Chapter 9: CDC

My second stop let me spend the night with Vanessa and the kids. Hobo and the Proper Villain. But first, I hit Waldo. The Sullivans.

“Full court press on Eric Roberts. Was he selling his company stock before it was vested? Why did he leave Silicon Valley? Rumors, gossip, trade magazines, anything. Everything.”

Jessie said, “You think Fowler might be a ... a front? Roberts is really the bad guy?”

“I don’t know. What I do know is that LA knows Roberts was copied on some of Rowley’s reports. At least two of them. And Gloria Allen is going to be so pissed at me that she’ll unleash her own snoops on Roberts.”

Two weeks later, I called Carmen, “I need to sit down with Gloria. You and Sistine of course.”

“What about Zo?”

I thought about it. “I don’t know, Gloria would have to make that call. What I’m thinking about is a bit ... surreptitious.”

“Good. We like ... we like results.”

Team Allen was not about to acknowledge my ... surreptitiousness.

Constance changed my Gloria Allen meeting. “If I’m going to enlist Harper, let’s make full use of his ... involvement.”

Things were speeding up. Fine with me. Slow and steady had gotten me chloroformed. Well, my sawbones speculated it was chloroform or something similar. And the specialist she sent me to assured me that my vision would recover. In time, but I should enjoy a full back-to-normal.

The slight headaches, though, were regular visitors. Less frequently, I became slightly dizzy.

No question, those Elmont fuckers had injected something into my left arm. No traces were left by the time I saw medical people. I shouldn’t have put it off until I got home.

My problem, well one of them, was an understandable one. I’d been injected with something. Without my knowledge and against my will. Easy enough for them to do since I was unconscious.

Because I had no fucking idea what had been zapped into my system, my imagination went into overdrive. If that’s the correct word for startling visions of paralysis, lepromatous symptoms, dementia. Baldness, halitosis, toe cheese.

Vanessa and I struggled with telling the kids. Agreed to wait until we knew something for sure. I was worrying enough for our family. Vanessa didn’t say anything, but I knew she was too.

I did tell Daddy. If it turned out to be ... bad ... well, Vengeance is Mine, sayeth the Captain.

Vanessa and I also told Bear. The sadness in his eyes made me wish we hadn’t. Then his new Vanessa, his new major-domo, made me smile.

Herr Hesse is 36, rigidly Teutonic, proudly punctilious. He stands erect, spine stiff. Menus cradled in his left arm as he leads diners to their assigned tables. His right arm practically counts cadence as he marches formally across the room.

I have no idea if Herr Hesse is even gay. Asexual would be my guess. Didn’t matter, the staff ... admires him. He takes his job seriously, approaches BEAR’s with solemn consequentiality, treats everyone under him with courteous formality.

He makes me smile.

“She’s long gone with her red shoes on”...

I don’t know why, but the Allison Krause version of that lullaby made me think of a woman in a flimsy summer dress — during the Depression — walking away from her family. Haunting line.

And, these days, it reminded me of myself. I couldn’t hide the headaches from Walker and Pilar anymore. The pain was sudden and searing. They didn’t hit me every day, but they struck without warning. Waiting, worrying, was almost as bad as the headache itself.

I had to tell the kids about my Elmont fuck-up. About being caught and drugged. With an unknown substance. Walker was doing his best, but he couldn’t mask his fright, his worry, his terror.

Best to confront everything head-on.

We were sitting at our kitchen table. I held Walker’s hand; Vanessa, Pilar’s. I said, ‘I went through the regular drill — X-ray, CAT scan, MRI. Plus an entire battery of other boring tests.”

Walker said, “What’d they find? Anything?” He and Pilar were staring at me.

“Okay, I have a small, very small, tumor on my brain. Dr. Epstein is going to do a biopsy of the mass. It sounds scary as fuck, hell, I am scared, but it’s a relatively minor procedure.”

Walker tightened his grip.

Vanessa said, “Tell us what’s involved.”

“Okay. She needs to determine if it’s malignant. She’ll perform what’s called a stereotactic biopsy. Sounds worse than it is. I’ll be in and out, home that same afternoon. Well, the Montgomery’s home.”

Pilar said, “Why do you have to go to New York if it’s so easy?”

Vanessa said, “We’re being over-cautious. Dr. Epstein is renowned in her field.”

I nodded, “It is an excess of caution. I’d be fine having it done in St. Luke’s. But Constance knows someone who knows someone...”

