It took M. J. an hour and a half to drive home, change her clothes, and fight her way back through midtown traffic. By that time, a major jam had built up along Dorchester Avenue, leading to the Four Seasons Hotel. All the red lights gave her time to shake her hair loose, dab on lipstick, brush on mascara while looking in the visor mirror. Even with a ton of face powder the bruises were still obvious, but at least she'd found a silk scarf to wrap around her neck and conceal the stitches. It actually looked rather dashing, that slash of red and purple silk trailing across the black dress. Too bad the whole effect required high heels; before the night was over, her feet would be killing her.
The ballroom of the Four Seasons was packed. There were probably enough furs and jewels in the room to fund the city budget for a year. A buffet table held platters of shrimp and smoked salmon, pastries and caviar, all of it served on real china, of course. A balalaika troupe was playing Russian music-a tribute to Albion's equally depressed sister city on the Volga. M. J. handed her invitation to the official at the door and headed into the thick of things.
She was reminded at once of why she hated going to affairs like this, especially on her own. Bring an escort and you were an instant social circle; go alone and you're invisible. Sipping at the requisite glass of white wine, she wandered through the crowd and searched for a familiar face-any familiar face. Mostly she saw a lot of tuxedoes, a lot of mink, a lot of orthodontically perfect teeth bared in perfect smiles.
She heard her name called. Turning, she saw her ex-husband. "And I thought you weren't going to vote for us," he said as he approached.
"I didn't say I would. I just can't pass up a free invite."
"Hey, I want to get a photo taken. You and the mayor together." He glanced around and spotted Sampson off in a corner, surrounded by admirers. "There he is. Come on."
"I don't do photo ops."
"Just this time."
"I told you, I'm not here to endorse him. I'm here to partake of a few free drinks and-" She stopped, her gaze suddenly focusing across the room, on a man's fair hair. Adam Quantrell didn't see her; he was facing sideways, engaged in conversation with another man. Next to Adam stood Isabel, her equally blond hair done up in an elaborate weave of faux pearls. The perfect couple, she thought. A stunning pair in tuxedo and evening dress. The sort of couple you saw epitomized in Cosmo ads.
Adam must have sensed he was being watched. He glanced her way and froze when he saw her. To M. J.'s surprise, he abruptly broke off his conversation and began to move toward her, across the room. She caught a glimpse of Isabel's frown, of faces turning to look at Adam as his broad shoulders pushed past. And then all she could seem to focus on was him.
He was smiling at her, the relaxed greeting of an old friend. The bruise on his cheek was almost lost in the laugh lines around his eyes. "M. J.," he said, "I didn't know you were coming." He reached out to her, and her hand felt lost in the warmth of his grip.
"I didn't know I was coming," she said.
The sound of a throat being cleared caught her attention. She glanced sideways at Ed. "I guess I should introduce you two," she said. "Ed, this is Adam Quantrell. Adam, this is Ed Novak. Our acting DA."
"Novak?" said Adam as the two men automatically shook hands.
"I'm her ex-husband," said Ed, grinning. "We're still very close."
"Speak for yourself," said M. J.
"So you're both campaigning for Sampson?" asked Adam.
"Ed is," said M. J. "I'm not."
Ed laughed. "And I'm going to change her mind."
"I came for the free meal," said M. J. She took a sip of wine, then she looked directly at Adam, a cool, hard gaze that no one could mistake as flirtatious. "And to see you."
"Well," said Ed. "She always did favor the direct approach."
"I'd like to say I'm flattered," said Adam, frowning as he studied her face. "But I get the feeling this isn't a social chat we're about to have."
"It's not," said M. J. "It's about Nicos Biagi."
"I see." Suddenly he seemed stiff and guarded-as well he should be. "Then perhaps we should talk in private. If you'll excuse us, Mr. Novak." He placed a hand on M. J.'s shoulder.
"Adam!" called Isabel, moving swiftly toward them. "I want you to meet someone. Oh, hello, Dr. Novak! Have you recovered from last night?"
M. J. nodded. "A few sore muscles, that's all."
"You're amazingly resilient. I would have been terrified, having my life threatened that way."
"Oh, I was terrified all right," admitted M. J.
"And then to have your car stolen. How fortunate it was only a Subaru-"
"Will you excuse us?" said Adam, continuing to guide M. J. toward the exit. "I'll join you later, Isabel."
"How much later?"
"Just later." With a firm hand, he hustled M. J. out to the lobby, where it was every bit as crowded. "Let's go outside," he suggested. "At least we can get out of this madhouse."
