The RX Factor (32 page)

"This is getting too dangerous." He paused to consider the implications before continuing. "Make it go away."

As he ended the call, he thought he heard someone in the hallway.

Sure enough, his wife appeared in the doorway, groggy and disheveled. "Did someone just call?"

He nodded nonchalantly. "Was it important?"

He stood up and folded her into his arms. He could feel her warm skin radiating through her nightshirt. Her breath smelled like sleep.

"No," he lied. "Not important at all."

The next morning, Ryan pulled into a passenger
loading zone in front of Dr. Mendel's bank in the same affluent D.C. suburb of Chevy Chase. He gave Jordan's hand a reassuring squeeze as Mendel waited in the backseat. "We'll be back in five minutes. Keep the engine running."

Jordan unbuckled her seat belt, preparing to take his place behind the wheel. Ryan could only hazard a guess as to her mental state, but if hers resembled his at all, she was most likely trying— but failing—to keep a lid on her excitement. They were minutes away from possessing the smoking gun they needed to take Stedman down and break the Tricopatin case wide open. With a highly regarded senator involved, it was anyone's guess how things would shake out. The only certainty, Ryan told himself, was that heads would roll. No one would be safe, least of all the whistle-blowers.

Ryan followed Mendel inside, neither saying a word. The old man proceeded to the safety-deposit-box room while Ryan waited for him just outside in the secured corridor. They had rehearsed every detail the night before.

As he waited, Ryan pondered the fickle nature of fate. Mendel could have finished out the rest of his life in suburban comfort, more or less oblivious to his role in Stedman's cover-up. Or he could have refused to help, lawyering up and even pressing charges against Ryan and Jordan for trespassing and harassment. Instead, he'd opted to do the right thing. Having been given the chance to make amends, he was taking full advantage. It was possible that he was operating mostly from fear—fear of Ryan, fear of being exposed for his role in the cover-up, fear of spending what was left of his life in jail. But Ryan knew the guilt associated with the loss of a loved one. And being that Mendel's wife was dead because of his corruption, Ryan surmised that his change of heart was directly correlated with the gash in his soul.

Mendel returned moments later holding a dark brown file case. "Now," he said in a stern voice, "I want your word that I'll be kept out of this."

"You have my word."

His hands shaking, Mendel turned the file case over to Ryan.

Ryan opened the case and did a quick inventory of the contents. As expected, the file contained a copy of the test results—the same results that had been torched at K-Dar Labs—plus three mini-cassette discs.

"Are all three of these discs conversations between you and Senator McNally?"

"Yes. And what is revealed on these tapes will bury him."

That wasn't so hard,
Ryan thought as he followed Mendel toward the exit. His next job would be to find Stedman—before he found them. But Ryan permitted himself a moment to savor their hard-earned success. Less than forty-eight hours had passed since Craven had destroyed what had appeared to be their only evidence linking Stedman and FSW to murder, fraud, and a host of other illegalities. But Craven's victory, seemingly irrevocable at the time, had proved ephemeral indeed.

Ryan patted Mendel on the back as they stepped outside into the bright sunlight. "You did good in there, Doc. I know you're uneasy about all of this, but you did the right thing."

The old man smiled for the first time, showing a toothy grin. "Thank you, Dr. Matthews," he said, pausing on the sidewalk. "This doesn't erase the mistake I made, but it's a small step in the right direction. You know, I've been thinking lately that retirement doesn't suit me. Maybe it's time I—"

A dark red, almost black, blot appeared in the center of Dr. Mendel's forehead, and a millisecond later Ryan heard the sickening thud of a bullet slamming into the old man's skull. The doctor crumpled to the sidewalk, dead before he hit the concrete.

Ryan instinctively bent over to check on him, but as he did, he felt, rather than heard, a second bullet whistle by, no more than an inch above his head, followed by a third, which whizzed past his right ear. He turned and scampered back inside, the glass doors shattering behind him. Customers and tellers gasped in horror, and Ryan, not wanting to see another person go down, hit the deck first, leading by example. With shards of glass still flying, soon even the security guard was face down on the gray tiled floor.

Jordan!

Ryan reached inside his jacket and fumbled for his cell phone. He hit Jordan's speed dial, but after four rings was directed to her voice mail.

