Last Shot (2006) (13 page)

Dean punched the button on the table, the door clicked, and the assistant again slid into view. "Summon Dolan from the Ivory Tower."

"I'm here already, sir." The door creaked open another fifteen degrees, and Dolan stepped into the boardroom, a spray of Coomassie blue staining his lab coat from pocket to hem.

"Glad you dressed for the occasion." A few laughs, and then Dean added, with manufactured pride, "The absentminded professor."

"Sorry I'm late."

"You're not late. You were joining us at seven-thirty. It's seven-ten. But have a seat. We're always eager to talk Vector."

All the plush leather chairs around the table were occupied. Dolan tugged over the stool from the telephone nook. Jenner and Bernie made a show of shifting their chairs to make space, but there was nowhere for them to go.

Dolan folded his hands over a knee and stared down the spit-shined length of mahogany.

"I have good news," Dean said. "The business and legal counterparts have reached an equitable and mutually beneficial arrangement. Beacon-Kagan will pay Vector a licensing fee--a significant licensing fee--to become the exclusive worldwide manufacturer for Xedral. Your first eight-figure deal. Nine by this time next year. How does it feel?"

"Great." Dolan mustered a smile. "What are the terms?"

Chase slipped his BlackBerry into a pocket and tapped the circle of his fingertips on the three-inch-thick document before him. "Sucker boilerplate."

"Vector obviously doesn't have the infrastructure to manufacture big numbers," Dean added, "and big numbers we'll be doing. This is a fine deal, and you're to be congratulated."

"We can't put it out until after the IPO of course," Chase said, "which brings us to our big news. We got approval for the S-1. Vector goes public a week from Wednesday."

A round of congratulations. Dean was smiling now, a genuine grin. "Vector will be upping laboratory tours for patients and key investors as a ramp-up to Friday's pre-IPO presentation." His eyes found Dolan. "Be cordial. And dress. But remember, you're in the quiet period until the stock's been trading twenty-five days. No leaks, no asides, no press releases." Chase rolled his eyes at Jane--like Dolan's plugged in tight at CNBC. "For the next month, accessible but low-profile is the rule. We'll celebrate tonight at the house." His head cocked, his grin fading. "You're not jumping up and down?"

The other eighteen sets of eyes shifted to Dolan. "I think we have a window to bring Lentidra through another stage, see if we can attain permanent transgene integration."

"Chase says the numbers--"

"He's not a scientist, sir," Dolan said.

Chase's posture firmed, bringing him out of his slump. Jane coughed into a curl of manicured fingers. The other execs got busy examining papers and PalmPilots.

Dean glowered at Dolan. "There is more than one kind of numbers."

The fair skin of Chase's face had colored. "While you're busy stamping out disease, we're building an infrastructure around you and other researchers so we can effectively deliver your theragenes to patients in need."

"They're actually called transgenes," Dolan said.

"Not anymore. Show some appreciation for the work the rest of us do. Without us you're a guy with an idea and a university stipend."

Dean watched Dolan squirming in his chair. Dolan's birthright and duty as the elder Kagan offspring should have been to inherit one day the helm of the vast family-run corporation, but he'd eschewed business for science. As a sacrifice of sorts, on the eve of acquiring his doctorate and a humble NIH STTR grant, Dolan had offered up his gene-therapy research to his father in the form of an amateurish business pitch. After a consult with the director of UCLA's Office for Technology and Trademark Licensing, a gray old friend, Dean had taken over Vector Biogenics as he took over most matters, funding it in return for owning it lock, (especially) stock, and barrel.

Dean had raised two sons, one in his mold, the other who still required molding. But it was the latter who'd come up with the winning lottery ticket.

Dolan lifted his hands, palms out. "I guess I'm just disappointed in myself. For Lentidra's failure. For Vector's."

Winifred said, "You've done top-notch work, Dolan, on a remarkable timeline."

"We have an eager market and dying kids," Chase added. "Plus. We're on a clock with the IPO. That is gonna give you and Vector the longevity to pursue twenty-five times what your present resources would."

