The Global War on Morris (7 page)

THE FDA

THE SAME NIGHT

I
n a blue sedan in a dark corner of Murphy's parking lot, Special Investigator Anthony Leone slumped behind the steering wheel, thinking,
Tell me how crime doesn't pay? Lucky bastard's inside having a steak dinner with the blonde. Me? I'm stuck out here all freaking night.

Then he saw Montoyez emerge from the restaurant and present a stub to a parking valet.

“Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit,” he repeated as he fumbled for his cell phone then panted into it, “Subject's leaving. Subject's leaving. Alone.”

“Stay with him,” a voice crackled.

“What about her? The woman?”

“Cooper will keep his eyes on the woman. You follow Montoyez. Stay . . . with . . . Montoyez.”

“Roger. Follow Montoyez.”

T
wo hundred and fifty miles away, in the Washington headquarters of the Food and Drug Administration William Sully thought,
Stand by. Stand by. That's all I do with Ricardo Xavier Montoyez. Stand by. Until he escapes. Then find him again. And . . . stand by.

Sully pressed the tips of his fingers against a pain that throbbed deep between his eyes. He had been up most of the night, staring into a bank of computer screens. Now the images grew blurry. There were fuzzy black-and-white images of various Long Island neighborhoods, brought to Sully courtesy of the Nassau County Police Department's Neighborhood Block Watch cameras. On another screen was Murphy's Steakhouse. An electronic map of Long Island flickered on a third screen, its coastlines streaks of blue against a black background. Red orbs pulsated in the vicinity of Murphy's.

He sat in the Situation Room of the Food and Drug Administration Counterfeit Drug Investigation Division, surrounded by the video screens, speakers in all shapes and sizes, tangles of cables and wires, and an assortment of discarded soda cans dented from his grip. Four special agents stood behind him, on loan from the FDA Division of Sugar Substitutes–Office of Testing, Evaluation, and Compliance. Sully was building an investigative empire, plucking assets from the bowels of the federal government, where nobody would notice they were gone. He had become the master of the “Intra-agency Reverse Lateral Detail,” a little known bureaucratic maneuver that allowed employees to be transferred from one office to another “temporarily.” In Washington, that means forever.

Ricardo Xavier Montoyez might be able to evade the law, but Sully could make federal employees vanish and then reappear in his budget lines. Now you see them, now you don't.

When he began his career in federal law enforcement, Sully never envisioned he would end up at the FDA. He was once a rising star at the Central Intelligence Agency. But he became impatient
with the obsessively cost-conscious, low-bid budgeters there. The ones that preferred green eyeshades to night-vision goggles; who insisted that you could conduct an effective surveillance op with equipment that came off the discount table at Crazy Harry's Electronics Warehouse.

And the micromanagement! Christ, you allocate a couple hundred million dollars to a satellite surveillance technology that accidentally snaps a picture of some Senator and his girlfriend naked in a backyard hot tub and suddenly they make a federal case out of it—literally. They summon you to congressional committees with words like “oversight” and “investigation” in their titles. They start poking their noses and their subpoenas into your budgets. People start knowing who you are. And if they know who you are, they'll soon know what you're doing. And then tell you not to do it.

Sully needed a place where he could work without being watched. A place dark and deep within the bureaucracy, where he could grow his empire like mushrooms. One morning, his CIA colleagues showed up for work, and Sully's cubicle was empty. Picked-clean. He had vanished. Except for a triplicate copy of an Office of Personnel Management Authorization for Voluntary Reduction in Force pinned to the fabric divider.

Sully had fired himself. And then rehired himself at the FDA.

Technically his occupational specialty was leading a task force to investigate the influx of counterfeit drugs into America's medicine cabinets. Not exactly tracking Taliban suicide bombers. But who at the
New York Times
or the
Washington Post
cared about the investigative techniques used by a division director at a backwater agency sworn to protect and defend America's aspirins? He could toil in obscurity. Just the way he liked it.

