After the Fall (14 page)

“I have the document, gentlemen. Written only three weeks ago. Signed and notarized. I've been after her to draw up a will for years now, and all of a sudden she decides it's time. Makes you wonder whether she had a premonition, doesn't it?” The graying lawyer with the sad, baggy eyes, pointedly studied Jake.

Shit. Had Karolee somehow found out about Addie?
Jake's mind sorted through the possibilities, not coming up with any specific incident. Say she had, did she tell her lawyer? Would he be bound to confidentiality? Would he go to the police?

“Well, I digress. The tenets of her will are simple. Her interest in Limelight Bistro goes to her business partner, Max Scarpetti.”

That's gotta be a million-dollar value, maybe two
, Jake figured.
Shit. Had Karolee had something going with Max?
They spent hours almost every night together. Made sense, didn't it? About the same age. Only Max was married. But so was Karolee. Married didn't mean monogamous. What's good for the gander—

“Her stock portfolio and bank accounts are willed to her son, Mark. Except for a million dollars held in trust for Amanda Harter, a minor.”

Karolee had more than a million dollars saved up? And she wouldn't buy him diddly-shit. The miserly bitch got what she deserved.

Jake watched Mark's eyes light up and, at that moment, he hated his son. Hate was a strong word, resented was closer.

What about me? What do I get for living with a mean-spirited bitch for thirty-one years?

The lawyer droned on, but there wasn't much to listen for. Not much else left. The house they owned jointly. All household goods would go to him. Karolee had willed him her BMW sedan.

“How much do I get after the baby's portion is taken out?” Mark asked, probably in anticipation of Claire's first question.

“This will all have to go through probate,” the lawyer said. “The estate taxes will be significant, but I'd say at least another million, Mark, when all is said and done.”

“A million dollars,” Jake said aloud. “A million fucking dollars.”

“Dad, seriously, you didn't know about the money? You look, well—stunned.”

Karolee's lawyer studied him. Would he tell the police that Jake Harter seemed genuinely surprised he didn't get his wife's estate?

“Not surprised at all,” he lied. “Your mother knew I'd be fine with my job and the house. What more do I need? She knew I disliked everything about the restaurant. And now that you have a child, Mark, it makes sense. I just didn't think we'd lose her for many, many years to come. Just tragic. That's what still has me stunned.”

And when Addie and I get the Immunone money, I won't need your measly million
.

“Well, do what you have to do to probate this will. I have a job to do and must get back to work. Mark, I'll see you at home tonight.”

“Dad, I'm leaving this evening. Claire and I and the baby. We have a direct flight to Miami. We'll be sleeping in our own beds tonight. I'm sorry, but we thought we were an imposition, and the baby needs her familiar surroundings.”

“Suit yourself,” Jake said, rising to leave, heading for the door without as much as another nod toward his son. His heartbeat accelerated. For the first time since Karolee had been shot, he'd be free to see Addie. Or would he?

W
EDNESDAY
, F
EBRUARY
26

Addie realized Jake could lose his job if the FDA found out he'd been sharing information about a drug evaluation. Until the last week, he'd been her pipeline into the agency's deliberations on Immunone. But why had she heard nothing since he'd left last Wednesday morning and not shown up that evening?

For months she'd been able to follow, step by step, as the pharmacologists and the toxicologists cleared it, as the results of the clinical trials came in even better than she'd dared to hope. She knew the Chemistry, Manufacturing, and Controls—the CMC section of the NDA—sailed through the FDA department best known for nitpicking and stalling.

Had she been using Jake for her own purposes?
Addie asked herself. The American concept of confidentiality was difficult to fathom. She did appreciate the risks he took, but so did he appreciate the rewards she gave him. Fair exchange.

He'd pursued her and she'd enjoyed his attention. His crew-cut hair was turning gray, but he was muscular, kept himself in good shape, working out in a gym, lifting weights. He wasn't a tall man, was her height, actually, five foot nine, but attractive, well dressed, and he treated her well.

