On the Brink (Vol. 1) (The On the Brink Series) (12 page)

Chapter
Twenty-One

The
clock moved all too slowly as I struggled to keep my mind on my work. Thoughts
of Craig kept creeping in, and it didn’t help that today’s transcription job
was deadly dull. Finally, 9:45 arrived, and I texted Craig.

Leaving in 15 minutes. See you
downstairs a few minutes after 10?

I
watched the screen expectantly for several minutes. No response. I made myself
keep working until 9:55, then checked again. Still no response. I decided to go
downstairs to see if he was already there, waiting for me.

I
put on my coat, slung my bag over my shoulder, and left the office, phone in
hand. After reaching the lobby, I looked around. No Craig in sight, just the
usual security guards.

I
checked the phone again. 10:03. No new messages. This wasn’t like him, and I hoped
that everything was okay. I waited until 10:15, and then called his cell.
Direct to voicemail. I left a message saying that I was waiting downstairs. I
then called his office number. After several rings, he picked up.

“Juliana.
I apologize. Something’s come up. I can’t leave just yet. Can you come up and
hang out for half an hour or so? It shouldn’t take longer than that.” He
sounded stressed.

“Okay.
See you in a minute.” As I took the elevator to the fourteenth floor, I
wondered what would keep Craig at his desk past ten o’clock at night.

As
the elevator doors opened, I heard the sound of Craig’s voice coming from his
office, and realized he was on the phone. I crossed the reception area,
catching a name that was all too familiar. Reimann.

While
I was aware that Manning Biotech was involved in a lawsuit with one of Walter
Reimann’s companies, I had never told Craig about my prior relationship with
Reimann’s son, Matt. I considered briefly whether I should tell Craig about
Matt, then dismissed the idea as too embarrassing.

I
entered Craig’s office and took a seat, watching him pace back and forth in
front of the wall of windows behind his desk, the lights of the Boston skyline
behind him.

“No,
I’m not willing to settle. Reimann committed industrial espionage. I can’t
prove it yet, but I will. My investigators turned up a hot new lead just this
week. I need more time.”

He
paused, listening to whoever was on the other end, then exploded.

“The
shareholders, you say. I’ve made them lots of money, and this drug will make
them more. I’m not caving, Jared. You’re the lawyer. Do your job. Figure out
how to buy me more time.”

He
paused again, visibly steaming.

“No.
You’re not getting any investigative tidbits to feed the judge. Don’t you get
it? Reimann plays dirty. He’ll bribe someone, figure out who’s talking to me,
and my informant will disappear. Or turn up dead. Come up with something and
run it by me tomorrow morning.”

Craig
hung up and turned to me. “Sorry for keeping you waiting. This lawsuit is
making me a little crazy. But soon I’ll have the evidence I need, and Walter
Reimann will be behind bars. Where he belongs.” He scowled and shook his head
briefly. “I refuse to let that bastard spoil our evening. Let’s banish him with
a martini. Then we can drive to your place.”

“Okay,”
I agreed.

Craig
opened the concealed door to the spacious sitting room of his private suite,
familiar from previous visits, decorated in beiges and taupes with accents of
dark wood. As we entered, he gestured toward an alcove, which contained
built-in bar cabinets, their dark wood and minimal style consistent with the
overall design scheme.

“Belvedere,
dirty, olives?” he asked.

“You
remembered.” I raised my eyebrows in mock surprise.

“Oh,
you’re nothing if not memorable.” Our eyes locked for an instant. “In every
way.” His slightly long, dark hair was mussed, as if he’d been running his
fingers through it.

Watching
his strong, elegant hands measure, shake, and pour, I couldn’t help but recall
the exquisite sensation of those hands on my body. I remembered the king-size
bed just a couple doors away. And the walk-in shower. While I loved my
apartment, Craig’s place did suggest some highly attractive options.

Done
pouring the martinis—a twist for him, olives for me—he gestured
toward a large, dark brown leather couch, positioned to take advantage of the
suite’s spectacular view of the Boston skyline.

