The RX Factor Page 6

  He opened the door and invited inside his Haitian contact and the man's two thugs. "You must be Rene," he said to the taller of the two assassins. "Rene Edmond."

  Rene, bald-headed and wearing a clingy wife beater that accentuated his muscular frame, nodded menacingly.

  Craven turned his attention to the other assassin, who was a few inches shorter than his partner, the sky-high afro atop his head notwithstanding. Dressed in a loose black T-shirt and a pair of cutoff jeans, he was smaller and leaner, but looked just as tough.

  "You're Manno Sanon."

  Manno shrugged indifferently, but his cool stare spoke volumes. He didn't appreciate the scrutiny and obviously felt he didn't need to impress a soul.

  I can work with him, Craven thought. Craven knew men. Their posture, the way they returned his gaze—everything told a story. He could tell a poser from the real deal in a heartbeat. He shifted his attention to the man who until now had been his go-between, the flunky who had cowered in front of him at the bar back in Nassau.

  "I gave you forty-eight hours," Craven said. "But you're just now introducing me to your boys, and the job's still unfinished."

  "Who you calling boy?" Manno asked in a hard-to-decipher patois of African, French, and pidgin Creole. He took a step toward Craven.

  But before Manno could move another inch, Craven was propping up the assassin's chin with his Glock. Craven motioned to Rene to take a seat on the bed behind him, and the man did so grudgingly. He then caught Manno's gaze, still unflinching, not an ounce of fear on his face.

  "I like you," Craven said. "Go take a load off next to your pal there."

  The look on Manno's face—somewhere between fury and amusement—slowly morphed into recognition. Perhaps he, too, could read men.

  Perhaps he understood that Craven, far from being an empty suit, was no stranger to death. Manno slowly, cautiously, sat down beside his partner.

  "Show me the goods," Craven said.

  The two men on the bed exchanged glances with each other and then stared back at Craven.

  "I want to see," Craven explained, "what you're going to use to finish the job."

  A faint smile spread across Manno's lips, and he produced from beneath his black T-shirt an exquisitely carved bowie knife that gleamed in the hotel room's artificial light.

  Rene followed suit, gingerly exposing the handle of what looked to be a semiautomatic pistol hidden in his baggy shorts.

  "Less messy than explosives," Craven mused. "Definitely more efficient." With that settled, he picked up where he'd left off with the only man still standing. "Now Junior, where were we? Oh, yeah. Forty-eight hours. I'm still waiting for an explanation. I should have been on a plane two days ago. Instead I'm here. With you."

  The Haitian unleashed his patented gap-toothed grin. "But," he stuttered, "the islands are crawling with authorities. We can hardly move about. Even this meeting places us all in grave danger."

  "I gave you forty-eight hours," Craven said, "and you give me excuses." He pulled from his blazer a silencer and fit it snugly to the muzzle of his gun.

  Junior's eyes widened. "But, sir . . . no . . . wait—"

  Craven, raising the gun level with Junior's forehead, didn't waste any time pulling the trigger, and the man crumpled in a heap, dead before he hit the carpeted floor. Craven turned to the bruisers, neither of whom betrayed a hint of emotion.

  "Men," he said, emphasizing the word for Manno's benefit, "clean up this mess. You work for me now."

  Chapter 8

  Jacob Stedman, president and CEO of Fisher Singer Worldwide, let his phone ring three times before picking it up. Making people wait was one way, among many, to remind those working for him that his time was precious, that he was always busy, and that no one, not even his secretary, had access to him 24/7.

  "They're ready for you in the boardroom," said Ms. Moser, his dowdy but efficient secretary. "You're set to go live in seven minutes."

  He reviewed his notes one last time. He'd been doing interviews for years, but they never got any easier. Reporters had a habit of leading their victims down a back alley and then knifing them in the back when they least expected it. His job, as always, was to keep the interview positive—and to steer clear of any ambushes.

