The Last Goodbye (24 page)

“Just tell me how we can get on.”

“I can emulate Doug's access.”

“Wouldn't they know that?”

“Duh.”

“So what good was taking Doug's computer?”

“Like you said, they don't know about me. At this point, they probably just want to find out how you got in.”

“Will they be able to?”

“Just because they have Doug's PC, that doesn't mean they can get through his security. If you hadn't come up with that Italian stuff, we'd still be staring at the screen.”

“You're certain of that?”

“Reasonably.”

“Okay. Then we have to get back on, and we have to do it without getting detected. There has to be a way. Think about it, Michael. Come up with something.”

Silence, another long stretch of it. I half expected him to hang up again, in which case I was prepared to drive over to his apartment, bang on his door, and wring his neck until he agreed to help me. “Where is this Grayton Laboratories, anyway?” he finally asked. “What's the address?”

“I don't know. Hang on.” I looked Grayton up in the phone book. “It's on Mountain Industrial Avenue. I know where that is. It's off 285. It's two exits past Stone Mountain.”

Another pause. “All right,” he said. “Meet me at the Sandy Spring branch of the public library. You can find the address in the phone book. Be there at eleven.”

“The library?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I'm not telling you on the phone. Just be there.”

The Sandy Spring branch of the library was in north Atlanta, about forty-five minutes away. By the time I got there Nightmare was pacing outside of the building, looking hunted. When he saw my face, he practically folded up on the pavement.

“You look like shit,” he said.

“A minor disagreement,” I said. “The swelling will go down in a few days.” Nightmare looked at me for about five seconds, then started walking toward his car. “Stop right there,” I said.

Nightmare turned. “Whatever happened to you needs to stay far away from me, dude.”

“Listen to me, dammit,” I said. I was getting exasperated, and I wasn't in the mood for Nightmare's waffling. “I have just had a lousy couple of days. I have had the hell beat out of me trying to protect somebody. I have had my office broken into and been burgled. Not to mention the fact that I've been falling in love with the wrong woman. The least you can do is turn on a damn computer and type some commands. Now haul your ass in there and help me out, or I am going to go completely nuts.”

Nightmare stared, eyes wide. “You're losing it,” he said.

“Probably.”

“Falling in love with the wrong woman?” he repeated.

“That's right. And it puts me in a bad mood. Now do what I tell you, before I take out my frustrations on you.”

Nightmare reluctantly turned toward the library. “I hope you left some marks on whoever did this to you.”

“None that I can remember. Now get a move on.”

I followed Nightmare into the library, a nondescript, single-story brick affair tucked into a woody neighborhood. The place was relatively empty, except for the staff of four or five. Nightmare led me to a row of computers in the back of the building. “They've got broadband here,” he said. “And it's unregulated. In a few minutes you'll see some geezers in here downloading porn.”

“Our tax dollars at work,” I said. “Our rather mine, since you probably don't pay any.”

“Damn right,” Nightmare said. He sat at the last computer, took out a small plastic gadget no bigger than a key chain, and pushed one end of it into a port on the front fascia of the computer. “Flash memory,” he said, beginning to type. “Just keep an eye out for anything weird,” he said. “Other than you. Have I told you that you look like shit?”

“Yeah. Now tell me what you're doing.”

“I'm going to Tech from here. The library system has its own routers, and it's impossible to locate one computer on it. If they ping back, they'll figure out it's coming from the library, but they can't pinpoint which one. There's about thirty branches, spread out all over town. And anyway, this branch is as far away from them as possible. Just in case.”

“Nightmare, you're a genius.”

“I know. Now watch for creeps. This could take a while.”

I sat a few tables away, letting Nightmare work. The morning edition of the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
was lying on a table near me, and I searched through the business section for any news about the Horizn IPO. A couple of pages in I saw a picture of Charles Ralston with the headline,
TAKING HIS WINNINGS TO THE STREET.
I skimmed the article; the consensus was, a week from now a lot of people were going to get rich, with Ralston and Stephens richest of all. The initial offering price was thirty-one dollars a share, but expectations were that price would last about fifteen seconds. If you weren't an institutional trader or a part of the firm, you had no chance. The reporter thought it would close the first day over forty, with a one-year target price of fifty. The SEC paperwork said Ralston and Stephens held five and a half million shares each. While I was doing some staggering math, Nightmare came over to my table. He looked rattled, but he was holding it together. “You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah. We're on. What am I looking for?”

