Chapter 16

 

Back in the Hen House

 

 

1.

 

Mrs. Gonzalez brought Chloe a cup of coffee, then returned a moment later with a tray of sandwiches, a bowl of chips, a stack of small plates and some napkins. Falczek waited for her to leave before continuing. Chloe watched him as he waited. She didn’t know him well. The first impression he gave was one of a curmudgeon. But as she watched, she saw something on his face that wasn’t curmudgeonly at all: Fear.

“We’re waiting, Falczek,” Everett said.

Falczek stood and began to pace as he talked. He told them about his visit with old friends the night before, about the intruder, the killing, and what the intruder had threatened to do to him if he didn’t reveal where he’d gotten his information about Paaxone.

“And what exactly did you learn about Paaxone?” Everett said.

Falczek walked slowly around the table as he spoke, hands joined behind his back. “All I know so far is that Paaxone has been unavailable in California because Braxton-Carville has made it unavailable. The shipments of the drug that were tagged for California were diverted. They were sent somewhere else. But I don’t know where yet.”

“Why would they do that?” Everett asked.

“I don’t know that yet, either. But the reason must have been important because they did it knowing full well the problems it might cause.”

“I’m afraid to ask,” Everett muttered with a sigh.

“You don’t have to. Yes, they’re aware of the possible severity of withdrawal effects. They know what abruptly stopping the drug can do.” He stopped walking and turned to them, cocked a bushy eyebrow. “And they don’t care. I can’t say for sure, but that suggests to me that there’s a sizable amount of money involved somewhere in this.” Falczek returned to his seat and took a few swallows of his ice tea.

“What about your friend?” Chloe said. “You said someone tried to kill him?”

“No, not Renny,” Falczek said. “His best friend Lauren Parks. She’s the wife of a bigshot lobbyist who represents a number of major pharmaceutical companies, including Braxton-Carville. One of Lauren’s best friends is a woman named Delia Smurl, the wife of Braxton-Carville CEO Edward Smurl. I called Renny, asked him to see what he could find out about the unavailability of Paaxone, and he asked Lauren. She dished to him what she’d heard from Delia, who apparently overheard her husband discussing all this on the phone. Renny was going to pass it on to me, but before he could do that, it seems someone learned that Delia had talked, and they worked fast to plug the leak. Renny told me that Lauren is in a coma after wrapping her car around a tree. She just happened to run out of brake fluid. At about the same time, Renny got a call from an unidentified man who knew everything there was to know about Renny, including the fact that he’s dying of cancer. He told Renny that if he kept his mouth shut, that cancer would be allowed to kill him in peace. Otherwise, his life would become a storm of pain and humiliation. The threat wasn’t specific, but it worked. He was intimidated. So Renny declined to tell me what he knew. At first. I convinced him, though.”

Falczek sat back in his chair, ran a hand back over his bald head before continuing.

“According to Delia Smurl and the conversation she overheard, her husband was aware that stopping Paaxone abruptly can cause dangerous withdrawals, that it can cause hostility, violence—the things you were just discussing, Everett. I did a little research. If they’ve known about these withdrawals from the beginning, they’ve managed to conceal it. They simply included in the product insert a warning not to stop taking Paaxone abruptly. The warning doesn’t explain why or reveal what will happen if one does stop it suddenly, it just says not to.”

Chloe said, “And knowing this, they pulled the drug from people who’d been taking it so it could be sent elsewhere?”

Falczek said, “From what Delia heard of this one-sided phone conversation, the reasoning was that the withdrawals would not be severe for everyone taking the pill, and in the cases where they were—if a few people were driven to violence by the withdrawals—Smurl figured no connections would be made between that and Paaxone. At least, not in the time it would take them to replace the supply of Paaxone in California, which they figured would be no more than a week, maybe ten days at the most. That means Paaxone should be available again here anytime. It might be by now, I don’t know. Their attitude was—so what if a few people go batshit crazy and hurt or kill themselves or someone else? Obviously whatever they did with the drug was more important than that. And most likely more profitable.”

“Money talks,” Roger muttered, “and everything else walks.”

“But people are being killed over this information?” Everett said.

