The Suicide Effect (12 page)

“What happens to the money in her pension fund? Who gets her office? Believe it or not, people have already asked.”

“All of that can wait until we discuss it Monday. Meanwhile, I don’t want anyone in her office.”

Rudker boarded the elevator and quickly closed the doors. Why did people bother him with all this trivial stuff? Couldn’t they make decisions on their own? In a moment, Rudker chuckled. They didn’t make decisions because they were afraid to. Because he was famous for saying,
Why wasn’t I consulted?
He knew he was difficult to work for at times, but he paid people well and his job wasn’t any easier.

He crossed the courtyard and entered the R&D building. He briefly considered rounding up Steve Peterson to help him with the task of sorting though Warner’s files. Steve would be better able to recognize what was relevant to Warner’s DNA research. He rejected the idea. He didn’t want to stimulate interest in Warner’s work by seeming determined to cast it aside. Scientists were inherently curious, stubborn to a fault, and contrary by nature. Rudker had almost gone that route himself. He’d earned his B.S. in biology but had gone on to earn a master’s in business because laboratories bored him. The degrees had suited him well in the pharma industry.

Rudker stuck his key in the lock only to discover that the door was unlocked. It only confirmed his belief that Sula had been in the office. He’d told the cops he’d seen her coming out, but he hadn’t. She’d been standing near the entrance. He pushed in and locked the door behind him.

Warner’s filing cabinets were unlocked too. He knew she had not left them that way. Proprietary behavior was also in the blood of researchers. Rudker spent twenty minutes skimming through folders, looking for references to the Puerto Rico patients. The search was so tedious. He wondered how long Sula had been in the office. How far had she gotten?

In the third cabinet, he found three folders of notes about the Phase I testing in healthy patients. He put them all through the shredder, nearly filling the wastebasket. He moved quickly through the remaining files, growing impatient with the chore. Next, he searched her desk, finding an odd assortment of felt-tip pens, a collection of half-eaten protein bars, and a prescription bottle of nambumetone, an anti-inflammatory often used by people with arthritis.

In a moment, he located a clear plastic case with about ten CDs. A quick search turned up the key for it. Rudker decided to simply take the entire collection. The woman was dead, and her research belonged to the company.

The only other item of interest was a calendar sporting pictures of half-naked firemen. It was dated 2007. Obviously, Warner had kept it for the photos. It was interesting what you learned about people after they were dead.

With the CD case tucked under his arm, Rudker left Warner’s office and locked it behind him. He would have Peterson and Marcy sort through everything else. Company property would be boxed and saved, personal property would be boxed and sent to Warner’s heirs. If she had any.

Rudker wanted to feel relieved, but it was too soon. Sula had papers in her hand when he saw her yesterday. He believed those papers had come from Warner’s office and he intended to get them back. Why would she risk her job looking for Warner’s notes unless she planned to do something with them? What if Sula already had? Rudker refused to believe it. The idiot had come into work this morning as usual. He suspected that whatever she’d taken from Warner’s office was in her home.

He intended to take it back while she spent the night in jail. He’d used his acquaintance with the police chief to pressure them into keeping her overnight. Rudker had looked Sula up in the human resource files and knew she lived alone on the corner of Friendly and 26th. He’d cruised by her place the night before, and it seemed unlikely that the small 1950s home had a high-tech alarm system installed. Sula was a twenty-five year old single woman, making $28,000 a year. She couldn’t afford anything of value, including an alarm system. Getting in would be a piece of cake. He just had to wait until the neighborhood was sleeping.

Robbie sat at Jason’s computer and tried to write something funny. He’d gone down to the comedy club the night before, but only as a spectator. It bothered him to be there and not perform, but he hadn’t written any new material in a while, and he couldn’t keep doing the same old bit.

He had three main subjects he could joke about: depression, working at a drug factory, and not getting along with his father. The woman who ran the club said all humor came from pain and Robbie suspected she was right. The clinical trial also seemed like a good source of material. He tried to come up with a before-and-after joke.
Before I started on this drug, I was seriously depressed. Now I’m like the energizer bunny, only not so
…

His roommate burst into their two-bedroom apartment and shouted, “Party!” just as Robbie took his Hot Pockets out of the microwave. He nearly dropped the plate.

