Knockout Mouse Read online

  And then there was the Harros family. Every innocent move Jenny and I had made had been turned against us. I’d dug a hole for myself with them and there was nothing to do but keep digging. They’d want to hear about the knockout mouse, too. Perhaps it would force them to ask Dugan some questions.

  I sat down in Jenny’s dining room with the phone and a folded piece of paper on which I’d been keeping numbers. My first call was to Jenny in Sacramento. Already she sounded happier. She was pleased to hear I was at her apartment, until I told her there’d been a little break-in. I described my set-to with Gregory, and she made a lot of nice coos of concern. She wanted me to join her in Sacramento. I said I would try to make it tomorrow or Sunday.

  Next up was Rita. “Are you all right?” she asked with some urgency. “We heard the fire alarm across the way. Suddenly there you were being chased by those two guys.”

  I gave her the playback on Karen and our escapade with Pratt. Rita was enjoying it until I got to the part about needing her help again. “I already owe you a dinner, Rita. Boulevard, Chez Panisse—it’s your choice. I need you to hook me up with Kumar. I’m going to tell him what Gregory was up to, but I also want him to get me inside LifeScience.”

  “Is Fleur de Lys on the restaurant list?”

  “They’re all on the list.”

  “Right answer. Okay, I’ll give you his private cell number. But give me a chance to talk to him first.”

  Five minutes later, I got the all clear from Rita. Kumar answered in a friendly tone. He said he was happy to name his contacts at LifeScience for me, one of whom turned out to be Doug Englehart. Not only did Kumar give me Englehart’s direct number, he promised to call him on my behalf. Kumar also thanked me for warning him about Gregory’s scheme. He’d keep an eye out for any spies Gregory might have inside the company.

  I braced myself for the next call. Abe Harros’s voice had been on my home machine. He reported, snidely, that my story about being with Gregory in the parking lot last Wednesday had not checked out. Abe wasn’t in his hotel room, so I left him a voicemail inviting him over to view my tape of Gregory. As soon as I hung up, I regretted the message. My words had been just as snide as his.

  My last call was to Dr. Nikano, Sheila’s allergist. I wanted to catch her before she left for the day. She’d reviewed the pathologist’s report and had managed to get a sample of Sheila’s blood.

  “I did some further analysis,” she said, “and saw elevated levels of mast cell tryptase. That points to an allergic reaction, so anaphylactic shock seems certain as the cause of death. Knowing her history, we have to assume some kind of shellfish is the culprit.”

  “It may be a culprit, but it’s not the culprit. The culprit is whoever gave her those proteins. Abe Harros said there were needle punctures in her arm.”

  “That’s correct. I’d like to know where the punctures came from. She wasn’t receiving allergy shots. If she’d been vaccinated recently, it would explain a lot of things—but she wasn’t. I checked her records.”

  “I’ll look into it. Meanwhile, if I can get you more information on what compounds Sheila was working with in the lab, can you test whether they connect to her death?”

  “Absolutely. Something very peculiar happened here.”

  “You’re right, Jill.” I told her a little bit about Dugan, LifeScience, and Karen. I also warned her about what the Harros family was likely to say about me. Jill said not to worry. She’d gotten a dose of George’s temper herself. “You’ll be the first to hear when I find out more, Bill,” she promised.

  I thanked her, glad to have one more person trust me.

  I rose from the dining table and realized how stiff my body was. My adrenaline had drained away and my muscles had contracted into soreness. A bruise the size of a softball had bloomed on my left thigh. My ribs screamed when I raised my arms. The toes on my right foot throbbed. My lower lip was swollen. I needed to soak in some hot water.

  I drove north to the city in the gathering dusk. Darkness was coming earlier every day. Fall was here. I felt myself floating in the river of taillights.

  Back at my flat, a message from Doug Englehart was waiting. He wanted to see me in his office. He’d call back in the morning to tell me what time. I gazed at the blinking light on the machine for a moment, thinking about what that meant. The game was on. I’d be inside LifeScience tomorrow, a Saturday, and with any luck I would be able to do some poking around in a mostly empty building.