Falczek nodded. “Someone is aware that I know about this, and they don’t like it. That’s my own damned fault, really.” He sighed. “I went to Braxton-Carville in Virginia and talked to some PR flunky. I told him I knew they’d intentionally diverted the Paaxone shipments from California. I figured word might get around there that someone knew what they were up to and I might hear from somebody who knew more, somebody willing to talk. A chain reaction of information, you know? I’m guessing that’s what started this. But I didn’t think they’d try to kill me.”

“Braxton-Carville?” Chloe said. “They tried to kill you?”

Falczek shrugged. “Whoever it was, the way I see it, I’m in some deep shit.” He made a sweeping gesture toward the others. “We may all be in deep shit, because now you know about this, too. That makes you a possible threat to whatever the hell they’re up to.”

“We’re not much of a threat if we don’t know why they did this,” Everett said. “Didn’t Renny have any idea? A guess, maybe?”

“He said something, but it didn’t make any sense. He’s very sick. He has stage four lung cancer. Our little talk exhausted him. When I finally got him to talk, I could see the life draining out of him while he told me everything. By the time he was done, he was a limp rag in a chair, barely talking above a whisper, his eyes closed as if he were drifting off to sleep. I asked him why he thought Braxton-Carville had diverted Paaxone and where they’d diverted. He didn’t say anything for a long time and I started to think he had fallen asleep. Then, without opening his eyes, he muttered, ‘The Middle East. It’s got something to do with the Middle East. That’s all I can tell you because it’s all I know.’ And I believe him. He didn’t say anymore after that. I asked what he meant—in fact, I asked twice—but he said he was feeling sick and wanted me to leave. So I did.”

Frowning, Everett said, “The Middle East? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Falczek shrugged.

“Where in the Middle East?” Roger said.

Chloe leaned forward and said, “Why would Braxton-Carville deprive all the Paaxone users in California of the drug by shipping it to the Middle East instead?”

“I don’t know that they did that,” Falczek said. “All Renny said was that it had something to do with the Middle East. And at that point, I’m not sure he was making a whole lot of sense. The end result is that we still don’t know why Braxton-Carville diverted the Paaxone shipments or to where they were diverted.” He stood, agitated, and ran a hand over his head again. He looked like he were about to start pacing again, but he didn’t. He just stood there for a moment. Then he leaned forward with both hands flat on the table. “But I’ve been thinking. I’m a reporter, and I’ve got some connections.” He nodded at Chloe. “You’re a radio station news director, and you’ve got a microphone, an immediate forum you can use to get the word out about this. Seems to me our biggest mistake would be to stay quiet about this, and we’ve got the ability to make a little noise.” He turned to Roger. “And, hey, aren’t you filthy fucking rich?”

Roger grinned as he stood and said, “That’s me. Filthy fucking rich.” He reached across the table and shook Falczek’s hand. “Nice to meetcha.”

Falczek said, “Well, maybe we can use that, too. We’re not as helpless as I first thought.”

“What are we going to do?” Chloe said, her voice hoarse. “What am I going to do? Eli’s out there somewhere, in trouble. I’ve got to find him before something—” She was interrupted by the trilling of her cell phone. She took it from her purse, flipped it open, and checked the Caller ID. It was Kevin.

“Remember Officer Marty Kelso?” Kevin said, not bothering with a greeting. “You interviewed him a few months about the meth problem in—”

”Yeah, yeah, I remember him. Eli and I had dinner with him and his wife afterward.”

“He just called looking for you. A call came in about someone at Park Marina who nearly ran over a woman and her two kids, then sped off. Somebody got the license number. It’s Eli’s car. Kelso remembered Eli and called to see if you knew where he could be reached. They’re looking for him.”

“Looking for him? Where?”

“All over town. They’ve put out a BOLO on him.”

A BOLO was a “Be On The Look Out” order, which meant when they found Eli, they would arrest him.

Chloe shot to her feet. “Oh, Jesus. Did he hurt anybody?” Inside, she felt as if someone had taken her head off and poured a bucket of ice water down her neck.

“No, Kelso said he didn’t hit anyone. But people at Park Marina said he was behaving very strangely, like he was drunk or on drugs, or something. Chloe... Eli’s not doing drugs again, is he?”