“Shit, Jason. You need an early warning device.” Robbie transferred his food to their garage-sale dining table as Jason danced around the living room in a bizarre show of happiness.

“Guess where?”

“Tell me.” Robbie pushed aside a pile of newspaper and sat down.

“Jennifer Krazanski’s.”

“Hot blond from history class?” Jason was a student at the UO.

“Yep. She invited me personally.” Jason was a good-looking guy who didn’t lack for first dates, but his puppy dog energy turned serious girls off.

“I’m happy for you.”

“For us.” Jason rushed over and punched Robbie on the arm. “You’re going.” His roommate grabbed one of the Hot Pockets and bit into it, then let out a garbled yell and spit the mouthful on the table.

“Hot?” Robbie tried not to smile.

“How long did you nuke that for?”

“Couple of minutes.” Robbie looked away. “I don’t think I’ll go.”

“Bullshit. You’ve been moping around here for days. You’ve got to get out.”

Robbie didn’t say anything. He had been off his old medication for two days, and now this was his second day on the new stuff. So he was in a low spot. It was too early to tell what would happen with the new drug, but it had been a rough week. He’d missed work yesterday for the first time in months. Even though he felt better today he didn’t think he had the energy to party.

“Chug some Mountain Dew if you have to. You’re going.”

In the long run it was easier to go along than to resist Jason. Around 9:30, they climbed into his roommate’s old Toyota and headed for west Eugene. They picked up a six-pack of Miller on the way, and Robbie agreed to drive home. He never drank much. One beer loosened him up, and two beers made him contemplate the pointlessness of most people’s lives, especially his.

Located at Jefferson and 26th, the two-story glass-and-brick home jutted above all its neighbors. They found a parking spot across the street, two houses down.

Robbie could hear the music as soon as he stepped out of the car. He recognized Macy Grey’s voice, whom he liked pretty well. As long as they didn’t play rap all night. He could only take about twenty minutes of the bass beat before he started thinking he would rather be deaf.

Only about fifteen people were in the house, but they all seemed to be talking about The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, a movie showing at the Bijou. Robbie hadn’t seen it. He sipped his beer slowly and wondered why he could never seem to connect to people the way others did.

He tried. He discovered that telling people he worked for Prolabs usually sparked a conversation. The subject of drugs was always popular with young people, and the company was in the news because of its controversial expansion plans. After listening to a girl rant about greedy pharma companies, he had to get away.

“Excuse me, I need some air,” he said abruptly and walked toward the sliding glass door. Once outside, the sudden burst of cool air gave him a rush. Robbie stood at the edge of the balcony overlooking a split-level back yard where two guys tossed a frisbee in the dark. A couple in the corner didn’t stop kissing to notice his presence. Their intimacy shot a cold ache through him. He’d only slept with one girl in his life and that had been more than a year ago. He was tired of being alone. He was tired of the episodes of hopelessness.

Robbie looked out at the space below and wondered what it would be like to jump. To feel the ground rushing up at him in one glorious flight, knowing that when he hit, it would be over. He envisioned it for a moment, feeling its pull, then stepped back. This balcony wasn’t nearly high enough. Unless he landed on a sprinkler, he might not even get seriously hurt. He made a mental note to use that thought for comedy material.

He turned to go inside. The lights of a big vehicle cruised by on the side street. He watched it pass and realized it was a black Jeep Commander. Was that his dad? It sure looked like him. What the hell was the old man doing cruising 29th Avenue at midnight?

Rudker parked two blocks from the corner and shut off the engine. He regretted bringing the Commander, which stood out from the smaller cars. Yet the neighborhood was so dark and quiet, he saw no reason to abandon his plan now. He’d passed a party a few blocks back and from here he could see the glow of one TV across the street, but other than that, there were few signs of life. He pulled his wallet out of his jeans and slid it under the seat. Now all he had in his pockets were a small bright flashlight and an expired credit card with his ex-wife’s name on it. From the jockey box, he extracted a pair of thin leather driving gloves and pulled them on.

