I SENSED that Olivia was hiding something. Someone had been in to see her earlier that morning, probably Daphne. And there was more. Why sneak back into Channing's office, pick up the computer, and pitch it through the window? It didn't make sense. If she wanted to break the window and cut herself, the paperweight would have worked just as well.
Olivia had become agitated when the police officer emerged from the shrubbery with the laptop. Was she upset because he'd retrieved the computer? Or was she anxious about something else the police might find if they continued to look? Perhaps the second Acu-Med mug, the one that disappeared from the murder scene, had followed the laptop out the window.
For all the unanswered questions, it was still clear to me that Olivia's grief was genuine. The cuts on her arms were very real, and far from superficial. On top of everything else, she was having a very rough time without her daily doses of Ritalin.
I called Daphne and left a message. Even if I couldn't talk to her about Olivia, I could at least ask her about Channing's research. She was probably familiar with the Kutril regimen. When I
checked my messages a few hours later, Daphne had left word that she had time late in the day.
I headed over to the Drug and Alcohol Rehabilitation Unit just before five. I brought along a flashlight. I ignored the stares of curious passersby as I foraged in the bushes below Channing's window. I found the broken branches in the surrounding yews, where the laptop had probably landed. I crouched and looked underneath. I flashed the light between the branches. The grounds at the Pearce are kept meticulous, so I wasn't surprised there was no trash, no empty coffee cups strewn where no one could see. I searched systematically, in widening circles. I found nothing but some shards of broken window glass.
It had been four days since the murder. Plenty of time for someone, innocently or otherwise, to have found the mug or collected the pieces. The only thing I knew for sure was that someone wasn't Olivia. If she'd gotten off the unit, I'd have known about it.
I gave up and went inside. I took the elevator up to the fourth floor. There was a metal wastebasket against the wall, probably the one that had been used to prop the elevator door open when I'd last been here and found Channing dead.
I glanced up and down the hall. I could hear the elevator groan as it descended, and the hum of the overhead fluorescent lights. The carpet seemed radioactive green. My heart was pounding and my breathing shallow. I pushed myself down the hall.
The door to Channing's office was padlocked. All that was left of the yellow crime-scene tape was a pair of raw marks where the varnish had been pulled from the doorjamb. I touched one of the abrasions.
I looked up and saw Daphne, standing outside her office. She looked haggard, her face drawn and pinched as if she'd aged a decade in the last few days.
I went into her office and sat. A blue-and-white ginger-jar lamp cast a warm glow over the papers and file folders stacked on the desk. On the windowsill, the flowers of an African violet were turning
brown. Colorful chintz cushions that would have softened the institutional chairs and sofa were scattered about on the floor.
There was a laptop in a sleek, purple plastic case on her desk. The coffeemaker burbled in the corner, filling the room with the comforting smell of fresh coffee. I scanned the walls. There were diplomas and plaques, along with an array of photographs.
Daphne walked over to a photo of her husband. “I took this when we were in London. Just last year, before Robert ⦔ She shuddered. “Robert says ⦔ She gave a self-conscious laugh. “I imagine myself talking to him. It helps.”
With her finger, she traced around his face. “Robert was a great fan of Channing's. She was there for us at the end, you know.”
I didn't know. I'd been to Robert Smythe-Gooding's funeral, but the standing-room-crowd of peopleâeven the ones who'd spoken and shared their memories of the manâwere a blur. Surely Channing had been among them, had spoken eloquently, but I didn't recall.
“How's Livvy managing?” Daphne asked, sitting at her desk.
“Hard to tell,” I said. Daphne's brown sweater was over the back of her chair. “What did you think? You stopped by to see her this morning, didn't you?”
Daphne stroked her neck with one hand and helped herself to a few nuts from a bowl on the desk with the other. Her nails were stained yellow with nicotine.
“Can I get you some coffee?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said. “Black.”
She poured two cups. To hers she added a spoonful of sugar, then another. She handed me one cup, and took the other and sat at her desk. She settled back. “Actually, I did stop by. Channing asked me to come.” I knew she meant Olivia. “You don't mind, do you?” Daphne asked.
“Mind? Why I ⦔ As a practicing psychiatrist, never mind one of the top administrators, Daphne could pretty much go anywhere she wanted at the Pearce. I wondered what Olivia had needed to
talk to her about, and why Olivia wouldn't tell me Daphne had been there? But I couldn't come right out and ask. After all, Daphne had every right to see her own patient, to talk to her privately. I only hoped she wasn't trying to continue seeing her regularly. With two of us, it would be confusing for Olivia, not to mention counterproductive. “Next time, would you just let me know? As a courtesy.”
“So what can I do for you?”
“I'm trying to learn more about the treatment Channing was testing. It might be something we can use to help Olivia with her craving for Ritalin.”
“Channing talked to you about her results?”
“Only that she was very pleased. She said someone was reviewing her analysis. I thought maybe you?”
“Her results are quite impressive,” Daphne said. She opened up her top desk drawer and foraged around. She pulled out a floppy disk and offered it to me. “I wonder, what did you make of that row at the end of Channing's party?”
I tried to take the diskette from her, but she held onto her end. So this was going to be a barter. “I had the impression they were arguing about reporting a death,” I said. Daphne's look turned grave. “Channing wanted to report it. Jensen didn't.” Daphne let go of her end of the diskette. I went on, “Said it could hurt the hospital. I've been trying to make sense of it. Maybe one of the subjects in a drug trial died and no one filed an Adverse Event report.”