  I limped into the shower and let the hot water pound me until the tank ran out. By the end of it I was lying under the barrage in the tub. I used my foot to turn the water off and lay until it drained out. The tub still was warm, but cool night air eddied over me. The flat was silent. My skin tightened into a shiver.

  What was I going to find inside LifeScience tomorrow? With my body still aching and my energy ebbing, I felt a twinge of fear. I was gambling everything on this move. I’d be on Dugan’s turf, and I didn’t yet know how far he and his security staff were willing to go. The working-over I got at BioVerge might be a mere appetizer. Or the ranks within LifeScience could close against me, cutting off any chance of finding answers.

  As a boy, hunting with my father, I’d had the fear I’d be mistaken for quarry. When my parents split up, the fear was I’d be left without shelter or food. The fear I felt now was more nebulous, more diffuse. The danger might take any form and come from any direction. Dugan or Harros could well find a way to turn the people I now trusted against me. Everyone seemed to have a hidden ambition, an ulterior motive. Everyone but Sheila.

  Sheila and Karen. In many respects, Karen was my best hope. I suddenly felt very afraid for her. I rose from the tub, threw on a robe, and dialed her cell number. Relief flooded my veins when I heard her voice. She was fine, taking refuge at a friend’s for the night. She’d started to look over the materials Sheila had given her. They looked promising. I told her I hoped to get into LifeScience to speak to Doug Englehart tomorrow. She asked me to come over to her hideout afterward.

  I agreed, then hung up and called Wes. I wanted at least one other person to know where to come looking for my body.

  “You know that this is kind of crazy, don’t you?” Wes said. “I’ve been in some tight places, dealing with VCs to fund my company, but I never went prowling into enemy territory. This guy Dugan sounds like the type who’d slip you something invisible that rearranges your DNA. You wouldn’t figure out what hit you until months later.”

  “That’s exactly what I think he did to Sheila. I’m not saying I’m looking forward to this, Wes, but you know better than to try to talk me out of it.”

  “Yeah, you’ve got your teeth sunk into this one, Billy. Okay, just act like you belong in the building. Fake it till you make it. If you don’t call me by three tomorrow afternoon, I’m coming to find you myself.”

  “Thanks, Wes. Don’t be afraid to call the police, if you think you have to.”

  “Same goes for you, Bill.”

  “Right.”

  But as I clicked off the phone, I knew it wasn’t an option. Dugan and Harros had all the pieces on the board arranged against me. If the police showed up, it would mean I’d already failed.

  24

  Doug Englehart woke me up. He was ready to see me. Could I come right down?

  I looked at my clock. Seven-thirty on Saturday morning and this guy was already at work. I mumbled something that even I couldn’t understand and said I’d be there by nine. That gave me forty-five minutes to get my wits about me and forty-five minutes to drive to Palo Alto.

  As I rolled over to get to my feet, a stabbing pain in my ribs reminded me of the fun I’d had yesterday. At least I could take satisfaction in visualizing Gregory’s pain reliever intake this morning.

  Two cups of coffee and three ibuprofen later, I was on the road to LifeScience. The water of the bay winked and glittered beside the parking lot. The sun was not yet high enough to be blocked by the band of cirrus clouds skating in
from the northwest.

  I chose a space behind the annex as the least likely to be spotted. My orange Scout would stick out like a common poppy among roses in the main lot.

  I walked around to the front entrance. Doug had told me to dial his extension from an intercom outside the door. There was no receptionist today and, I hoped, a minimum of security.

  I reached Doug’s voicemail and told him I was at the door. It was not quite nine. A quick look through the glass showed the lobby was empty. But the red light on the camera above the reception desk was on. I looked up over my shoulder. Another camera affixed to a column was aimed at the door. I pressed myself against a wall, out of reach of the lens.

  The nerves in my stomach were starting to jumble when a kiwi green Volkswagen zipped into a space in front of the building. A woman popped out of the door. The sleek black hair, the bolero jacket, the brisk walk—I recognized Fay immediately. She jumped with a bark of fright, nearly dropping the portfolio under her arm, when she saw me in the shadow of the portico.