“Let’s
sit there. The view’s pretty good in clear weather, like we have tonight.”

We
seated ourselves on the couch, and Craig raised his glass. “Cheers,” he said,
and then tossed back half his drink.

“Cheers,”
I echoed, taking a sip of my drink. Ice-cold martini perfection.

We
sat in comfortable silence for a minute or two, enjoying the view and savoring
our drinks. Boston sparkled and shimmered in the distance, the steady motion of
headlights on Storrow Drive revealing the energetic, living flow of the city.
At night, the impression of the whole dominated that of the individual parts,
projecting the aura of an immense, composite being, pulsating with vitality.

I
broke the silence. “It’s so clear tonight. I feel as if I could reach out the
window and touch the big CITGO sign.”

Craig
smiled, but his expression was distant. I wondered if he was still thinking
about work, and if I should ask. I decided to give it a shot.

“Sounds
like you’ve had a stressful day,” I said, taking another sip of my drink. “Do
you feel like talking about it?”

He
sighed. “It’s a long story. Sure you want to hear it?”

“Of
course I do.”

“I’ll
try to keep it short. Years ago, Manning Biotech patented an anti-cancer drug.
Since then, we’ve been working our way through the clinical trials required for
FDA approval.”

“Does
this drug have a name?” I asked.

“We
haven’t made a final decision about the name yet,” he replied.

“So
what are you thinking of naming it?”

“Well,
we’ve spent over a million dollars with a marketing agency that specializes in
branding.
 
They’re working with us
to create a name, design a logo and brand strategy, et cetera. Of the names
they’ve proposed to date, Protix is the best. And I like the logo they’ve
developed. But something about the name doesn’t feel right to me. Not strong
enough.”

I
thought for a moment. I liked
pro
.
Pro
implied progress, moving forward.
What to put with it? Maybe
vita
?
Latin for life? That would make Provita... but that sounded too much like a
vitamin... maybe Provitane?

I
pulled out my phone and did a quick Google search to see if there was an
existing drug or product with that name. After confirming that there wasn’t, I
asked, “What about Provitane? I just checked. There isn’t another product with
that name.”

Craig
looked stunned. “Pro-vi-tane,” he said slowly. “You know, I like it. I really
like it.” He shook his head. “You’re really incredible, you know? I spend a
million bucks for a team to sit around conference rooms inventing drug names,
and you come up with a better one in under a minute.”

“Thank
you.” I paused. “So, tell me more about this anti-cancer drug you’ve been
working on.”

“Okay.
The drug showed strong results, and we were able to fast track the approval
process. It should be approved and on the market early next year.”

He
paused, sipping his martini. “Six months ago, Syngenomics filed for patent of a
near-identical drug, what the industry terms a ‘me-too’ drug. If they had
produced their drug independently, as they claim they did, that would be legal.
The two drugs would compete against each other for market share. However, I had
reason to believe that Walter Reimann stole our research, so we sued
Syngenomics for theft of confidential research information. If we win the
lawsuit, then Manning Biotech will be poised to dominate the market for this drug
type. If Syngenomics wins, the profits from our new drug will be considerably
less than projected, and Manning Biotech’s stock price will take a beating. And
knowing Reimann, if the stock price drops low enough, he’ll attempt a takeover.
He’s wanted Manning Biotech for years.”

His
eyes darkened with intensity. “I know Reimann stole our research, and I know
who helped him steal it. I just need more time to gather additional evidence.”

Impulsively,
I tossed aside my earlier decision not to tell Craig about my history with Matt
Reimann. I had to tell him. Maybe not everything, but he needed to know that I
knew the Reimanns.

“I
know the Reimanns,” I interjected. His eyebrows shot up. “Well, Matt Reimann
anyway.
 
From college. Walter’s son.
I only met Matt’s parents once.”

Craig’s
face shifted from surprise to an expression I had never seen before. Not angry,
exactly. Primal.

