Tampered (14 page)

“What are you looking for?”

Todd grinned in obvious satisfaction as he lifted a bottle of pills from the lowest drawer on the cart. “Here they are. Left over from a previous patient.”

“What?”

“Metronidazole capsules,” Todd said. “I know what
this
drug tastes like. Bitter as hell.”

“We're not using it. Not worth a damn.”

Todd took one metronidazole capsule from the bottle and snipped its green and grey shell across the middle with the scissors. There was a puff of white powder. As Hamish watched, Todd opened three more capsules.

White powder in all of them.

Todd licked his finger, dipped it in the powder, then touched it to the tip of his tongue. “Yup. This is bitter all right.”

Hamish felt a hot wave of understanding rise from his gut into his throat. The empty vancomycin capsules were no mistake. Horvat had dispensed them on purpose. He hadn't wasted his time supplying fake metronidazole because the real thing only cost five cents a capsule. But at ten dollars each, vancomycin capsules were well worth faking.

Todd had come to the same realization. “If Horvat has clients all over the city,” he said, “he's making some serious coin.” His eyes grew distant, as though conjuring some half-forgotten image. He scratched his ear. After a moment he said, “Do you read the
Spectator
?”

Hamish shook his head. “Afraid not.” He didn't have time to read newspapers. Not even the hometown rag.

“There's been quite the story lately about a local pharmacist — Viktor somebody. He's trying to get his son freed from a prison in Mexico.”

“So?”

“He claims the charges — drug trafficking — are trumped up. Just a way for the Mexicans to make money out of an unsuspecting Canadian tourist.”

“Extortion?”

“I guess. This Vik guy claims the Mexican judicial system is in the business of legalized kidnapping — charging him half a million dollars in lawyers' fees to spring his son from a rat-infested prison in Juarez.”

“And . . . you think the Vik in the
Spectator
is our Vik from Steeltown?”

“Being held to legalized ransom would be one hell of a motive for selling fake drugs at ten dollars a pop.”

Todd's eyes widened. He rose from his seat and began rifling through the medication cart again. He grabbed three patients' blister-packed medication cards and tossed them on the table.

“What?” Hamish said.

“Somebody needs to take a good look at these. Not the cheap generics, but the expensive brand-name meds. These packs could be full of counterfeits.”

Hamish walked to the sink and turned on the faucet. He closed his eyes and splashed cold water on his face. He was way beyond his comfort zone.

Shortly after six-thirty that evening, Zol hung up the kitchen phone and turned to Colleen. “Hamish is in a flap,” he said. “He's coming right over.”

Colleen frowned at him. “Oh no. Is it Betty?”

“No, she's just the same. Something else has got him worked up.”

“Does he know about Earl?”

“Not yet.”

Colleen touched Zol's arm and gave it a squeeze. He knew she shared his anxiety about Betty's condition and his anger that no hospital would let her in the door. Earl was lucky he'd collapsed at the health unit. The ambulance had no choice but to take him directly to Emergency at Caledonian.

Colleen smiled, her earrings glinting in the flood of the ceiling halogens. She turned to the stove and stirred the risotto. As with most things, she had just the right touch. A heavy hand could pulp risotto into ponderous porridge. “There's plenty of risotto,” she said. “He can stay for dinner. Did he say what's wrong?”

“You know Hamish. He prefers the drama of the face-to-face disclosure. And when his voice gets like that, you can never tell on the phone whether he's angry or excited.”

“The poor fellow has been cooped up in that residence all week.”

Zol pulled the wide chopping blade from the rack, then opened the refrigerator for salad fixings. The sky was dark and wintry gusts were rattling the windows, but with the kitchen pot lights turned up high you could pretend it was spring in the Mediterranean. Greek salad, Italian risotto, and chicken roasted à la
Française
with plenty of garlic would do the trick.

When Hamish arrived half an hour later, stone-faced and subdued, he apologized for being late. He'd stopped at the car wash, which Zol knew was as much Hamish's meditative haven as a place to buff the salt and slush from his ever-shiny Saab. At the front door, Hamish performed his ritual alignment of his shoes against the wall, adjusted his tie in the mirror, and ran his hand across his flat-top. In the kitchen, he lathered his hands at the sink with the diligence of a brain surgeon.