She turned her head back and forth a few times before she could speak. “No, he... he’s not doing drugs,” she said, her voice breaking up a little. “And that’s his problem.”

“What? What’s going on?”

“I can’t talk now, Kevin. I’m sorry. Thanks for calling.” She slapped the phone closed, dropped it into her purse, and stepped away from the table so clumsily, she nearly fell. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “The police are after Eli, and I have to find him.”

“The police?” Roger said, standing. “What happened?”

Chloe said nothing for a moment. She stared down at the table, thinking. She had to reach Eli. He wasn’t answering his cell phone, so calling him wouldn’t work. But she knew he almost always listened to KNWS when he was in the car. He enjoyed hearing her on the radio. She could reach him that way. She snapped her head up and looked at Roger.

“I can’t explain,” she said. “I have to go.”

“I’ll go with you,” Roger said, coming toward her.

“No. No, please, Roger, stay here.” She headed out of the room.

Roger hurried after her, saying, “What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure exactly,” she called back over her shoulder. “But I have an idea.”

Chloe rushed out of the house and jogged to her car.

 

 

2.

 

Why did I come here? Eli thought, sitting at the bar.

He was in The Hen House, the same grungy little dive in which he’d been arrested for buying cocaine back when his life had fallen apart. The bar hadn’t changed a bit. It was still dark, still had the chicken-themed decor. The place was cluttered with chickens and eggs of all sizes, made of plastic and wood and rubber and plaster and cardboard, and chicken wire was stretched over the long mirror behind the bar. The jukebox was stocked with ancient rock and roll and twangy old country tunes. At the moment, Charlie Rich was singing something from the ‘70s. There was a handful of people in the place—a few at the bar and a few at the small round tables on the floor—but Eli had hardly noticed them when he’d come in. He’d gone straight to the bar and ordered a vodka tonic.

It was good. So good. And he needed it. He couldn’t hold still. First, there was the trembling. When he held a hand up before him, he could hardly see it at all. But under the skin, in his muscles and bones, he felt it. It felt like he was turning to liquid. Then there was the need to stay in motion—hands fluttering, arms jerking, legs jittering. It had just started and wasn’t too bad—he was able to hide it for the most part—but it seemed to be growing worse. And his thoughts. He couldn’t keep them straight, couldn’t organize them or make them fully coherent as they flicked through his mind half-formed.

Why did I come here? he thought again. Probably because it was so dark and tucked away, a place where no one he knew would see him. It was a proper place to shatter his closely-guarded sobriety, to toss out all his diligence and determination for a drink. Or two. Or more.

But he wasn’t just drinking for the sake of drinking. He wanted to calm the storm that seemed to be building inside him and ease the constant need to move, to shift, to fidget.

He sipped the drink, resisting the urge to guzzle it down in two big gulps. It felt hot going down, burned in his belly, and its warmth slowly spread throughout his body. He wanted the relaxation that would follow, the calm that came with that first drink of the day—or, in this case, that first drink in well over a year.

Another sip. More warmth inside, spreading through him.

He heard and felt someone slide onto the stool to his left, but he didn’t turn to look. He didn’t want to appear interested in conversation.

“How ‘bout all this smoke in the air, huh?” the woman seated beside him said.

It seemed appearing interested in conversation was not a prerequisite.

“I remember when it was smoky inside the bar. Now you gotta come in here to get away from the smoke. Heh. Things change, huh? This smoke gets any thicker’n we’re all gonna die,” she said. “If the fires don’t get us first.”

Eli kept his eyes front as he took another sip of his drink.

“I heard that fire northa town’s gotten pretty close to the Liquor Barn over there,” she said. “They kicked everybody out and closed the place up to be safe.” She chuckled. “I wonder if anybody’s evacuating the booze.”

Charlie Rich was replaced by Buddy Holly. The bartender, a hefty grey-haired man in his fifties, moved back and forth behind the bar cleaning glasses, pouring drinks. Eli continued to face front.

“You’re a quiet one,” she said. There was the sound of a smile in her voice.

Finally, Eli turned his head just enough to the left to see her.

