Little Girl Gone (An Afton Tangler Thriller #1)(22)
They turned off at the 129th Street exit, and then wove their way down Larch Lane. After slip-sliding for a mile or so, they passed a stand of birch trees that was too perfectly geometric to be natural, then turned at a large silver sign that said NOVAMED, and into a driveway that was surprisingly clear of snow. In fact, Novamed’s entire parking lot had been scraped clean. There was barely a glimmer of any snow or ice at all, which probably accounted for the two large piles of snow, pushed to the side of the lot and towering almost twenty feet high.
Novamed’s large ochre-colored building was built in the form of an immense letter U. Though invisible now, the grounds were spectacular in summer—a large pond buttressed against a cobblestone patio, crab trees that flamed pink and red in spring. Large silver placards on the side of the building listed the various entrances: VISITOR ENTRANCE, DELIVERIES, EMPLOYEES ONLY. It looked to Afton that one entire wing was designated as offices, while the other wing consisted mainly of laboratories. Probably for R&D, research and development.
They parked and, ducking their heads into the wind, headed for the front door. Once inside, it was like entering a pristine art gallery of some sort. White marble floors, white walls, a white modular seating arrangement—not really couches, not really chairs—and a wall of windows that looked out over the grounds. No artwork, no area rugs, nothing but a large white front desk staffed by two young men in dark suits. Everything sterile, cool, and clinical.
Max flipped out his badge to show the two receptionists, who might, or might not, double as a security detail. “Max Montgomery and Afton Tangler,” he said. “We have a three thirty appointment with your CEO, Bruce Cutler.”
One of the men glanced at his computer screen and said, “Yes, we have you here. And you’re right on time.” He seemed pleased at their punctuality. The other man slid a black leather book across the counter and asked them to sign in and note the exact time of day. Then he gave each of them a plastic visitor ID badge to clip on to their clothing.
The computer screen guy said, “Andrew will show you to your meeting.”
“Thank you,” Afton said.
They followed Andrew down a hallway, where he badged them through a set of sturdy-looking security doors.
“As you might have guessed,” Andrew said, “we’re in a secured area now, with this hallway running past our outer ring of bio-labs. Clean rooms, as they’re more familiarly known to the public.”
They stepped along and passed a row of rooms that were white, brilliantly lit, and filled with complex-looking instrumentation. Inside, workers moved about purposefully. All were clothed in Tyvek jumpsuits, latex gloves, booties, and head coverings.
Afton wondered how anyone could work that way. The starkness of everything was intimidating and put her on edge. It was like staring into an impossibly brilliant void. If there had been a cold metal table with an alien autopsy going on, it wouldn’t have surprised her.
“All our clean rooms are Class one hundred,” Andrew said. “That means we allow only one hundred particles—point five microns or larger—per cubic foot of air.”
“That’s good?” Max asked.
“Compare that to a typical office space that has between five hundred thousand to a million particles per cubic foot of air,” Andrew said.
“In other words, no dust,” Afton said.
Andrew smiled faintly. “No dust.”
“And you manufacture what?” Afton asked.
“Medical test kits,” Andrew said.
“So you do animal testing?” Afton asked.
Andrew ignored her question.
“Human testing?” Max asked.
Andrew led them through another set of doors. “Almost there.”
Underfoot, the hard marble floor changed to carpet and they suddenly found themselves in the executive wing. But unlike the lavish wood-paneled offices typical of law firms or Fortune 500 companies, this was still relatively Spartan. All white with a modular reception desk at the center of what was a hub of offices and meeting rooms.
“And this is our conference room,” Andrew said, stopping abruptly in front of an elegant beech wood door.
“Take notes,” Max whispered to Afton. “I’ll do most of the talking, but you pipe in wherever.”
Andrew pushed on the conference room door and it opened with a slight whoosh. Three men in expensive suits with equally expensive haircuts were already seated around a bare, glass-topped conference table. No coffee, tea, bottles of water, or elegant French pastries awaited them. It was fairly clear that Novamed wanted this meeting to be over and done with as quickly as possible.
“Good afternoon,” Max said, striding in with confidence. With his height and bulk, he loomed over the seated men. “I’m Detective Max Montgomery, and this is my assistant, Ms. Tangler. He tossed one of his business cards onto the table. “We’re here to ask some questions.”
The man sitting nearest to him popped up quickly and stretched out a hand. “Bruce Cutler, CEO.” Cutler was tall and trim with short gray hair and piercing blue-green eyes. He radiated a subtle vibrancy and looked as if he’d be equally at home in a boardroom, crewing on a sailboat, or swanning around a black-tie charity function. Afton could see why Cutler had made it to the ranks of CEO. He just looked the part.
With the minimum daily requirement of mumbled pleasantries, the other two Novamed executives introduced themselves as well.