When Hamish had finished washing and drying, Zol handed him a glass of wine. Hamish seldom drank a full glass of anything alcoholic, but maybe it would throw a little colour into his cheeks. Zol closed the door of the computer room where Max was absorbed in his thirty-minute ration of pre-dinner video games. Whatever was bothering Hamish wouldn't be suitable for nine-year-old ears.

Hamish gulped the Chenin Blanc without showing any sign of tasting it, then he dropped onto a chair and blurted out the story of finding the empty capsules. He wasted no time in preambles, and his right hand was so busy clutching his wineglass that the professorial finger had no chance to make its appearance.

“You mean, nothing in them at all?” said Colleen. “Not even salt or sugar?”

“Nothing,” said Hamish.

“Unbelievable,” Zol said. “The guy's either incredibly bold or mighty desperate.”

The flush was returning to Hamish's cheeks. “But . . . but what do we do?”

“Extraordinary,” Colleen said. “Sounds like a matter for the police. But it's anyone's guess which force has jurisdiction — the city? the OPP? the RCMP?”

Zol shook his head. “Doesn't matter. It's impossible to get guys like these on criminal charges and make them stick.”

“Come off it, Zol,” Hamish said, his face crimson. “People have probably
died
because of those fake capsules. Betty's can't be the first case of C diff treated with Horvat's bogus vanco. He's got to be locked up — for fraud
and
murder.”

“Attempted murder, or manslaughter, at the least,” Colleen said.

“You'd think so,” Zol told them, “but the RCMP — and the courts — were useless the last time. There were deaths then, too.”

“
Last
time?” Colleen said. A pensive look came over her face. “Oh yes. That pharmacy in the north end. What was it they were dispensing?”

“Counterfeit antihypertensives,” Zol said. He pushed out of his chair and retrieved his briefcase from the living room. It was loaded with dozens of reports he was supposed to read and digest — whenever he got the time.

He heaved a stack of papers onto the table. Halfway through the pile, he found what he was looking for:
Pharmacy Connection
, the official publication of the Ontario College of Pharmacists.

“It's all in here,” said Zol, holding up the colourful journal. “Trinnock insisted I commit the circumstances to memory in case it happened again. Looks like the old bugger was right.” He flipped to the dog-eared page he'd been reading before he was distracted by something more pressing.

He took a gulp of wine, read the summary, and paraphrased it for Hamish and Colleen.

After an alert from a sharp-eyed customer, the RCMP and a private investigator determined that a pharmacy in the north end of Hamilton was dispensing counterfeit high-blood-pressure tablets. The RCMP forensics laboratory established that the counterfeits, not quite identical in appearance to the real thing, contained no active ingredients. The brand-name manufacturer, a pharmaceutical giant, recalled and tested its tablets from pharmacies throughout the province but found no other counterfeits. The only fakes were in that pharmacy in Hamilton. The wholesale distributor was off the hook.

“It had to be an inside job,” said Zol. “The two pharmacists involved were charged and taken to court. And you know what? They got off. Found not guilty of anything.”

“You're kidding,” Hamish said.

To drive home the point, Zol read word-for-word from the publication in his hands. “‘The judge concluded that the Crown had not demonstrated beyond a reasonable doubt that the pharmacists actually knew they were selling counterfeit drugs.'”

“Horse feathers,” said Colleen. “Of course they knew.”

The wine's blush drained from Hamish's cheeks. Beads of sweat glistened on his brow. “What about the College of Pharmacists?” he asked. “Didn't they conduct an investigation? Subject the pharmacists to disbarment, or whatever they call it?”

Zol scanned the final paragraph of the case summary. “The pharmacists received an official reprimand and were ordered to take remedial training. They didn't lose their licences.”

“How long was the pharmacy closed?” Colleen asked.

“One day,” said Zol, “while the wholesaler cleared the entire inventory and restocked it with new.”

“Outrageous,” Hamish said.

“And it's happening again,” Colleen said.

“Pretty good scam,” Zol said. “Nicely lucrative, and only a slap on the wrist if you get caught.”

Hamish, too edgy to stay seated, wiped the counter with a tea towel and leaned against the granite.

