The RX Factor Read online

  "I told you that you would think I'm nuts." Jordan grinned. "But I think you're being naive. Why would they wait until I was a real competitor? Wouldn't it make more sense to eliminate me before I hit the radar screens?"

  Taken aback, Ryan cleared his throat. "Okay, even if you are right, unless you have some specific information such as a person or company who made threats or approached you in an aggressive manner, there is nothing to even investigate. I think it will be more productive to concentrate on Loukas."

  "I don't have a name or a company in mind and hope I am wrong. What you said makes sense. I guess for now, we will focus on Loukas."

  "Are you sure that someone like Loukas could keep tabs on you to the point where he would know you were coming here to Exuma and that you planned to cruise on your aunt and uncle's yacht? Seems as though it wouldn't be easy to uncover that kind of information."

  She set her glass down and began to pace around the room.

  "But I don't have any other suspects. Besides the pharmaceutical companies, the only lead I have is Loukas. I can remember the anger, the dark rage on his face when he learned the details of his wife's death. You had to be there, Ryan. You had to see the man."

  Ryan took a drink before offering a response. "You mentioned that this Loukas was both loaded and connected. I guess anyone with enough cash and connections could arrange for the murder of just about anyone in the world. Let's discuss it with Pritchard tomorrow and get his feedback."

  ***

  Jordan's eyes settled on Ryan as she exited the interview room at the George Town Police Station. "I gave Pritchard a step-by-step replay of everything that happened yesterday and then told him about Loukas."

  "What was his response?"

  "He didn't say much, just wrote down everything I told him even though he was recording our conversation. He said he would see what he could do and thanked me for my time."

  "That sounds like Everett. Thorough and tight-lipped. I'm up next and will press him on the issue after I give my statement."

  "Sounds good. I'm going to step out and make some overdue calls and then see about making the final arrangements for Aunt Jenny and Uncle Henry. Want to meet me at Rosey's for lunch when you're finished?"

  "I'll see you then."

  ***

  Ryan was into his second Kalik when Jordan strolled up and took a seat next to him on Rosey's deck overlooking Emerald Bay.

  "I'm sorry I'm late. It took longer than I thought to make the arrangements. How did it go with Pritchard?"

  Ryan shook his head. "Pritchard was no help at all. He told me the investigation was over. Orders from Nassau. Nothing more he could do unless new information fell in his lap."

  "What about Loukas?"

  "He said they did not have the resources to pursue such a lead. He suggested I contact my friends back at the FBI if we really wanted to pursue it and gave me a copy of the Interpol reports on the three dead Haitians."

  "Ryan, I can't drag you in on this. This is my problem. You hardly know me. Besides, you've done too much already."

  "Look. I still have connections with the Bureau. A guy I went through training with came down to the islands for a visit just last year. He's stationed in Chicago. Hopefully, I can get him to sidestep protocol and dig up some background on Loukas. You'll get nowhere on your own. It'll be a big runaround and it could be dangerous. If I'm in for a penny I might as well be in for a pound." He felt a rush of real purpose like he hadn't felt in years.

  "I don't want to be an ingrate but I don't want to feel guilty about you risking your neck helping me, either."

  He finished his beer. "Look, Jordan, all I have these days is my neck. I think there are much worse things than risking it once in a while. In fact, it's a gift to have something to risk my neck for."

  She hesitated. "You're just angry because Pritchard gave you the cold shoulder. Take a few days and think about it. If you still feel the same way then we'll fly back to Chicago together and use your FBI contacts. Fair enough?"

  "That's fair enough, but too late. I already booked our flights. Let's get some lunch and then head back to my place and pack. We have the first flight out tomorrow morning."

  Chapter 11

  The American Airlines 757 gave a small shudder as it made a turn to port causing Ryan's stomach to churn. He reminded himself to relax as he released his vice-like grip on the armrests. He hadn't been on a plane in years—since before the accident. The simple tasks of the reservation process, keeping track of luggage, and going through customs in Miami had already aggravated him. He really wasn't looking forward to reacquainting himself with the hustle and bustle of life off the island.

