The Arx Read online

  She tried to justify what they were doing with the knowledge that Frank would pursue the case whether she helped him or not, but part of her understood that she was enabling him, distracting him from what should be his focus – getting well again.

  “Nothing,” he said, when she asked him about Child Connect.

  “So it’s a dead end?” she asked.

  “Not quite.”

  He explained the circumstances surrounding the break-in.

  “So she could be imagining it,” she said.

  He shrugged. “It’s thin, but right now it’s all I’ve got. I’m going to look into a few of the other doctors from your list. Maybe there’ll be a tie-in. How about you?”

  “I did some research on Olmerol,” she said. She leaned forward in her chair. “I was right. It was developed in the fifties to alleviate morning sickness, around the same time as Thalidomide – now there's a scary parallel – by a company called Kaffir Pharma.”

  “I’ve heard of them,” he said.

  “Olmerol was never banned like Thalidomide – it's been in use for almost sixty years."

  "There were no side effects?"

  "There’s always side effects, but none serious enough to justify discontinuing its use. One study suggested a higher incidence of autism in children whose mothers had taken the drug, but it wasn’t conclusive. Of course, Kaffir disputed the results, and only that one study showed a connection.”

  She took a sip of her coffee.

  “How much do you know about Kaffir?” he asked. “You heard any stories about them? Any big hits on their reputation?”

  “They market one or two psychiatric drugs I’m familiar with. They’re your typical faceless, soulless, multinational pharmaceutical company. You could argue that they’re all evil in a way, but I don’t think Kaffir is any more so than the others.”

  “For a junior detective, you’re doing great,” Frank smiled. “Keep it up.”

  “Coming from you, that’s a big compliment,” she said. “What any of this has to do with Gloria’s death is another question.”

  “We don’t know much,” Frank said, “but all we can do is go with what we’ve found so far.”

  He downed the last of his coffee. “I’ll call you if I find anything.”

  He stood. His hands shook as he opened his wallet.

  “You okay, Frank?” she asked. Her guilt resurfaced. “You know, you don’t have to continue with this – we can quit anytime.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, annoyed. He dropped a five on the table and walked away.

  ***

  Frank checked out three more of the physicians on Rebecca’s list. None of them remembered any special circumstances surrounding the disappearance of the child in their care.

  He also asked them about any volunteer activities and any break-ins, but nothing stood out. This avenue of investigation was starting to look like a dead end. He resolved to try one more before giving up.

  Dr. Joyce Hunter, the final name he chose to visit, had been the pediatrician for the family in the incident most like Gloria and Ralphie’s, where the baby had gone missing and the mother had committed suicide.

  Dr. Hunter was on record as working at the Pacific Coast Pediatric Clinic. The receptionist there went pale when Frank mentioned her name.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Dr. Hunter was killed in a hit and run accident two years ago.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Frank said.

  “The car and driver that hit her were never found,” she continued. “It was terrible – such a huge loss.”

  “I remember it like it was yesterday,” said Dr. Hunter’s former supervisor, Dr. Carol Raskin, in the meeting Frank arranged with her. “It was a terrible tragedy.”

  He asked her about break-ins. She consulted a file folder on her desk. “Oh yes, that’s right,” she said. “Joyce admitted that an unauthorized person had been in her office. Not exactly a break in – apparently they’d somehow gotten hold of a key. She said she knew who it was. She was going to talk to them and give them a chance to explain themselves.”

  “You’re sure she said that?” Frank asked. “She knew who did it?”

  “Yes. We were quite concerned. There were no drugs in the office, but there were records for most of her patients. I wanted to call the police, but she insisted on handling it herself.”

  “And that was just before she was killed?”

  Dr. Raskin nodded.

  “She never said who it was?”

  “No,” Dr. Raskin shook her head. “Such a shame what happened to her.”

  “Did she say anything else about the break-in?”

  “No more than I’ve told you. After her death we never pursued it further, though we did upgrade some of our security procedures.”

  Frank got up to leave. He could check out the hit and run, but if investigators had come up empty back then, what chance did he have two years after the fact?

  “Thanks for your time,” he said, turning for the door.

  He opened it, then turned back. “By the way, did Dr. Hunter do any volunteer work?”

  Dr. Raskin checked the file folder.

  “Oh, yes,” she smiled. “I remember – she volunteered once a week at the Painted Pony Farm. It’s a camp for sick children.”

  Donkeys and goats nibbled on the sparse grass behind the split-rail fence that snaked around the Painted Pony Farm, deep in the rustic suburb of Langley. Bunny rabbits hopped, pot-bellied pigs snorted, and chickens scratched, in the large wire cages that dotted the compound.

  The volunteer angle was a thin lead, but Frank had gone this far – he figured he might as well see it through.

  The rotund director of the camp, Gordon Lambert, was bubbly and outgoing. He smiled broadly as he shook Frank’s hand.

  “Your work must be very satisfying,” Frank said, as a small pony carrying a young child plodded by, led by a camp worker.

  “We’re very proud of what we do here,” Lambert beamed. “We give sick kids a chance to forget about their medical issues for a while and just have fun.”