Rudker eased out of the vehicle and gently closed the door. He suspected he hadn’t used enough force to latch it properly, but he was more concerned with drawing someone’s attention with the crunch of a car door than with someone stealing the Commander.

He moved down the sidewalk, his black jogging shoes making almost no sound. Rudker had also worn black jeans and a dark brown sweater Tara had bought him for Christmas two years ago but he had never worn until now. She thought he was having drinks with a JB sales rep.

He approached the side of the fenced yard and slowed. It was fortuitous that Sula lived on a corner lot, making it that much more accessible. With one easy motion, he reached over the gate, lifted the closing mechanism on the inside, and pushed though. A dog in the backyard of a nearby house let out two loud barks. The noise was jarring, but Rudker had taken a beta blocker earlier for that very reason—to keep his nerves calm during this excursion no matter what happened. Rudker moved briskly toward the attached garage where moonlight bounced off the glass of a side door. He would try it first.

It wasn’t even locked. Even if it had been, a fourteen-dollar dead bolt from Home Depot was no match for someone with a credit card and a light touch. Rudker had been prepared to climb in a back window if necessary, but he was relieved that he didn’t have to. He pointed his pen light at the floor, clicked it on, and made his way across the surprisingly spare garage. A large metal object caught his eye. It appeared to be some kind of sculpture representing a human form. He would have liked to see it in better light. Abruptly, he turned away and stepped toward the door leading into the house. It was locked.

It only took forty seconds with the card to pop the slider bolt out of its slot. Rudker turned the knob and entered the kitchen. The scent of chili powder and cantaloupe filled the air. He moved quickly through the galley-style room and turned left into the living area. Moonlight filtered through the curtains and he could see the furnishings were minimal: a couch, a TV, an end table, and a few plants. Sula either hadn’t lived here long or was as minimalist as a Buddhist monk.

Moving rapidly, Rudker went left again down a short hallway and opened the first door. Even without illumination, he knew it was a bathroom. The air felt wet and reeked of jasmine scented shampoo. Rudker moved on to the next door. He flipped on the light to see a small bedroom that was completely empty except for a few boxes in one corner. Stranger still, he thought. He shut the light off and turned to the door opposite.

The overhead fixture in this larger bedroom gave out a dim glow, which suited him fine. Rudker headed straight for the computer desk. Only a small notepad and pen sat next to the monitor. Otherwise the desk was devoid of clutter. He pulled open the top drawer: nothing but pens and paper clips and assorted office supplies. The next drawer revealed a stack of crumpled, folded-in-half papers. Rudker examined them closely with his pen light. They contained observations of Nexapra’s Phase I clinical trials patients.

Sula had been in Warner’s office. The nosy bitch. Spending one night in jail was not enough punishment. He had warned her, but she’d foolishly underestimated him. She would beat the theft charge, of course. He could live with that—as long as he rounded up and destroyed all the files relating to the Puerto Rico patients and their DNA.

He folded the papers in half, stuffed them into a back pocket, and continued to search. The girl may have taken more than what he saw in her hands, and as long as he was here, he would be thorough.

Rudker failed to find any more incriminating paperwork, but he did find a shoebox in the bottom desk drawer that contained an assortment of CDs. He rifled through them, only to discover they were all set-up disks: Windows, Photoshop, and such.

Seeing the disks made him think Sula might have copied files from Warner’s computer and hidden the CD somewhere in her home. He did a quick search of her night stand, dresser, and closet. Nothing except a lot of black, pink, and beige clothes in soft fabrics. Rummaging through her bras and panties gave him a little thrill. Rudker would have liked to linger, but he heard a siren in the distance and it made him nervous.

The voice in his head was suddenly there, telling him the police were on their way and he had to get out. Rudker tried to ignore it. Sula was in jail and he doubted if any one had seen him enter the house. He really wanted to boot up her computer to see what she had downloaded last.

He walked over and stared at her monitor for a moment trying to decide if it was worth the risk. He noticed the CD sitting on top of the computer tower. He picked it up. At first, the case appeared to be unlabeled, then he saw the letters
PRS
in small print along the spine.
Puerto Rico suicides?