Mid-forties, blonde, slender. In the dark bar, the color of her simple blouse and pants were indeterminate. There was a damaged beauty in her face, the lingering traces of an allure marred by time, drink, cigarettes, and probably life in general. There was just enough of that beauty left for the damage to be easily smoothed over by a few drinks in a dark bar. The glass in front of her held pieces of melting ice cubes and a little amber liquid in the bottom. The faint slur of her words when she spoke made it clear that it wasn’t her first drink of the day, but she wasn’t quite drunk. Just nicely relaxed. She smiled at Eli. It was a pretty smile that broke through the casualties of life and time.

“You got a day off, or something?” she said.

He shrugged one shoulder. “Or something.” He shifted on the stool, folded his arms on the lip of the bar for a moment, then dropped them at his sides.

“You live in the city?”

He nodded, trying to will himself to hold still with his arms on the bar again. It worked for awhile.

“Me, too. For about eight years now. Before that, I moved around a lot.” She waved a hand vaguely. “I been all over the place.”

Eli nodded again. He didn’t know what to say and was busy concentrating on remaining still, relaxing. He took another swallow of his drink and realized it was almost gone.

“I never seen you here before,” she said.

“I was here before. Once. But it’s been awhile.”

“My name’s Carrie. What’s yours?”

“Eli.”

“Nice to meetcha, Eli.” She waved a hand at the bartender. “Hey, Mickey, set me up with another of these puppies, willya?”

Without giving it a thought, Eli nodded at the bartender and said, “Me, too. Another vodka tonic.” He tipped his glass back against his lips and emptied it. Ice jangled in the glass as he set it down, then took his wallet from his pocket.

Carrie gently brushed his arm with the back of her hand as she said, “Nah, let me get this one for you. You can get the next.”

Eli thought he said, “Thanks,” but he wasn’t sure. He was distracted by the need to move. He had an urge to get off the stool and pace, but he fought it.

A moment later, Mickey brought their drinks and Carrie paid. She lifted her glass to toast and said, “To dark bars on smoky afternoons.”

As Eli touched his glass to hers, his hand trembled noticeably.

Carrie raised an eyebrow and looked at him. “Looks like that first vodka tonic hasn’t kicked in yet.”

He smiled, then took a swallow of his drink, trying to stop the trembling. He took quick stock of his body to see what was fidgeting and jittering. His left arm, both of his legs. He made them stop, then took another drink. In a few seconds, the fidgeting and jittering continued although he was unaware of it.

“What kinda work you do, Eli?”

“I drive—” He stopped, thought about it a moment. “Advertising. I’m in advertising. Between firms right now.”

“Yeah, it sucks all over. The economy goes on its back and everybody goes broke. It’s always been my experience that going on your back is profitable, but not in this case.” She chuckled.

A hooker, Eli thought, looking at her again. It was an observational thought, not judgmental.

Carrie took a drink, then turned to him and leaned a little closer. “You live around here? In this neighborhood?”

“No.”

“I got a little apartment nearby. And I got better music than this place. I don’t think that damned jukebox has ever played anything recorded past 1974.”

Buddy Holly stopped wailing and after a moment of silence, Tammy Wynette started in.

“My booze ain’t watered down, neither,” Carrie said with a laugh. “Besides, I could really use a smoke, and I have to go outside for that.”

A cigarette sounded good. Drinking had always made Eli want to smoke, and that hadn’t changed. He was feeling the effects of the vodka, and it felt good. But it wasn’t enough. A current of electricity was humming through him. He felt as if all his muscles were twitching. And inside his head, nothing seemed to work. Thoughts appeared, crumbled, then the pieces shot away in a blur.

Still thinking about a cigarette but giving no thought to Carrie’s offer to come home with her, he nodded and said, “Yeah, a cigarette sounds good.” He tipped his glass back and gulped down the vodka tonic, then slapped the glass back down on the bar and slid off the stool. The floor tilted ever so slightly beneath his feet and he smiled a little at the once familiar feeling, thinking, It’s been awhile.

Carrie gulped her drink down, too, and walked out of the bar with Eli.

Outside, Manzanita Boulevard was busy beneath the dirty brown smear of the sky. Tendrils of smoke licked the tops of the tall streetlights and the air stung Eli’s nostrils. He realized he’d left his cigarettes in the car and was about to go get them when Carrie said, “Here.” She held out her pack of Pall Malls for him. When Eli took one, she handed him a Bic lighter. In a moment, they were both smoking in the shade of the awning outside The Hen House.

