victoria's Secret, wondering whether there really were women out there who thought in terms of matched sets of underwear. I told myself that I probably moved in the wrong circles.

I slowly turned 360 degrees. No sight of him.

Feeling better, I continued down the corridor and went into Abercrombie & Fitch. Immediately I was back to planning my fantasy vacation to Belize. As I pretended to select the appropriate tropical outfits, David Marcus unexpectedly popped into my thoughts. I thought how wonderful it would have been to go to Belize or Costa Rica with David, and immediately a wave of sadness washed over me. Blinking back the tears, I turned to leave.

That's when I spotted him. He was inside Abercrombie & Fitch, two rows over, trying on safari hats. I left the store and moved hurriedly toward the escalator. Halfway down I looked back. He was leaning on the railing overlooking the escalators.

My first thought was to flee, to run for my car.

But then I realized how foolish that was. First of all, I couldn't be certain that he had any dangerous intentions. He just could be one of those creepy but harmless followers. And if he was creepy and dangerous, running to my car was the dumbest thing I could do. He'd either grab me in the parking lot, or follow me home.

I got off the escalator at the first level and walked quickly toward the atrium area where there were escalators down to the lower level. I stepped onto the down escalator.

Trying to find a security guard wasn't the answer, either. He would disappear into the crowd until the guard left. Same with calling the police. He'd be nowhere in sight when they arrived. And what could I tell them, anyway? That a man seemed to be following me at a distance?

I got off the escalator at the lower level and walked briskly toward the ticket window to the Wehrenberg Theaters.

“One,” I said, sliding a ten-dollar bill through the opening.

“To which picture, ma'am?”

“Doesn't matter. Just give me one fast.”

I grabbed the ticket and change and moved inside. I ducked around the corner just as he stepped off the down escalator. I couldn't tell whether he had seen me. I moved down the carpeted hallway past the first two screens and went into the third. I found a seat halfway down the center aisle on the left. Putting my shopping bags on the seat next to me, I sat numbly, staring at the screen.

After maybe ten minutes, I realized I was watching an Arnold Schwartzenegger film. Despite the tension, or perhaps because of it, I grinned. What a surreal place Hollywood must be. Where else could a man named Arnold Schwartzenegger become an action movie star under his real name?

Each time the theater doors opened, I spun around. It was never him. I stayed through the end of the movie and filed out with the rest of the crowd, glancing furtively around.

Damn
.

He was seated on the plaza across the way at the Northwest Coffee Co. Still wearing dark sunglasses, he was sipping a cup of coffee as he surveyed the throng emerging from the theater.

My mind was racing.

Lose him
, I told myself.
Start moving around and lose him
.

I edged toward the glass elevator and squeezed on with a large group of buzzing and laughing moviegoers. I hunched down, trying to disappear in the middle of the crowd so that he wouldn't be able to tell whether I got off at the first or second level. The elevator stopped at the first level. I moved to the side to let the crowd out and then wormed my way back into the middle of the mostly new group. I hunched down as the doors closed.

The elevator stopped at the second level. I got off with the rest of the crowd. Directly ahead was the corridor leading to the covered bridge to the parking garage. On one side of the corridor was a Champs, on the other side a Crate & Barrel.

I got my bearings. My car was on the opposite side of the shopping center, down on the parking lot in front of Saks. Saks was to my left. I turned that way and walked briskly down the main mall corridor, passing the J. Crew on my right, the Eddie Bauer on my left, trying to formulate a plan of action. Up ahead on my right was another corridor leading to the parking garage. On the left was the second level entrance to Saks.

Lose him in the parking garage
, I decided, and turned right.