Colleen narrowed her eyes and ran her finger around the rim of her wineglass. She hadn't taken a sip since Hamish had started his account. “But still, it is a bit risky. After all, the pharmacists did get caught. What's Vik's motivation? It's got to be more than simple greed.”

“Can I use your computer for a sec?” Hamish asked. “I want to Google a story that's been running in the
Spectator
.”

Zol checked his watch. It was time to get the chicken out of the oven. “Sure,” his said, pointing to the family-room door. “And tell Max I said it's time to get cleaned up for supper.”

By the time Zol and Colleen had four dinners plated and on the kitchen table, Hamish was back. A look of satisfaction replaced his earlier outrage and dismay.

“Found something?” Colleen asked.

“I believe it's called a hat trick,” Hamish said, holding up three fingers. “The same Viktor Horvat owns Steeltown Apothecary, nearly strangled me in the ICU, and has been raving in the press about his son being held for ransom in a Mexican prison.”

Zol took a slug of his Chenin Blanc. “There must be a lot more to Vik than a bottle of empty capsules.” He opened the side pocket of his briefcase and pulled out the medication survey that Phyllis and the group had presented that afternoon. “Look at this,” he said, pointing to the bolded rows at the bottom of the page. “How do we explain the link between Camelot's gastro and these two arthritis drugs — Xanucox and Durimab?”

Hamish studied the sheet. Finally, in the monotone that came out whenever he was anxious or concentrating, he said, “Brings us back to money.”

“How so?” Colleen said.

Hamish's professorial finger, freed from the wineglass, asserted itself. “Those drugs are really expensive. A month's supply of Xanucox runs about two hundred and fifty bucks. And Durimab is easily twice that. Neither drug is on the government's drug benefit list. To afford them, you have to be wealthy or belong to a generous private plan.”

Zol eyed the plates steaming on the table, then winked at Colleen. “I hope the private detective assigned to the case this time is a lot smarter than the one who dropped the ball in the north end.”

Max skipped into the kitchen, game gadget in hand. His eyes widened at the sight of supper on the table. Zol fastened the buckles on his briefcase and slid it under the telephone desk. It was time to put away the worries and enjoy the meal and the Chenin Blanc, at least for a few minutes.

At eight-thirty that Thursday night, Art edged the foldable wheelchair, which he used for car-trip transfers, in through the front doors of Camelot Lodge. It took the last flicker of strength left in his arms. Phyllis was still parking the Lincoln, and Myrtle was striding to the elevator. He knew she was bursting to get to her room and share the afternoon's events with her sister Maude. The two were practically inseparable, and incredibly robust. They never got sick, never needed medication. What was their secret? Good luck or good genes? Art waved her on, explaining that he needed to catch his breath before transferring to his scooter and heading upstairs.

The afternoon's ordeal at Caledonian Medical Centre had been exhausting and humiliating. By the time Phyllis had found a spot to park the Lincoln in the visitors' lot, and Myrtle had lugged Art's wheelchair out of the trunk, poor Earl had been whisked into a treatment room in the dark reaches of the emergency department. He'd been consigned out of bounds, beyond the reach of three friends trying to find out what condition he was in, whether he was even still alive.

“Are you next of kin?” the nurse had replied to Art's first enquiry at the reception desk. She hadn't bothered looking at him, just kept writing on the forms it seemed she'd stacked on the counter to shield herself from an anxious public.

Art admitted that he and Earl were not related, but felt like brothers after a friendship of more than sixty years. The nurse tightened her lips and told him she couldn't divulge any information. Details about the patient's condition would be made available only to relatives. Phyllis tried her full-bosomed stance and crisp stare, but the nurse returned an equally stern glare and told them to take a seat in the waiting room. Some hours later, Art tried again with a different nurse, then pleaded with a baby-faced doctor, but was given the same unyielding responses. He and Phyllis finally returned with Myrtle to the Lincoln, forced to abandon their friend to whatever the system decided to do with him. On the ride home, none of them had the energy to speak.

