Kansas City Secrets (16 page)

Sure, her needy grabs and shy kisses could turn him inside out. A man could lose himself in her cool eyes and the warm scent of her hair. They'd talked. She'd listened.
He'd
listened. When the hell had that ever happened? He was no lothario, but her responses to his touch, whether it was a drunken kiss or a platonic cuddle, made him feel powerful, male—as if he might just be a decent catch for the right woman, after all. But how could a woman who was so wrong for a guy like him ever be the right one?

And since when did he get so philosophical about a woman or wanting to understand his feelings, anyway?

He had a job to do. Period. HUA. He wasn't going to let any distracting emotions cloud his judgment or get in the way of solving this murder again.

In a few long strides, Max caught up to Rosie. She seemed to like these paintings of farms and fruit and people he didn't know, hanging in gaudy gold and heavy wood frames that seemed more about showing off how much money Endicott Global made in a year rather than the art itself. Or maybe Rosie was just more capable of being patient and feigning interest than he'd ever be.

She'd stopped in front of a life-size oil painting of a white-haired man with a wizened face, standing in front of a fancy marble mantel. The old geezer's posture was surprisingly straight, which made Max think the guy was former military. But with his pin-striped suit, and thumb tucked into the watch pocket of his paisley vest, Max got the idea that the guy was more of a politician or businessman than anybody who'd gotten his hands dirty down in the trenches.

“He looks important,” Rosie said, staring up at the painting.

Nope, he wasn't any good at pretending to be interested in something he wasn't. He went for prettier works of art himself. Like the woman draped over his randy body when he'd woken up this morning. He reached over and brushed a curling copper tendril off her cheek. She shivered when his fingertip circled around her ear. Yep, this lady was more responsive to his touch than she probably ought to be. “Why do you wear your hair like this? Don't tell me it's in deference to the summer heat.”

She shrugged and moved a step beyond his reach. “It keeps my naturally wavy hair under control.”

“You'd turn more heads if you lost a little bit of that control.”

“I'm not interested in turning heads. I've been in the spotlight far more than I ever wanted to be. I already have bright red hair and pasty white skin.” Warm copper silk and unblemished alabaster that was finer than the marble in that pretentious painting was a more accurate description in his mind. “It's calmer, easier to get through life, to be more subdued or conservative—whatever you want to call it—and not draw attention to myself.”

“That's Bratcher's doing, not yours.”

Rosie swiveled her gaze up to him. “That makes you angry?”

“Yeah. He's been dead six years. It pisses me off that that man can still hurt you.”

“Wearing my hair in a bun hurts me?”

“Thinking you've got to have a certain look or act a certain way or else somebody's going to hurt you. Being afraid like that isn't right.” He tugged at the tendril that had sprung back onto her cheek. “Be yourself. Tell the world what you want and go for it. I think there's some fire hiding under that ladylike facade of yours. Wear your hair down and loose if that's the way you like it, or shave it off in a buzz cut—which I hope like hell isn't what you really want.”

“Max. Your language,” she chided in a whisper, glancing over at the receptionist at the main desk. “We're in a public place.”

Instead of apologizing, he fingered the top button of her blue-and-white dress. “Unhook a few of these. Good grief, woman, it's ninety-three degrees out there and it isn't even noon yet.”

She swatted his hand away. “No.”

His resentment of Richard Bratcher quickly gave way to a lopsided grin. “Told you there was fire in there.”

And then he thought of the real reason she wore those high-necked dresses and his mood shifted again, raising her concern. “What is it?”

“Those scars are badges of honor. You survived. That takes real strength.” Jimmy Stecher's worst wounds were far less visible. “I'd bet money you've got some form of PTSD, just like Jimmy did. I think of all the pain and guilt and fear Jimmy kept locked up inside him. Maybe if he hadn't believed he was all alone...if he'd known he could rail at me or talk or whatever he needed, I'd have been there for him. He shouldn't have tried to control every little thing. Clearly, he couldn't handle the pressure. No one can.”

