Hurley didn’t answer.
Groote leaned forward. ‘Here’s my theory. He doesn’t want the drug companies to know where he got Frost from, does he?’
‘I couldn’t say, Mr. Groote.’
‘Why have Allison Vance involved?’
‘She’s fairly new to town, not plugged in to the local psychiatric community. She keeps to herself. I needed a doctor to handle assessments. She was affordable and efficient. Patients liked her.’
‘She could sneak out a Frost sample and get it tested.’
‘I administer all the doses. None are missing.’
‘How do you check them?’
‘Counts.’
‘Are these solid capsules? Could she replace any with fakes?’
Hurley’s face grew red. ‘You’re giving her far too much credit. She wouldn’t resort to thievery. She’d simply call the authorities if she had a concern.’
‘So we buy her off if she raises a stink.’
‘Allison’s not the type much motivated by money. She’s altruistic. Always blathering on about how the patients come first.’
‘Why not just bring her in, sit her down, and question her?’
Hurley gave a nervous laugh. ‘I’m not a strong-arm type of guy. That’s why you’re here.’
‘But she hasn’t run to the authorities about your setup.’
‘Allison would never make a sudden or ill-placed accusation. Spend five minutes with her and you can see she’s simply a careful person, as most psychiatrists are. You can see how she is, we have videos of her interviewing the patients…’ He unlocked a desk drawer, opened it, froze.
‘What’s the matter?’ Groote asked.
‘I have backup DVDs of all our research – I keep them in here. They’re gone.’
Frost. Gone. The tightness came back to Groote’s chest. ‘But they’re only backups. You have the originals on the hard drive-’
‘That’s not the point. If Allison wanted to expose us, she’s got the proof on those DVDs.’
‘Maybe you simply misplaced them.’
‘No. I do a daily backup here, lock them up tight. I have the only key.’ Hurley’s voice rose in panic.
‘Is Allison here now?’
Hurley moused and clicked on his computer screen. A video window opened to show the three entrance and exit points from the hospital; it also displayed a log that recorded the usage of the staff’s electronic passkeys. ‘No, she’s not.’
‘Where might I find her?’
‘Probably at her office. On Palace Avenue, close to the Plaza.’
‘How long ago did she leave?’
Hurley clicked on the keyboard; two of the video windows stayed open, one showing Allison Vance walking out of the building; according to the timer, at ten that morning. The other video showed a young man, in patient scrubs, glancing over his shoulder, heading out a door. The timer read ten minutes ago.
‘Who’s that guy?’ Groote asked.
‘A patient. Nathan Ruiz. What the hell’s he doing with a pass-key? It’s showing him because the key he’s using is the same code as Allison’s… The guards must not have seen him leave.’
Groote drew his sidearm from under his jacket.
‘I don’t know how he got past the doors up here,’ Hurley said.
‘He’s the thief.’
‘Not this guy, he’s a total fuckup, and the patients don’t know about Frost,’ Hurley said. ‘I’ll handle him. You find Allison and see if she has those files.’
‘It’s not the end of the world, right? You still have the original research.’
Hurley’s tone was tight and frantic as he started to head down the hall, Groote following him. ‘Don’t be an idiot. Whoever took the research, they could give Frost to the FDA and blow us out of the water. No medicine for us to sell.’ He shook his head. ‘No medicine for your kid.’
Groote bolted past him.
EIGHT
Thunder boomed and Miles opened his eyes, sweaty, sour mouthed, jerking away from the fading dream of Andy pulling a gun from the back of his pants as Miles tried to say, Don’t don’t don’t, of Andy collapsing on the grease-spattered concrete, Miles collapsing across from him, the floor dusty against his cheek. He blinked again.
Night had slid into the room.
He read the soft gleam of his clock. Six fifty-eight. He’d be late to meet Allison. He grabbed his coat and ran out into the cold drizzle.
He ran down two streets, then across the Plaza, then up Palace Avenue. The rain faded to a mist and he could see the lights aglow inside her office. Allison, still waiting for him.
Miles ran into the parking lot and he spotted Allison’s BMW parked at the back of the lot. Then as he turned his face toward the building the blast cracked the world and slapped him backward through the mist, hitting the pavement shoulders-first, the afterimage of the explosion a fiery blot against his eyes.
He threw his arm up over his face and heat hooked into his pants, his stomach. He rolled over once, wriggling, knocking the burning debris away from his clothes. He staggered to his feet. The building’s front collapsed but he heard nothing but an awful ringing in his ears. Flames burst from Allison’s building, a fiery fist raised toward the sky.
He ran into the wall of broiling air surrounding her building; he retreated with a low moan humming in his throat. Where her office had been – right-side front – a heart of hell burned. Miles stood, numb in shock.
Sirens wailed as two fire engines pulled close in the street. Pain began to creep along his arms, his hands. He probed at the blood on his skin and his hair, felt it drying in the heat.
He stumbled backward, dug out his cell phone, punched in her pager number, frantically keyed his number for a reply, thinking, She’s not here, maybe she walked to dinner because I was late. He tried her cell phone; just voice mail.
Another fire truck roared to a stop, the fighters moving into position with practiced speed and grace, water jetting quickly from their hoses, a perfume of destruction drifting through the rain-cleaned air.
Miles dodged the firefighters, went back across the street, sat down on the curb among the crowd that had poured out of the Posada and along the street. He heard a firefighter ask a kid in a Posada valet uniform what had happened. The kid said, ‘Gas explosion, man, big huge boom.’
Not a gas explosion, Miles thought with horror as the shock cleared his head. No. Sorenson. He carried a case into her office. A case I didn’t find. The action’s loaded, he had said. A bomb, Jesus, he planted a freaking bomb in her office and I didn’t find it when I could have, this is my fault my fault my fault…
‘Sir?’
Miles raised his head. Another firefighter stood over him.
‘You okay? You’re injured.’
‘No. I’m okay. I was walking’ – he almost said to but he caught himself – ‘past the building. Suddenly it just blew.’
‘You’re cut. Come with me.’
Miles followed the paramedic, shuffling. The office building shuddered again, fire tearing upward through the remnants of roof now, spouting fresh flame into the sky. A tremendous crash sounded as the broken innards of the building collapsed. He thought of the refurbishment going on inside, the solvents, the paint, the lumber, all fueling the inferno.
A crowd – from the residential streets nearby, from the church, from the hotels – formed and he walked through the mass of people, searching for her face, listening for her voice.
I need your help. I’m in real trouble. See you at seven.
He had failed her.
Sorenson. Sorenson had done this. What else had he said? Tonight. Yes. Her house. No problem.
Her house.
He stopped following the paramedic toward an ambulance; he cut back through the crowd. He walked away, unable to look at the fire.
No one stopped him as he left.
Miles half walked, half ran to Allison’s house, ignoring the pain in his scraped hands, the ringing in his ears, the trickle of blood winding down his neck.
‘You should have died with her,’ Andy said, running alongside him.
‘Shut up,’ Miles said, throwing a punch toward Andy, who sidestepped Miles’s fist, laughing.