“I live just a couple of blocks that way,” Carrie said, pointing.

Eli only vaguely heard her. His head was filled with the sounds of traffic, which seemed louder than usual, and the chaos of his own thoughts, which seemed to be colliding with each other on their way in and out. He wasn’t aware of it, but he stayed in motion, stepping forward, then back, turning in a circle, pacing back and forth a few steps. He finally realized that Carrie was looking at him strangely.

“You okay?” she said with a slight smile, although frowning a little at the same time.

“Huh? Oh. Um... “ Eli forced a chuckle and a smile. “Just a little antsy, I guess.”

“You on somethin’, honey?”

“No. No, really. In fact, not at all.” He thought of that empty orange pill bottle and muttered, “Not now.”

“Where are you parked?”

He pointed at his car parked at the curb.

“You wanna drive up to my place or leave the car here?” Carrie said.

Eli frowned, confused. “Your place?”

“Yeah. My apartment’s just up the road a little.”

“Uh... “ He wasn’t sure what to say. Had he agreed to go to her place? Why would she want him to come home with her? Oh, that’s right, he thought, she’s a hooker. Did she say that, or did I just guess it? Or did I imagine it? He became lost inside his own head as one thought tumbled over another.

Carrie stepped closer to him. “You sure you’re okay, honey?”

“Uh... “ He looked at her a moment, then started toward his car. “I think I’m gonna go.”

“Go? Aren’t you comin’ with me?”

“Uh... “ He walked around the rear of the car to the driver’s side door, opened it. He paused a moment, knowing he was about to say something but unable to remember what. He got in the car and pulled the door closed.

Keys, he thought. Where’d I put the—oh. He reached into his pocket, pulled his keys out, and started the ignition. He was startled when the passenger door opened. For a moment, he was confused. Was there someone with him or had he driven here—wherever this was—alone?

Carrie leaned into the car. “What’re you doing?” she said.

Eli forgot her name. She looked familiar—wasn’t he just standing next to her on the street?—but he didn’t know her.

“Get out, please,” he said, shifting and fidgeting in the car seat.

She gave a little laugh as she got into the car. “Oh, c’mon, honey, let’s go to my place and have a real drink or three and put on some music, huh?”

The moment she pulled the door closed, Eli felt a surge of panic. He was in the car with a total stranger who was forcing herself on him. He felt threatened and suddenly angry.

“Get out!” he shouted.

She turned to him with a jerk and looked surprised, but said nothing. She just sat there, looking at him. Finally, she smiled, reached over and put a hand on his shoulder. “You okay, honey? You look kinda—”

He moved before he thought—his right fist shot out with great force and punched her in the face. She slammed back against the door and slumped there, limp and still. He’d struck her so hard, his hand began to ache. He shook his hand and grunted at the pain as he frowned at the unconscious woman in the passenger seat. Blood dribbled out of her left nostril.

I hit her, he thought. Why? Why did I do that?

He saw movement through the window beyond her. People were walking by the car in both directions. What if they saw her? They might call the police.

The police. They’d come for him before... right here in this place. Maybe they knew he was here again and were looking for him. It had been years—hadn’t it?—but maybe they somehow knew he was here again, and now they’d find him with this unconscious woman in his car, a woman he’d hit because... because... he couldn’t remember why he’d hit her.

Eli grabbed the steering wheel, pressed his foot to the gas pedal, and pulled away from the curb suddenly. Brakes squealed behind him and a car horn wailed angrily. He stepped on the pedal harder and sped down Manzanita Boulevard with no idea where he was going.

 

 

3.

 

When Gall heard Jason Sauceda’s voice on the other end of the line, he assumed he was calling with more information about Rubinek’s targets in California.

“What have you got for me,” he said, picking up a pen. He poised it over a notepad, ready to write.

“I’m done.” He spoke just above a whisper.

“You’re—I’m sorry?”

“You heard me.”

“Look, Jason, I really don’t have time for a case of nerves from you right now. I thought all of this was settled this morning.”

“You know damned well it wasn’t settled. I just went along with it to keep your fucking mouth shut.”