  Jordan sat to his right as he gazed left out the window. The big jet convulsed as it arced into its final approach. Over the dipped port wing, he saw a massive, featureless expanse that he presumed to be Lake Michigan, partially frozen and frosted by falling snow. The skyline of Chicago clung to its shore under a heavy gray sky. When the pilot announced the temperature in the Chicago area as ten degrees Fahrenheit, Ryan shivered.

  After some fairly dramatic—or so it seemed to him—wobbling on the approach to the runway, the aircraft made a fairly smooth landing. The passengers uttered a shared sigh of relief and the hulking jet lumbered over to one of the terminal buildings.

  After a twenty-minute wait for their luggage, Ryan and Jordan followed their porter outside and onto one of the busy airport access roads. Ryan's breath was taken away by the icy air and sharp, gusting wind. His skin hadn't felt anything under sixty degrees on Exuma. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, tucking his chin inside his collar while waiting for one of the many yellow cabs to open up. He was glad he hadn't thrown away the coat he brought to the island five years previous.

  ***

  As Ryan unloaded their bags in the foyer of Jordan's upscale lakefront condo, he announced, "I've set up a meeting with my friend from the Bureau for ten tomorrow morning."

  "Where at?"

  "It's at the Dirksen Federal Building on Dearborn Street."

  "Sounds good. That's not too far away." She paused, then added, "And for your gracious hospitality on the island, dinner's on me."

  The smile she flashed made him skip a breath. Hidden in her eyes he could clearly see an invitation for something more. It took him a few seconds to register that she was waiting for a response.

  "Great. That sounds . . . great." He struggled to come up with something coherent. "I'll bet you have a favorite place."

  "Cafe Ba-Ba-Reeba. Spanish tapas. You'll love it."

  ***

  They settled in close together at a cozy table in a quiet corner of the restaurant. Cafe Ba-Ba-Ree-ba was comfortably crowded. Although there were a dozen wait staff delivering tapas and sangria to scores of tables divided up in several smaller rooms, the place remained intimate.

  "I thought a place called Cafe Ba-Ba-Reeba would be flashier."

  "What, you expected flamenco dancers and singing waiters?"

  "I guess I did." He perused the menu. "What do you recommend?"

  "The baked goat cheese and beef brochette will knock your socks off."

  He smiled over his wine glass. "Well, so far the sangria is great."

  "Be careful. It may taste like fruit juice but it's strong."

  After a couple of pitchers of the brandy-laced Spanish wine, some excellent spicy food, and fun conversation, Ryan began to harbor fleeting thoughts of romance. He had been attracted to Jordan since the moment they met. But with the death of her aunt and uncle, the brief time she spent as a suspect in their deaths, and then the life and death car chase throughout the island, the timing for a romantic interlude just never seemed right. Now, with an ocean separating them from those events, tonight felt like the right time to explore that possibility.

  Back at Jordan's, she turned to him slyly and, with a smoky look, announced that she was going to slip into something comfortable. Ryan's heart picked up a beat as he watched her slink off to her
bedroom. The drinks had left them buzzed, but that in itself was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, the alcohol lowered their inhibitions; on the other, following a full day of travel and a large meal, it had made them both sleepy.

  He plopped down on the couch and turned on the TV to keep himself from dozing off. The minutes ticked by in red digital numbers on the cable box as Ryan struggled to keep his eyes open. After twenty minutes, he figured it had been long enough for any woman to get comfortable. Ryan staggered to his feet and tiptoed to Jordan's bedroom door. After two light raps with no response, he turned the knob as he called her name. She was curled up on her bed, wearing a sleek nighty that barely covered her backside. She had a content look on her face, her breasts rising and falling with her breathing.

