CHAPTER SIXTEEN: THE DAYS OF WINE AND WATER
IT WAS TIME FOR JONAS TO begin executing his plans for the grand finale, a bold move that would be vengeful and impossible to ignore.
“You’ve reached the APA,” a youthful voice said. “This is Melissa . . . how may I help you?”
Jonas cleared his throat. He imagined a starry-eyed girl of nineteen on the other end of the phone.
“I’m Jack Pengar,” Jonas said, “and I would like to donate the wine and water to your upcoming convention in San Francisco.”
“That’s very generous of you,” Melissa said. “Let me transfer you to our events coordinator.”
Melissa put him on hold, and Jonas was forced to endure three minutes of a robotic-voiced woman telling him about all the wonderful events that were planned for the convention.
“Events,” said a new voice. “This is Tiffany Sparks.”
Jonas soon missed Melissa. Tiffany sounded older. Her voice was somber and businesslike. She wasn’t fresh and upbeat like Melissa.
Maybe Tiffany needs an antidepressant, Jonas thought.
“Hello, Miss Sparks,” Jonas said. “I’m a San Francisco-based manufacturer, and I am interested in donating all the water and wine for your upcoming annual meeting.”
Suddenly, Tiffany didn’t sound depressed anymore.
“That’s extremely generous,” she said. “We’ve never had somebody offer to do that before. What did you say your name was?”
“Jack Pengar,” Jonas said. He had practiced saying the name so many times, he said it fluidly, without pause or stumble.
“Mr. Pengar, you’re aware that we’re expecting over thirteen thousand attendees this year?” Tiffany said. “Our meeting lasts three days but we have satellite events, so some of our attendees stay four, even five days.”
“Sounds ambitious,” Jonas said. “Do you have an idea from past meetings how much wine and water were consumed? I’ll need that to estimate what you’ll need this year.”
Jonas was put on hold; once again, the robotic-voiced woman told him things he wasn’t interested in knowing.
Tiffany returned in five minutes. “Last year we had fifteen thousand attendees,” she said. “We ordered three hundred cases of wine and five hundred cases of water. It wasn’t cheap.”
“I will be happy to donate the wine and the water,” Jonas said again. “All of it.”
“That is extremely generous,” Tiffany said. “What do you require in return?”
“A sign that says, ‘Donated by Jack Pengar.’ That’s it; it helps me out and makes it tax deductible. It’s a win-win for both of us.”
Jonas could almost feel Tiffany’s excitement through the phone. She asked for his address to mail him the required paperwork.
“What breakdown do you need?” Jonas asked, after giving her the address of a holding company of his.
“I believe three hundred cases of wine, mixed 80 percent red and 20 percent white, should work, and that five hundred cases of water mixed 70 to 30 of still to sparkling would also be good,” Tiffany said.
“Thank you, Miss Sparks,” Jonas said. “I look forward to helping the APA.”
JONAS CALCULATED THAT THE water and wine would cost $50,000 at wholesale prices—an excellent deal for the APA. But the question on his mind wasn’t cost—it was what percentage of the water and wine should be tainted. Tiffany had asked for still water. He decided to let well enough alone and not compromise his other brands. In a switch, the water would be untouched, while the wine would not. He then debated how much of the wine should be poisoned—25, 50, 75, 100 percent?
The simplest method would be to contaminate all the bottles in a case. He did the arithmetic and realized he had only enough material for 50 percent of the bottles. Those compounds were expensive, and that shipment had cost him more than $2 million.
Good thing I’m rich, Jonas mused. He wondered how poor people were able to destroy their enemies.
SLEEPING ON HIS PLAN for the APA turned out to be a bad idea. First, Jonas hadn’t slept well for months. Second, the scenarios he explored required extensive and rapid information and arithmetic. He gave up and went to his computer.
Jonas reviewed the results of his calculations aloud. “Fifteen thousand people, of whom 60 percent are men and 10 percent of them are on an SSRI, and if 50 percent have sixteen ounces of wine and 40 percent weigh less than eighty kilograms, then 60 should die. Best case the number could be triple if they are thinner, heavy drinkers. The female deaths should range from 50 to 125. For the party, the expected fatalities could be anywhere from 1 percent and a best-case 2.5 percent of the attendees.”
Initially, he was disappointed by the relatively low number of deaths. Hundreds were nothing like the thousands he’d envisioned.
“Damn, I wish I’d kept the tyramine in the cocktail, and I should have ordered triple the material. If I had, I could have decimated the psychiatric profession.”