  They strolled to Lambert’s office, a well-maintained log cabin in the heart of the action.

  “We were very sorry to lose Dr. Hunter,” Lambert shook his head as they walked. “She was so dedicated to the children.”

  They entered the office and sat at a small table in one corner. Lambert offered Frank coffee and he accepted.

  “Did Dr. Hunter ever mention anything about her office at work being broken into?” Frank said.

  “At work?” Lambert scratched his head. “She never talked about her work. I think she came out here to get away from work – to unwind, you know? We talked about the kids, the animals, even the weather, but never her regular job.”

  “Was there anybody here she was close to? Anybody she might have confided in?”

  Lambert shrugged. “She only came once a week. I believe she was quite friendly with one of the other volunteers, Dr. Lesko. I know I saw them together at the lunch table a few times.”

  Frank looked up from his notepad.

  Kaffir Pharma

  Rebecca stepped from the doorway of her office building to the cobblestones of Yaletown, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun. It was a blazing, sunny day typical for late summer in Vancouver, the kind she liked the best.

  She smiled at the warmth of the afternoon, unbuttoning her suit jacket as she strolled toward the Stadium Skytrain station. In the brilliant sunlight the dark days following Gloria’s death seemed to fade into the past. Rebecca’s briefcase swung jauntily in her hand as she turned the corner onto Beatty Street, glad for some exercise after sitting at a desk all afternoon.

  Several days had passed since Frank had last come in for an informal ‘session’, as stipulated in their agreement. He’d come willingly, but his mind had been elsewhere; they hadn’t accomplished much. She’d given him some exercises for homework, to help him relax and improve his sleep.

  Since then, sh
e’d heard from him only once, by phone. He said the investigation was ‘progressing’. Later, she had tried to call him several times – she had news. Each time a disembodied voice had told her that the cellular customer was unavailable.

  She thought about Frank and smiled again. He was nothing like any of the men she’d been involved with in the past (not that they were actually involved), and not at all the type of man she thought she’d be interested in (if she really was interested). Still, despite his many issues and personal problems, maybe even because of them, she found herself waiting for his next call.

  She’d just caught sight of the Skytrain station when a muffled ring-tone issued from inside her purse. She fished out her phone and answered.

  “Keep walking,” said a voice on the line.

  She froze for a second, startled, until she recognized who it was.

  She dropped her shoulders and sighed. “What the hell are you doing, Frank? Where are you? You scared the hell out of me.” She scanned the block for any sign of him, but saw nothing. Following his instructions she continued slowly along Beatty Street.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said. “There’s a coffee shop a few blocks away, on East Hastings, called ‘Uncle Mac’s’ – you know it?”

  “Yeah, I know it,” she said. “You sure you want to go there? The place is a major dump. As your pseudo-therapist I think I should advise you that you’re behaving pretty strangely all of a sudden.”

  “Just humour me, okay?”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Uncle Mac’s was a hole-in-the-wall greasy-spoon in Gastown. Rebecca got there first and headed for a booth in the corner. She passed an old man in rags, his head resting on a table along with an uneaten, stale-looking sandwich and a half-empty glass of beer. There were only one or two other customers. She pulled a tissue from her purse and wiped down the cracked vinyl of the bench seat, then sat and waited. A few minutes later Frank arrived and slid onto the bench across from her.

  Rebecca watched as the proprietor (Uncle Mac?), wearing a sleeveless undershirt, hauled a filthy rag from under his naked armpit and used it to wipe down one of the tables.

  “You sure know how to sweep a girl off her feet,” she said to Frank.

  “I wanted a place that’s out of the way,” he explained.

  “Congratulations, I think you found one. Is it safe to eat here?”

  “I’d order something deep fried.”

  “I hope all this cloak and dagger stuff is really necessary. Food poisoning wouldn’t be my first choice for a way to die.”

  They both ordered coffee.

  “Okay?” she said. “Happy?”

  Frank raised his hand for silence. A bored looking waitress came up behind Rebecca, plunked a cup of coffee in front of each of them, and moved on. He waited until she was well away, then nodded.

  “How have you been sleeping lately, Frank?” she asked.

  “Like usual.”

  “You’ve got bags under your eyes that could hold my entire wardrobe.”

  “I’ll get over it.”

  “Have you been doing the exercises I gave you? Are you feeling any better?”

  He shrugged. “Sure, way better.”

  She rolled her eyes skyward.

  “You’re doing a great job,” he said. “You’re a miracle worker. I’ll be cured in no time.”

  She shook her head resignedly.

  He glanced around them, then lowered his head and said, in a low voice, "Catherine Lesko."

  “What?”

  “The common link. Dr. Gilford and two of the other doctors I checked from your list knew her. Apparently she’s a pediatrician here in town. She volunteered at the same places they did. I’m pretty sure that either she or somebody connected to her also broke into their offices looking for information. She may even have murdered one of them.”

  Rebecca stared at him, horrified, as he explained about Dr. Hunter’s death.

  “Lesko quit the volunteering gigs once her job, whatever that was, was done. Nobody would give me any info on her without a warrant. I’m trying to track her down.”