  Ryan shook his head. Smiling at what could have been, he pulled a comforter over her and retreated back to the living room, quietly closing the door behind him.

  ***

  Jim Crawford was a youthful-looking man with even features, a poster boy for the Bureau. He greeted Ryan with a hearty slap on the back and introduced himself to Jordan, openly admiring her without making her feel as if she were on display. She sat in his office with her feet crossed at the ankles, waiting while the two friends went through their requisite exchange regarding Bureau training and the good old days.

  When they had finished catching up and got down to business, Jordan leaned forward and added her own descriptions of their dilemma and answered questions that Crawford directed at her. After Ryan's narrative of the events of Jordan's five days in Exuma, the FBI man's opinion was that the theory of Loukas's involvement might be a good one, though he admitted to a complete lack of evidence to support the suspicion.

  In effect, he told them what they already knew: it was nearly impossible to build a case worthy of an indictment against such a well-connected man. However, he did offer to investigate on his end to find out if any additional information was within the reach of the Bureau.

  "What's first?" Jordan asked.

  "I'll try to find out if Loukas has or has had any connections with these Haitians—or any Haitians, for that matter."

  Jordan nodded at the FBI man. "That makes sense."

  Ryan grinned. "That's why he gets paid the big bucks."

  "Yeah, right," Crawford scoffed. "I finally bought my first boat recently. An eighteen-foot bowrider."

  "Still going after those lake bass, Jim?"

  "You know it," Crawford said. He was about to launch into a fishing story when Jordan stood up. She had had enough of the male bonding rituals for one morning.

  She extended her hand. "Thanks for everything. We look forward to hearing about your findings on Loukas."

  Ryan took her cue and rose to his feet. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small sheaf of papers, folded lengthwise and bound by a rubber band. "The chief in Exuma is a friend of mine. He gave me these before we left the island."

  With a puzzled look, Crawford took the papers from Ryan.

  "It's the Interpol report on the Haitians,"

  Ryan explained.

  "Ah, well done." Crawford gave the papers a cursory glance. "That's a start. It'll save me some leg work." They exchanged cell phone numbers, and Ryan and Jordan were on their way. When they reached the lobby, Ryan asked Jordan to wait for him and walked back to Crawford's office.

  "Jim, you don't have anyone following us, do you?"

  "Afraid not buddy, why do you ask?"

  "It's probably nothing. I guess I'm just paranoid after what happened on Exuma, but I could swear I've seen the same person several times since landing at O'Hare."

  "You have a description for me?"

  "Big burly-looking guy with a hook nose. Probably 6'2", two hundred thirty pounds give or take, black wavy hair, maybe forty years old. Not the type of guy who blends in easy with a crowd."

  Crawford jotted down the description. "Any identifying marks? Scars, tattoos?"

  "He never got close enough for me to see, so no way I could say for sure."

  "Okay. I'll enter that description into our database and see if we get any hits."

  ***

  An hour later, they were eating deep-dish Chicago-style pizza in another of Jordan's favor ite places when Ryan's cell phone rang. It was Jim Crawford. Jordan moved over closer to Ryan, and he held the phone so she could hear both sides of the conversation.

  "I got Jordan here Jim, what did you find out?"

  "Sure enough, we had a file on Loukas, and a thick one at that. He's a guy we keep tabs on. We know he has connections to organized crime but we've never dug up enough dirt to obtain an indictment," Crawford said. "Even so, I don't think he's your guy."

  "Why not?" Ryan asked.

  "He's been locked away in a drug rehab program for the past five weeks. Apparently he went off the deep end after the death of his wife and has been mired in painkillers and alcohol ever since."

  "Damn, that doesn't sound promising."

  "No, it doesn't. My sources tell me that drugs and alcohol have been his only focus for a good while and I couldn't find any info regarding his re -cent involvement in anything, legit or not. I think this angle is a dead end for you, buddy."

  Ryan pulled the phone up to his ear and made a quarter turn away from Jordan.