Sully reached for a tattered manila folder on the counter in front of him and opened it. Again. It was like a book he couldn't put down. The Life and Times of Victoria D'Amico. Employee of Dr. Richard Kirleski (whose life and times were contained in another file within
arm's reach of Sully). Recently divorced from one Jerome D'Amico. Owner of a mortgage at 88 Algonquin Lane (with a recent frequency of sixty-day-late mortgage payments); lessee of a Volvo SUV (also some late payments). Vices? An addiction to the shoe departments at Bloomingdale's and Nordstrom, the jewelry counter at Fortunoff, and credit card purchases that seemed to bob up against her limit.
A well-worn plotline
, Sully thought.
Man leaves woman for a much younger woman. Man leaves older woman with stretch marks and a plummeting credit score.

All routine, except for this twist: Victoria D'Amico, medical secretary with access to a treasure trove of pharmaceuticals, consorting with Ricardo Xavier Montoyez, known pharmaceutical counterfeiter.

Or “Rx Rick,” as he was better known, who was creating the medical equivalent of two-dollar bills. He was part of an extensive and profitable enterprise that purloined pharmaceutical shipments from manufacturers, diverted them to secret locations, where they were diluted, tainted, relabeled, or copied as cheap facsimiles before being reinserted in the supply chain and delivered to your local pharmacist. Taking medicine for your chemotherapy? That vial may be filled with water. A tablet for your blood pressure? Chalk. Your doctor prescribed twenty milligrams? You were taking only five. And you didn't even know.

He was the lowest of the low. So low that every major terrorist organization on earth—with one exception—rejected the practice as inhumane. If there were a Geneva Convention for terrorist groups, counterfeiting medicines might be the only entry. “Are you out of your mind?” one terrorist leader screamed at a subordinate in a Baghdad safe house. “Counterfeit cancer medicines? Our mothers take this stuff.”

T
wenty minutes after Ricardo Xavier Montoyez left Victoria, she peered at a bill for two steak dinners that were never served, one
bottle of Pride wine, and a mountainous portion of Murphy's Original Famous cheesecake. She had ordered the cake because, she reasoned, the night shouldn't be a total loss.

He had left her. Left her at Murphy's, in the company of the imbecile at the bar with the frozen stare. Left her in the midst of a crowd that occasionally turned toward her with sympathetic curiosity. Tears stung her eyes, and she worked to blink them back.
I will not cry. Not here. Not all by myself at a table at a restaurant. No way!

She dug into the cheesecake.

Asshole
, she thought.
Every man's an asshole. It's just that simple. They either leave you for a slut at the pizza parlor, like Jerry, or they just vanish into thin air, like Ricardo. They're either good for nothing, or too good to be true. No exceptions. Nothing in-
between. Nothing.

For the first time since her divorce, Victoria D'Amico felt truly, hopelessly alone.

And not even Murphy's Original Famous Cheesecake could stop her tears.

“I
can't believe this!” Sully pounded the table.

I cannot keep doing this. Losing Montoyez. Finding him. Losing him again. I can't keep up with him with what I have. They want me to bring down a global medical counterfeiting empire with a dozen FDA inspectors trained in the war against trans fats. Armed with beakers and food scales. Gotta get more. More, more, more.

He planted his elbows on the console, cupped his hands, and cradled his chin. He ran his fingers across his cheeks, and felt the coarse stubble, the result of a dull razor he was too busy or too careless to replace. Deep waves of documents covered the table, lapping toward his torso: multicolored file folders crammed with loose papers, maps of Long Island neighborhoods, and satellite photographs in halftones of gray, sections of newspapers pulled apart and strewn in all directions, and an assortment of light reading including the
Guide to Federal Pharmacy Law
,
Lange Q&A: Pharmacy
,
Pharmacy
Law Digest
, and Delmar's
Pharmacy Technician Certification Exam Review
. And one massive book, nearly nine inches thick, sagging under its own weight near a corner of the console.