"Let's get to new business." Dean's festive mood had dissipated. He waved a pale, smooth hand at his younger son. "Chase, please?"

This was also Dolan's exit cue.

Offering a curt nod, Dolan withdrew. Dean waited impatiently for the door to close behind him.

It was early, and there was much work to be done.

Chapter
17

Tyler's sturdy legs flexed as he tried to reverse his head out of the railing of the plastic slide. His face turned red, his ears poking forward like a monkey's. Tim heard the deep breath but couldn't get there quick enough to avert the wail. He guided Ty's head through the gap and held him, standing on the dew-wet grass and checking his son's soft skin for scratches.

"Come on, bub. Let's go draw."

He stepped back into the living room and set Tyler on the plastic sheet laid down between Magic Marker and carpet. Distracted by scribble potential, Ty finally stopped crying, trading tears for a fist grip on Blinding Yellow. He attacked a length of butcher paper with vigor.

"Kaiyer draw Daddy."

Evidently Tim was an anatomical freak, stick legs and bread-loaf feet topped by a head like a nineteen-inch Trinitron. He tried to help Tyler clutch the marker effectively but had trouble translating finger placement to his son's left-handed grip.

Muffin stuck in her mouth, Dray came around from the kitchen, bringing Tim a smoothie and a piece of peanut butter toast. She halved her muffin, offered Tyler a chunk he inverted on the mat beside him, and turned a quizzical gaze to Tim's manipulation of their son's tiny splayed fingers.

Tim said, "Can't we just force him to be right-handed?"

"Bind his left arm behind his back and call him a devil child? I've read that's bad for self-esteem these days." She took a bite of Tim's toast before handing it to him. "You got him his OJ?"

"Right over there." Tim checked his watch--a little past 7:00 A.M. Eager to start digging into Walker's background, he'd do better at the office than at home on just a few hours' sleep. His colleagues could be distracting as hell, but they didn't cry and spill things. Well, Bear spilled things, but at least he didn't cry.

Dray said, "I got Elliott. He said he'd be happy to. He's working a P.M., so I'll meet him at Palmdale Station, walk through the files with him to get the skinny on the sister's suicide, and bring copies by your office tonight." Before Tim could thank her, her attention shifted to the Typhoon. "Did he get up the steps and down the slide by himself?"

"I worry about that slide. It gets his head stuck."

"He gets his head stuck. And he'll learn how to get it unstuck. That's what playground equipment is for."

Tim followed Dray's sharp stare to Tyler, who was standing with his knees pressed together, cupping his crotch.

Tim hoisted him up by his armpits, swept him down the hall, and deposited him on the kiddy toilet. In solidarity Tim followed suit once Tyler was done, without the aid of the red plastic booster.

As Tim flushed, Ty applauded clumsily. "Good job, Daddy."

"Thanks, pal. I been at this awhile, so it actually no longer constitutes a big accomplishment."

As Tyler toddled back to his markers, Tim heard him sneeze a couple times. Holstering his .357 as he came back into the living room, Tim asked, "You're gonna take him to the doctor today, right? Check out his cold?"

Dray toed the carpeted hearth. "You don't want to keep doing this to him."

At her tone he straightened. "Doing what?"

"The plastic railing and a doctor's trip after three sneezes. You'll make him a sick kid. You're teaching him that's how to live in the world."

Capitalizing on the distraction, Tyler had his shirt off and Ernie and Bert negotiating a fine domestic matter at too-loud volume.

"What's your biggest fear?" Tim asked.

"Having the hiccups indefinitely?"

"Dray."

"Going to jail for a crime I didn't commit? Speculums?" Eyebrows raised, she studied his irritated expression. "Okay, I give up."

"Mine is having something happen to him that we could have prevented."

"Okay." Dray took a few steps forward, arms folded so her firm biceps showed against her cutoff academy T-shirt. "I don't have a 'biggest' fear. I gave them up with best friends. But here's one of my bigger ones: raising a timid, shy boy who's terrified of adventure and risk and regards the world as a dangerous place. And right up there with that is the fear of being a parent who'd do that to him."

"The world is a dangerous place."