  For this morning's interview, a camera crew from the American Financial News Network had traveled to the sprawling FSW campus to interview Stedman about his corporation's fourth quarter and annual earnings, which had been released earlier that morning. He would be entertaining questions via remote from the popular anchor team of Allen Faber and Catherine Bailey, the former a pudgy middle-aged man with Ken hair, the latter an attractive brunette with an impressive resume to match her winsome looks.

  Assuming his game face, Stedman left his office and strode purposefully down the corridor to the boardroom, where he greeted the camera crew and took his position at the head of the table. An assistant worked him over quickly, running a comb through his hair and applying a small amount of makeup before helping him with his clip-on microphone and earpiece. And just like that, he was ready to go.

  The cameraman, who Stedman guessed to be in his late twenties, began counting down silently with the fingers on his right hand, and as soon as he reached his index finger, Stedman could hear the voice of Allen Faber in his earpiece.

  "We're being joined live now by Jacob Sted-man, CEO and chairman of the board of Fisher Singer Worldwide, whose stock is trading at another all-time high. Good morning, Mr. Sted-man, and congratulations on another blowout quarter and what appears to be the best year in the company's history."

  Jacob flashed a smile at the camera. It was crucial to appear at ease without looking disin terested, confident but not flip. "Good morning, Allen. And thank you. It was another great year for the company. We grew our revenue and profits by over twenty percent for the fifth year in a row and are extremely optimistic about the future."

  "My first question is," Faber began, "how do you guys continue to beat the street quarter after quarter, year after year, when your competitors are experiencing sluggish growth and diminishing earnings?"

  Insincere flattery, designed to soften him up before the real questions came. "Well, Allen, I'm not qualified to comment on how our competitors execute their strategies, but I can tell you that since I became CEO at FSW we have been committed to plowing a significant portion of our earnings back into research and development. For the past several years that strategy has paid big dividends, and we believe it will continue to pay big dividends."

  Faber's co-anchor joined the fray. "Hello, Mr. Stedman, this is Catherine Bailey. Congratulations on another great year."

  "Thank you, Catherine."

  "You just mentioned that you attribute much of the company's success to your commitment to heavy R&D spending. Your financial statements show that Fisher Singer Worldwide spent more than one billion dollars last year in R&D alone. That's a thirty percent rise over the previous year, and yet your revenue only increased twenty-two percent in the same amount of time. You already spend significantly more on R&D than any other pharmaceutical company. How long can you continue to increase your R&D budget at a faster pace than your revenue is growing?"

  Was this the main thrust of Bailey's probing? Or was she setting him up for a sucker punch?

  Stedman nodded thoughtfully. "FSW is committed now and will continue to be committed to growing our revenue and earnings through developing great new drugs that help make peoples' lives better. R&D represents less than fifteen percent of our revenue, so we are very happy with the ratio of R&D expense growth versus revenue growth."

  Faber cut in. "You spend more than one billion now on R&D, yet you have also acquired . . . I believe it's eleven companies over the past five years, while your nearest competitor has only made two or three acquisitions over the same time period. Some of these acquisitions have turned out to be complete busts, yet amazingly, your revenue and profits continue to soar. What's your secret?"

  Stedman offered
another smile for the camera. "It's actually twelve companies over the past five years," he said, correcting Faber. He assumed a solemn expression. "It's true that some of the companies we acquired ended up with drugs we thought could go to market but failed. However, I don't believe any of those acquisitions should be labeled a 'bust' as you call it. With each acquisition, we also brought on some remarkable talents and technologies that have led to other breakthrough discoveries—some of which have already been launched, and many more of which are in the developmental stage—that we're extremely excited about."

  Bailey cut in again. "But many analysts have been quoted as saying that you overpaid for several of these acquisitions, that you paid top dollar for companies that were years away from clinical trials. Why is FSW willing to continue to pay such a high price for these small biotech companies with no proven results?"