  "Sounds that way. Well, thanks for looking into this for us, Jim. Anything else?"

  "I'm still waiting for the results on that other matter, but should have something before the end of the day."

  Chapter 12

  Senator McNally entered his office and walked straight to his secretary's desk.

  Marge O'Neil, a heavy-set middle-aged woman with a no-nonsense attitude, lowered her reading glasses as she looked up from her work. She was not intimidated by the senator, or anyone else for that matter, and always spoke her mind freely. Some on the senator's staff found her demeanor a tad brusque, but McNally valued her exceptional work ethic, the speed with which she could accomplish any task, and the fact that she challenged him on a regular basis. He didn't need any more yes-men (or -women).

  "Good morning, Senator. How was your trip to Africa?"

  "Very successful," he replied. "But I'm glad to be back in civilization."

  "Don't gripe, sir. These trips around the world are going to help get you elected president someday."

  The senator smiled. She certainly had a way with people. "That's the plan, Marge." He grabbed a fistful of messages from her desk and continued on to his private office, shutting the door behind him.

  He'd barely sat down when Marge rang him. "Yes?"

  "Senator Dorn is on his way over," she said, "and Senator Nichols's office confirmed this morning."

  "Thanks for seeing to that. Go ahead and set them up in the conference room, and let me know when they've arrived."

  He hung up the phone and began preparing a few notes for the conference, the final in a series of six behind-closed-doors meetings over the past year that he'd arranged with the two senators to cobble together what would be his most important accomplishment to date: a comprehensive bill aimed at Social Security reform. He was deep in thought when his private line rang. Only a handful of people—a few top CEOs who happened to be big supporters, a couple of his special projects operatives, and the White House staff—had the number, so he knew it was serious business. He picked up on the second ring.

  "Yes?"

  He felt his heart beat harder in his chest and removed his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the beads of sweat that were beginning to form on his forehead as he listened to the caller's message.

  As soon as the person on the other end of the line had finished, the senator replied with as much cool as he could muster. "I'm glad you called. I appreciate the update. Keep your head, and focus on the objective. I'll do what I can on my end to clear the path, okay?"

  Marge knocked on his door just as he was hanging up.

  "The senators are here and waiting for you in the conference room," she said.

&nb
sp; "Great," Senator McNally said. "I'll be right out."

  ***

  Senator McNally entered the conference room, where he found Senators Jim Dorn and Allen Nichols waiting. Dorn and Nichols were older than McNally in chronological years, but only Dorn, enjoying his fourth term, had served longer in the Senate.

  "Good morning, gentlemen," McNally said warmly. He held both men in high regard and rarely bothered to hide his affection for them. Dorn and Nichols returned his greeting, and McNally took a seat opposite them at the table.

  "Let's get started," McNally said. "Gentlemen, we've been over this a half dozen times now, and it's time to finalize our bill. You know my position. I believe it's imperative that the bill we sponsor is actually capable of being passed, and this means we need to offer compromise so that both sides of the aisle can come to an agreement. You know my position is that the wage base on which Social Security is taxed must be increased and that the minimum age of eligibility must be raised. What we need to come to agreement on today is the amount of the wage base increase, the manner in which we will step up the minimum age requirement, and what we are going to offer up to the other side of the aisle to persuade them to pass the Social Security Reform Act."

  Dorn, balding, perennially sour-faced, and twenty-three years McNally's senior, was the first to comment. "My thoughts haven't changed," he said dryly. He laced his wide fingers together and rested them on his sizeable belly. It was his trademark move, designed to put everyone on notice that he was about to lay down the law. He was plenty adept at making his case, if a bit predictable. "I don't believe there should be any wage cap on Social Security tax, and we should leave the current retirement age alone. And I have no reason to throw in a carrot to induce the other side to pass the damn bill. We all know that this needs to be done to protect Social Security, and we'll hang them out to dry if they don't support this bill."