"Right. But that's not just a fact of life, it's one of the facts that gives life meaning and excitement. Even a kid can learn enough anxiety to lose sight of that."

Tim looked at Tyler, nakedly scribbling with a stunt helmet on. "I don't see that in him."

Dray's gaze shifted, then caught. Tyler was studying his feet intently, holding the uncapped yellow marker like a wand. "Ty, what are you doing?"

In response he leapt up and spun in circles.

"Okay," Tim said, "I'll work on it."

"Do more than that. Work on your head, sure. But act differently in the meantime. Now, finish your toast and go catch Walker Ja--" Dray stiffened.

A trail of tiny yellow footprints across the white carpet betrayed Tyler's escape route. The markers were kicked in all directions, food spilled across the sheet. Dray studied the scene, her jaw tensed. She drew a deep breath, closing her eyes and exhaling slowly as if to decelerate her temper. Finally she took a few steps over and studied the sticky TV. Orange juice had been splashed right into Elmo's hapless face.

"Field analysis would indicate the absence of a sippy cup," she said, "an open container being the only reasonable explanation for the spatter on the television screen."

Tim worked on keeping a straight face. "Sorry 'bout that."

"Crumb distribution suggests that the UNSUB ate his muffin imitating the Cookie Monster, not realizing that he actually has an esophagus, while said puppet does not." She assessed the stained fibers seriously. "The footprints, which are thankfully rendered in fluorescent yellow"--a brief pause as she pretended to regain her composure--"show the UNSUB headed west down the hall...."

Blinding Yellow proved surprisingly robust as they followed the splotches.

"Preliminary evidence points to UNSUB coloring his feet bottoms with Magic Marker. Permanent Magic Marker." Dray shoved their bedroom door the rest of the way open, revealing the Typhoon jumping on their mattress, giggling at the sight of them, a puddle of jaundiced comforter at his feet.

Tim waited for Tyler to draw a breath between screeches. "What was that you were saying about timid?"

Chapter
18

Within the hour, when their stretches get stuck in traffic, I'm gonna have calls from the mayor and from Sutter's Fort or wherever the hell the governor lives. To ask what they can do to help. To inquire politely what we need. We need this guy nailed. Nothing shakes consumer confidence like a prison break." Sitting sideways on Tim's flimsy desk, hands laced across his knee in his trademark pose of paternal authority, Marshal Tannino flashed an ironic grin at Tim, Bear, and Guerrera. "Go restore order."

One of the few of the ninety-four U.S. marshals who'd risen through the ranks, Tannino preferred sweating over case files to the more prestigious--and dull--responsibilities of his appointment. He was supposed to be attending a fund-raising breakfast in Long Beach, but he liked to spend Monday mornings reviewing cases with his deputies in the squad room. The Service's central district warrant teams occupied the Roybal Building's Garden Level, so named because a bank of windows overlooked a spotty lawn and a few tired trees drooping under exhaust from Temple Street traffic. The desks were laden with laptops and red-markered maps. Crime-scene flyers, faxes, and booking photos flew back and forth over the waist-high partitions as the deputies waged an endless war of attrition against a horde of escape, parole, and drug cases.

The City of Angels also happens to be the nation's fugitive capital. Sleaze, after all, is just glamour that falls short of the mark. For every Hollywood release, there were five skin flicks staining their way into existence on a Van Nuys bedsheet; for each set of celebrity handprints pressed into pavement on the Boulevard, there was a crimson spatter across glass-strewn asphalt.

Alongside LAPD's Parker Center, the federal courthouse, City Hall, and a variety of seventies-style landscape sculptures of questionable appeal, Roybal sits on Fletcher Bowron Square, which honors a brief but valiant stab at wresting city government from rackets and vice taken by L.A.'s forty-second mayor. Bowron's campaign met with far less success than did his subsequent effort to root out, dispossess, and intern Japanese-Americans, but his later apology stands as the sole capitulation by a major political leader in the postwar years. Tim, perhaps unnervingly early in his own career, identified closely with a man whose good intentions were overshadowed by recklessness and regret.