  "Catherine," he replied, relishing the fact that she'd never know the real answer to her question, "we look beyond a company's experimental drug and focus on its technologies and human talent as well. In this business, you have to take some calculated risks; not every promising drug is going to end up passing the FDA's scrutiny." Time for an all-American metaphor. "However, we don't need to hit a home run every time to be successful. If we can hit a few singles and doubles, maybe strike out once or twice, and also hit the occasional home run, then we'll continue to meet and exceed all of our goals. This is the business we're in, and I'm confident our strategy will continue to prove the best course to follow."

  "Well," Faber responded, "you can't argue with success. Jacob Stedman, CEO and chairman of the board at Fisher Singer Worldwide, once again, congratulations on another fantastic year, and thanks for joining us."

  "It was my pleasure," Stedman lied.

  The cameraman lowered the camera, and with that, the interview was over. A crew member helped Stedman remove his earpiece and microphone and thanked him for his time.

  "No, thank you," Stedman said. "You guys did a bang-up job—like always."

  He offered a round of handshakes, and then he exited alone.

  "Fucking reporters," he muttered to himself as soon as he was out of earshot.

  Chapter 9

  On the third morning following his chance meeting with Jordan, Ryan awoke just after sunrise with a splitting headache and the final words of Pritchard from the night before stuck in his mind:

  And if Dr. Carver is involved in any way, she may not be safe.

  Ryan reached for the bottle of Jameson on his nightstand. There wasn't much more than a few swallows left. He scratched his head, tilted the bottle to a forty-five-degree angle and held it there for a few moments before deciding to set it back on the bedside table, its contents undisturbed.

  As Ryan showered, he pondered Pritchard's statement. He analyzed the facts of the incident and concluded that Pritchard was being overly cautious due to the magnitude of the case. Even so, he decided to change routine and keep on alert. After all, Jordan was the niece of Henry Carver. If the yacht explosion was an act of revenge against the former Wall Street tycoon, then the psycho pulling the strings may not be satisfied until the Ryan wondered what it was about Jordan that intrigued him. He had initially tried to pretend that the bond was formed as a result of her tragic circumstances, but, in a sober moment, he acknowledged to himself that he had been taken with her from the moment he laid his eyes on her. Exuma was a vacation paradise and there was never a shortage of good-looking female tourists, ready and willing for some fun. But up until now, he had had no interest. What was it about her?

  After they had breakfast, Ryan suggested a tour of the island. Jordan was concerned about Pritchard, but Ryan assured her that she was free to move around as she pleased so long as she did not leave Exuma. As Jordan showered, Ryan cleaned up the house and then they set off down the road. Despite the rattling muffler, faded red paint, and healthy layer of dust, the open-topped rig of Ryan's fifteen-year-old jeep provided a fine 360-degree-view riding tour.

  They were a few miles down on Queens Highway before he said, "This old jeep isn't much to look at, but it handles well on these crummy old island roads. Besides, I don't need anything fancier to get to the few places I need to go." He took his eyes off the road long enough to flash her a grin. "To tell you the truth, about the only places I go are Rosey's and the harbor. Once in a great while, I'll take my diving gear and go up the coast to really be alone."

  "Haven't you had enough of the solitude?" she inquired.

  He turned toward her, a note of surprise in his voice. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I have." Then, concentrating on the winding road, he said, "I don't do it for the solitude. Solitude gives you time to think and remember, and I don't need that."

  "Then why hide away?"

  "Good question. I guess I'm doing what comes naturally and not necessarily what's best."

  "Do you miss your work? The research?"

  "Sometimes. On a rare occasion, I'll sit and think up new ideas and rehash old projects that I left incomplete."

  "Have you ever thought about getting back into clinical research?"

  "Not really."

  She frowned, disappointed. "And I thought you were going to apply for a job at my clinic."

  "I still might." Ryan smiled. "But who ever said I was going to apply for a position as research scientist? I'm sure you'll need a maintenance engineer."

  "Ha! I've seen your house and there is no way I would ever hire you to be in charge of sanitation."

  Ryan shrugged. "Touche."