“Just
how well do you know Matt Reimann?” His lips hardened into a straight line, his
outward self-containment belied by the intensity of his gaze.

“We’re
not friends, if that’s what you mean. Matt’s a nasty piece of work.”

He
relaxed slightly. “Matt Reimann is much like his father. Manipulative.
Unethical.” His eyes darkened again. “But you haven’t answered my question yet,
Juliana. How well do you know Matt, and how did you come into contact with
him?”

Given
his reaction, I knew I had to tell Craig the whole truth. I resolved to speak
calmly. To relate the facts with as little emotion as possible. “I met Matt in
college. At a party. A mutual acquaintance introduced us.”

“Go
on.” Craig’s grip on my hand tightened. Fixing my eyes on the floor, I
continued.

“Matt
was charming... and good-looking. Popular with everyone, though there was
always gossip about his womanizing. The first few times he asked me out, I
refused because of his reputation. He pursued me aggressively, showering me
with romantic gestures and expensive gifts, claiming he’d fallen in love.” I
took a deep breath. “I finally decided to give him a chance when he said he was
fine with taking things slowly. We dated for a couple months, gradually
becoming closer. I started to fall for him—at least the part of him that
I knew.”

I
paused, steeling myself to go on. “Then Matt invited me to spend the weekend at
his parent’s house in Newport. That’s when I met his parents. They were hosting
a big party, a political fundraiser of some sort. Everyone was drinking. I
didn’t get drunk, but I was definitely tipsy. Matt, on the other hand, was
quite drunk—he’d been swilling whiskey all evening. After we went to
bed—in separate bedrooms—he came to my room and demanded sex. I
asked him to leave, but he said it was time to get what he’d paid for. He
pulled out his Swiss Army knife, saying he’d use it if I resisted. Then, he
ripped up a sheet and used it to tie me to the bed.”

Craig
released my hand, and gently cupped my face with his hands. His lips were set
in a grim line, his eyes fierce.

“I
think I can guess what happened next,” he said. “You have nothing to be ashamed
of, Juliana. Did you file a police report? Or report him to the college?” His
voice was low and quiet, tense with contained rage.

I
forced back tears. “No. I didn’t tell anyone until a couple years later when I
told Duncan. You and he are the only ones who know. What would have been the
point? No one who mattered would have believed me. Everyone knew that Walter
Reimann paid for most of the new recreational center at our college—his
name was on the building in big gold letters. And I’d just seen him hosting a
political fundraiser, slapping backs and clinking glasses with half of the most
powerful politicians in the state. Sons of powerful men don’t get convicted for
raping random college sophomores. The irony is that I’d more or less decided to
have sex with Matt soon, just not that weekend, not with so many people around,
not when we’d both had too much to drink. We’d done just about everything else,
and I was attracted to him. I thought we were in love. But I wanted my first
time to be special. Romantic.”

Craig
pulled me into an embrace. Resting my head on his shoulder, I couldn’t see his
face, but I felt the anger reverberating through his body. His voice was terse
and controlled when he spoke. “You were a virgin? How badly did he hurt you?”

“I
was sore and bleeding, you know, inside. I was bruised just about everywhere,
and my wrists and ankles were a bloody mess by the time I managed to free
myself from the sheets he had used to tie me. By then it was dawn. He was
passed out, dead to the world. I dressed, left the house quietly, ran several
miles to the nearest bus station, and caught the first bus back to Boston.” I
paused. “I could really use another martini. Do you mind?”

“Since
killing Matt Reimann isn’t an option at the moment, I guess I’ll also have to
settle for another drink.” He released me from his embrace and got up from the
couch, stalking toward the bar, radiating anger.

While
he mixed the drinks, it hit me. I’d told him everything. I hoped he wouldn’t
see me differently. I didn’t want him to think I was damaged or fragile or
whatever. While it was a relief to have it out in the open, I felt raw and
vulnerable, unsure if telling Craig had been the right decision.