“Max. I'm not going to kill myself.” Her soft voice pierced the heavy thoughts that had blurred his vision. She brushed her fingers against his, down at his thigh. “I've seen a therapist. I'm coping. Besides, I'm not alone. You're with me.”

He turned his hand and captured hers in a solid grip. “Good. You're growing on me, Rosie. I'd hate to finally figure you out one day and then lose...”

Ah, hell. Max's thoughts all rolled together in a jumble. Lose what? Her? After just a few days, he wouldn't do anything so dumb as...anything that felt so right as... He'd fallen for Rosie March.

Max pulled his hand away and stuffed it into the back pocket of his jeans. Well, of course he had. When had he ever done anything the easy way? This was sure to come back and bite him in the butt. Because Rosie March probably had no plans to ever fall in love again, and certainly not with a boorish, potty-mouthed tough guy like him.

Perhaps mistaking the source of his uncomfortable silence, Rosie changed the conversation to a more neutral topic. She pointed to the white-haired man in the painting. “Who do you think this is?”

The tapping of high heels on the marble flooring thankfully interrupted them. Dr. Hillary Wells walked up. “That is Dr. Lloyd Endicott. The founder of our company.” Although Max recognized the older woman from the computer screen at the Cold Case Squad meeting, she was taller than he'd imagined. Her short, dark hair and high cheekbones were even more striking in person. She wore a pricey skirt and blouse beneath her stark white lab coat and, as Max remembered the preferential treatment from the meeting, he wasn't surprised that she extended her hand to Rosie first. “Hi. I'm Dr. Hillary Wells. You're here for an appointment?”

“Yes,” Rosie answered.

He flashed his badge before shaking her hand. “Max Krolikowski, KCPD. This is my associate, Miss March.”

Hillary gestured to the double doors behind the receptionist's desk, and they fell into step beside her. “Come into my office. I apologize for running late. Even though I'm overseeing the entire company now, I still like to keep my hand in the lab where I started—before Dr. Endicott discovered my talents and promoted me. Keeps a girl humble, you know. I was following up on some experiment results. If I'm recommending to the board that they up funding for a new product line, I want to make sure I know what I'm talking about.”

After ordering coffee from her assistant and showing Rosie and Max to two guest chairs, she hung up her lab coat and pulled on a jacket that matched her skirt, instantly switching from scientist to CEO. She came back to her desk and opened a tub of hand cream. As she rubbed the cream into her skin, she pointed to the door, indicating the portrait of the distinguished gentleman Rosemary had asked about. “Lloyd started his research in a small lab not far from our location. Brilliant man. He developed a viable oral chemotherapy treatment with minimal side effects. A dozen patents later, he had multiple labs doing the research for him, he was building production facilities around the world, and Endicott Global went public.” She sat in her chair behind the desk, her tone growing wistful. “The man died a billionaire, but he was always happiest puttering around in the lab.”

“He sounds like a father figure to you,” Rosie suggested.

“Very much so,” Hillary agreed. “He was certainly a mentor of mine. We worked closely together for a number of years. I suppose that's why he handpicked me to succeed him. He had no children of his own and had been a widower for some time.”

“I was close to my father, too. You must miss him.”

“I do. Lloyd was an elderly man, but he was always young at heart.” Her assistant brought them each a coffee and slipped out as quietly as he'd come in. Dr. Wells took a few moments to drink a sip and compose herself. “He was taken from us far too soon. Terrible car accident.”

Rosie cradled her mug in her lap, probably feeling real empathy for the other woman, or maybe just thinking about how much she missed her own dad. “I'm so sorry.”

“Thank you.” Hillary swallowed another sip, then set her mug aside. She grew more businesslike and turned her attention to Max. “Now. How may I help you, Detective? You're following up on the report KCPD sent me?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Hopefully, he'd be able to uncover a more useful puzzle piece here. “The Richard Bratcher case? The ME found a toxic amount of RUD-317, a drug your company produces, in his system. Can you tell us about it?”

Dr. Wells picked up a pair of reading glasses and opened a folder on her desk to skim the file. “Ah, yes. After reading your ME's report, I asked my assistant to pull the pharmaceutical file. So what are your questions about the drug?”