She used to fantasize about what it would be like to live with Jake in a stable relationship. She was thirty-four, Jake fifty-five. Did the age gap matter? She didn't think so, but now that he
was a grandfather? Jake kept telling her he loved her. Whatever that meant. Addie had never been in love. She'd dated a few men, always cutting off the relationship when it started to get serious. She may not dress like a conservative Muslim woman, but she was one—and until Jake, a virgin. She'd always known that someday her parents would force her—force may be too strong a word—into an arranged marriage. She dearly loved her parents, always had assumed she would follow their wishes and accept their choice of a husband.

She couldn't explain how it had happened with Jake, and she'd certainly never imagined a man could be so passionate about sex. But the truth was, she'd thrown away twelve years of virginity in America only to start up an affair with Jake.
What impact would that have if a future husband expected a virgin?

Addie learned of the brutal murder of Karolee Harter only when she'd arrived at work the next day, Thursday morning. An outsider to American gossip, she never paid much attention to the chatter around the coffee machine. That morning she'd been particularly uninterested, having slept little after Badur's/Dru's visit. All night long, she'd tried to figure out what he'd wanted, and how she was going to keep him and Jake from crossing paths. She was filling her cup with water for tea, when her colleagues' conversation made her jerk her mug so violently that she spilled hot water onto her other hand and on her pantsuit jacket.

“Addie, are you okay?” They all seemed genuinely concerned.

“What did you say about Jake Harter's wife?”

“Let me take that mug. You'd better put ice on your hand.” The woman closest to Addie reached out to steady her and to take the cup out of her hand.

“I'm okay,” Addie said.

A young male technician turned to scrutinize her. “Guess you don't read the papers, Boss. Mrs. Harter was out of town, and when she arrived home, she walked into a robbery. Whoever was in there must have shot her. They say she was dead when Jake Harter found her.”

“Jake found her?” Addie echoed, immediately hoping “Jake” didn't sound too familiar.

“Yeah, but she'd been dead—what'd it say, a couple of hours by then?”

So that's why he hadn't shown up. He'd been at his house with the police. When she remembered she had called his house, her knees started to buckle. The woman who'd answered must not have been Jake's wife.

Her colleagues started to dissipate, returning to their respective labs, but when Addie lingered, the young tech beside her asked, “Did you know Mrs. Harter?”

“I never met her,” Addie said. “Of course, I know Jake Harter from the FDA.”

“Oh,” said the tech, as they headed for the lab. “I thought you may have had a social relationship with the Harters.”

“Why would you think that?” she said, afraid to ask, but needing to know if someone knew about her and Jake.

“No reason,” he said, “just thought I may have seen—”

“His position at the FDA,” she interrupted. “You know how important he is to Immunone's approval, and how crucial that approval is to Replica. That's all I think about, getting that drug approved.”

“I can attest to that, Dr. Abdul. Nobody works harder than you do. The rumor mill says your share will be a whole lot of money. No wonder you're so worried about the Harter murder. You know, they always look at the husband. What do you think?”

“What I think is, let's get to work.”

From then on, Addie had refused to be drawn in to any speculation about what happened to Jake Harter's wife. She'd been tempted to go to the funeral, to stay in the background, just to make eye contact with Jake, to signal that she needed to talk to him. But she couldn't risk a public encounter. Surely, there'd be police lurking around. Would they be looking for her? Because of that phone call? Could they track the number to her apartment?

Addie had made one other desperate attempt to find out what was happening with Immunone. On Monday, she'd called Tampa City Hospital to talk to that nice woman doctor she'd seen at the Advisory Committee meeting, Dr. Laura Nelson. But to her great surprise, she'd been told Dr. Nelson now worked at Keystone Pharma. Since the only phone number she had for Keystone was Dr. Minn's, she tried it. A voice answered, “Dr. Nelson's office.” Addie identified herself and asked to speak to Dr. Nelson and was told to hold. While she waited for Dr. Nelson to pick up, she felt a pang of sadness. Poor Dr. Minn. Two deaths in her world in one week, unpleasant coincidence since both related to Immunone and, worse yet, each potentially could slow down the approval: Minn, a key player, dead; Jake, distracted because of his wife's death. Even though, Addie had to conclude, he wasn't
close
to Mrs. Harter.