They found a spot near the hotel fountain, its trickling waters aglow in a rainbow of colored lights. The sounds of the gathering spilled out even here, in the darkness. From the ballroom came the faint strumming of balalaikas.
He turned to face her, his hair glittering in the reflected lights of the fountain. "What's going on?" he asked.
"I could ask you the same question."
"Are you angry at me for some reason?"
"Zestron-L," she said, looking at him intently. "You have heard of it, haven't you?"
She could see at once that he had. She caught a glimpse of shock in his eyes, and then his expression smoothed into unreadability. So he knew. All this time he knew which drug might be killing these people.
"Let me refresh your memory, in case you've forgotten," she went on. "Zestron-L is a long-acting narcotic, new generation, of the class levo-N-cyclobutyl-"
"I know what the hell it is."
"Then you also know Cygnus holds the patent."
"Yes."
"Did you also know your drug was out on the streets?"
"It's not possible. We're still in the research stage- primate trials. It hasn't gone to human trials yet."
"I'm afraid human trials have already started. The lab is South Lexington. And the results aren't too encouraging. Bad side effects. Mainly, death."
"But it hasn't been released yet!"
"Nicos Biagi got his hands on it."
"How do you know?"
"The hospital couldn't ID it, so they sent the blood sample to a university lab. A lucky break, too. They were able to identify it."
"There are two other victims-"
"Yes, and a funny thing happened to their blood samples. Jane Doe's got lost in transit. And as for Xenia Vargas, I won't trust any results I get back on hers. In fact, I half expect that her blood sample will get lost as well."
"Don't you think you sound just the slightest bit paranoid?"
"Paranoid? No, I'm afraid I've never had much of an imagination. It's one of my faults."
He moved closer to her, so threateningly close she had to fight the impulse to retreat a step. "Whatever your faults, Dr. Novak, a lack of imagination isn't one of them."
"Let me lay out the facts, disturbing but true. First, Jane Doe's specimens were lost. I know I labeled them properly, I filled out all the right forms, and put them in the right box."
"The carrier could have lost it. Or it could've been stolen from his vehicle. There are dozens of possibilities."
"Then there's the matter of Xenia Vargas. Her specimens did make it to the state lab, but they can't ID the drug. So they send it to an outside lab for further testing. Guess which lab?" She looked him in the eye. "Cygnus."
He didn't even flinch. Calmly he said, "We routinely handle requests from the state. We're only thirty miles away and we're better equipped."
"Third, there's the matter of Dr. Michael Dietz, Nicos Biagi's doctor. He identifies the drug as Zestron-L. Then he resigns from Hancock General and skips town. I think he was forced out by the hospital. Because Cygnus just happens to be a major donor to Hancock General."
"Cygnus had nothing to do with Dietz's resignation. He was already on his way out."
"How would you know that?"
"I'm on the hospital board. Three malpractice suits were more than we'd tolerate. Dietz was a disaster waiting to happen. His license was already in jeopardy."
M. J. paused. That would account for Dietz's reluctance to face the press. He didn't need the publicity.
"But Zestron-L is your drug. And someone's trying to keep its identity from the ME. Someone's protecting Cygnus."
He began to pace back and forth by the fountain. "This is bizarre," he muttered. "I don't see how that ID could be right."
"You can't argue with a lab result."
He stopped and looked at her, the gaudy lights from the fountain washing him in their watery glow. "No," he said at last. "You're right. I can't."
The absolute steadiness of his gaze made her want to believe that there were no lies between them, no hidden agendas, that his bewilderment was real. I must be getting soft, she thought. A pair of blue-gray eyes, a tuxedo, a man too gorgeous for words, and my horse sense bites the dust. What is wrong with me?
"Come with me," he said, and held out his hand.
She didn't move, feeling shaken by the sudden temptation to take his hand, to feel her whole body swallowed in his warmth. This was what she'd fought against, from the first time they'd met, this quickening of desire.
He was still holding out his hand, still trapping her in a gaze she couldn't seem to escape. "Come on, M. J.," he said.
"Where?"
"To Cygnus. The lab. Tonight, I'm going to root out the answers. And I want you there with me, as a witness."
She shook her head. "I'm not so sure that you'll like the answers."
"You may be right. But it's clear to me that you're not going to let up. One way or another, you're going to dig up the truth. So I might as well work with you. Not against you."
The logic of the devil. How could she argue with it?
She said, at last, "All right. I'll go with you."
"First let me smooth things over with Isabel."
Back in the ballroom, she watched him approach Isabel, saw the hurried excuses, the apologetic head-shaking. Isabel glanced in M. J.'s direction with a poorly disguised look of annoyance.