On further reflection, he thought it was still high enough to make them listen and, he calculated, if he added the leftover tyramine, he could double the numbers. The tyramine would increase the odds and, he hoped, add to the confusion. He imagined five hundred psychiatrists leaving the cocktail party in supposed good health . . . a last supper, of sorts. Then, when the pharmacies were closed and the emergency rooms became jammed to capacity, that anachronistic profession would have paid for Wendy’s death. It was fitting they would experience confrontation with their imminent death as Wendy had. Like him, their loved ones would bear the burden of sudden grief. The survivors would learn from the carnage. He would ensure that from his haven in Morocco. Personalized medicine would be embraced, and he would be satisfied.
Jonas tried to imagine the chaos it would cause. It was a shame he wouldn’t be around to experience it in person, but he’d read about it, then shape the message of why. Not immediately, but ultimately, the world would thank him.
Satisfied, Jonas retired to his bed early and slept more soundly than he had in weeks.
AFTER THE QSIT AUDIT, Carrie and her post-docs debriefed.
“What did you learn from the audit?” she asked.
Amber was the first to comment. “I had no idea that bottled water was subject to many of the same controls as is a pharmaceutical product. No wonder it’s costly and has fewer deleterious effects than tap or well water.”
“The amount of paperwork and controls on the product was stunning,” Amber added. “The level of detail was unbelievable.”
“What did you think about that dispenser? The one he didn’t want to talk about?” Carrie asked.
“I think he could have poisoned the Au de l’Eau with it,” Amber said.
“Agreed, but we need to find a way to prove it. Anne told me about the loss of his wife.” Carrie recounted von Gelden’s history as Anne knew it. “Any suggestions on how to find evidence of guilt?”
“Based on what you’ve told us and that the poisoned water has shown up at psychiatric and psychology events, I think he has it in for them,” Kim said. “Why else use an antidepressant and, if it’s revenge he’s after, isn’t it the perfect group?”
“What happened to his wife’s psychiatrist?” Amber asked. “Why kill random doctors when the person you actually want is her shrink.”
“Good point,” Carrie said. “I’ll ask Anne if she remembers who Wendy von Gelden’s doctor was. One more thing. Dearborn sent the names of the other Seattle deaths. Can you track down their families and see what they had in common? We still don’t know how they were poisoned, or even if they were poisoned—but let’s assume they were. Thanks.”
AFTER LUNCH, CARRIE CALLED ANNE.
“Do you remember the name of Wendy von Gelden’s psychiatrist?”
“Dr. Hempstead, Dr. Hampstead, something like that. I know he was local, probably in Napa or St. Helena,” Anne said.
“Thanks.” Carrie put down the phone and started searching. It took less than two minutes to find that Dr. Stanley Hempstead, psychiatrist, had died suddenly from a stroke—like Sarah! Another search revealed pictures of the Hempsteads and the von Geldens at the Bipolar Foundation gala four years earlier. She did a search on the white pages website and tracked down the wife and figured out her address through property records. Should she call or visit? Visit. With Jay or without Jay? With. Definitely with.
Carrie called Jay.
“I was just going to call you,” he told her. “We have the test results from the Seattle samples. Both were positive.”
“Thank you. That’s a relief. When we audited his facility, we saw how he could have dispensed the chemicals. But we have a wild goose to chase. How would you like to come with me on a trip to St. Helena?” Carrie asked, and then explained the remarkable similarity in Hempstead’s and Sarah’s deaths. “I don’t know what we’ll learn, but there may be something.”
She didn’t mention that water had not been implicated in the Seattle deaths. She needed Dearborn to stay involved and didn’t want to compromise the investigation with new information. She would follow this new lead and see where it led.
They agreed to drive up the following day, hoping that Mrs. Hempstead would be at home. Jay brought along one of his subpoenas and Amber came along as a witness since Anne was teaching.
They arrived at four and walked up to the door of the stately manor home. There was no answer, so they waited in the car. At five, the garage door opened and a Jaguar convertible pulled in.
Jay, Carrie, and Amber waited a couple minutes then got out of the car and knocked on the door, which was opened by a woman dressed in tennis clothes.
“Mrs. Hempstead?” Dearborn asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
Dearborn showed her his credentials then introduced Carrie and Amber.
“We’re here to learn more about your husband’s death and the relationship he may have had with Jonas von Gelden,” Dearborn said.
“Please come in. Jonas and Stan were social acquaintances, and we traveled in the same social circle. But they had a bad falling out after Jonas’s wife died. Stan thought that Jonas had the potential to become violent. Stan often thought that way about the husbands of his patients. You see, Stan specialized in treating women. He was exceptional at it and was so empathetic. He was a lovely man and a wonderful husband . . .”
“Do you remember more about the falling out your husband had with Jonas?” Carrie asked.
“Oh yes, Stan said Jonas blamed him for Wendy’s death. Imagine that! But then Jonas thought better about it and apologized to Stan. In fact, he gave him the most amazing gift. Stan said it was one of the rarest ports in the world, and Stan loved port . . .”