Sully stretched his arms and struggled to reel it in. It was thicker than a phone book, its pages dog-eared and paper-clipped and decorated with yellow Post-it notes. Its glossy cover bore the official seal of the United States of America.

It was THE FEDERAL BUDGET: EXECUTIVE SUMMARY.

He thumbed it open, and the left-side pages fell with a pronounced thud.

“Let's see,” he whispered contemplatively. “Who has stuff they're not using? Let's do some shopping.”

He flipped through the book. Line item after line item after line item, an infinite scroll of dotted lines and bottom lines, decimals and denominators. Flowcharts with big boxes connecting to smaller boxes connecting to tiny boxes representing the federal food chain.

His index finger dropped down the pages, lower and lower into the depths of the federal bureaucracy. Until it stopped.

“Ahhhh.”

The Department of the Interior

Office of the Assistant Secretary for Fish and Wildlife and Parks

Bureau of Wildlife

Division of Science & Technology

Office of Species Management/Protection/Preservation

Species Management Section

Office of Surveillance, Assessment, & Analysis

Sully imagined some poor receptionist in this place, handling the phones: “Good morning. Thank you for calling the Department of the Interior . . . Office of the Assistant Secretary for Fish and Wildlife and Parks . . . Bureau of Wildlife . . . Division of Science and Technology . . . Office of Species Management, Protection, Preservation . . . Species Management Section . . . Office of Surveillance, Assessment, and Analysis. How may I help you?”

His lips curled into a smile. “Species surveillance!” he marveled. “Man, they gotta have some pretty neat equipment down there!”

After sending some e-mails to friends in the Department of the Interior, Sully consummated a three-department trade of personnel (including two FDA employees to be named later).

He had one more item of business.

He ordered his staff to leave the room, closed and locked the door, and then logged in to his computer.

YOU ARE ENTERING A RESTRICTED SITE. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED TO THE FULL EXTENT OF THE LAW. PRESS ENTER FOR NICK. PRESS EXIT FOR HOME PAGE.

Sully entered his NICK authorization codes and his password:
ASPIRINMAN
.

The NICK menu said: ENTER A SUBJECT.

He typed in Victoria D'Amico's name and social security number. With a satisfied sigh he said, “This should do.”

EMERGENCY ROOM

THURSDAY, AUGUST 12, 2004

“I
s that you, Victoria?” Dr. Kirleski bellowed from his back room. He could hear the rattling of coins and keys in her purse as she plunked it on her desk.

No. It's Miss Universe. I'll be filling in for Victoria today.

She walked into his office.

“You're a bit late, no?”

“I couldn't get parking in the lot this morning. Is someone having a sale or something?”

Kirleski gazed out the window. “Someone must be moving in. Phone company, cable company, power company. Anyway, how was it last night?”

“How was what?”

He seemed disappointed, his smile fading. “Your date! With the guy Doris and I met at the charity dinner. Doris is dying to know!”

Victoria's cold stare informed Dr. Kirleski that Mrs. Kirleski could die without knowing, for all she cared. He withdrew his smile, and said, “Oh. Well then, I'm sorry. Maybe the next one.”

Sure, the next one. He's got to be out there. Somewhere.

Kirleski stood awkwardly, jiggling change in his pants pockets, wrestling with his next words. And when they didn't come, he shrugged. “Back to work then, I suppose, eh? Would you call Mrs. Johanson first thing? All night she left her usual life-and-death messages. Will you call her, Victoria? Thank you.”

“Sure.”

“Oh, and Victoria? There's a strange clicking sound on the phones. Call the phone company and see what it is.”

“Sure.”

