Two cups of coffee and three ibuprofen later, I was on the road to LifeScience. The water of the bay winked and glittered beside the parking lot. The sun was not yet high enough to be blocked by the band of cirrus clouds skating in from the northwest.
I chose a space behind the annex as the least likely to be spotted. My orange Scout would stick out like a common poppy among roses in the main lot.
I walked around to the front entrance. Doug had told me to dial his extension from an intercom outside the door. There was no receptionist today and, I hoped, a minimum of security.
I reached Doug’s voicemail and told him I was at the door. It was not quite nine. A quick look through the glass showed the lobby was empty. But the red light on the camera above the reception desk was on. I looked up over my shoulder. Another camera affixed to a column was aimed at the door. I pressed myself against a wall, out of reach of the lens.
The nerves in my stomach were starting to jumble when a kiwi green Volkswagen zipped into a space in front of the building. A woman popped out of the door. The sleek black hair, the bolero jacket, the brisk walk — I recognized Fay immediately. She jumped with a bark of fright, nearly dropping the portfolio under her arm, when she saw me in the shadow of the portico.
“Bill! God, you scared me. What are you doing here?”
“Visiting a friend. And you?”
“I’m just — just showing my work.”
“Are you all right?” In spite of the outfit, in spite of the makeup, her shoulders sagged and her eyes were puffy and red. Her voice didn’t have the usual swagger.
“I’m not doing too great, I have to admit. Simon—” She stopped, a catch in her voice. “Simon called. You were right about him and Sheila. I feel so badly. She helped me get this contract.”
The door opened. The woman holding it said hello to Fay and asked if she had brought the sketches. Fay greeted her, then turned to give me an imploring look. “Please don’t mention this to Jenny. I wanted to do a job on my own.”
I followed her in. Doug Englehart was just entering the forelobby. He gave Fay an inquiring glance before fixing on me. “You’re Bill, right?”
Fay was still waiting for an answer. I just smiled at her, then turned to shake Doug’s hand. “Yes. Thanks for inviting me over.”
“Come on up.” I followed him to an elevator on the left side of the atrium. We rode to the third floor. Doug tapped the side of his leg the whole time, as if preoccupied with some calculation. He wore a short sleeve yellow-checked shirt. His balding head stood out on his thin neck like a light bulb. Two shoots of a mustache crawled across his upper lip. His long arms drooped from his shoulders, and his large feet were encased in running shoes.
“Lots of people working today,” I commented as the doors opened.
“Lots happening.” He kept a step ahead of me as we walked. He didn’t seem to want to talk in the open. We passed labs on either side, sets of long work benches in long rooms cluttered with tanks, jars, flasks, beakers, tubes, titers, centrifuges. A cart in the corridor contained more glass stacked like dirty dishes. We took a corner and passed a glassed room containing a small black box.
“That’s our PCR machine,” Doug said offhandedly.
In another lab, machines resembling grocery scales undulated in perfectly symmetrical hulas. Doug said they were vortexers.
We got to the end of the linoleum corridor and took a right to a space cloverleafed with work stations. On one wall was a big metal door with a window that looked into his lab. I saw a couple of scientists at the benches, and recognized their faces from the funeral.
Doug’s office was a drywalled box next to the lab. He gestured for me to shut the door behind me. “You can put your coat anywhere.”
“Thanks.” I kept it on. It was a heavy canvas jacket. Tucked into one inside pocket was a mini-DV camera. In the other was the DAT recorder, cued up.
Doug went behind his desk. I looked for a place to sit. A cheap loveseat was pushed back against the wall by the door. Books, binders, and manuals lined the walls. There was one window in the room, partially blocked by a bookcase, to the left of Doug’s desk.
I moved a stack of reprints off a hard chair. While I was turned away, I slipped my hand in my inner coat pocket and clicked off the DAT’s pause button. Then I pulled the chair close to the desk.
Taped to the edge of a metal shelf to Doug’s right, above his computer workstation, was a multihued image, a muscular humanoid sort of figure that might have come out of a cartoon. It had two bulging bow legs and two massively biceped arms with what looked like giant double-claws for hands. There was no head. A line connected the legs to a legend in the margin that read Fc. The arms were labelled FAb. The claws, a mix of green and red, were labelled M; the legs, in blue and silver, H.
I stared at the image. “Is that MC124?”
Doug glanced at it. His eyes dilated, and he flicked at his mustache with his thumb. “You said you had something to tell me about Gregory Alton?” His voice was sharp, all treble.
I laid out what I knew about Gregory and his attempt to steal software from Kumar. Doug nodded along with me. He seemed in a hurry, so I wrapped it up quickly. When I was done, he sat with his eyes slanted toward the window. I waited for a response, then asked, “This information isn’t helpful?”
His head turned back, but his eyes focused somewhere behind me. “Somewhat. BioVerge keeps claiming they’re about to unveil some new technology.”
“Now you know where it would come from,” I said. He shrugged. “Of course you can’t take only my word for it,” I added. “I have someone who just quit the company who will confirm it.”
“All right.” He put his elbows on the desk. His eyes slid back toward the window.
“I appreciate your talking to me,” I said. “I have some questions about Sheila, if you don’t mind.”
He gave a perfunctory nod.
“Did you know her well?” I asked.
“Yes, of course.” He spoke into his hands. His head didn’t move. “She was one of my best people.”
“What do you know about the problems she found with MC124?”
His gaze quickly locked on me. He lost his distracted tone. “There are no problems. She got stuck on an anomalous result. One of the trial mice died. It happens all the time — both things. Random mortality, and a researcher mistaking it for important data.”
“Do you think her death was a random mortality?”
His eyes grew wide. He slowly pressed his palms to his desk. “What are you saying?”
“Sheila’s allergist has been running some tests on her blood serum. People will want to know how her findings match up with MC124.”
“An allergist doesn’t have the training,” he scoffed.
“She’s doing research at UCSF.”
“I don’t care where she’s from. It’s perfectly obvious what caused Sheila’s death. You’ll find no connection to MC124.”
“Sheila herself did. It’s in her notes and some other materials. There are people following up on her research.”
“That’s just wrong!” He slammed a fist on the desk. The window rattled with the force of his voice.
If I’d exaggerated what Karen and I knew, his reaction told me we weren’t far off. “I understand you’re the principal designer of the antibody,” I continued. “You probably know better than anyone what it can do and what it can’t. Don’t you want to find out if someone in this company misused it to hurt Sheila?”
Doug put his forehead in a bunch. His hands locked in front of his mouth again and he blew a little air between his thumbs. He was not one to hide his thought processes. “Like who?”