“Well, now, that’s wonderful.”
“Ver and I had a very nice life together. Pissed me off we missed the fiftieth. I had a party planned. Complete with harpist and open bar.” He raised an eyebrow. “Vintage port included.”
“And you have a son?”
“That’s right. Randall. He lives in California. Runs a computer company. But one that actually makes money. Imagine that! Wears his hair too long and lives with a woman — he oughta get married — but he’s a good boy.”
“You see him much?”
“All the time.”
“When did you talk to him last?”
“The other day.”
“And you’ve told him all about your condition?”
“You bet.”
“Good. He going to get out here?”
“In a week or so. He’s traveling. Got a big deal he’s putting together.”
She was taking something out of her purse. “Our doctor at the clinic prescribed this.” She handed him a bottle. “Luminux. It’s an antianxiety agent.”
“I say no to drugs.”
“This’s a new generation. You’re going through a lot of crap right now. It’ll make you feel better. Virtually no side effects—”
“You mean it won’t take me back to my days as a beatnik in the Village?” She laughed and he added, “Actually, think I’ll pass.”
“It’s good for you.” She shook out two pills into a small cup and handed them to him. She walked to the bar and poured a glass of water.
Watching her, acting like she lived here, Covey scoffed, “You ever negotiate?”
“Not when I know I’m right.”
“Tough lady.” He glanced down at the pills in his hand. “I take these, that means I can’t have my port, right?”
“Sure you can. You know, moderation’s the key to everything.”
“You don’t seem like a moderate woman.”
“Oh, hell no, I’m not. But I don’t practice what I preach.” And she passed him the glass of water.
Late afternoon, driving to Jersey.
Tal fiddled with the radio trying to find the Opera Hour program that Mac had mentioned.
LaTour looked at the dash as if he was surprised the car even had a radio.
Moving up and down the dial, through the several National Public Radio bands, he couldn’t find the show. What time had she said it came on? He couldn’t remember. He wondered why he cared what she listened to. He didn’t even like opera that much. He gave up and settled on all news, all the time. LaTour stood that for five minutes then put the game on.
The homicide cop was either preoccupied or just a natural-born bad driver. Weaving, speeding well over the limit, then braking to a crawl. Occasionally he’d lift his middle finger to other drivers in a way that was almost endearing.
Probably happier on a motorcycle, Tal reflected.
LaTour tuned in to another game on the radio. They listened for a while, neither speaking.
“So,” Tal tried. “Where you live?”
“Near the station house.”
Nothing more.
“Been on the force long?”
“A while.”
New York seven, Boston three…
“You married?” Tal had noticed that he wore no wedding band.
More silence.
Tal turned down the volume and repeated the question.
After a long moment LaTour grumbled, “That’s something else.”
“Oh.” Having no idea what the cop meant.
That’s something else…
He supposed there was a story here — a hard divorce, lost children.
And six point three percent kill themselves before retirement…
But whatever the sad story might be, it was only for Bear’s friends in the department, those on the Real Crimes side of the pen.
Not for Einstein, the calculator humper.
They fell silent and drove on amid the white noise of the sportscasters.
Ten minutes later LaTour skidded off the parkway and turned down a winding side road.
Montrose Pharmaceuticals was a small series of glass and chrome buildings in a landscaped industrial park. Far smaller than Pfizer and the other major drug companies in the Garden State, it nonetheless must’ve done pretty well in sales — to judge from the number of Mercedes, Jaguars and Porsches in the employee parking lot.
Inside the elegant reception area, Westbrook County Sheriff’s Department badges raised some eyebrows. But, Tal concluded, it was LaTour’s bulk and hostile gaze that cut through whatever barriers existed here to gaining access to the inner sanctum of the company’s president.
In five minutes they were sitting in the office of Daniel Montrose, an earnest, balding man in his late forties. His eyes were as quick as his appearance was rumpled and Tal concluded that he was a kindred soul — a scientist, rather than a salesperson. The man rocked back and forth in his chair, peering at them through curiously stylish glasses with a certain distraction. Uneasiness, too.
Nobody said anything for a moment and Tal felt the tension in the office rise appreciably. He glanced at LaTour, who said nothing and simply sat in the leather-and-chrome chair, looking around the opulent space. Maybe stonewalling was a technique that Real cops used to get people to start talking.
“We’ve been getting ready for our sales conference,” Montrose suddenly volunteered. “It’s going to be a good one.”
“Is it?” Tal asked.
“That’s right. Our biggest. Las Vegas this year.” Then he clammed up again.
Tal wanted to echo, “Vegas?” for some reason. But he didn’t.
Finally LaTour said, “Tell us about Luminux.”
“Luminux. Right, Luminux…I’d really like to know, I mean, if it’s not against any rules or anything, what you want to know for. I mean, and what are you doing here? You haven’t really said.”
“We’re investigating some suicides.”
“Suicides?” he asked, frowning. “And Luminux is involved.”
“Yes indeedy,” LaTour said with all the cheer that the word required.
“But…it’s based on a mild diazepam derivative. It’d be very difficult to fatally overdose on it.”
“No, they died from other causes. But we found—”
The door swung open and a strikingly beautiful woman walked into the office. She blinked at the visitors and said a very unsorrowful, “Sorry. Thought you were alone.” She set a stack of folders on Montrose’s desk.
“These are some police officers from Westbrook,” the president told her.
She looked at them more carefully. “Police. Is something wrong?”
Tal put her at forty. Long, serpentine face with cool eyes, very beautiful in a European fashion model way. Slim legs with runner’s calves. Tal decided that she was like Sheldon’s Gaelic assistant, an example of some predatory genus not as evolved as Mac McCaffrey.
Neither Tal nor LaTour answered her question. Montrose introduced her — Karen Billings. Her title was a mouthful but it had something to do with product support and patient relations.
“They were just asking about Luminux. There’ve been some problems, they’re claiming.”
“Problems?”
“They were just saying…” Montrose pushed his glasses higher on his nose. “Well, what were you saying?”
Tal continued, “A couple of people who killed themselves had three times the normal amount of Luminux in their systems.”
“But that can’t kill them. It couldn’t have. I don’t see why…” Her voice faded and she looked toward Montrose. They eyed each other, poker-faced. She then said coolly to LaTour, “What exactly would you like to know?”
“First of all, how could they get it into their bloodstream?” LaTour sat back, the chair creaking alarmingly. Tal wondered if he’d put his feet up on Montrose’s desk.
“You mean how could it be administered?”