I paused. “Briah,” I said. “Briah Fields.”

Nightmare worked for about five minutes, then came back shaking his head. “Nothing,” he said.

“You're sure?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. I mean, pretty sure. So that's what this was all about? I can go home now?'

“One more thing,” I said. “LAX.”

“Like the airport?”

“Just the letters. LAX. It was on a notebook in Doug's apartment.”

Nightmare shook his head in disbelief. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“No. Just look for it.”

“I'll give us twenty minutes,” he said. “Then I'm cutting the connection.” I followed him back to the terminal. Nightmare began searching files, coming up with nothing.

“What are the big sections?” I asked. “Is the site partitioned in any way?”

“Yeah,” Nightmare said. “There's financials, communications, clinical trials—”

“Clinical trials,” I said. “Try that.”

Nightmare shrugged and started his search. For a long time there was nothing, but suddenly Michael said, “Damn.”

“What?”

“Here it is.”

The screen revealed two columns, each with four names. Each name was coupled with an address and phone number. At the top of the page the heading read:
Test 38, LAX:
a
double blind clinical trial of Lipitran AX. A treatment for the cure of Hepatitis C. CRO: Atlanta Mercy Hospital. Supervising researcher: Dr. Thomas Robinson.
I stared at the screen. “LAX. It's got nothing to do with the airport. It's some drug. Lipitran AX. These names must be the people on the trial.” I ran down the list, looking for anything familiar. At that moment, the world stopped. Third down the right column was Doug Townsend's name, with his phone number. I blinked, thinking the name would go away.

Nightmare broke the spell. “Killah,” he said. “He was takin' this drug?”

Lights went on all over my brain.
Hepatitis, source of all things profitable for Charles Ralston. Maybe Grayton is trying to cut in on Horizn's action.
“Hepatitis? I don't think Doug had that.”

“Maybe he did and never told you.”

“Maybe,” I said hesitantly. “But surely with him dead, the people doing the test would want to know what the hell was going on. He would have just disappeared off the study.” We sat thinking for a moment, when it suddenly hit me. “There's one way to find out what's going on,” I said. I looked around; there weren't any people near us. I pulled out my cell phone and called the first number on list. A subdued female voice answered. “Is Brian there?” I asked.

The only answer was a low moan. “Brian Louden?” I asked. “May I speak with him?”

“Brian's dead,” the voice said, choking. “My sweet baby died a week ago last Thursday.”

I felt my stomach tighten. “I'm very, very sorry,” I said. “Honestly. I'm so sorry to have bothered you.” I hung up.

“What did they say?” Nightmare asked.

“Give me the second name.”
Chantelle Weiss, 4239 Avenue D.
I called the number. A man answered. “May I speak with Chantelle?” I asked.

“Who is this?” the man said.

“This is Dr. Robinson.”

“The hell it is.”

“Excuse me?”

“Is this some kind of sick joke? Ain't you the man who killed her? Why you calling here and asking for her? You sick in the head?”

“I'm sorry,” I said quickly. “I've called the wrong number.” I clicked off the phone and sat back, stunned.

“Well?” Nightmare said. He was sweating, in spite of the air-conditioning. A sick feeling was crawling all over me.

“Give me the third name.”
Jonathan Mills, 225 Trenton Street.
I dialed the number. A man answered. “I hate to bother you. This is Henry Chastain, from Mercy General.”

The voice answered, “Yes?”

“This is very awkward, and I apologize for inconveniencing you.”

“It's all right. What do you want?”

“I'm conducting some research for the hospital, and I've misplaced Jonathan's file. I'm terribly sorry to ask you this, but could you tell me for what Jonathan was being treated?”