She looked at the accumulated messages. They might as well have been headlined:
WHILE YOU WERE OUT, GOD SMOTE YOUR PATIENTS.
There were aches and pains, fevers and flu, inflammation and itching. There were stiff necks, tight chests, swollen glands, and light heads. There were hacking coughs, sore throats, cramps, chills, lumps, and hives. That was about half of the message pile. The other half consisted of administrative maladies. Patients fighting insurance companies; insurance companies fighting patients; and everyone fighting Dr. Kirleski. Payment disputes between HMOs and PPOs. Appointments requested, appointments canceled, appointments rescheduled, referrals sought, referrals made.

And a half-dozen urgent messages from Mrs. Johanson.

She thought,
Mrs. Johanson with her brain tumors. Always cancer, never a cold. Always near death, never a sniffle. Never in-between.

Why can't life be more in-between?

Not the lush waterfalls hanging in the waiting room. But not “You and Your Prostate” either.

Not Ricardo, but not Jerry.

Not Tom Hanks.

Just . . . someone . . . average.

At which point, average walked through the door.

“Hello, Morris Feldstein!” Victoria greeted Morris.

“Hullo, Victoria.” Morris drooped his head and stared at his shoes and wondered what to do with his arms. Morris never knew quite what to do with his arms when someone was asking him a question. They seemed rather useless for conversation, almost annoying. He could lock them behind his back, but that seemed too casual. He considered clasping his hands in front of him, but then he became self-conscious about placing them too close to his crotch. Folding them across his chest seemed standoffish. So he let them dangle awkwardly at his sides.

“How'd our Mets do last night?”

“We lost five to four. But we tied it up in the seventh, and if Looper hadn't given up that run in the ninth, I think we would have won. Did you have a good evening?”

“Uccccch, don't even ask. I had the worst date of my entire life. Watched old movies. And then reorganized all my old photo albums. Lucky for you I brought all the pictures in. Thousands of them. Want to see them? The thousands of photos of my life?”

She giggled, but Morris burrowed his hands in his pockets, grinned, and said, “Sure, I would love to see them.”

Victoria narrowed her eyes on him, noticing something new about Morris Feldstein.
I bet he would do that
, she thought.
I bet he would stand there looking at a thousand pictures of my life! And I bet he would never get bored
. He had been calling on Dr. Kirleski's office for years, and just now, for the first time, she noticed something attractive about Morris. Not in the Ricardo way, or the way it used to be with Jerry. This sensation was new for Victoria. Morris was . . . different.

She began tapping a pen against her desk.

Where Ricardo projected charisma, Morris projected a belly slightly over his belt. Where Jerry cocked his head and turned up his nose at the world, Morris's face seemed to succumb to gravity.

Except when she spoke to him. Then, he seemed to perk up.

Is this what's between that good-for-nothing Jerry and that too-good-to-be-true Ricardo? Morris Feldstein? All this time, with his bulky case filled with drug samples and Celfex “customer-relations incentives,” like the unused Mets tickets, and those Celexpro® glow-in-the-dark Post-it notes.

“Morris,” she ventured. “I want to ask you something. Since we're talking anyway.”

He bit his lower lip and began swirling loose change in his pants pocket.

“How long have you been coming here?”

“Oh, eight years, now.”

“Do you know what your competitors do when they call on Doctor K?”

He stared blankly.

“They invite me to lunch. Or sometimes even dinner. They say their corporate offices encourage that sort of thing. As a customer-relations incentive. What is your company policy on that?”

She accelerated the beat of her pen against the desk, which accompanied Morris's jingling of the change in his pocket. It sounded as if Gene Krupa were performing in Dr. Kirleski's office.

Morris dropped his eyes toward the floor, and mulled the question over as if Victoria had asked for his interpretation of the Internal Revenue Code.

He shook his head and rendered his judgment:

“Well, my district manager, Laurie, always gets a good laugh when I turn in my expense account. I'm not from the big spenders, to tell you the truth. Not big on the wining and dining thing. Laurie says, ‘Morris, if you're not spending the company's money, you're not selling the product. And if you're not selling the product, we're not making the money. Take someone out for a drink. You won't bankrupt us.' But who wants a Celfex sales rep talking about products over lunch or dinner? People want to eat in peace. I think so, at least.”