M. J. spotted Ed by the buffet table. She sidled up to him. "Ed," she said.
He grinned. "Did the direct approach work?"
"Quantrell's taking me to his lab tonight."
"Lucky you."
"I want you to let Beamis and Shradick know. Just in case."
"In case what?"
Instantly she fell silent as Adam came towards her. "Just keep it in mind," she muttered to Ed. Then, with an automatic smile pasted in place, she followed Adam out the door.
They went into the hotel garage. "We'll take your car," he said. "Isabel's going home in mine."
"She didn't look too happy about it."
"She hasn't much of a choice."
M. J. shook her head in disbelief. "Are you always this thoughtful of your lady friends?"
"Isabel," he sighed, "is a lovely woman with a cozy inheritance. And a whole stable of suitors. She hardly needs me to keep her warm at night."
"Do you?"
"Do you keep Ed Novak warm at night?"
"None of your business."
He cocked his head. "Ditto."
They got into the rented Mercedes. The smell of leather upholstery mingled with the scent of him-his warmth, his after-shave. It left her feeling a little lightheaded and more than a little insane. Since when did the mere scent of a man make her dizzy?
Since this man , she thought in irritation as she started the car. They swung into evening traffic.
"How do you like the car?" he asked.
"It's okay."
"Okay?" he said, obviously waiting for her to elaborate.
"Yeah. It's okay."
He looked out the window. "Next time, I'll have to choose something that'll really impress you."
"Is that what you were trying to do? Impress me?"
"Yes."
"In that case, I'll just say it. This baby handles like a dream, looks like a million bucks, and makes me feel young, gorgeous, and omnipotent. And I'm only going to give her back after a lot of kicking and screaming."
"That's better." He smiled at her, his gaze lingering on her face. "You know," he said softly, "you really should wear your hair loose like that more often. It suits you."
It was the most offhand of compliments, but it was enough to send even her cynical heart skipping. You're losing it, Novak, she thought, gripping the steering wheel. So he's got a silver tongue. Sterling silver. You've never let flattery do this to you before.
She sneaked a glance sideways and saw that he'd already turned his gaze back to the road ahead.
"There," he said. "Take the next turnoff. It's eight miles north."
The road took them out of midtown Albion, into a district of industrial parks and corporate headquarters. In the last ten years, many of the buildings had gone vacant; dark windows and For Lease signs had sprung up everywhere. Albion, like the rest of the country, was struggling.
The Cygnus complex was one of the few that appeared to house a thriving corporation. Even at eight o'clock at night, some of the windows were still lit, and there were a dozen cars in the parking lot. They drove past the security booth and pulled into a stall marked Quantrell.
"Your people work late," said M. J., glancing at the parked cars.
"The evening shift," said Adam. "We run a twenty-four-hour diagnostic lab. Plus, some of our research people like to keep odd hours. You know how it is with eggheads. They have their own schedules."
"A flexible company."
"We have to be, if we want to keep good minds around."
They walked to the front door, where Adam pressed a few numbers on a wall keypad and the lock snapped open. Inside, they headed down a brightly lit hallway. No smudged walls, no flickering fluorescent bulbs here; only the best for corporate America.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"Diagnostics. I'm going to prove to you we're not engaged in a cover-up."
"Just how are you going to do that?"
"I'm going to personally hand over to you Xenia Vargas's toxicology screen."
The diagnostics lab was a vast chamber of space-age equipment, manned by a half-dozen technicians. The evening supervisor, a grandmotherly type in a lab coat, immediately came to greet them.
"Don't worry, Grace," said Adam. "This isn't a surprise inspection."
"Thank God," said Grace with a laugh. "We just hid the beer keg and the dancing girls. So what can I do for you, Mr. Q.?"
"This is Dr. Novak, ME's office. She wants to check on a tox screen sent here from the state."
"What's the name?"
"Xenia Vargas," said M. J.
Grace sat down at a computer terminal and typed in the name. "Here it is. Logged in just this afternoon. It's not checked priority, so we haven't run it yet."
"Could you run it now?" asked Adam.
"It'll take some time."
Adam glanced at M. J. She nodded. "We'll wait," he said. Grace called to another tech: "Val, can you check that box of requests from the state? We're going to run a STAT on Xenia Vargas." She looked at Adam. "Are you sure you want to hang around, Mr. Q.? This is going to be real boring."
"We'll be up in my office," said Adam. "Call us there."
"Okie doke. But if I was dressed like that-" She nodded at their evening clothes. "I'd be out dancing."