Dr. Nelson had been cordial on the phone; pointed out this was her first day on the job at Keystone; she knew Addie was the inventor of the drug; respected her; appreciated her. Bottom line for Addie: nothing.

Badur/Dru had insisted that Addie determine the probable date of Immunone's approval. He'd demanded the legal papers pertaining to the payout she'd get from Replica once they got the funds from Keystone Pharma, and she'd given him a copy of the contract. Dru was a finance man, and she hoped he'd be ready to facilitate the transfer process to get the money into her hands. Only it would never get to her hands if Immunone's approval was delayed and her father summoned her.

After Dru left her a week ago, she'd slept little, trying in vain to account for his sudden intrusion. How had he known about her and Jake? How could she keep him and Jake from crossing paths? Addie considered her reality if she returned to Baghdad. Did she have the faith to go back and live in a place where an Islamic woman's status was as low as that of animals in the field?

What if she married Jake? His wife was dead, so no waiting
for a divorce. If he embraced Islam, would her father approve? After so-called Desert Storm, Iraqi and American relations kept deteriorating. Ten waves of the invasive IAEA inspections. The harder they look, the more they come up with nothing, but George W. Bush's obsession about nuclear weapons in her country made him seem determined to bring Iraq to its knees. As an Iraqi—especially one whose family has ties to Saddam—she could lose her green card and be sent home. Marriage to a US citizen could keep her here for as long as she cared to stay.

Addie couldn't get much accomplished that day, and she sensed her co-workers' concern, overhearing, “What's the matter with Addie?”

Her technician again asked her if she was okay.

T
HURSDAY
, F
EBRUARY
27

For Jake, Thursday morning couldn't come soon enough. He'd set up a meeting on Immunone at 11:00. He'd asked the two medical officers responsible for the drug's review to attend: Dr. Karl Hayes, the young Turk who'd done most of the actual review; Dr. Susan Ridley, the senior reviewer who'd been around the block a few times, a lazy woman who would take the easy way out rather than make the effort to determine the real deal.

To set the stage for the meeting, Jake had dropped by his office late Tuesday after the meeting with Karolee's attorney to issue a brief memo to Karl and Susan. In it, he expressed his concerns about missing laboratory data. He wanted to plant the seed, even though he wouldn't return full force to the FDA until Thursday.

To play the proper grieving husband, he stayed home Wednesday. All day long he paced, anxious to get back to work, anxious to be with Addie, but needing to play it safe. The cops might stop by for more of their endless questions. Prior to the funeral, he'd had two lengthy sessions with the Rockville detectives in their office. He was convinced he'd done a decent job playing the distraught, traumatized husband. Married thirty-one years. Now desolate. “At least I have my work,” he kept telling them. “My important work at the FDA has meaning. It's what will get me through this tragedy.”

Now, preparing for his meeting with the medical officers, Jake laid out on the small conference table two copies of a PowerPoint presentation. The top page showed a tabulation of Immunone adverse reactions. Next, a compilation of the most serious adverse reactions, displayed according to body system. Each report had three columns: active drug, placebo, and statistical difference. Under these reports was a tabulation of all deaths; beneath that, a one-page report on each of the thirteen deaths that had occurred in the clinical trial.

Karl was the first to arrive, rushing toward Jake, flinging his arm around his shoulder. “Jake, we didn't expect you in this week. I told Susan I'd cover for you. Help put together reports, that kind of thing.”

When Jake tried to pull away, Karl gripped his arm and squeezed. “I'm so sorry, man, about your wife. Who could have done such a thing? Any leads on—”

“No, nothing. I can tell you that it's very frustrating—”

“Jake.” They were interrupted by a tall, sturdy woman, with frosted gray hair hanging in an old-fashioned pageboy. “You sure you should be in? I mean, there must be so many things to take care of, I can't imagine.” She paused. “Or did you come in to say you needed some time off? I could understand, but we'd be shorthanded at a critical time. We're sitting on the imminent approval of Immunone, and I don't need to tell you, the role of the project manager is key.”