As I broke into a sprint toward the covered bridge I saw a sign on the left for restrooms, telephones, and lockers. The arrow was pointing down a hallway that was just before the bridge to the parking garage. I looked back as I jogged toward the bridge, my shopping bags banging against my legs. No sign of him. I cut left down the narrow hallway. The doors to the men's and women's restrooms were on the left side about twenty feet down the hallway. To my right, across from the restroom doors, was a pillar that protruded about a foot into the hallway, just enough to screen me from view. I backed against the wall on the far side of the pillar. I looked down. I was concealed, but the bulky shopping bags weren't. I peered around the pillar and down the hallway toward the corridor that connected the mall to the parking garage. No sign of him. I glanced down at the shopping bags and then across the hall at the door to the women's restroom. I took a deep breath and quickly stepped forward, kicking the door open with my foot. As it swung wide, I heaved the shopping bags inside and ducked back against the opposite wall behind the pillar.

I counted to ten and quickly peered around toward the main corridor on my left. No sign of him. Across the hallway to the left of the restroom doors was a metal door with the words THE MUSEUM CO stenciled in black. To the right of the restroom doors was a metal door with the word CAPEZIO stenciled in black. They must have been the back, or freight, entrances to the stores. About ten yards further down to the right, the hallway was barred by a large metal door with the words NO ADMITTANCE stenciled in black.

I tried to visualize a blueprint of the mall. The building was the length of several football fields. I was standing in a corridor that ran along the back, or west, side of the building. My position was a little to the south of the halfway point of the structure. Saks was on the front, or east, side of the mall. That meant that my corridor didn't connect to Saks. Presumably, my corridor continued on the other side of the door marked NO ADMITTANCE—continued on until it ran into Famous-Barr at the end of the mall, which was too far south. But there might be a stairway along that corridor at the south end that would lead across and down to the first level, and then I could dash through Saks and out to the parking lot.

It was worth a shot.

I peered around the pillar again, staring toward the bridge that connected the mall to the parking garage. Just as I did, he jogged by, heading toward the garage. I jerked back, banging my head against the concrete.

Shit
.

Wait. He's out in the parking garage now
.

Now
!

I spun right and sprinted toward the NO ADMITTANCE door. I turned the knob and shoved hard against the metal door. The force made the door swing open all the way and bang against the wall as I ran through the doorway and down the narrow corridor. The freight entrance to Famous-Barr was about seventy-five yards ahead. I passed a freight elevator on the left and then several metal doors, each with the name of the store stenciled in black: FOOT LOCKER, CRAYOLA KIDS, D.O.C., BENNETTON. The linoleum floor was shiny with wax. I slid to a stop at the end of the corridor in front of the large door bearing the legend FAMOUS-BARR. I grabbed the doorknob.

“Shit,” I hissed as I twisted and yanked. The door was locked.

I turned.

I couldn't believe what I saw.

Back at the far end of the corridor, the large metal door that I had shoved open was still open.

I started running back down the corridor, trying each back door along the way. Each was locked.

I stopped in front of the freight elevator and peered through the glass window. I jammed my thumb against the down button. I heard the elevator gears shift somewhere below. I squinted through the window, trying to spot the elevator car. The cables started to vibrate and then move.

“Come on,” I pleaded, glancing back toward the open metal door. “Come on.”

I could hear the tired whine of the elevator car slowly rising on the cables.

“Come on, come on.”

As the top of the elevator car rose into view, I turned to look down the corridor. I caught my breath as he stepped back into view, returning from the garage.

Just as the elevator car clunked into position, he turned and stared at me. We were maybe forty yards apart.

He started toward me at a deliberate trot until he reached the open metal door. Without breaking stride, he reached out and yanked the door closed behind him. Then he broke into a sprint, his red hair flying.

We were twenty-five yards apart when the elevator door slid open. He reached into his jacket and pulled out what looked like a gun or a knife. I ducked onto the elevator and banged furiously on the button for the lower level. The elevator door slowly slid closed. It clanged shut just as he reached the elevator. I flinched as his face suddenly appeared in the window. As the elevator started to descend, he glared down at me through the reinforced glass. Then his head jerked from view.