Vanessa smiled brightly, “So we’re all going to New York. We’ll stay with Rebecca and Phillip.”

Pilar nodded, “Nature Boy and Edwina will take care of the zoo boys.”

Gertie frowned; her glass of Tanqueray on the rocks was less than half full. I caught Louie-Louie’s attention and he came scurrying over.

Gertie said, “You ladies just invested in Macklin. In International Innovations Incubator, I mean.” Triple-I.

Vanessa and I looked at each other. News to us.

I said, “Oh?” Rather formally, letting our financial advisor know that we preferred to be consulted before our resources sashayed out the door. Although we had signed that pesky investor-approval form.

Gertie looked at me, “As you know, I vetted your contract with Gloria Allen. Remember that paragraph I added?”

“Vaguely. Something about ... um, investment rights?” I thought back, “My work on Triple-I wouldn’t ... something, something. Something.” So much for the vaunted Winter Jennings eidetic memory. Okay, no one really, technically speaking, vaunted it. Or mentioned it.

Gertie said, “Your investigation is independent of a much larger Wall Street inquiry into the financial stability of Triple-I. Independent and unrelated. Gloria Allen added an addendum reflecting your investment autonomy.”

I nodded, “Yep.”

Gertie’s attention turned to two lesser waiters who were laying out the vittles. Bear was quite content to go along with the popular locavore movement. But not at the expense of taking certain items off his menu. Australian lamb, squab from California, tangy East Coast oysters.

It was a Tuesday night, the restaurant was only about three-quarters full. But it could have been jam-packed and we’d still be sitting in our favorite corner booth.

Vanessa smiled as the two young boys ceremoniously delivered a tureen of coq au vin (Gertie), a plate of braised-pork ragout (Vanessa), and a bowl of rock shrimp in tomato-saffron broth with a side of herby aioli for the discerning diner.

We focused on the nutriments. Fortification first. Herr Hesse, posture military-erect, strode over. Looked inquiringly at Vanessa. She smiled, “The kitchen has outdone itself.”

He nodded briskly, about-faced smartly, and marched away.

Gertie stirred her drink with her middle finger, “Even before you became involved with Macklin, I was looking into Triple-I.”

Hiding even a smidgeon of smugness, I handed Gertie a Fax from Sistine, “Tomorrow’s ‘New York Times’.

Gertie did just like Walker does, tried to mask her surprise as she skimmed the full-page ad from Triple-I. She’s human. Mostly. Gertie smiled, “Tomorrow’s Times?”

I nodded, Ms. Ahead of the Game.

Vanessa leaned over to read. Shook her head, “Those weasels. Making it look like a Public Service announcement.”

I nodded, “The ad says, ‘Triple-I is ‘acutely’ aware of the public health risk from opioids.’ Fuckers helped create it.”

Gertie snorted, “This is rich. Now they’re working with the National Sheriffs’ Association to distribute naloxone. The overdose-rescue drug ... oh, look at this — their sales reps will stop promoting opioids to doctors.”

Vanessa muttered, “Barn door.”

Gertie said, “Their problems are going to be deeper than any potential Master Settlement Agreement on opioids.”

“How so?”

“You remember they bought that PTSD formula from Collins, Schneider and Malcomb. Durham, North Carolina.”

I nodded, “Pennies on the dollar.”

“What wasn’t publicized was that Macklin tried, vigorously, to buy the entire company.”

Vanessa said, “Why?”

“Asset-stripping.”

I said, “Example?” I’d learned the value of specifics from Daddy.

Gertie accepted another drink, “Big picture first. Triple-I has gotten more and more aggressive in Mergers and Acquisitions. Mostly buying up any pharmaceutical company that meets certain requirements. More precisely, one of two basic requirements.”

“Which are?” Dogged detective, licensed, on the scent.

“One, a unique and indispensable drug. Diabetes, cancer, something like that.”

“And?”

“And / or. A significant Research and Development budget. The industry average is around 18% of revenues. Know what it is at Macklin?”

“Less.”

“Barely at 3%. Their mantra is ‘Bet on management, not on science’.”

Vanessa said, “But then nothing would ever get discovered — penicillin, Salk vaccine...”

“Hugh Macklin isn’t unique in this approach. Putting shareholder value above everything else. But like with opioid distribution, he’s the most aggressive.” Gertie smiled a feral smile, “Know what one of the tells that he looks for is?”