Art set the wheelchair's brakes and transferred to his loyal steed waiting in the lobby. He thanked Phyllis and wished her good-night as she came through the door, then rubbed at the burning in his legs. His neuropathy played up something fierce when he got overtired. After a couple of minutes the pain eased a little. He flipped the scooter's switch and drove into the common room. The walls of the deserted, tomb-silent room pressed in on him. They flooded him with memories of the funeral parlour after Jeannie's service, of his overwhelming desolation when the last of the guests had departed. It was then he knew he'd lost her forever to the pain and disfigurement of metastatic breast cancer. During his ten years as a widower, he'd become accustomed to living on his own and consoling himself with the notion that though death had changed his relationship with the love of his life, the relationship had not ended. He still had his memories of the wonderful times they'd shared, he could talk to her when he felt fearful or alone, and he could imagine her encouraging him at his easel and piano.

But then the peripheral neuropathy began to suck the strength from his legs, and his doctor took away his driver's licence. Being shut away in suburbia all winter without a car made him ache with loneliness. The move into the camaraderie of the Lodge had given new zest and meaning to his life. But today, with Earl and Betty fighting for their lives, and poor Melvin being buried tomorrow, the loneliness was palpable again and magnified with dread. As it had been in the suburbs, old age felt like a dry run for eternity: monotonous days of profound fatigue, relentless pain, tasteless meals, and fading eyesight stretching on for ever and ever.

Maude and Myrtle's jigsaw puzzle lay jumbled and abandoned on the card table. Gertie's knitting, a fixture on the blue sofa, had vanished — packed away or confiscated. All that remained was the imprint of her ample bottom on the cushions. Art scanned the room and found not a teacup, a paperback, a crossword in sight. Gloria had issued another quarantine order. Camelot Lodge was not a cozy home but an asylum, where inmates hid in their cells and ventured out like frightened rabbits, only at mealtimes. Art wanted to grab Betty and run, but who would take in a desperate elderly couple tainted by a deadly plague? Zol had offered the run of his house, bless him, but the bedrooms were upstairs, as inaccessible as Everest. And it wouldn't be right to abandon Phyllis, Earl, and the others.

The confidence of youthful footsteps approached from behind him. Art turned to see Joe, Gloria's accident-prone nephew, carrying a bottle of beer in one hand, a full plate in the other, and a second beer tucked under his arm. His right eye was black and swollen as a result of the other day's hit and run. A line of blue stitches scored the skin above his right eyebrow.

Art gestured toward the double-decker sandwich piled on Joe's plate. “Feeling better?”

“I guess. But Jesus, I ache all over.”

Art smiled and nodded. “They say the third day is the worst. You feel like you've been run over by a steamroller, but then it passes. How's your aunt?”

“Who?” Joe looked puzzled for an instant, then chuckled at his momentary lapse in concentration. “Oh, yeah. She's okay. Says it's all my fault.”

“Your fault? I thought it was a hit and run.”

Joe took a swig of his beer then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He strode to the sofa and dropped into Gertie's spot. “Long story,” he said, setting the beers on the table then biting hungrily into his sandwich.

Art said goodbye and headed for the elevators. Betty had looked rough this morning. And gaunt. She hadn't eaten a thing in almost a week, and it was showing in her face. He scrunched his eyes and allowed himself a little prayer:
Please may she look a tiny bit better tomorrow.

As he waited for the elevator, Art pondered the tattoo he'd just seen on Joe's bicep. What was a Portuguese fellow doing with a tattoo of a maple-leaf military crest and the words
Jason Argylls Forever
below it? The men of the Argyll and Sutherland were Canadian soldiers, based in Hamilton. In Art's day, soldiers tattooed the names of their sweethearts on their arms. Was this a sign that Joe entangled himself romantically with men? These days, you never could tell who was who and what was what — not a bad thing, he supposed. They called it diversity, and if it made for a better world, then Art was all for it.

Joe had made quite the scene at the time of the accident. He'd gotten riled up when Dr. Wakefield had asked if he knew the identity of the hit-and-run driver. Joe had intimated the car crash was intentional, that something similar had happened before. Was this a grudge match in the wake of a failed liaison with a soldier named Jason? Is that why Joe was so tight-lipped about the circumstances of the accident?

Raimunda's funeral was set for Saturday afternoon. After that, her ruffian grandson would be catching his return flight to Portugal and taking his vendettas with him. And good riddance.