  "Seriously," Jordan continued. "When you rehash old projects, what becomes of that?"

  "Nothing, usually. I wind up drinking and forgetting my ideas."

  "That's a waste of a good research mind."

  "How do you know I'm any good?"

  As they hugged the curve of the road entering Emerald Bay, he said, "There's a five-star resort up ahead, but I just got a better idea." Passing the grand hotel—resplendent and luxurious, yet sterile—he geared down and continued up the road. "Maybe you can tell me something."

  Her eyes sparkled. "Try me."

  "Most women as engaging, smart, and . . ." He cut the sentence short, wishing he'd begun differently. "What I want to know is—"

  "Why I'm still single," she said flatly. She ran a hand through her long mane in a gesture that was neither contrived nor inhibited. "Let's just say I'm passionate about my work."

  "You can't work and play?"

  "Sure, but can you keep up?"

  Ryan chuckled. The woman knew how to dance.

  After a few more miles of empty road, they ended up at the Conch Shack, overlooking the ocean in the hamlet of Steventon. Jordan ordered her Captain Morgan and Diet Coke, and Ryan stuck with just a bottle of water, while they waited for the proprietor's sons to return from the bay with fresh conch.

  "I've been to Exuma before, but I never knew about this place."

  "The best places are the ones the tourists haven't found yet. They catch the conch as the orders are placed. Can't get any fresher than that."

  Jordan grinned. "I can't wait."

  They were soon enjoying a conch salad and a cup of conch chowder. "You were right, Ryan. Best I've ever had."

  As they continued eating, Ryan decided to explore Pritchard's paranoia with Jordan.

  "So tell me, do you have any idea if someone would want to do you harm?"

  "Well, this guy back in Chicago comes to mind."

  "What was his name?"

  "Loukas, Victor Loukas. His wife was terminal and received the placebo in one of the clinical trials we were administering. She died nine months later. When her husband found out that she had been given the placebo, he went crazy, threatened everybody involved and vowed revenge."

  "I wouldn't read too much into that. He was upset. Vowing revenge was probably just a rash reaction. And coming after you here in Exuma, well, that seems a bit unlikely."

  "You're probably right. I really never gave it any thought until you asked."

&nbs
p; Jordan took the final bite of her salad. "Although he's mega-rich, developed half of the South Side of Chicago, and owns and occupies a high rise in the Loop that would make Donald Trump proud. The scary part is that he has ties to the mob. At least, that's the rumor. If he really wanted to come after me, I don't think an ocean could stop him. If he did it back in Chicago, he would be a suspect. Here, not a chance. Besides, everyone would focus on my uncle's death and assume it had something to do with Wall Street. It would be the perfect smoke screen."

  Ryan's silence was his answer.

  She held his eyes. "You think I'm being melodramatic?"

  "I never said that."

  She couldn't hide her tightening lips. "Now that I think about it, unless they were after my uncle, it has to be Loukas. There's no one else in my life it could be."

  "No one?" he asked, the question dripping with innuendo.

  "No, no one. Sayulita—the clinic—that's my main focus now. That shouldn't make me any enemies. Or at least none that hate me enough to want to see me dead."

  ***

  Back in the jeep, Ryan had an idea to take their minds off of the investigation. "I hope you brought your bathing suit."

  "I'm wearing it under my sarong."

  "Good, because I know an incredible beach, private and pristine as the first day of creation."

  Jordan smiled, seeming to forget all her troubles for the moment. "How could I say no? Where is it?"

  "Not far. It's on Deadman's Cay."

  Jordan gave him an Are-you-messing-with-me look but said nothing.

  The drive along the winding road, with its breathtaking ocean panoramas, had a soothing effect on both of them and their mood rose with each passing mile.

  They had just hit a straightaway on the road to Rolleville when a dark blue, older-model sedan roared up behind them. The sedan was moving at twice the speed of Ryan's jeep and didn't slow down until it was a few inches from his rear bumper.