Miracle Cure (31 page)

“So that’s why you won’t let this thing drop?”

“Maybe. Yes. Yes, I think that’s a lot of it. I can’t face what my own ego led me to do, so I’m looking to punish the drug and the people who make it. But Freeman, I also think there was something wrong with the drug. I don’t have any idea what, but I think this problem with the Phase One patients has been swept under the rug. The doctors involved with Vasclear are respected researchers,
but they already lied to me once about something that’s crucial to the study.”

“And these respected researchers are getting upset with you?”

“Maybe them, maybe someone else. This morning someone left me a urine report with my case number on it. It looks authentic, but it’s not. It’s positive for narcotics. I didn’t even
give
a specimen today. A few minutes later a man called and implied that unless I stop trying to cause trouble, next time the report would go to my boss.”

“So, what sort of advice do you want from your sponsor?”

“I want you to tell me that I just started back in medicine after eighteen months, that this whole Vasclear thing amounts to nothing but my overripe imagination, that I really have no concrete proof there’s anything wrong with the drug, that the FDA isn’t the least bit interested in what I’ve found so far, and that I had better tend to my own business.”

Sharpe sent a smoke ring swirling skyward.

“Why do you think they threatened you with that fake urine?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. Either they’re afraid I’m going to stumble onto a skeleton in their closet, or they’re just being cautious with the approval of the drug only a few days away. If it turns out they knew something about Vasclear in Phase One and didn’t report it to the FDA, even if they subsequently fixed the problem, that would probably be sufficient grounds for the FDA to postpone the approval indefinitely.”

“Even if the drug has worked fine since then?”

“I think so. And there’s a tremendous amount of money at stake.”

“So, the best you could hope for would be postponing the release of a medication that seems to be working perfectly
well and could save thousands of lives. And trying to accomplish that dubious feat might cost you your career as a doctor.”

Another smoke ring.

“When you say it that way, it sounds pretty foolish,” Brian said.

“It sounds like a guy who cared a lot for his father and is feeling very guilty, angry, and frustrated about his death. That’s not foolish.”

“So, you think I should forget the whole thing.”

“Not really, no.”

Brian did a double take.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you asked me to do some digging into Newbury Pharmaceuticals, right?”

“That was just this morning. You’ve got something already?”

“Maybe. First of all, the company’s privately held, and spotless on the surface.” He pulled a piece of paper from his windbreaker. “The secretary of state’s office at the State House doesn’t demand much information from privately held companies, and that’s precisely what they’ve got on file for Newbury.” He handed a list of four names to Brian. “A CEO, a treasurer, a clerk, one name from the board of directors. Those and a mission statement are the minimum requirements. None of these names mean anything to me, and I doubt they’d mean anything to you.”

“They don’t.”

“Remember when I told you that in AA, whatever it is you want to know or you want done, there’s someone who knows it or can do it? Well, I got to thinking that if there was anything off-center about this company of yours, Cedric L. would know. You know him? Probably the only Chinese guy in the world named Cedric. He belongs to the downtown Friday-night group. He also belongs to a
social club in Chinatown that’s really a hangout for one of the toughest gangs in the city.”

“And here you were worried about me walking off with a few vials of medicine.”

“Cedric’s got twenty years of solid recovery in,” Freeman replied. “Maybe more. When you got that long, you can make informed choices. Anyhow, I called ol’ Cedric, and it turns out he knows quite a bit about your Newbury Pharmaceuticals.”

“Such as?”

“Such as for the last ten years they’ve been a front for laundering money.”

“Drug money?”

“Is there any other kind?”

“The Mafia?”

“Not the one you’re thinking of. According to Cedric, the Russians own the place. Owned it even before the Berlin Wall came tumblin’ down.”

Brian glanced at the list of four names.

“Then who are these people?”

“Don’t know. People who have had their names changed. People who get paid off to put their names on corporate documents. Probably something like that. The company makes vitamins.”

“I know.”

“Well, Cedric says the word is they buy the raw ingredients for their vitamins from someplace over in Russia, then sell the finished products back there. Somehow, the money makes it from here to there as fives, tens, and twenties, and comes back as bank notes and electronic deposits.”