“Well, uh... that sounds settled to me.”

“You didn’t understand the risk I’m taking then and I don’t expect you to understand now. And even better, I don’t care anymore. My supervisor is breathing down my neck like a dragon, and I’m about this close to having my ass in a meat grinder. It almost happened. Just now. And it still might if I’m asked to explain what I’ve been up to today. So I’ve decided, Vic. Go ahead and tell Melonie whatever you want to. I don’t care, because I’m gonna tell her the truth. Tonight. Whatever she does, it won’t be as bad as the trouble I could get into for this. And it’ll be worth it not to have this hanging over my head for someone to use the way you have. I thought we were friends, Vic. I really did. I was wrong. Whatever it is you’re up to, it sounds bad to me and you’re probably gonna get burned for it. But I won’t burn with you, Vic. You can go fuck yourself.”

Jason hung up and left Gall sitting at his desk, the phone at his ear. He slowly put the phone down, then placed the edge of his left thumb between his lips and chewed on the flesh next to the nail. He sat that way for awhile, frowning, thinking, trying to fight back the wave of anger that moved through him, until he tasted blood. He looked down at his thumb and saw that he’d been chewing on that spot a little too much lately. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, took a tissue from its box, and dabbed at the blood.

The office felt just a little smaller, as if the walls had moved closer together while he wasn’t looking. He dismissed that and refused to worry, refused to let himself think that things might be crumbling just a little. He thought about his escape plan, and that made him feel a little better.

Years ago, he’d arranged an out for himself should anything go wrong. If he found himself in any trouble, he had a little place in Morocco ready and waiting for him. He’d visited the African country on a whim, because he liked the sound of it and he remembered enjoying the Bogart movie Casablanca when he was a kid. He liked it there, as it turned out. The fact that it had no extradition treaty with the United States made it even more appealing. His place there was nothing fancy, a modest little arrangement where he could wait out any storm that might come up.

There’s no storm, he thought. The weather’s fine. Don’t let Jason shake you. He’s weak, cowardly. He’s not like you. You’ve got nothing to worry about.

A moment later, unaware that he was doing it, he began to chew on his thumb again.

 

 

4.

 

Normally, Rubinek paid very little attention to the news. It seemed pointless—there was nothing he could do about it, so why listen and fret over it? But as he drove to Roger Dreyfuss’s house, he listened to a local news-talk station hoping to hear more about Senator Veltman.

Before leaving his motel room, he’d learned from the TV newscaster that the clip shown had been from a speech Veltman had given at a fundraiser. He’d announced his intention to form a committee to investigate possible malfeasance between pharmaceutical companies and the FDA. The senator had given the speech a couple of months ago, and then had gone about the work of assembling the committee.

And then Rubinek was hired by Victor Gall to go to Montecito and kill Veltman’s press secretary. Not just kill him, but behead him—

If necessary, heads will roll.

—which Rubinek knew from experience was just a way of sending Veltman a message, although he hadn’t known at the time what that message might be. But now—

And the first to go will be the seven heads of this rampaging hydra that the drug industry has become.

—he was beginning to see the message with more clarity. Arnold Shipp’s severed head was a reference to Senator Veltman’s “heads will roll” threat to the pharmaceutical companies.

What’s Victor Gall doing in bed with the pharmaceutical companies? Rubinek thought. Why would Gall hire me to do something that would benefit them?

The very idea made his insides tense up. He didn’t like to be manipulated under any circumstances, but for Gall to use him in some scheme that benefited pharmaceutical companies... that was unacceptable. But it just didn’t make sense. Not yet, anyway.

Merely thinking about the drug industry stirred old pain that he stored deep inside himself. An image of Olivia—the one in the photograph he carried around of her smiling face surrounded by a shimmering halo of red hair—rose up in his mind. It was followed by a vivid memory of that courtroom in which the man with the silver hair and eye patch, Ronald Shelldrake, had dismissed Olivia’s death as merely “unfortunate,” as “one of those things.”

An ache began to grow in Rubinek’s hands and he realized he was gripping the steering wheel too hard. He made himself relax, tried to divert his thoughts. But they kept returning to Senator Veltman’s speech and Victor Gall and Ronald Shelldrake and ultimately to one question: What the hell is going on?