“What port? When did your husband get it?” Carrie asked.
“Oh, let me show you. Come with me,” Mrs. Hempstead said. She led them into a study where the walls were decorated with diplomas and signed pictures of what must have been Stan Hempstead playing golf with celebrities.
“I haven’t had the time or the will to change the room. Sometimes, I pass this room and think that Stan is still alive.”
“We are sorry for your loss, Mrs. Hempstead. The port?” Carrie asked.
“Yes. Here’s the bottle. You can see that it was from the vintage of 1811. Stan said that it was Napoleon’s favorite port. Imagine getting to taste the same wine as Napoleon. That’s a once in a lifetime . . .”
“Was the bottle washed?”
“Oh my, yes. Stan gave me a small glass. It was the most exquisite port ever. When he finished it, he asked me to rinse it out and, of course, I did. It makes such a lovely display piece,” Mrs. Hempstead said, carefully picking up the bottle and handing it to Carrie.
“What’s in this snifter?” Amber asked.
“Oh, those are Stan’s corks. He saved the corks from the special wines he drank,” Mrs. Hempstead answered.
“Is the cork from the 1811 port there?” Amber continued.
“I guess it should be.”
“Would you mind if I looked?” Amber asked.
“No, please go ahead.”
Amber spread the corks out on top of the desk and carefully put back the ones that clearly weren’t the port cork. Midway through the pile, she walked over to Carrie and Jay.
“I think this is the cork. It says Taylor Fladgate 1811 on it,” Amber said and handed the stained cork to Carrie, who handed it to Jay.
“Do you mind if we take this for testing?” Dearborn asked.
“Not at all. But whatever for?” Mrs. Hempstead asked. “What do you expect to find?”
“We’re not sure. If we find something, we’ll notify you.”
“Will the cork be destroyed, or will you be able to return it to me? I’d like to have it back. After all, it was the last drink that Stan had and it’s special for that reason.”
“If it is possible to preserve it, we will, and we’ll return it to you. Thank you for all your help. We will be in touch,” Dearborn said. He then asked Mrs. Hempstead to sign a handwritten release authorizing him to take and test the cork.
“One last question, Mrs. Hempstead,” Carrie said. “Was your husband taking any medications?”
“No, Stan was the healthiest, fittest person around. He was an avid golfer and a good one. He never took so much as an aspirin. He used to say that drugs were poisons.”
During the drive back in the car, Carrie called Stuart.
“Dr. Hediger, it is such a pleasure to hear your dulcet tones. I can only assume that you wish me to be of service to you. And you know I’m always at your service.”
“I’m putting you on speaker phone with Special Agent Dearborn from the FBI and Dr. Amber Arnold. We have a cork that is about two years old. Is it possible for you to test it for nialamide, isocarboxazid, and maybe even tyramine?” Then, remembering that she wasn’t supposed to know about tyramine, quickly added, “or any other compound that could interact with those MAOIs.”
“It should be possible, but it will take some creativity and work,” Stuart answered professorially.
“Jay, can Stuart test it?” Carrie asked.
“No, but he can work with our chemist to have it tested. It’s a question of the chain of custody. If the cork is contaminated, there must be no doubt about the evidence.”
“But Stuart can test it quickly, while your lab takes forever.”
“Stuart, how long would it take you to test the cork?” Jay asked.
“If I’m set up, then less than a day. I could be ready tomorrow midday,” Stuart said.
“Couldn’t we all go there and be witnesses? You could bring someone from the FBI as well.”
“Let me sleep on it. I’ll let you know in the morning,” Jay said.
“Thanks, Stuart,” Carrie said and hung up.
AFTER A MONTH OF WORK, Jonas’s task was complete. His precious wine bottles were tainted and ready to be delivered to San Francisco, which would soon be the epicenter of terror.
Feeling like a proud general watching his troops go off to war, Jonas watched his workers loading the cases of wine onto a truck in front of his garage.
“Can you load the truck any faster?” Jonas asked impatiently.
“We’re doing the best we can, boss,” Antonio answered. He was sixty years old, wearing a thin white T-shirt girdled by a leather hernia strap. “We need to be careful with the wine; we don’t want to break any bottles. We should be done in fifteen, twenty minutes.”
“Good,” Jonas said. “You’ve got a long drive ahead of you. You need to get to the plant and load the water, drop it in San Francisco, and get back to the plant by five o’clock.”
“We’ll get it all done, boss,” Antonio said.
“See that you do,” Jonas said. He went back to his garden, realizing his presence was likely hindering their progress. All three of these men had worked for him for a dozen years and knew what they were doing. Loading and unloading wine was no different than water.
Seventeen minutes later, Antonio approached Jonas in the garden.
“We’re packed up and ready to leave, boss,” he said.
“Thanks, Tony,” Jonas said. “I’ll let Travis know you’re on your way to pick up the water.”