“Now they make Vasclear?”

“So it would seem. And if that stuff is worth as much as the papers say, they ain’t gonna have to peddle vitamins or dope much longer.”

Brian whistled softly.

“Freeman, the guy who called me this morning and threatened me had a Russian accent. I’m certain of it.”

“In that case, my man, I would say that you have gotten yourself into some deep, deep shit. When you do something to cross these guys, they don’t usually slap you on the knuckles with a ruler. I’m surprised that all you were threatened with was a positive urine test.”

Brian sat stunned, gazing across the field at two boys who had begun tossing a football through the gathering dusk.

“This Cedric, is he someone you trust?” he asked.

“He’s a gangster. How the hell should I know? But yeah, I believe him. What reason does he have to lie to me?”

“I staked my father’s life on a miracle drug that’s controlled by the Russian Mafia?”

“So it would seem. But that don’t change that the drug works.”

“Yes, that’s right. Seventy-five percent of two hundred cases. Freeman, what should I do?”

“Don’t drink, don’t drug, go to meetings, and ask for help.”

“Generic advice.”

“Ah, but the right advice for this or any situation. Brian, I got more than a year invested in you. You may be right that the Newbury people are covering something up, or you may be wrong. At this moment, I really don’t give a rat’s ass which. I just don’t want to see you hurt.”

“So, you’re saying I should go along with what they’re demanding, and not do anything?”

“Maybe.”

“But the thing is, Freeman, I haven’t done anything anyhow—certainly nothing to deserve this kind of reaction from them. They’re using the fact that I’m in recovery
against me, threatening to destroy my life as a doctor, and I haven’t really done a damn thing but check some records.”

“It does seem a bit like they’re trying to kill an ant with an elephant gun.”

“Why?” Shaking his head, Brian stood and started across the field. Sharpe followed, tapping ashes from his pipe.

“Why?” Brian asked again.

They neared where the teens were playing catch. Brian clapped his hands for the ball, and one of them dutifully tossed it over.

“Go deep,” Brian said, motioning the boy away. “Deeper,” he called out. “Deeper still.”

“Mister, come on,” the youth hollered back.

“Okay, suit yourself!”

Every bit of confusion, doubt, and fear went into Brian’s throw. Although the boy was a good forty yards away, the perfect spiral was still rising when it sailed over his head. The ball landed more than sixty yards from Brian, bounced once, and disappeared into a low tangle of bushes.

“I can’t quit on this, Freeman,” he said. “I just can’t.”

F
ULBROOK
, N
EW
Y
ORK, WAS A SLEEPY, POSTCARD-PRETTY
village in the foothills of the Catskill Mountains. The drive there from Boston was three and a half hours through intoxicating autumn foliage. Brian made the trip with the top down on the LeBaron, usually a tonic for any inner turmoil. But today, nothing was going to be able to distract him—nothing except some answers.

Richard Vitorelli had been as suspicious and reluctant to speak to Brian as had his wife. Finally, he agreed to meet with him in person, provided he brought proper identification, and they could do it at the office of his family doctor—the man who also doubled as the county medical examiner. Brian was more than happy to oblige.

Following nearly thirty-six hours on duty, Brian was off-call for the entire day. After speaking with Richard Vitorelli and getting directions to Dr. Samuel Purefoy’s
office, he had called Teri from the flat. The sound of her voice made everything else seem less important.

“I was just about to call
you,”
she said.

“What about?”

“I don’t know. Phone sex, maybe? I really miss you, Doc.”

“And I really miss you, Doc. Can you get up here before Saturday?”

“I really don’t see any way. There’s a tremendous amount of stuff still to be gone over here. Dr. Baird and I are flying up early in the day Saturday by government jet.”

Brian had already decided that without specific proof, he wasn’t going to share any of the information Freeman had gotten from Cedric L. It was likely that the FDA was familiar with the officers and principal researchers of Newbury Pharmaceuticals, and that they had checked out above any reproach. Making unsubstantiated charges would only diminish his own credibility.