“Oh, I don't know. I bet lots of people wouldn't mind getting to know you . . . a little better.”
Hello? Victoria to Morris. Do you read me?

The pen thumping, the coins jingling, Victoria's foot tapping, Morris's heart beating.

“Morris?” Victoria asked.

“Yes?”

Thump-tap-jingle-tap-tap-thump-jingle
.

“Never mind. So I guess you want to see Doctor Kirleski now?”

“If he's available. That would be nice. Unless you want to show me the pictures you brought in.”

“I don't think we would have time . . . here in the office.”

“Sure. Maybe another time then.”

“Where?” she asked.
Last chance, buddy
.

“Wherever you want. Here is fine. If it's not any trouble.”

Now she banged the pen hard against her desk. “Okay, then. I'll see if the doctor is available.” She noticed that her words sounded harsh, even angry. She tried to quell them with a sigh.

“Thanks. I'll just wait on the couch,” Morris offered.

And as Morris reached for his briefcase, Victoria couldn't control the words that escaped from her lips. “I was just wondering, was all. I was just wondering why you never invite me to breakfast or lunch. The other sales reps, they always invite me out. And it's not just dinner, by the way! I just thought . . . I thought you and I were kind of friends. That it wouldn't be that big a deal to go have a hamburger at the diner. Just a hamburger at the diner with the rest of Roslyn. You know?”

Morris Feldstein was not particularly adept at nuance. But he had reached a conclusion:
Gottenyu! Victoria D'Amico just asked me out. On a date!

If Morris Feldstein ever wanted to learn the therapeutic benefits of the entire Celfex product line, he was about to have a crash course. He felt his blood pressure plunge and then surge. He felt his temples begin to throb, his mouth dry up, his knees weaken, and his lungs
sink into his stomach. Dr. Kirleski's lobby began a slow spin. When he and Rona used to take the kids to the amusement park, his job was to stand on the ground, guarding the pocketbooks, backpacks, and souvenir bags while the family rode the roller coaster and the Tilt-A-Whirl. Morris wasn't a big fan of motion, especially in places that weren't supposed to be moving, like Dr. Kirleski's lobby, which was now moving pretty fast.

Gottenyu!

Okay. Stop panicking, Morris. Take deep breaths. Inhale . . . exhale . . . inhale
 . . . exhale. Why is my throat closing up? My tongue is swelling! I'm going to choke on my own tongue. I need a relaxant. They must have some Celaquel in the back. Just ask Victoria for two Celaquel and a glass of water and—Why is it so hot in here? I'm sweating. My face feels like it's on fire! Could you plotz? I'm having a heart attack, a stroke, and I'm dehydrating—right in front of Victoria! And all she wanted was a bite to eat!

He began a soft wheeze.

You know what? On the way to the emergency room Victoria can grab a little nosh in the hospital cafeteria. While they're trying to revive me. That'll be some date. She'll have a nice hamburger, and I'll be on my deathbed.

Stop. I'm not dying. I ain't dead yet. Who said that? I know. Glen Campbell. In
True Grit
. On Turner Classic Movies last weekend. I'll miss that channel when I'm dead. Oh-oh. I think I forgot to TiVo
Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo
last night.
Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo
. Nineteen forty-four. Directed by Mervyn LeRoy. With Van Johnson, Spencer Tracy, and Robert Walker. Guess it doesn't matter now. Now that I'm dying. Gottenyu!

“Morris, are you okay?” he heard Victoria ask.

“Fine—I, just—”

“Oh my God, I came on too strong! I always do that! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to—I mean—I was just asking about lunch. That's all. Oh God, I'm so sorry. I'm such a schmuck sometimes!”

“No. You're not,” Morris mumbled.

“I am!” she insisted.

“Shikse.”

“What did you say, Morris?”

“You're a shikse. A gentile woman. Shikse.”

She laughed, which made him chuckle. And Morris began feeling better.