  “Bill! God, you scared me. What are you doing here?”

  “Visiting a friend. And you?”

  “I’m just—just showing my work.”

  “Are you all right?” In spite of the outfit, in spite of the makeup, her shoulders sagged and her eyes were puffy and red. Her voice didn’t have the usual swagger.

  “I’m not doing too great, I have to admit. Simon—” She stopped, a catch in her voice. “Simon called. You were right about him and Sheila. I feel so badly. She helped me get this contract.”

  The door opened. The woman holding it said hello to Fay and asked if she had brought the sketches. Fay greeted her, then turned to give me an imploring look. “Please don’t mention this to Jenny. I wanted to do a job on my own.”

  I followed her in. Doug Englehart was just entering the forelobby. He gave Fay an inquiring glance before fixing on me. “You’re Bill, right?”

  Fay was still waiting for an answer. I just smiled at her, then turned to shake Doug’s hand. “Yes. Thanks for inviting me over.”

  “Come on up.” I followed him to an elevator on the left side of the atrium. We rode to the third floor. Doug tapped the side of his leg the whole time, as if preoccupied with some calculation. He wore a short sleeve yellow-checked shirt. His balding head stood out on his thin neck like a light bulb. Two shoots of a mustache crawled across his upper lip. His long arms drooped from his shoulders, and his large feet were encased in running shoes.

  “Lots of people working today,” I commented as the doors opened.

  “Lots happening.” He kept a step ahead of me as we walked. He didn’t seem to want to talk in the open. We passed labs on either side, sets of long work benches in long rooms cluttered with tanks, jars, flasks, beakers, tubes, titers, centrifuges. A cart in the corridor contained more glass stacked like dirty dishes. We took a corner and passed a glassed room containing a small black box.

  “That’s our PCR machine,” Doug said offhandedly.

  In another lab, machines resembling grocery scales undulated in perfectly symmetrical hulas. Doug said they were vortexers.

  We got to the end of the linoleum corridor and took a right to a space cloverleafed with work stations. On one wall was a big metal door with a window that looked into his lab. I saw a couple of scientists at the benches, and recognized their faces from the funeral.

  Doug’s office was a drywalled box next to the lab. He gestured for me to shut the door behind me. “You can put your coat anywhere.”

  “Thanks.” I kept it on. It was a heavy canvas jacket. Tucked into one inside pocket was a mini-DV camera. In the other was the DAT recorder, cued up.

  Doug went behind his desk. I looked for a place to sit. A cheap loveseat was pushed back against the wall by the door. Books, binders, and manuals lined the walls. There was one window in the room, partially blocked by a bookcase, to the left of Doug’s desk.

  I moved a stack of reprints off a hard chair. While I was turned away, I slipped my hand in my inner coat pocket and clicked off the DAT’s pause button. Then I pulled the chair close to the desk.

  Taped to the edge of a metal shelf to Doug’s right, above his computer workstation, was a multihued image, a muscular humanoid sort of figure that might have come out of a cartoon. It had two bulging bow legs and two massively biceped arms with what looked like giant double-claws for hands. There was no head. A line connected the legs to a legend in the margin that read Fc. The arms were labelled FAb. The claws, a mix of green and red, were labelled M; the legs, in blue and silver, H.

  I stared at the image. “Is that MC124?”

  Doug glanced at it. His eyes dilated, and he flicked at his mustache with his thumb. “You said you had something to tell me about Gregory Alton?” His voice was sharp, all treble.

  I laid out what I knew about Gregory and his attempt to steal software from Kumar. Doug nodded along with me. He seemed in a hurry, so I wrapped it up quickly. When I was done, he sat with his eyes slanted toward the window. I waited for a response, then asked, “This information isn’t helpful?”

  His head turned back, but his eyes focused somewhere behind me. “Somewhat. BioVerge keeps claiming they’re about to unveil some new technology.”

  “Now you know where it would come from,” I said. He shrugged. “Of course you can’t take only my word for it,” I added. “I have someone who just quit the company who will confirm it.”