"Damn it, Jordan," he hissed, "pick up!"

The firing finally came to a stop, bringing with it an eerie silence, and he gingerly lifted his head high enough to peer outside through the shattered front doors.

Jordan and the car were nowhere to be seen.

Ryan stood up, dusted himself off and pulled out his revolver. He was careful to position himself behind a pillar that stood between him and the glass, or what was left of it. If the shooter was still out there, he didn't fancy making himself an easy target.

Where was Jordan? His mind reeled against a backdrop of sirens. Maybe she'd been hit while trying to flee and was bleeding to death a few blocks away. Or maybe she'd been strong-armed by the shooter and taken hostage.

The police arrived, sirens blaring. Ryan tucked his weapon back in his pants just as a group of officers came barging inside. Seconds later, his cell phone rang.

"It's me," Jordan said on the other end of the line. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Where are you?"

"Two blocks due east. When you ran inside, they started shooting at me. I gunned it and got out of there. I was gonna come back, but when I heard the police, I thought I should stay put. Can you make it out?"

Ryan eyed the growing assembly of policemen and medical personnel. "Wait for me." He hung up, put his head down, and tried to take advantage of the commotion to exit unnoticed.

"Hey!"

He turned to see a paunchy police officer, complete with extra chin, pointing at him.

"You! You're going the wrong way. Witnesses are giving their statements over there." The policeman motioned toward the far side of the lobby, where several shell-shocked bystanders had begun to gather.

"Thanks, Officer," Ryan said and started that way.

Street side, two medics raced toward Mendel's body, still sprawled across the sidewalk.

As soon as the paunchy policeman turned to go outside and clear a path for them, Ryan backtracked and followed him through the exit, carefully sidestepping the shards of glass. With the policeman sufficiently distracted, Ryan hurried down the sidewalk and around the corner. He picked up the pace once he was out of sight and jogged the two blocks to Jordan, who in her haste had parked in a tow-away zone.

"We better beat it," Ryan said, flinging the file case onto the passenger's seat. "Or you might get a ticket from the meter maid."

Jordan's olive-toned face went ashen. "How can you joke at a time like this? We were nearly killed. And poor Dr. Mendel—"

"If it's any consolation, he died with a clean conscience," Ryan cut in. "And he didn't die in vain."

Jordan frowned. "I hope you're right," she said softly.

Ryan noticed a pair of bullet holes in the upholstery of the driver's side back door. "You want me to drive? We can pull over up ahead."

"No," Jordan said, "I'm fine. But where am I going?"

"Newark, New Jersey, home to the corporate headquarters of Fisher Singer Worldwide," Ryan answered as he opened the file case and pulled out one of the mini-cassette discs. "It's time we pay Jacob Stedman a visit."

They headed north on I-95 and settled in for the
four-hour drive that lay ahead of them. As they neared the outskirts of Baltimore, Ryan instructed Jordan to exit the freeway in a busy commercial district. Once off the freeway, they made three quick stops. The first was at Kinkos where Ryan made several copies of the documents contained in Mendel's file case. The second stop was at a mini-mart where they grabbed some prepackaged sandwiches and a couple of liters of water for the remaining three-and-a-half-hour trip. The third stop was at Best Buy, where Ryan purchased two mini-cassette players and a package of blank cassettes. He would use one of the tape players to preview Dr. Mendel's recordings as they drove towards Newark. He would then use the same recorder to play back any incriminating revelations to Stedman in an attempt to get him talking. The second device would be kept hidden—with the tape rolling. Whatever Sted-man said would be recorded for posterity, as well as for the benefit of Crawford and the FBI.

They reached FSW headquarters at two o'clock in the afternoon and, after finding a parking space in the subterranean parking garage, rode the elevator up to the main floor.

Once in the lobby, Ryan marched straight to the information desk and addressed the receptionist. "We're here to see Jacob Stedman. We don't have an appointment."

The receptionist, a graying woman who looked old enough to retire, gave him the onceover, staring at him over the tops of her bifocals. Her gaze shifted from him to Jordan and then back again. "I see. Your names please."

"Dr. Ryan Matthews and Dr. Jordan Carver."