“What?”

“A company that is heavy with algebraic topologists. That means they’re really into R and D. But using different, totally new, approaches.”

I said, “Of course.” Algebraic topologists. Makes sense.

Vanessa said, “And the other thing — an indispensable drug.”

Gertie nodded, had her game face on. “Price gouging. Almost always perfectly legal. Macklin buys, say, a company that provides a uniquely effective treatment for diabetics. What used to be four $3 shots a day now costs $18 per injection.”

Vanessa shook her head, “I’ve read about that. Markups of two, three hundred percent.”

“Try six, seven hundred. What that means is that fewer and fewer people can afford even life-saving meds. Wilson’s Disease. Copper accumulates in your body until you’re poisoned.”

“That’s criminal.”

“Should be. Isn’t. Though even insurance companies have started to push back. But Macklin profits kept going up, on paper anyway, even with fewer meds being sold.”

I said, “Those astronomically higher prices.”

“Yes. So, two things. Higher prices for key medicines and asset-stripping. Trimming the Research and Development department is just one example. Macklin has been replacing scientists, highly qualified executives, CEOs ... across the board talent-dilution.”

She stirred her drink again, swirling the ice cubes. “So I called a friend of mine at Fortnight Capital. Conrad Witherspoon. Shorts specialist.”

Because I was so mature these days, I bit back my hilarious ‘boxers or briefs?’ comment. Vanessa patted my thigh. She knows me so well.

“Conrad had already been looking into Hugh Macklin. And Triple-I.” That feral grin again, “There’s frigging in the rigging.”

I said, “Beyond price gouging and asset-stripping?”

“Yeah. Apparently everything is buried in the footnotes. Takes some real forensic digging to uncover even a slight clue. But some former employees — and people laid off at the newly-acquired companies — are starting to talk. Online sites like Cafepharma and others. There’s real resentment from the scientific community.”

“How so?”

“Okay, Triple-I. They haven’t developed, on their own, a new product for over eight years. Hugh Macklin has been so busy sucking Alfred Berneke’s cock that he’s totally given up on internal innovation.”

Vanessa, “Alfred Berneke?”

“You’ve heard of “The Wolf of Wall Street?”

“Of course.”

“Our Alfred is the Werewolf. Hedge-funder that makes even an aggressive company like Goldman look like a sissy. In pharmaceuticals, Macklin and Berneke believe that R and D can’t show the returns they demand. Which is true in the short term. But science understands it’s time and data and hard work. Smart work.”

I said, “But that’s too long-term.”

“For them. But what Conrad has been investigating is Triple-I’s financial underpinnings. He thinks it’s smoke and mirrors. A veritable house of cards.”

She thought for a while, probably wondering how much we financial neophytes could comprehend. “Look, it’s not that black and white. Different financiers interpret the same data in multiple ways. And investing in shorts can be extremely risky. Let’s see how Tesla pans out. But I trust Conrad, I worked with him on three different projects when I was at Chase. He’s convinced Triple-I is going to tank.”

I said, “That’s not what their stock price reflects.” The Wizard of Wall Street.

Three feral smiles in one conversation — this was getting serious. “Yes, the current price does indicate what Wall Street believes — Triple-I is pioneering a new success-pathway for Big Pharma. Brilliant management trumps pokey old science. And that is exactly why Conrad Witherspoon is going short on Triple-I. And that’s why we did too. Our bet is that the stock will tumble, no matter what you uncover about the PTSD drug.”

Vanessa asked my question, “How much? Did we invest?”

“Ten thousand each. I went in heavier myself.”

“Ten thousand dollars?”

“Yep. In essence, you borrowed and sold ten thousand shares each. For every dollar the share price increases, you would lose $10,000, But for every dollar the share price falls, you would make $10,000. So if Triple-I drops $20, and we think at least that, you’d make $200,000. Transaction costs excluded at both ends, of course.”

I said, “Of course.” Then, being a Wizard, I asked, “What are those Triple-I danger signals? Financial danger.”

Listening to her response, I had that sinking feeling, like that unprepared-for-a-test dream. Very similar to when the Sullivans were explaining the arcana of hacking.

Gertie was in mid-sentence, “Non-GAAP earnings, EBITDA metrics, pro forma cash, EPS is way off...”

I nodded briskly. Just as the Wizard had suspected. Vanessa smiled and placed a palm on my thigh. But she had one more question, “But aren’t stocks, generally, going up?”

