Under the Microscope. Jessica AndersenЧитать онлайн книгу.
the problem…
Instant media crisis. How could she balance the company’s welfare against the possibility that she might be endangering lives?
Raine pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to fight back the impending headache. She gestured to her head epidemiologist, Red, who was a sharp-faced woman with wild auburn hair, a mercurial temper and a photographic recall for facts and figures. Raine asked, “Did your department find any cardiac problems in the toxicity databases?”
Red scowled, apparently taking the question—and the death—as a personal affront. “Of course not. There’s nothing to find. Thriller is safe for human use. Hell, it scores better in terms of side effects and cross-reactions than aspirin. This is a setup. It has to be.”
Raine, who’d butted heads with Red on more than one occasion, fixed her with a stern look. “You did check the clinical-trial databases for cardiac toxicity reports, right?”
The epidemiologist bristled. “Of course. There were none. Headaches. Sleeplessness. A few sniffles. Nothing more, like I already told you six times.”
Ignoring the attitude because Red was the best at what she did, personal style notwithstanding, Raine called on the other department heads. They didn’t have much to add until she reached Phillip Worth, the gaunt, forty-something head of the legal department.
“You need to get yourself an investigator,” Phil said. “We can’t plan a strategy without more information. Is the dead woman really dead? Did she actually take Thriller? Was an autopsy performed? Tox screen?” He spread his hands. “There’ll either be a monetary demand or a lawsuit. We need to be prepared for both.”
Raine nodded. “You’re right. I know you’re right.” Both about the preparations and the investigator. “I’ll work on it.”
She dismissed the meeting soon after, knowing that the longer they sat there, the more unanswered questions they’d accumulate.
Tori lingered while the others filed out. She was quiet for a moment, then said, “What’s wrong?”
Raine nearly laughed because at this point what wasn’t wrong? But she knew that wasn’t what Tori was asking.
The women weren’t close, weren’t even really friends, but they shared an unspoken bond of two people working to figure out who they were when everyone around them had been defining them for too long.
Tori had an ex-husband with quick fists.
Raine didn’t have that excuse.
Aware that her receptionist was waiting for an answer, Raine blew out a breath. “There are three major pharmaceutical investigation firms in the northeast. The top two won’t take the case without a six-figure retainer.” She dug her nails into her palms and felt success trickling away. “Everything I have—and then some—is tied up in Thriller. I had to borrow against the office computers to pay for the TV spots.”
Saying it aloud only made it sound worse.
“You said there were three companies. What about the third?”
“Vasek and Caine Investigations,” Raine said, trying to ignore the fine buzz of warmth that ran through her when she said the name. “It’s a small company, fairly new, but it’s gotten a hell of a cachet in the past few years. They have the reputation of taking on the impossible cases and making them possible.”
Tori’s eyes narrowed and she studied Raine’s face. “Which one are you avoiding, Vasek or Caine?”
Raine winced. “That would be Maximilian Vasek. Max. We had a…”
She wasn’t even sure what to call it. They hadn’t dated, hadn’t been lovers, hadn’t even kissed. He had known her during the worst weeks of her life, three years earlier. She’d leaned on him, depended on him, formed a connection with him.
And then she’d taken off.
She hadn’t even said goodbye. She hadn’t known how to.
“We knew each other,” she said finally. “It didn’t end well.”
“Did it end badly enough that he’d turn you down flat if you called and explained the situation?” Tori asked.
“I don’t know.” It was possible the emotion had been all on her side, that he’d been relieved when she left. And hell, it’d been three years. Surely she was little more than a bad memory by now?
Surely, he didn’t still think of her, didn’t still wonder what might have happened if she’d stayed and worked through her problems back in Boston rather than running away?
“Call him,” Tori ordered, sounding bossier than Raine had ever heard her before.
“There’s got to be something else we can try first.” Raine heard a pleading note creep into her voice. She’d stared at the New York phone number off and on all morning, knowing she had to make the call.
She wasn’t sure which would be worse—having him hang up on her, or having him not remember her at all. In fact, it would probably be better just to show up. He wouldn’t throw her out of the office.
Would he?
A knock brought Raine’s head up in time to see Jeff enter the room. His expression was grim enough to send a chill racing across her skin when he said, “You need to see this.”
He clicked on the TV, the one they’d used to watch the debut of her commercial—was it only yesterday? It felt like a week ago.
He tuned to one of the major twenty-four-hour news stations, and Raine’s stomach knotted. “Oh, God. Cari Summerton’s family went public?”
If they had, it meant this wasn’t a scam. There really was a dead woman. She really had taken Thriller. Those basic facts were too easy for the reporters to check.
It also meant the media bloodbath had begun.
Jeff shook his head, eyes hollow. “Worse. Whoever broke the story got three other families to come forward. It’s not just one dead woman, it’s four.”
Four dead.
The words buzzed in Raine’s brain like a scream that was echoed in the strident ring of the conference-room phone. Tori answered, and her already pale face went ghost-white. “Please hold.”
She held the receiver out to Raine just as the TV news crawl read, Four women die after taking the sex-enhancement drug Thriller. A spokesperson for the Food and Drug Administration reports that an investigation will be launched immediately.
Raine looked at the handset. “Is that the FDA?” When Tori nodded, Raine pinched the bridge of her nose, where a stress headache had taken up permanent residence. “I guess it’s time for that last resort.”
It looked like she was headed to New York.
And Max.
Chapter Two
When a knock at the apartment door signaled the arrival of his take-out dinner, Max Vasek poked his head out of the bathroom and yelled, “Be right there!”
And it was about time, too. He’d called in the order nearly forty minutes ago. Then again, he’d learned that stuff like deliveries and repairs always took twice as long in New York City versus back in Boston, where he’d grown up and spent a chunk of his adult life.
It was a geographic law or something.
Hair still damp from his post-gym shower, wearing worn jeans and a heavy flannel shirt he’d left unbuttoned because the thermostat was on the fritz again and the five-room apartment was randomly cycling between arctic and parboil, Max padded to the door barefoot. He plucked a ten and a twenty from his wallet, undid the safety locks and opened the door. “Keep the—”
Then he stopped. Standing outside his apartment was a tall woman wearing a calf-length red coat and a bulky wool