The receptionist picked up her phone. "Yes, hello, Mary. I've got a Dr. Matthews and Dr. Carver here to see Mr. Stedman. They don't have an appointment." She paused for several moments before hanging up the phone. "Someone will be down shortly to escort you to Mr. Stedman's office."

Ryan opened his mouth to thank her, but the receptionist was already greeting the person behind them.

Ten minutes passed before a security guard finally arrived to take them upstairs. The guard looked only a few years removed from high school, but what he lacked in experience he made up for in size. He stood half a head taller than Ryan and sported huge hands and a linebacker's thick neck. He took them to the fifteenth floor. The elevators opened and they followed the guard down a long corridor. There were no other offices along the hallway, just two conference rooms. At the end of the walkway, they passed through a secretary's station and then arrived at a large corner office. The security guard knocked twice and waited.

"Enter," came Stedman's voice.

Ryan followed Jordan inside and threw a copy of the test results on Stedman's enormous black teak and mahogany desk.

The silver-haired Stedman took a cursory glance at the contents of the folder and excused his security guard, who turned on his heels and promptly closed the door behind him. Stedman picked up his phone. "Mary," he said as soon as his secretary answered, "I won't need you for the rest of the afternoon. You're welcome to go home early."

Stedman unfurled a predatory smile, his cold eyes revealing nothing, his square jaw showing ample resolve. "Please," he said, affecting a magnanimous tone, "sit."

"No thanks," Ryan said. He knew Stedman's type. A CEO like him never apologized, never asked permission. He was accustomed to running things his way, on his schedule. Even when put on the defensive, his first inclination would be to take control of the situation. Thus Ryan's only option was to go for the jugular first—and not let go.

"Craven told me everything before I killed the bastard," he blurted out. "I know that Tricopatin works. I know that my wife was on her way to a full recovery. I know that you feared that it would only be a matter of time before I figured everything out and told my story to the world. And then, Tricopa-tin would have been put back in clinical trials and approved. The only way to stop me from figuring it out was to make sure Cindy died, which was why you ordered Craven to take down her plane.

"Craven also filled me in on your motives. Americans never have and never will pay for good medicine, at least not according to your theory. They turn to the insurance companies to foot the bills, instead. And the insurance companies will not pay what Tricopatin is really worth. Before long the company would practically be giving Tricopatin away. And of course you were not about to let that happen. Not only would you lose out on Tricopatin profits, but you would lose billions on the cancer-coping drugs FSW sells. Why cure people when you can soak them for the cost of maintenance drugs, right?"

Stedman didn't bother to argue with the evidence. Instead, he stated the obvious. "In case you missed it, Dr. Matthews, I run a publicly traded Fortune 500 company. It's my responsibility to look out for the best interests of my sharehold ers. Yes, I made the business decision to kill the Tricopatin trials, but I never ordered anyone to be killed. Craven acted without my consent. He—"

"Craven wouldn't take a shit without your say-so. I know for a fact that Mendel was on the payroll. So is Senator McNally. And I'll bet Dr. Wiley is already reaping benefits as the new commissioner."

Stedman's right hand began to inch along the edge of his desk. When it was directly above his side drawer, Ryan pulled out the .38 revolver that Crawford had provided him the day before and aimed it directly at the CEO's chest. "Keep your hands where I can see them."

Ryan had to keep the pressure on, lest Sted-man slither from his grasp. "I'm not here to convince you of anything or to force a confession," he said. "I already have all the evidence we need to send you to prison for a very long time. I could have handed it over to the Feds already if that was what I wanted."

"Then what do you want? Money?"

"No."

"What then?" For the first time, Stedman sounded annoyed.

"I'm here to watch you die for what you did to me and my family."

Stedman loosened his tie, swallowing hard. "You can't be serious."

Ryan raised the barrel of his gun from the CEO's chest to his face, massaging the trigger with his finger.

"Okay, okay!" Stedman said frantically, raising both hands in protest. "I admit what I did was wrong. I'm prepared to take responsibility for it, even if it means jail time. But please, hear me out. You must understand. I was only a pawn in all of this. If you want to nail the senator and Wiley— and a laundry list of other government officials— you'll need me to testify in court!"