“Have you come across any disturbing information about Vasclear?” he asked Teri.

“None, except for what you told me about the two cases of heart failure that might have been PH.”

“And Dr. Baird didn’t make anything of those.”

“Not really. Remember, the patients in Phase One were all pretty sick to begin with. It seems only natural that some of them would die from their cardiac disease.”

“What about the pulmonary hypertension?”

“Brian, there’s no proof that either of those patients actually had it. And only one of them died of heart failure. You said the other man was shot during a holdup.”

“He was. I’ve been meaning to get over to the medical examiner’s office to see if the autopsy on that guy showed any evidence of PH in his lung vessels, but there just hasn’t been time. And there’s another Phase One patient I
want to learn about—a lady named Vitorelli. Like the other two, she’s dead. I think she died from cardiac disease, but I want to find out whether she might have had PH. I have the day off tomorrow, and I have nothing planned. So I thought I’d put the top down, drive over to her son’s place in New York State, and speak with him and the medical examiner.”

“I won’t try to talk you out of it, Brian, but I will tell you that we’re satisfied the drug is safe and effective.”

“But you said you’d be checking on Vasclear right up until the last minute.”

“And I meant it. If you find anything concrete, anything at all, Dr. Baird will evaluate it. He has the President’s word that the signing ceremony can be called off even at the last minute.”

“In that case, I’m off to Fulbrook. You sure you don’t want to fly up tonight and drive over there with me tomorrow morning? It’s about a four-hour trip and I have this car fantasy—”

“Oh, not
that
one. All you men have that one.”

“Oh yeah? Well, it just so happens that mine has to do with orange marmalade, a Ouija board, and my medical bag. Just so you know what you’re missing.”

“Now that does sound intriguing. Brian, we really are satisfied we’ve done all we can. You don’t need to stick your neck out.”

“You should have thought of that before you invited me to your hotel room. Now I’m obsessed.”

“In that case, can I take a rain check on the Ouija board and marmalade?”

“Absolutely. I’ll call you when I get back.” Brian heard a click on the line. “Do you have call waiting?” he asked.

“No, why?”

“I just heard a sound—a click.”

“I’m always hearing weird stuff on my line, but nothing this time. Are you okay?”

“Huh? Oh, sure. I’m tired and a bit stressed from work, is all. And I miss my dad.”

“I would think those feelings might soften, but they’ll never go away.”

“Yeah.… Well, I’ve got to get to the store for some marmalade.”

“I miss you, Brian.”

Dr. Samuel Purefoy, the Greene County medical examiner, was a jovial bowling ball of a man. His office was in a small sky-blue bungalow at the foot of a low mountain ablaze in fall colors. There was an old buggy, freshly painted, on the front lawn—a reminder of the simpler, gentler days of medicine.

Brian arrived fifteen minutes earlier than promised, and Purefoy used the time to brew them a pot of tea and benignly grill him about medicine, White Memorial Hospital, and BHI.

“I’ve never encountered a scene quite like the one in that woman’s bedroom at Ricky’s place,” the aging GP said finally, the information acknowledging his acceptance of Brian. “There was blood-tinged pulmonary edema fluid everywhere. God, how that poor woman must have suffered before the end. She drowned. Pure and simple. We did what we could for her, but there really wasn’t any chance.”

“She was alive when you got to her?”

“She was, but just barely. It was a Sunday. My home is just a mile or so from the Vitorellis’ place, and my back was acting up so I decided to pass on church. I made it over there right when the rescue squad arrived. We actually
got a tube in her, and got her over to our little hospital. It’s small, but it’s a damn fine place.”

“I’ll bet it is,” Brian said.

“She never made it out of the ER, though. With all that fluid in her chest, we just couldn’t get enough oxygen into her blood.”

“Did you consider doing an autopsy?”

“Not really. She was a White Memorial cardiac case. Her medications bore that out. I didn’t see any sense in putting her or her family through the trauma of a post. What brings you all the way out here from Boston two years after the fact?”

“Mrs. Vitorelli was one of the first patients to be treated with Vasclear.”