Tailspin(74)

“She didn’t sneak the drug while I was with her,” he exclaimed. “Blame your two watchdogs. They were with her for hours. You should be castigating them, not me.”

Delores hugged her elbows, running her hands over her upper arms in agitation. To a large extent, Nate was right, but she’d be damned before admitting it. Besides, who was he to correct her? He was getting way above himself.

“Well,” she said, “we can be glad we made that preemptive strike. The girl is hundreds of miles away, surrounded by media and medical personnel. Dr. O’Neal can’t get to her. But we must get to Dr. O’Neal.” She checked her wristwatch. “Need I remind anyone that we now have less than twenty-four hours to start the infusion?”

She went to Richard’s chair, bent over the back of it, and hugged him from behind. “We’ve been under shorter deadlines, darling.” She kissed the top of his head, then turned to Nate. “What was the pharmacologist’s last stand on sneaking another vial?”

“He’s unbending. The offer of more money didn’t faze him. And, he, uh, raised another sticking point.” He left the desk, went to the bar, and helped himself to three fingers of their best scotch.

Delores said, “Well?”

Nate shifted his gaze to Richard, who sat contained, but rather like a volcano building up pressure before an eruption. Delores recognized the signs. Nate did not. He faced Richard squarely.

“During our last conversation, the pharmacologist used the word ‘transparency.’ More than once.”

“In what context?” Richard asked.

“The upcoming Senate committee hearing. I believe it’s scheduled for week after next?” He sipped his drink, cleared his throat. “The opioid crisis has created a rush—many fear a dangerous rush—to put treatment drugs on the market. This has placed the commissioner of the FDA and the heads of several pharmaceutical companies in the hot seat to defend their haste. You’re sitting on that committee, Richard, as an outspoken critic of the accelerated testing, and as a banner carrier for enforcing stricter regulations.”

“You’re telling me things I already know, Nate,” he said. “And the crisis I’m most concerned about tonight is the one taking place in this sitting room.” To emphasize the last four words, he made stabbing motions toward the floor with his index finger.

“I understand, of course,” Nate said. “But, you’ve been advocating a ‘clamp-down’ on the sponsors of experimental drugs, especially those covered by the Orphan Drug Act. You’re quoted as saying it’s not ‘cost effective’ to spend millions on developing a drug when relatively few patients will benefit from it. As you know, GX-42 falls into that category.”

He paused to let all that sink in, although Delores had gotten his point, and so had Richard.

Nate swirled the scotch in his glass. “This has created a moral dilemma for the pharmacologist. He’s conflicted over providing it to you, when you’re on a soapbox demanding budget cuts that would curtail its testing. To paraphrase him, it’s like you want to squeak in under the wire before limitations, heatedly endorsed by you, are implemented.”

Richard’s fingers turned white with tension around the armrest. “To a man of integrity, as, according to you, this scientist is, I can see where that might create a moral dilemma.”

“Well, then—”

“But you have no integrity, Nate.” He leveled his fiercest glare on him. “How dare you take the high ground. Do not speak to me about moral dilemmas, or transparency. In short, do not fuck with me again.”

Those reverberating words were punctuated by a buzzer, signaling someone at the estate entrance gate. “Media, no doubt,” Delores said. “Trying to follow up today’s story about that girl. The housekeeper will take care of it.”

She picked up her gold lighter and fiddled with it, turning it end on end as she began to pace. “For the time being, let’s assume that the pharmacologist is a lost cause. Where would Brynn O’Neal have gone, Nate?”

“I—”

“Excuse me, Senator, Mrs. Hunt.” The housekeeper was standing in the open doorway. “A Deputy Don Rawlins is at the gate. He says it’s important that he see you.”

Nate covered his face with both hands. “Don’t these clowns ever give up?”

Delores spun around to confront him, demanding, “What could they want with us?”

“I have no idea,” Nate said. “When they saw me out of the parking garage, they were eating humble pie for wasting my time.”

Turning to the housekeeper, Delores said, “Tell them that we’ve retired—”

Richard cut her off. “Let them in.” The housekeeper withdrew to carry out the order. Richard said to Nate and Delores, “Information is power. Let’s see what they have to say. Maybe they’ve uncovered something useful to us about Dr. O’Neal or the pilot.”

Nate downed his scotch. Delores checked her hair and lipstick in the wall mirror and was standing in her “senator’s wife pose”—feet in fourth position, hands clasped at her waist—when the housekeeper led the two officers into the sitting room.

“Gentlemen,” Delores said, smiling. “Excuse our informality. We weren’t expecting company. Other than our dear friend Nate Lambert, whom I understand you’ve met.”