“A death,” Daphne said. “No, I hadn't heard anything about anyone dying during a clinical trial. Now that the Kutril trial is completed, there's only one other drug trial going on in the Drug and Alcohol Unit. Jensen's testing DX-200.”
“You don't suppose ⦔ I started.
“I was on the phone with Acu-Med this morning. They're delighted with the results, so far. There certainly hasn't been ⦠I wonder ⦔ Her hand hovered over her mouth, then dropped away. “I could dig a little. One of the benefits of being in charge
of clinical trials for the hospital, it's just the kind of question I'm supposed to ask.”
“Let me know what you find. And thanks for the report. This will be a big help.” I stood. “Any idea where I'd find her raw data? The patient files? I'd like to understand what individual subjects experienced, just to be on the safe side before we try Olivia on it.”
“Probably locked up in her office. I'd be very surprised if her research isn't in a file drawer, in tiptop order and neatly annotated. Just give me a minute to get my things together, and I'll let you in before I go. You're welcome to look about.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Daphne put on her sweater, then her coat. She picked up her briefcase. “She trusted us, Peter,” Daphne said, grasping my arm. “Now we've got to help Livvy.” Her voice shook with emotion, and tears pooled in her eyes.
I knew we were both trying to help Olivia. I just hoped we were pulling in the same direction.
Daphne let me into Channing's office and left for the night. The room smelled of disinfectant. I gagged and felt my coffee trying to make its way up my throat. The same smell had lingered in Kate's studio, insinuating its way into our bedroom and the downstairs, long after she was killed.
The telephone receiver was in its cradle. Even so, the three-tone screech replayed itself in my head. I forced myself to turn and face the corner where I'd found Channing. The leather chair was there. It had been cleaned.
I steeled myself and began to look for Channing's research. Someone had cleared her desktop. The drawers were locked. I checked under the blotter for a key. None. Then I tried in the mason jar she used to hold pencils on her desk. There I found a ring of small keys.
I opened the desk file drawer. There was an orderly array of neatly labeled hanging files holding purple file folders. It was a
hodgepodge of stuffâher own health insurance, notes from talks she'd given, information about substance-abuse support groups.
I turned my attention to the tall gray file cabinet. A key was sitting in the lock. The top drawer was labeled RESEARCH. This was itâif the files were here, this is where they'd be. I pulled and the drawer flew towards meâempty.
I tried the second drawer. It was packed so tightly with files, it was hard to pull a folder out without tearing it. All patient files. The third and fourth drawers were packed with administrative reports and patient billing. Nothing on the Kutril trial.
I pulled the top drawer open again. The emptiness taunted me. Had she put all her research somewhere for safekeeping? Or had someone helped himself or herself, after her death?
I scanned the bookshelves. There were medical references, psychiatry texts, medical journals, a few standing boxes of scholarly papers. I took down a few and flipped through. Tucked in at the end of a shelf, I spotted a fat black datebook. I took it out. Weekdays were densely scribbled with appointments.
I turned to the day Channing was killed. In the eleven o'clock slot, she'd written down “P and O, caf.' At ten, she'd written “D.” Who or what was D? Destler? Daphne? It could have been anyoneâa patient, a staff person, a friend.
I put the datebook back. Then I scribbled a quick note to Daphne, saying I hadn't taken anything because there wasn't anything to take. I left the office, hooking the padlock back in place and squeezing it shut.
After I slipped the note under Daphne's door, I started to the elevator, passing by Liam Jensen's office. His door was ajar. I backed up and knocked.
“What is it?” Jensen barked, an edge of irritation to his voice. I went in. He looked up at me, surprised. “Yes? Peter?” He closed the file folder that he had open and slapped it facedown on the desk.
“I hope you don't mind,” I said. “I was up here, talking with Daphne, and I saw your door open.”
“Not at all, not at all.” His lips stretched taut in what I think was supposed to pass for a smile. “What can I do for you?”
“Actually, I was hoping to track down Dr. Temple's research on the Kutril trial.”
“I should think the files would all be in her office,” Jensen said. He said it looking past me, his right hand twitching.
“I checked there. I thought perhaps she gave them to you.”
Jensen gave a bitter laugh. “Me? I think not.”
“Your research studies were in competition with one another, weren't they?”
My eyes drifted to the file cabinet alongside his desk. On top, a row of about two-dozen coffee mugs stood at attention. Lined up in alphabetical order from Acu-Med to Zoloft, he had quite a collection. I gazed down. A bottom file drawer was partly open. Jensen pushed it with his foot, but the tops of a few purple file folders kept the drawer from closing completely.
“I suppose you could say that,” Jensen said. “Though it didn't have to be that way. After all, we're all working for the betterment of humanity.”
He sounded so smug, I couldn't stop myself from saying, “Didn't I hear that there were some adverse events with the DX-200 trial? A death?”
“A death?” Jensen choked on the word. “Absolutely untrue. Who told you that?”
“Wasn't that what you and Channing were discussing at the end of her party?”
“What?” Jensen looked genuinely baffled. He seemed to think back. His brow cleared for an instant, then he looked even more guarded. “What we were discussing had nothing whatsoever to do with the DX-200 trial. Or any other drug trial for that matter. That was a private matter between Dr. Temple and myself.”
“You don't think it had anything to do with her death, do you?”
“Her death?” Jensen's eyebrows raised in astonishment. “Well ⦔ He considered this possibility. “No,” he said slowly. “Not that.” There was a pause. “I can't imagineâ”
Whatever it was, he wasn't about to share the details with me. I said, “I was just in Dr. Temple's office. Her research file drawer is empty.”