Adam smiled. "We'll keep it in mind."
By the time they reached Adam's office, which was upstairs and down a long corridor, M. J.'s sore feet were staging a protest against high heels and she was silently cursing every cobbler in Italy. The minute she hobbled through the office door, she pulled off her shoes, and her stockinged feet sank into velvety carpet. Nice. Plush. Slowly she gazed around the room, impressed by her surroundings. It wasn't just an office; it was more like a second home, with a couch and chairs, bookshelves, a small refrigerator.
"I was wondering how long you'd last in those shoes," Adam said with a laugh.
"When Grace mentioned dancing, I felt like crying." She sat down gratefully on the couch. "I confess, I'm the socks and sneakers type."
"What a shame. You look good in heels."
"My feet would beg to differ." Groaning, she reached down and began to massage her instep.
"What your feet need," he said, "is a little pampering." He sat down beside her on the couch and patted his lap in invitation. "Allow me."
"Allow you to what?"
"Make up for that long walk down that long hallway."
Laughing, she rose from the couch. "It won't work, Quantrell. It takes more than a foot rub to soften up my brain."
He gave a sigh of disappointment. "She doesn't trust me."
"Don't take it personally. When it comes to men, I'm just an old skeptic."
"Ah. Deep-rooted fears. An unreliable father?"
"I didn't have a father." She wandered over to the bookcase, made a slow survey of the spines. An eclectic collection, she noted, arranged in no particular order. Philosophy and physics. Fiction and pharmacology. Over the bookcase hung several framed diplomas, strictly Ivy League.
"So what happened to your father?" he asked.
"I wouldn't know." She turned and looked at him. "I don't even know his last name."
Adam's eyebrow twitched up in surprise. That was his only reaction, but it was a telling one.
"I know he had light brown hair. Green eyes," said M. J. "I know he drove a nice car. And he had money, which was what my mother desperately needed at the time. So…" She smiled. "Here I am. Green eyes and all."
She expected to see shock, perhaps pity in his gaze, but these was neither. The look he gave her was one of utter neutrality.
"So you see," she said, "I'm not exactly to the manner born. Though my mother used to claim she had noble Spanish blood. But then, Mama said a lot of crazy things toward the end."
"Then she's…" He paused delicately.
"Dead. Seven years."
He tilted up his head, the next question plain in his eyes.
"Mama would say these really bizarre things," explained M. J. "And she'd get headaches every morning. I was in my last year of medical school. I was the one who diagnosed the brain tumor."
Adam shook his head. "That must have been terrible."
"It wasn't the diagnosis that was so wrenching. It was the part afterwards. Waiting for the end. I spent a lot of time at Hancock General. Learned to royally despise the place. Found out I couldn't stand being around sick people." She shook her head and laughed. "Imagine that."
"So you chose the morgue."
"It's quiet. It's contained."
"A hiding place."
Anger darted through her, but she suppressed it. After all, what he'd said was true. The morgue was a hiding place, from all those painfully sloppy emotions one found in a hospital ward.
She said, simply, "It suits me," and turned away. Her gaze settled on the refrigerator. "You wouldn't happen to have anything edible in there, would you?" she asked. "The wine's going straight to my head."
He rose from the couch and went to the refrigerator. "I usually stock a sandwich or two, for those impromptu lunch meetings. Here we are." He produced two plastic-wrapped luncheon plates. "Let's see. Roast beef or… roast beef. What a choice." Apologetically he handed her a plate. "Afraid it can't match up to the mayor's benefit supper."
"That's all right. I didn't pay for my ticket anyway."
He smiled. "Neither did I."
"Oh?"
"It was Isabel's ticket. She's a big fan of Mayor Sampson."
"I can't imagine why." M. J. unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. "I think he's Albion's Titanic."
"How so?"
"Just look at South Lexington. Sampson would like to pretend it doesn't exist. He caters entirely to the more suburban areas. Bellemeade and beyond. The inner city? Forget it. He doesn't want to hear about the Jane Does and Nicos Biagis." She went back to the couch and sat down, tucking her stockinged feet beneath her.
He sat down as well. Not too close, she noted with a mingling of both relief and disappointment, but sedately apart, like any courteous host.
"To be honest," he admitted, "I'm not a fan of Sampson's either. But Isabel needed an escort."
"And you didn't have any better offers for the evening?"
"No." He picked up a slice of beef, and his straight white teeth bit neatly into the pink meat. "Not until you turned up."