Gertie snorted, “Doesn’t matter what the macro picture is. I bet on individual stocks. But, yes, we’re in a period of overall economic expansion.”

The Wizard said, “But not for everybody.”

“No, but let’s focus on us, on our investment.”

“Okay.”

“The current bull market is due for a correction. Overdue.”

“Why?”

“Wall Street is cyclical. And we’ve had over 100 months of nonstop growth. Almost unprecedented.”

“So we’re due for a correction. Overdue.” The Wizard in full stride.

“Yes. Debt is too high. Congress is on a borrow-and-spend binge. Like over-leveraged companies in the private sector. The corporate debt-to-earnings ratio is sky high.”

Gertie smiled at Vanessa, “And the administration’s anti-immigration policies is having an effect on some labor forces. Add to that the escalation of trade wars, fights with allies ... what else? Oh, I’m following rising interest rates and the price of oil. It’s a witch’s brew.”

Gertie looked at Vanessa and me, “None of that really matters. Macklin is tanking. Probably sooner than later.”

The Wizard nodded. Sagely.

Gloria Allen had been in the trenches for decades. Seen a lot, accomplished a lot. Poker face. But still, I could tell she was pleased when I said, “Change of plans. I was going to meet with you in LA, but Constance Grayson said the senator would host us.”

“Senator Wainwright?” Purposely calm voice.

“Yes ma’am. He’s listened to my Macklin ... idea and may agree to help us. First he wants to meet with you.”

“And you’ll be there?”

“Yes.”

We sat in a semicircle facing Dr. Rachael Epstein. Vanessa, Walker, Pilar, Rebecca Montgomery. Walker was holding my hand.

The neurosurgeon was in her 50s, a lot of gray hair fighting through. It was a small office in the same NY Presbyterian building where she’d perform the stereotactic biopsy in an hour or so.

Two of the walls were adorned by framed diplomas. Of course you can buy them online, but I assumed that she had gone to medical school somewhere. Or at least read a couple of books.

There were plants everywhere — green, leafy, vital.

Dr. Epstein focused on Walker, then Pilar. Back and forth, back and forth. She could easily tell who was freaking out. Dr. Epstein said, “Let’s review the bidding ... Winter was injected with a mystery strain. All we can tell at this stage is that it’s incredibly fast-acting. So, we’ll move right away to identify it.”

Walker said, “What’s involved?”

Pilar nodded.

Dr. Epstein smiled, “We know the exact location of the intracranial lesion from CT scans like this one.”

She used a pointer, “See, right there.” A tiny, gray, amoeba-like shape.

“We used coordinates similar to the GPS navigation system in your phones. In essence, the computer gives us a map so we know exactly where to enter the skull.”

Walker’s grip tightened.

“It’s really quite an amazing process — We set up a stereotactic frame on Winter’s head. That guides the needle to the exact spot.”

Another squeeze at the word ‘needle’.

“We’ll shave a small portion of Winter’s scalp and then give her a local. She’ll be awake and alert the entire time.”

I didn’t mention that I’d rather they knocked me the fuck out and then woke me in a few weeks with good news. I smiled gamely and nodded. Piece of cake.

The neurosurgeon spoke slowly, simply, letting each point register.

“Then I’ll do three things — make a tiny incision. Use a precision drill to create a very narrow pathway for the needle insertion.”

Walker wasn’t breathing.

Dr. Epstein lowered her voice even more. “I’ll take samples from five different sections of the lesion. They’ll go straight to the lab for analyses. Then I stitch Winter up and she’s good to go.”

We met in Senator Wainwright’s smaller office — the private one in the United States Capitol. We sat at a small round table that was polished to a glossy sheen. Nothing on the table — no folders, tablets, pens.

The senator, Constance Grayson, Gloria Allen. And me.

Constance said, “Recap us, Winter.” She didn’t need to tell me to keep it brief.

“We have a copy of a document — a chart — that indicates INTERNATIONAL INNOVATIONS INCUBATOR may have performed an unauthorized test, a drug test, on a human. A man. Maybe more than one subject was involved; that we don’t know. It’s a PTSD drug.”

It was seven on a Tuesday morning; this would be one of maybe a dozen meetings the senator would have that day. July 10, 2018.

Constance had told the senator about my plan. More of a wish, than a real stratagem. And, she told him how I had obtained the ZB8687 documents. Illegally.