  “All right.” He put his elbows on the desk. His eyes slid back toward the window.

  “I appreciate your talking to me,” I said. “I have some questions about Sheila, if you don’t mind.”

  He gave a perfunctory nod.

  “Did you know her well?” I asked.

  “Yes, of course.” He spoke into his hands. His head didn’t move. “She was one of my best people.”

  “What do you know about the problems she found with MC124?”

  His gaze quickly locked on me. He lost his distracted tone. “There are no problems. She got stuck on an anomalous result. One of the trial mice died. It happens all the time—both things. Random mortality, and a researcher mistaking it for important data.”

  “Do you think her death was a random mortality?”

  His eyes grew wide. He slowly pressed his palms to his desk. “What are you saying?”

  “Sheila’s allergist has been running some tests on her blood serum. People will want to know how her findings match up with MC124.”

  “An allergist doesn’t have the training,” he scoffed.

  “She’s doing research at UCSF.”

  “I don’t care where she’s from. It’s perfectly obvious what caused Sheila’s death. You’ll find no connection to MC124.”

  “Sheila herself did. It’s in her notes and some other materials. There are people following up on her research.”

  “That’s just wrong!” He slammed a fist on the desk. The window rattled with the force of his voice.

  If I’d exaggerated what Karen and I knew, his reaction told me we weren’t far off. “I understand you’re the principal designer of the antibody,” I continued. “You probably know better than anyone what it can do and what it can’t. Don’t you want to find out if someone in this company misused it to hurt Sheila?”

  Doug put his forehead in a bunch. His hands locked in front of his mouth again and he blew a little air between his thumbs. He was not one to hide his thought processes. “Like who?”

  “Neil Dugan has been doing everything he can—legally and illegally—to get his hands on Sheila’s notebooks and diaries.”

  I hoped for, and got, a ping of recognition. “Dugan, huh?”

  Doug was showing what might be the start of a smile. I didn’t know why that thought would amuse him, but it did. Then I remembered Dugan’s battle with McKinnon. “Do you think he might be trying to use Sheila’s death somehow to derail MC124?”

  Doug frowned. “Neil is an ignoramus, scientifically speaking. Company politics, the dirty kind,
are his specialty. When the new regime came in, he read a couple of articles and decided monoclonals were dead. He had no idea about the work being done on the Fc region. Now that MAbs are making a comeback, Dugan looks bad. I never thought he’d go to such lengths, though.”

  I leaned forward and waited for Doug to look me in the face. “Let’s stop him. Help me out. Tell me what happened to that knockout mouse. Tell me how MC124 could be misused.”

  Doug bit his fingernail. The wheels were turning in his head. I looked at him more closely and saw the signs of wear and tear from the rush to complete this program: the newly etched lines around his eyes and mouth, the fuzz of gray above his ears. He was on the verge of speaking when a sharp rap came at the door. It opened before he could ask who it was.

  Frederick McKinnon’s tall, angular frame loomed in the doorway. “Oh, sorry Doug.” He peered at me. “I know you. Where have we met?”

  I stood and shook McKinnon’s hand. “Here and at Sheila’s funeral. I’m Bill Damen.”

  “He had some information on the biocomputing deal,” Doug said. “It cinches our decision. I’ll fill you in.”

  “That’s fine, Doug. Just pass it on to the department. You know we need to have the results locked down for the meeting on Monday.”

  Doug’s mouth twisted in a brief grimace of resentment. McKinnon was busy scanning some papers on the desk. “What are you looking for, Frederick?” Doug asked with some irritation.

  McKinnon glanced up. “Nothing, Doug. Just trying to help.”

  “I’ll give you my usual update at lunch.”

  McKinnon chuckled gently. “Of course. Sorry to intrude. You won’t have to put up with me much longer, eh?”

  Doug started to act busy. He opened a folder on his desk and began poring over its contents. “Let’s get the work done. The sooner we can celebrate, the better.”

  McKinnon smiled in commiseration. Doug wouldn’t look up. McKinnon shifted his glance to me. “Stressful time for all of us.”