M. J. paused, the sandwich halfway to her mouth. His gaze was much too searching, too intimate for comfort. She didn't trust him; more important, she didn't trust herself. But those primitive threads of desire were spinning between them all the same, drawing her toward what could only be a mistake. Lord knew, she had never in her life felt such temptation.
She set the plate down on the coffee table and slowly wiped her fingers on the napkin. "You can flirt all you want with me," she said. "It's not going to change things. I still have a job to do. Questions to be answered."
"And suspects to be suspicious of."
"Yes."
"It doesn't bother me, being a suspect. Because I'm not guilty of anything. Neither is my company."
"Still, the name Cygnus does keep popping up in all sorts of places."
"What do you want me to say? Confess that I'm manufacturing some secret drug in the basement? Selling it on the streets for a profit? Or maybe we can come up with a truly diabolical scheme, say, I'm single-handedly trying to solve Albion's crime problem by killing off the junkies. The ultimate drug rehab! And that's why I was at the mayor's benefit. Because Sampson's in on it too!" He cocked his head and smiled, revealing yet again those beautiful white teeth of his. "Come now, M. J.," he said, leaning towards her. "Doesn't that sound the slightest bit ridiculous?"
He did make it sound ridiculous, and she didn't appreciate the insult. "I don't discount any possibilities," she said.
"Even wild and crazy plots?"
"Is it so wild and crazy?"
He was moving closer, but she was too stubborn to give up an inch of territory on that couch. She held her ground, even as his hand reached up to touch her face, even as he gently stroked her cheek.
Even as he leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers.
"If you knew me," he whispered against her mouth, "you wouldn't ask these absurd questions."
She felt an exhilirating rush of desire, felt it leap through her veins and flood her face with its warmth. Together they tumbled to the cushions. At once he settled on top of her, his weight driving her deep into the couch, his mouth closing over hers. This isn't supposed to happen, she thought, as her arms circled around his neck, tugging him hard against her mouth. He fumbled at his jacket, trying to peel it off and at the same time keep kissing her. She opened her eyes and caught a dizzy glimpse of his fair hair in disarray, of the circle of lamplight playing on the ceiling. What am I doing? she thought. Making love in an office. Yielding on a business couch.
"Don't," she said. He went on kissing her, his mouth ever more demanding. She said again, louder, "Don't," and pressed her hands against his chest.
He pulled away, his gaze hungrily searching her face. "What's wrong?"
"You. Me." She rolled away and slid free, onto the carpet. At once she scrambled to her feet. "It just doesn't work, Adam."
He sat up and smoothed back his hair. "I thought it was working just fine," he said with a grin.
"Tell me something," she said, restlessly moving about the room. "How often do you use that handy little couch of yours?"
He let out a sigh of frustration. "Not often enough."
"When was the last time?"
"You mean… truthfully?"
"Yes."
He shrugged. "Never."
"That's being truthful?"
"I am. I've never used this couch. I mean, not for that purpose." He patted the cushion. "Look, see how clean it is? Oops, coffee stain there. But that's all." He gazed up at her with a look of pure innocence. And regret. "Tonight you and I would've inaugurated it."
She laughed. "Why is it I don't feel particularly honored?"
He sighed. "M. J., you have to understand. I've been a widower for some time now. And here you are, this wildly attractive woman. And I…" He shrugged. "Got a little carried away."
"Is that plan B? Flattery?"
"Flattery's not my style. You should know that."
"That's just it, Adam. I don't know you. Except as a phone number in the hand of a corpse. Not exactly a confidence-inspiring introduction."
They both started as the phone rang. Adam went to the desk and picked up the receiver. "Hello, Grace." A pause, then: "We're on our way." He looked at M. J. "The results are back."
They found Grace sitting in front of the computer terminal. A readout was just rolling out of the printer. She tore off the page and handed it to Adam. "There you have it, Mr. Q. A little booze. Traces of decongestant. And that." She pointed to a band on the chromatographic printout.
"Did you analyze this band?" asked Adam.
"I ran it against mass and UV spectrophotometry. I'm not a hundred percent sure of its structure. It'll take some more noodling around. But I can tell you it's a morphine analogue. Something new. Levo-N-cyclobutylmethyl-6,10 beta-dihydroxy class."
M. J. looked sharply at Adam. He was staring at the printout in shock.
"Zestron-L," said M. J.
Grace glanced at her in puzzlement. "Zestron-L? What's that?"
"Check with the research wing," said M. J. "They'll help you run the immunoassay. That should identify it once and for all."
"You mean our research wing?" Grace looked at Adam. "Then it's…"
Adam nodded. "The drug is one of ours."