Джозеф Файндер - House on Fire

“What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

I looked up Black Parallel’s website. It described itself as a “select group of elite intelligence community veterans” that provided “tailored solutions” to “complex litigation challenges.” This was all fancy language for the fact that they did dirty ops and provided not just muscle but smart muscle. They were spy mercenaries.

Black Parallel had probably put a watch on Paul Kimball’s house in Cambridge, expecting me to show up there — as I did. Maybe they were trying to find out where my office was or where I live. Neither location was in any database under my real name.

A few hours later my cell phone rang. Gabe’s number. I was relieved and, by now, angry.

“Thanks for bothering to call me back.”

“Uncle Nick, what’s the problem?”

“What’s the problem ? Where the hell have you been?”

“I can’t work at home, so I went to the library.”

“Why didn’t you return my calls?”

“I had my phone switched off.”

“Why haven’t you been showing up at work? Do you know you got fired?”

“The guy’s a jerk. A real asshole.”

“How are you going to pay the rent?”

A pause. “Money’s not a problem. I have some. Saved up.”

“You just told me you’re low on cash.”

“I found some. Anyway, I can always get another job.”

He was lucky to get a job at the record store. He didn’t interview well.

“All right,” I said. “I want you to stay in touch. I’m dealing with something sort of... volatile right now. I want to make sure you’re okay. Check in with me regularly.”

“Will do.”

My phone beeped, and I saw it was Sukie. “Gotta go,” I said, and I picked up Sukie’s call.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“Indianapolis. Another funeral.”

I had to give her credit. She didn’t stop. No matter how busy she was on her documentary, no matter what else was going on, she kept going to funerals of Oxydone victims.

“Nick, I just got a call from Dad’s office. His admin, Wendy. Dad is calling an emergency meeting of the family four days from now. At the house.”

“Emergency? About what?”

“She said, ‘The future of the company.’”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I need you to get that Tallinn file in the next four days. You’re back on the clock.”

“Why?”

“Because what if he declares bankruptcy? As a tricky way to get out of all the lawsuits, which he knows he’s going to lose. Because bankruptcy freezes all lawsuits. And all those families that Kimball Pharma devastated, they get pennies on the dollar. They’ll end up with nothing.”

I thought of the encrypted folder, which might — or might not — contain the Tallinn file. And which was locked up forever unless we guessed the damned password. That seemed hopeless. Which left me with only the chief medical officer, Dr. Zubiri. He was one of the two people at Kimball who knew about the Tallinn study. Which meant he might well have retained a copy. If I could find a way to either steal it from him or force him to hand it over...

I just needed a few minutes alone with the man.

I called and told his administrative assistant that I was from Stat News, an industry news service, compiling a who’s who in the pharmaceutical industry, and I needed just ten minutes of the doctor’s time, in person. She apologized and said that Dr. Zubiri was “at sales conference.”

“He is?” I said, surprised.

“At Kimball, the chief medical officer always goes to sales conferences, to update the sales reps on the products in the pipeline.”

“Where is the sales conference taking place this year?”

“Anguilla,” she said, adding huffily, “and no outsiders are allowed. I’m very sorry.”

I called Sukie back and said, “I need to go to the Kimball sales conference in Anguilla. Which means I need you to go so I can accompany you. Only way I’ll be able to get in.”

“Why?”

“To talk to the CMO.”

“He’ll be there?”

“Yes.”

“It’s in Anguilla?”

“Right.”

“Well, I’ve never gone to a sales conference. They sound awful. But gosh, I suppose I could go, sure, and take you with me.”

“Anguilla. Maybe there’s a direct flight from New York.”

“Doubt it. But that’s not an issue.”

At first I didn’t know what she meant.

I’ve flown on private planes before — it’s one of the perks of my job — and have learned to act blasé about it. But I don’t think I’ll ever really get used to it. And it sure beats the slog that’s travel for most people. Flying cross-country, for instance, can take more than eight hours, once you figure in the hour at each end you spend waiting at the airport. All that shuffling around, schlepping your bag, waiting in lines, taking off your shoes.

But fly private, you can drive right up to the jet, get on it, and leave minutes later. Flying New York to LA takes more like five or six hours, and it’s all luxury. You can lie down and take a nap. The flight attendant will offer you lobster tail and champagne, or whatever you want to drink, while you watch Trading Places or whatever. First time I flew on a private jet I was, candidly, gobsmacked.

I drove the Defender to Logan Airport, to the Signature Aviation terminal, where I parked. Conrad Kimball’s private plane was waiting, so I got right on it, handing my backpack to the flight attendant. The plane was a Gulfstream G550, which is a terrific aircraft. This one was kitted out with big comfortable-looking vanilla leather seats and walnut or mahogany paneling. You could stand up properly, which you can’t in, say, the Citation.

I found Sukie sitting in a seat in the back of the plane, headphones on, working at a laptop. I gave her a kiss. Things felt different between us now, but confusing. She had originally been a client, then a lover; what was she now?

She was wearing a battered-looking pair of jeans that probably cost five hundred dollars, a gray-and-white T-shirt that looked vintage, a black blazer, and white sandals. No logos, no Gucci, no Fendi. Nothing that screamed new money. She was artsy. It worked.

When she saw me, her eyes widened and she slid off her headphones. “What the hell happened to you?”

I didn’t want to scare her unnecessarily. “Cut myself shaving,” I said.

“What really happened?”

“It looks a lot worse than it is.” I’d put a small bandage over the cut in my cheek, but the whole right side of my face looked banged up, abraded from my hitting the sidewalk, bruised from being hit by the Black Parallel guy. It was hard to disguise.

“You’re not going to tell me what happened.”

“I was followed in Cambridge, got into a tussle, and got hit in the head. It could have been a lot worse.”

She listened with her mouth slightly agape. “You could have gotten killed.”

“I don’t think that was their intention.”

“Oh, that’s a relief.”

I changed the subject. “What’s Anguilla like?”

“Never been there?”

“Never.”

“Small island. Beautiful and unspoiled. Not too built up. But hard to get there.”

“Maybe that’s why it’s unspoiled.”

“To get to it, most people have to fly to St. Maarten and then catch a boat or a plane to Anguilla. Always a bit of hassle. Unless you have the use of your father’s plane. We’re going to fly directly in to the Anguilla airport.” The flight attendant handed Sukie a pink frozen drink. “She makes the best strawberry daiquiris. Want one?”

I ordered a Scotch on the rocks. I normally don’t like to drink when I’m at work, but I figured this was a legitimate exception. She asked me what kind I wanted and reeled off a long list. I chose a Talisker 18.