Rosie moved to the edge of her seat and set her coffee mug on the desk. “You keep calling it a drug. But it poisoned Richard. Surely, it's not still on the market.”

“RUD-317 is used for the treatment of certain cancers. It targets and reduces malignant tumor growth. In some applications it eradicates the cancerous growth completely. In others, it contains the malignancy.” Dr. Wells thumbed through her file and pulled out a thick set of papers stapled together. “Six years ago it was brand-new on the market. These are the drug trials immediately preceding that time to tell us who had access to RUD-317 outside of the lab. Our staff, of course, is all bonded, with signed confidentiality agreements. It would be impossible for one of them to get the drug out of the lab. Every shift goes through a security check when they leave.”

Max bit down on the urge to argue her point. Nothing was impossible if you knew the right person and had the right leverage.

“Richard was never sick a day in his life. If he had cancer, he never told me.” Was that distress he heard in Rosie's voice? Did she really care that that monster might have been battling cancer?

“You knew Mr. Bratcher personally?”

“Yes.”

“Not every patient chooses to share with his loved ones when he has a serious illness.”

Rosie sank back in her chair, her confusion and unease with this conversation making her press her pretty mouth into a grim line and her eye focus drop to that self-conscious, don't-notice-me level she used as a defense mechanism.

Max reached across the space between their chairs to squeeze her hand. When that gray gaze darted over to meet his, he winked, silently encouraging her not to give up the fight. Then he released her and turned his attention back to Dr. Wells. “If you read the ME's report again, Doctor, you'll see he wasn't being treated with the drug. Bratcher wasn't sick.” Not physically sick, at any rate. “Either he had access to the drug himself, or someone on your list there had a motive for killing him.”

The dark-haired CEO sat up ramrod straight, clearly displeased with him questioning her authority. She held up the packet of paper. “All I can tell you is that there is a Bratcher in this study. He could have been part of the placebo group, or he could have been a legitimate patient who was cured and continued to use the drug against our advisement.”

Dr. Wells set the packet down, rested her elbows on top of it and steepled her fingers. Here it came. The lecture telling Max that he, the Cold Case Squad and ME's office had to be wrong. Because Dr. High-and-Mighty there was always right.

“Our report, in conjunction with the ME's autopsy, indicates that your Mr. Bratcher had consumed a far bigger dose than recommended, or multiple doses over a short period of time. There was a huge quantity of RUD-317 in his system. More than enough to trigger the convulsions, aspiration of stomach contents and suffocation that led to his death.” She sat back in her chair, blithely unaware or uncaring of how the gruesome details surrounding Bratcher's death made Rosie go pale. “If Mr. Bratcher was murdered, then you have to prove how all that medication got into his system. Someone could have opened the capsules and slipped the RUD-317 into his food or drink, or replaced some other medication he regularly took without his knowledge. But unless you can prove any of that, all you have is a drug overdose, and Endicott Global is not responsible.”

Max pushed to his feet. This interview was done. Dr. Wells had gone CEO on them, more interested in protecting her company and its profits from a potential lawsuit than in helping them solve a murder.

Max thanked her for the coffee and little else. “I'll need a list of all the patients in that clinical trial, and any staff, researchers or salespeople who would have had access to the drug six years ago. Maybe one of them had a grudge against Bratcher. It could be a disgruntled client, or somebody he took for a lot of money.”

Dr. Wells closed the file and stood, also. “I'll have my assistant forward the staff contacts later today. Patient names are confidential, however. You'll need a warrant for me to share that.”

“My lieutenant's already working on it.”

“Then as soon as my office receives it, I'll get you a list of everyone who had contact with the drug.”

Max was ready to leave, but Rosie was a class act all the way. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Wells.”

“Glad to help.” The CEO followed Max and Rosie to the door. “Detective Krolikowski, I can't believe that anyone employed by Endicott Global or its affiliates would abuse our drugs and knowingly hurt someone. We take too much pride in our work, in our mission to save lives.”