"My log for April third doesn't show any Jane Doe specimens from Albion. Or anything from you, Dr. Novak."
M. J. tugged at a loose hair in frustration. "Look, I know I sent it in. It was even marked 'Expedite.'"
"It's not in the log or in my computer."
"I can't believe this! Of all the lab requests, you have to lose this one? I need those results."
"We can't run a test without specimens," said the tech with undeniable logic.
"Okay." M. J. sighed. "Then give me the results from another case. Xenia Vargas. I sent that in April fourth. You do have that one?"
"It was logged in. Let me check…" There was a brief silence, punctuated by the clicking of fingers on a keyboard. Then the tech said, "It was shipped to an outside lab."
"Why?"
"It says here, 'Nonspecific opioids detected. Unable to identify using available techniques. Specimen referred to independent lab for further tests.' That's all."
"So I will get an ID? Eventually?"
"Eventually."
"Thank you." M. J. hung up. Then it was something new. Something even the state lab couldn't identify.
But it was only one case. To prove a trend, she needed a second case, at the very least.
She rose and pulled on her lab coat. Then she walked down the hall to the morgue. One of the day attendants was tidying up the room. He glanced at her.
"Hey, Doc," he said. "What's up?"
"Hal, you remember those specimens I sent off on Monday? For Jane Doe? I put them in the out box. Did you see the courier pick them up?"
"Don't tell me they went and lost somethin' again?"
"They say they never got it."
Hal rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I heard ' em give Doc Ratchet the same story. So what do you want me to do? Run another set over?"
"If you're willing." She glanced at her watch. "It's four. Take an hour of overtime. That'll cover the drive. And make sure they log it in."
"Sure thing."
Now there would be another long wait for results. Luckily, they'd retained several tubes of Jane Doe's blood and urine, for just this situation. While it was rare for specimens to be lost, it did happen.
Her head was starting to ache again, a reminder of last night's scuffle. She should go home early, put up her feet, and OD on the opiate of the masses-TV. But she'd accumulated too much paperwork.
Back at her desk, she shuffled through her in-box. There were dictations to sign, reports from ballistics, lab slips, pathology journals. She had just emptied her box when the mailroom clerk came in, whistling, and dumped another stack onto her desk.
"Forget this," M. J. muttered. "I'm going home."
Then she saw the envelope on the stack. Dr. Novak was scrawled on top. No address, no stamp; someone must have dropped it off at the front desk.
She opened the envelope and read the note.
Nicos Biagi results just back, MIT lab. Identified as new generation long-acting narcotic, levo-N-eyclobutylmethyl-6, 10 beta-dihydroxy class. Not FDA approved for use in humans. MIT says research patent application made six months ago. Trade name: Zestron-L. Applicant: Cygnus Corporation.
Sorry I'm cutting out on you, but I don't need the headache. Good luck, Novak. You'll need it.
– Mike Dietz.
The Cygnus Corporation . She stared at the name, stunned by the revelation. Thanks, Dr. Dietz, you coward. You drop this can of worms on my desk, and then you turn tail and run.
She grabbed the phone and called the state lab once again.
"About that tox screen, on Xenia Vargas," she said to the technician. "There's a specific drug I want you to test for. It's called Zestron-L."
"You'll have to talk directly to the outside lab. They're handling it now."
"Okay, I'll call them. Where did you send it to?"
"Cygnus Laboratories, in Albion. Do you want the number?"
M. J. didn't answer. She kept staring at that note from Dietz, at the name: Cygnus. Pharmaceuticals. Diagnostic labs. How many tentacles did the corporation have?
"Dr. Novak?" asked the tech again. "Do you want the Cygnus phone number?"
"No," said M. J. softly, and hung up.
It took her a few minutes to dredge up the courage to make the next phone call. It had to be done; Adam Quantrell had to be confronted.
The phone rang once, twice. A male voice answered: "Quantrell residence. Thomas speaking."
"This is Dr. Novak."
"Ah, yes, Dr. Novak. I hope the new automobile is working out."
"It's fine. Is Mr. Quantrell in?"
"I'm afraid he just left for the evening. The mayor's benefit, you know. Shall I give him a message?"
And what message could she leave? she thought. That I know the truth? It's your company, your drug, that's killing people?
"Dr. Novak?" asked Thomas when she said nothing.
She folded Dietz's note and stuffed it in her purse. "No message, Thomas. Thanks," she said. "I'll catch him at the benefit."
Then she hung up and walked out of the office.
7
It took M. J. an hour and a half to drive home, change her clothes, and fight her way back through midtown traffic. By that time, a major jam had built up along Dorchester Avenue, leading to the Four Seasons Hotel. All the red lights gave her time to shake her hair loose, dab on lipstick, brush on mascara while looking in the visor mirror. Even with a ton of face powder the bruises were still obvious, but at least she'd found a silk scarf to wrap around her neck and conceal the stitches. It actually looked rather dashing, that slash of red and purple silk trailing across the black dress. Too bad the whole effect required high heels; before the night was over, her feet would be killing her.
The ballroom of the Four Seasons was packed. There were probably enough furs and jewels in the room to fund the city budget for a year. A buffet table held platters of shrimp and smoked salmon, pastries and caviar, all of it served on real china, of course. A balalaika troupe was playing Russian music-a tribute to Albion's equally depressed sister city on the Volga. M. J. handed her invitation to the official at the door and headed into the thick of things.
She was reminded at once of why she hated going to affairs like this, especially on her own. Bring an escort and you were an instant social circle; go alone and you're invisible. Sipping at the requisite glass of white wine, she wandered through the crowd and searched for a familiar face-any familiar face. Mostly she saw a lot of tuxedoes, a lot of mink, a lot of orthodontically perfect teeth bared in perfect smiles.
She heard her name called. Turning, she saw her ex-husband. "And I thought you weren't going to vote for us," he said as he approached.
"I didn't say I would. I just can't pass up a free invite."
"Hey, I want to get a photo taken. You and the mayor together." He glanced around and spotted Sampson off in a corner, surrounded by admirers. "There he is. Come on."
"I don't do photo ops."
"Just this time."
"I told you, I'm not here to endorse him. I'm here to partake of a few free drinks and-" She stopped, her gaze suddenly focusing across the room, on a man's fair hair. Adam Quantrell didn't see her; he was facing sideways, engaged in conversation with another man. Next to Adam stood Isabel, her equally blond hair done up in an elaborate weave of faux pearls. The perfect couple, she thought. A stunning pair in tuxedo and evening dress. The sort of couple you saw epitomized in Cosmo ads.
Adam must have sensed he was being watched. He glanced her way and froze when he saw her. To M. J.'s surprise, he abruptly broke off his conversation and began to move toward her, across the room. She caught a glimpse of Isabel's frown, of faces turning to look at Adam as his broad shoulders pushed past. And then all she could seem to focus on was him.