  Frank fished a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. Rebecca nodded her head toward a sign on the wall with writing in large black letters: ‘This is a smoke-free environment’.

  Frank winced and put it back.

  “You’ve been a busy boy,” Rebecca said, smiling. “I’ve been busy myself. If you’d been around…” she shot him a chastising look, “I could have told you my news.”

  “Which is?”

  “I managed to get some information on the women whose babies were kidnapped – best not to ask me how. All the mothers of kidnapped babies took Olmerol regularly for their morning sickness.”

  “What the hell?” Frank said, scratching his head.

  “But thousands of other women take the drug,” she continued. “They seem to have been left alone. Of course it could still all just be coincidence…”

  He rose from his seat. “Sorry,” he said, holding up the cigarette pack. They walked out of the cafe. He lit up, and they stood on the sidewalk in front.

  “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that those things will kill you,” she said.

  He gave her a withering look.

  Neither spoke for a few seconds.

  “So,” Frank finally said, blowing out a puff of smoke, “there’s something special about these women and Olmerol.”

  He tapped the ash from his cigarette. “So does Lesko work for Kaffir? Maybe our buddies at Kaffir have their own medical people, like Catherine Lesko, monitoring the mothers – to keep an eye on them. But why? And why the kidnappings?”

  He took another drag. “So is it Kaffir that’s kidnapping babies, or somebody else? Maybe Kaffir’s guarding them.”

  “If they’re trying to protect the mothers and babies, they’re failing,” Rebecca said.

  Frank stared at his feet, thinking.

  “Shit!” He said loudly. He dropped his cigarette butt and stubbed it out on the pavement.

  “What?” she said.

  Frank straightened up and faced her. “Maybe Olmerol’s got side-effects after all.”

  Rebecca applied generous portions of hand sanitizer from a bottle in her purse as Frank went back in and dropped a five dollar bill on the table. He offered to walk her to the Skytrain. Bustling crowds, heading home from work, pushed by them as they walked.

  “What if I was to visit Kaffir?” she said. “Their headquarters are right here in Vancouver.”

  Frank froze mid-step and put his arm out to stop her. The moving crowd parted around them.

  “Absolutely not,” he said. “No way.”

  “It wouldn’t be a big stretch for me to show an interest in them. I was in pre-med before I switched to Social Work. I wouldn’t even necessarily have to ask about Olmerol. I could say I’m interested in one of their psychiatric drugs. Maybe I’d come across something that would help us…”

  “Put that idea out of your head,” Frank said, his voice rising. He lowered it again. “Didn’t you hear what I told you?”

  “You’re blowing this way out of proportion,” she shot back. “Anyway, I’ve been around. You should see some of the people I used to come across at work. It’s possible I’ve seen a worse side of humanity than you…”

  “No, you haven’t!” Frank shouted, clenching his fists. A couple of people on the sidewalk turned and stared at them. “You haven’t,” he repeated, lowering his voice.

  They started walking again. He didn’t say anything for half a block, and nervously scanned the street around them. When they were far from any other pedestrians he finally spoke, without stopping or looking at her.

  “Just keep walking and listen to me carefully,” he said. “This isn’t a game and I’m not joking.”

  “You’re really creeping me out, Frank.”

  “Good,” he said. “Think about it. We’re dealing with a conspiracy to kidnap and possibly kill children. Whoever’s behi
nd it has some connection to a multi-billion-dollar corporation.”

  “So you think,” she said. “For all we know, this Catherine Lesko is acting alone.”

  He stopped and turned to face her. “So I know.”

  He started walking again. “Right now, Kaffir has no idea you or I exist. You go sticking your nose into the head office you’re going to appear on their radar. I can guarantee you don’t want that to happen. I’m sure you’ve dealt with all kinds at work. Maybe some of them were even dangerous…”

  He stiffened, as if fighting some inner turmoil. “There’s people out there that’d kill you as easy as they’d swat a fly, then they’d go for dinner and drinks like nothing happened.”

  Rebecca shuddered. She wasn’t sure whether she was more afraid of the threat Frank was imagining or of Frank himself.

  “So what do you want to do?” she asked.

  “I’ve got a couple of ideas. It’s probably best if you don’t know what they are.”

  “What about me?”

  “You? You’re going to do nothing.”

  “Gloria was my sister,” she said angrily. “I’m not going to just sit on my ass.”

  “Yes you are.”

  She stopped walking and grabbed him by the elbow. “Who the hell do you think you are? Where do you get off telling me what to do?”

  Frank looked into her eyes. “You’re not going to listen to me anyway, are you?”

  “Sorry.”

  He studied her face.

  “Okay,” he said, “if you’ve got to do something…”

  She raised an eyebrow. He gestured with his hand and they started walking again.

  “Do some more research on Kaffir and Olmerol,” he said, without looking at her. “They seem to be the key to this whole business. Who were the people that developed the drug? Are they still around? Any of them leave the company suddenly? Any of them fired? Anybody holding a grudge?”

  The station came into view. “You said you found a few studies,” he continued. “Are there more? Any lawsuits involving Olmerol? Is Kaffir on anybody’s hit list, for any reason?”