As he watched the large covered truck backing out of his driveway, Jonas pulled out his cell phone and told Travis that the truck should arrive within thirty minutes to pick up the water designated for the APA.
JAY CALLED CARRIE EARLY the next morning. “My boss agreed that time is of the essence. If Dr. Barnes can get results today, then we are prepared to act and get search warrants. Three of us will come at one o’clock and bring the sample. One of the observers is a chemist.”
Carrie called Anne and updated her. She then pulled her post-docs together for an emergency update as well.
“We can go to Cal Berkeley and see how the chemistry is done or continue working here trying to figure out von Gelden’s next move,” Carrie said.
“I vote for figuring out the next move,” Amber said. “We’d be sitting around waiting most of the day.”
“I agree,” said Kim.
“Okay, then let’s figure it out. How is the Seattle tracking going?”
“We’re on it,” Amber said.
“Great, let’s meet at the end of the day and see where we are,” Carrie said.
The group left and after hours on the phone, they reconvened at four.
“As you know, we learned nothing from the index cases in Seattle,” Amber began.
“But we did find something interesting from one of the later Seattle cases,” Kim continued. “David Hornbein was an employee at the Neuropsychiatric Education Group. According to his boss, there were leftover beverages from the event. She gave him some of the beer and wine to take home. It was only a few bottles, and no one would either care or notice. Hornbein came into work Monday morning after a late night of partying and was taken to the hospital. His boss asked him what he’d eaten and drunk and he said he had a beer but overdid it on the wine and pizza. And shouldn’t have gotten drunk.”
“Do you know the brand of wine?” Carrie asked.
“Dinero Vineyards. Apparently, several cases were donated to the Hilton to be used for a nonprofit event and the neuropsych meeting was one of the events where the Hilton used the gift wine,” Amber said.
“It’s starting to look like the wine. Was Dinero white or red?” Carrie asked.
“Red. A cabernet sauvignon,” Amber answered immediately.
“Okay, so it looks like he’s changed his modus operandi, but why?” Carrie asked the group again.
“I think it’s all about the psychiatrists,” Amber said.
“Alright, see if you can figure out what he’s planning next, and let me know when you think you have some possibilities. Remember to investigate a wide range of options and to think outside of your preconceptions,” Carrie said. “I’ll text you once we have something from Dr. Barnes.”
LATER THAT NIGHT, Carrie and Anne received a joint text from Dearborn saying that if there was trace evidence, the amounts were so minute that Stuart was allowing the procedure to run through the night.
Carrie called Anne, who knew more about the technical aspects, and asked what the likelihood was of getting results tomorrow.
“Not good,” was all Anne had to say.
Carrie did not sleep well.
JONAS REREAD THE TEXT from Antonio: “Delivered.” He put down his phone and looked around his office for the final time. He returned to his task—purging files. He consolidated all the evidence of dummy corporations, compound purchases, and equipment design—his work for the past two years—into two cardboard banker’s boxes. Jonas was personally taking these to the shredder.
Once he had gone through the physical paper, Jonas turned his attention to his work computer. He checked and double-checked for any incriminating files; he had kept all his correspondence on his personal computer. Jonas would continue to own Sierra Santé and intended to manage it from abroad. He planned to promote Travis—who was working out better than Jonas had expected—and reward him appropriately.
Jonas was confident that everything would work out fine. His grand finale was about to come to fruition—and when it did, he would be six thousand miles away, smoking a celebratory cigar on the patio of his new Moroccan villa, where he would be safe from extradition.
He drove home at nine o’clock, making a mental checklist to ensure everything was in place. The ownership of his house had been transferred to one of his overseas companies; it was under management by a local real estate firm that knew him as Mr. Soldi, another of Jonas’s pseudonyms.
Jonas gave himself one hour to walk around the house and gather up the last of his remaining valuables—he took down several of his cherished paintings, gathered his photo albums and a handful of favorite books, and grabbed a framed picture of Wendy. She was standing beside the rock formation that had yielded the Au de l’Eau spring. He rolled up the paintings and put his treasures and precious wines into five trunks he then padlocked.
Once all his memories were packed, Jonas poured himself a cognac and walked out to the back porch, taking his picture of Wendy with him. He stared at it for a long time then raised his glass in her honor.
“I’m doing this for you, my love,” he whispered.
Jonas went back inside and slept fitfully. Before sunrise, he woke and loaded the trunks containing five hundred pounds of essential keepsakes into the small trailer he had rented. There would be plenty of room on the private jet for his souvenirs and he would leave the trailer and his car at the airport—Travis, the ultimate “yes man” and future of the company, would be happy to pick it up for him.
At eight thirty, Jonas closed his front door for the last time. He turned his back to the house, got into the car, and drove off without looking back.