“Hepatitis C.”

“Jonathan was a participant in Dr. Robinson's clinical trials, is that correct?”

“Yes. Who is this again?”

“It's Henry Chastain, with Mercy Hospital.”

There was a pause. “Can you tell me what this is about?” “I'm doing research about fatality rates for different diseases.” I was feeling worse and worse about the ruse, but there wasn't any other way. “If you'd prefer not to speak about this,” I said, “I certainly understand.”

Another pause. “Jonathan didn't die from the hepatitis,” he said. “He died from the treatment.”

“I see. I'm very sorry. Can you tell me what happened?” “I just told you. He took the treatment, and he died a week later.” The voice was silent a moment. “Can I call you back?”

“That won't be necessary,” I said. “You've been a great help.” I hung up the phone.

“What is it?” Nightmare said. “What's with all these names?” I stared at the list, dread and sorrow crawling up my spine. “Dead,” I said, looking at Nightmare. “All dead.”

It took a good twenty minutes to talk Nightmare down off the ceiling of the Atlanta public library. After a great deal of whispered profanity, I finally walked him out to his car, a Toyota Corolla in worse shape than my Buick. I put my hands on his shoulders. “You gonna bail on me?” I asked, watching him carefully. “Just when it gets thick?”

He stared at me, caught between his fear and an adrenaline buzz ten times bigger than anything his pathetic on-line world had ever served up. “Look, all I'm saying is this is getting serious,” he said. “Like cops kind of serious. What are you gonna do about all this?”

Good question. You keep turning over rocks, sooner or later somebody really nasty is going to show up.
“When I started this thing, all I thought I was doing was picking up some stuff for an unlucky client,” I said. “I don't like how things have spiraled out of control any more than you do.”

“Then I don't have to explain why I'm out of here.”

“You aren't out of here, and I'll tell you why.”

“This ought to be good.”

I took a breath and let him have it. I don't know if I was making it up or if it was the truest thing I ever said. I only know it was enough for me, and it had to be enough for him. “Because this is what we have to do,” I said. “We have to. It's the kind of twisted destiny that drives you crazy but you know it's real.”

Nightmare stared. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You and me,” I said. “Who else is going to figure this thing out? You think this Jackie Chan thing was just comic relief? I need you, dammit. And you need me. Because we're talented in different ways, and that makes us dangerous. Look, Michael, Doug Townsend was my friend. And there's seven other names on this list, all of them dead. So I'm not here just to connect some tawdry little dots between some drug companies. I'm here to take whoever is behind this down.”

Nightmare watched me for a while, then actually laughed. “You are one crazy motherfucker,” he said.

“Whatever it takes.”

“This is about the girl.”

“The girl.”

“The
girl
, dude. You said it yourself. You're falling in love with the wrong woman.”

I stared. “I know, dammit. I know.”

I sent Nightmare home, watching his battered Toyota turn out of the library parking lot and disappear into the traffic. I stood alone in the parking lot awhile, listing badly to the side. My face hurt. My ribs hurt. My right leg hurt—somehow, I had banged the knee while getting the hell beat out of me, and hadn't noticed it until all the other pain subsided a little—and all I could do was play Nightmare's words back to myself.
The girl.
There are times when life is trying to tell you something. Doug was dead. Now, seven more. It was a bad time to go deaf.

Practicing low-rent law teaches you a lot about the psychology of perpetrator as victim. You can actually begin to spot the identifying characteristics in a crowd: the detached eyes of a boy who is about to go off on his girlfriend, leaving her bruised and crying; the resentment faintly radiating off a girl looking for someone's billfold or purse to lift. After two years of watching the parade of misery that is Judge Odom's court, I had developed a kind of unwanted radar. There were times when walking down a busy street was like seeing ghosts. There, that ironic slump of contempt in a man's posture; and over there, the glassy, zoned-out vibe of an addict. Policemen get the radar, too, and for them, it's an asset. It's like a tool. But for a defense lawyer who specializes in the disadvantaged, the radar can make the worst parts of a city seem like a trauma ward.