He was going to become a lab rat.
Was the bartender at The Rusty Bucket on to something? I was sitting at a table at Proxi waiting for Cai, and furiously Googling drugs used for addiction treatment and trying to remember the medication families Dr. Lecaros had mentioned when I’d spoken to him at the courthouse. Medication-assisted treatment, or MAT, was a common protocol for opioids. Methadone was the most familiar, but there was no real money to be made off a drug with an established history. Buprenorphine. That was it. That was one of the drugs Lecaros had referenced. I scrolled further learning it was also well established but could be fatal if taken with alcohol or other drugs that slowed breathing. That could explain an accidental death, but I wasn’t seeing how a profit motive worked into that theory.
“Can I get you something to drink while you wait?”
A young woman in an industrial chic apron, retro Levi’s, and braids stood at my side. I was on my fourth Tic Tac since forcing down half a beer at “the Bucket” and desperately needed to get rid of the unappealing aftertaste the mints weren’t removing.
“You sure can.” I took a quick glance at the menu. “Bring me a carafe of Cabernet, the Australian, and an order of the mung bean dumplings to start. We’ll figure out the rest after my friend arrives. And we’re going to be in the slow group tonight, so no need to rush anything out of the kitchen.”
“Got it. Rush the booze, slow the food.” She smiled.
Proxi was a wonderful West Loop addition to the Chicago restaurant scene, serving an eclectic but delicious changing array of internationally inspired street food. As bland as they sounded, the dumplings were actually delightfully flavorful, and there was a chance Cai would need to order her own. Despite the international menu, the decor was a modern mix of warm woods, moody colors, encaustic floor tiles, and fabulous unique lighting that I lusted after. I came for the design inspiration as much as for the food.
With the Cabernet poured and beginning to do its job adjusting my taste buds, I struggled to come up with a rational theory on how Wykell could make money off of treatment. The guy didn’t run a testing lab. He wasn’t working on some new prescription drug to take to market. He didn’t play in that world.
But Kendall had mentioned mushrooms. Sipping my wine, I was back on Google researching the use and status of psilocybin. Classified as a schedule 1 narcotic, it was considered highly addictive and of no medical use. Despite a long and complicated history, it was illegal to manufacture, distribute, or possess; however, there were a number of existing clinical trials underway exploring the use of psilocybin to possibly treat alcoholism, PTSD, and depression. Could Wykell be conducting his own studies on opioid abuse using patients as guinea pigs?
“Are you drinking that whole carafe yourself?”
Cai was at the table looking as much the radiant, kick-ass attorney as she always did. The jacket to her fitted navy suit was slung over her shoulder, her silk blouse was still perfectly pressed, and the black four-inch Louboutin pumps she favored seem to grace her feet without a pinch. I loved great shoes, but those pointed-toe torture devices were not my idea of fun.
I stood and gave her a hug. “Since you were on a martini kick the last time we went out, I ordered the half bottle. You want a glass, or shall we get the server back?”
“No, this is definitely a martini night.” I flagged over my gal and got Cai taken care of.
“So what’s driving you to drink now?” I asked, shoving the last dumpling over to Cai.
“Please. You know the drill. Impossible clients who want to litigate every damn point, then don’t want to pay the bill. Clients you know are lying through their teeth and then want to use a brother-in-law as their alibi. The list never ends. Some weeks are just more full of shit than others. So is Lane back in town yet?”
“She was supposed to land this afternoon. I haven’t heard from her. She’d only get a piece of my mind, anyway. But CPD is done processing the house, so what she does with it from here is her business. I’m out of it.”
“Except for the part about why the girl died.” She looked at me over the top of her glass, eyebrows raised. “Come on, Nancy Drew. You’re neck deep in this. Don’t pretend otherwise. So what’s the latest on your undercover work? I want the deets.”
This was one of the many reasons I adored Cai. She always cut through the BS.
“There’s been another death.”
“At the house? What?”
“Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to catch you up. Here’s the short version. The woman that died at Lane’s property is a former patient at this rehab center up in Buena Park. Another patient from the facility died over the weekend. Without going into all the details, I think the director might be using off-label drugs or some other protocol outside FDA approval. And the boyfriend may be involved. I was researching psilocybin before you got here, trying to narrow down a theory.”
Our server stopped by our table and we added baby octopus, grilled carrots, and yellowtail and grapefruit salad to our order.
“Okay.” Cai paused, spearing the last bite of dumpling and contemplating my assertion. “So you’re thinking that the off-label drug is having an unintended consequence or an adverse reaction is occurring. Wouldn’t the drug show in the tox report?”
“Depends. Janek’s niece had no opioids in her system. But you only find what you’re looking for, right?”
“What’s the ME saying?”
“That it was her heart. An undiagnosed condition. Possibly damage from the heroin.”
“I can’t say you’re making much of a case, but you wouldn’t be stuck on this if you didn’t have a damn good reason to be, so let’s brainstorm. Play out your scenarios and I’ll be your sounding board.”
She lifted her martini, then leaned her elbows on the table waiting.
“Do I need to call you Professor Farrell now?” She smirked and flipped me a middle finger. “No sense of humor.” I smiled and shook my head at her. “I believe money is at the root of whatever is going on. That the director is trying to package a protocol he can sell. A protocol with claims of dramatic and fast results. Which means it’s something not currently recognized or accepted by the traditional addiction treatment programs.”
“So a get-sober-quick plan instead of a get-rich-quick plan.”
“Yes, and in his implementation, there have been cases of adverse effects. Probably unintended, possibly avoidable, but deadly and certainly not helpful to his sales pitch.”
“But Janek’s niece didn’t die during treatment, did she?”
“Not as far as I know, but we really don’t know her timeline,” I said, remembering Levi’s claim that Zoe intended to return to the center. “Maybe the substance damaged her heart, and therefore death wasn’t immediate. Or there was an interaction with something else she took. I mentioned a boyfriend. He was her dealer. Maybe his supply was cut with something. Maybe in trying to help, he gave her something that inadvertently killed her. A lot of people play pharmacist when they shouldn’t.”
“And you started with psilocybin. Makes sense. It fits some of the criteria for an off-label drug. I’ve heard of its use in treating alcoholism. Any evidence of it causing heart issues or death?”
“No.” I shook my head. “Worst case seems to be hallucinations or long-term psychosis. Unless it’s combined with other drugs or there’s something unique to the victims, it’s not high on the list.”
“Then maybe you need to start with a drug that has risks for heart issues, and see if the addiction piece works in after. If it’s a drug cocktail, that’s going to be harder to pinpoint.”
“Yeah, I need to consult a pro on the drug front. I’m a little out of my league. I arranged a meeting for tomorrow with Dr. Franklin Lecaros. Do you know the name? He’s one of the top experts in addiction in the city, does a lot of expert witness work.”
“Only by reputation. Let me know what you think of him. I may have some work for him if he’s as good as everyone says.” She leaned in. “CEO of an unnamed local institution who has a nose candy problem. Paralyzed a guy on his way home from the strip club. Marriage isn’t salvageable, but the guy wants to stay out of jail. Imagine.” She shook her head and laughed.
My phone pinged. A text from a number I didn’t recognize, but the area code was local.
Cnt stop them crows eating my hnds k.
What? I read the text again.
“What is it?”
“I have no idea. Look.”
“Weird. You don’t recognize the number?”
“No clue. Probably a misdial.” But I was uneasy. I was tempted to text back, but given the distress in the message, I did something uncharacteristic. I phoned. After four rings: “Hey, it’s Kendall. You know what to do.”