BLIND TRIAL by Brian Deer (best books to read for beginners TXT) 📗

stairs, Sumiko paused to say goodbye. But Glinski scampered past her, strode down the ramp, and lingered by the hood of the Sentra. “You need anything else, now.” He produced a purple paper flyer, scribbled a number on the back, and pressed it into Ben’s hands. “Anything at all. You give me a call now. Anything.”

AS THE CAR grinded down from Corona Heights to the Castro, the afternoon felt good—high sixties, puffy clouds—weather to sell America by the hour.

Sumiko trailed a hand from the passenger side window. “Now that wasn’t a waste of time, was it? That was reassuring. Didn’t you think that was reassuring? I thought so. I feel a lot better.”

“Could be worse.”

It’s true she looked happy. She wasn’t disappointed. But, as far as he could tell, the home visit was as pointless as the trip to the Ramirez place. They were driving round the city, achieving nothing. He’d no problem hanging out in San Fran as long as possible. But he should report back to Hoffman right away.

At the bottom of the hill, she sneaked one of her glances. “So how much longer are you here? You staying the weekend? When do you think you’re back to Atlanta?”

“Don't know yet. Nobody’s said. Got to make some calls this afternoon.”

Now she looked again. No question, she looked. She wasn’t even pretending she wasn’t. “The thing is, I’m a little busy this afternoon. I’ve two appointments before six. But perhaps, I was thinking, possibly you could stop by at the apartment later.”

“Yeah?”

“I could show you those fish, if you like.”

“Yeah?”

“And we could perhaps review the situation. See how we stand. Maybe a bite to eat, if you’re free.”

Twenty-six

HOFFMAN’S RENTED Chevy Camaro sat on a meter downtown, outside a golf store on Sutter at Montgomery. Ben strode toward it flashing the toothiest grin since he bounced on a bouncy castle. Sumiko wasn’t a problem. She was up for action. She’d invited him to stop by later. This assignment was panning out as a walk on the moon: dinner, and a fuck, and a raise.

So she screwed with Murayama? Not a hanging offense. It was obvious where her real needs lay: a hunky, hard gaijin. America, fuck yeah. They would go to paradise and come back slowly. Those pointless home visits, manila envelopes, breathless phone calls, were nothing but a smokescreen for desire.

Doctorjee hauled his bulk from the coupe’s front passenger seat, allowing Ben to clamber into the back. The suspension rocked as the executive vice president swung himself inside—and flinched as he pulled shut the door. His shirt was torn and his left cheek puffy, as if he’d been grabbed by the collar and slapped.

After lunch with Murayama, Ben had called the general counsel, but only got voicemail. He left a message. With Sumiko threatening to catch a cab to Peter Glinski’s, he’d no choice but use his initiative. He’d taken a decision and gotten it right. He was certain he’d solved part of the mystery. Whatever the deal going down with Murayama, the best explanation for Sumiko’s home visits was she wanted to hang out. She was lonely.

Hoffman rested an elbow on the steering wheel, with a thumb and forefinger between his eyes. “Okay then, what was said? Gimme the latest. How deep’s this shit we’re in now?”

“Shit? No, you’re wrong. Everything’s cool. Sumiko’s, Dr. Honda’s, not a problem.” Ben recounted the Glinski visit, the fake consumer survey, the dance over who sat where. “She needs attention. That’s all. For real. Like we said when you sent me out here. She’s not an issue for the company, I’m certain.”

Hoffman adjusted the rearview mirror. “What did the husband say?”

“Just confirmed how his wife was going to the hospital, the trial center, and later she died of heart failure. End of story. If you ask me, he’d other things on his mind.”

Doctorjee turned his back to the passenger door. He wafted tangerine and lavender cologne. “If I might interject. This is what I’ve been saying. I’ve been trying to explain this in lay terms. People do die, even whilst enrolled in clinical trials.”

“And you can shut the fuck up.”

The EVP flinched again.

Hoffman: “Ben.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was that everything the husband said?”

“Said she got great medical care.”

“Nothing about anything from the center?”

“Dr. Honda asked about any paperwork. Forms or anything. Nothing he could recall.”

“And what else did she say?”

“Nothing much. Asked if he’d heard of Dr. Wilson.”

“And he said?”

“No. But she wasn’t exactly being like forensic, or anything. All seemed pretty pointless, if you ask me. Half the time she was checking me out. I mean, in the car I was getting the whole up and down treatment.”

“Is that so?”

“Practically had her face between my legs on the way back to the hospital. And get this: she’s invited me round to her place tonight. Just like your plan.”

“Don’t tell me about my plan.”

“That’s what I’m saying, I mean I’m thinking it’s not impossible that maybe we’re keeping her happy. We did it. Your plan. It’s working.”

He slid across the rear seat to escape Hoffman’s gaze. But the general counsel readjusted the mirror. “What’s the deal with Murayama then? How do you square him with your hypothesis? Because you know she’s fucking the Jap?”

That was a complexity. But was it fatal? Rivals for affection he could handle. “Okay, right. That’s true. They got a thing going in China, she said. Some conference in Shanghai, years ago. But she’s asking me to go round later. Me. Me.”

“What, you think if you fuck her that voids Sanomo’s proposition? You think she’s that shallow, you’re telling me?”

“No. I’m not saying that. But right now, we don’t even know what the proposition is. Maybe I can find out tonight.”

“And maybe you can. But what about Murayama? Where are we on that?”

“All done at my end, like you wanted.”

Hoffman eyed Doctorjee, who still cowered against the door. “And you, you motherfucker, what is it you think?”

“I surely don’t know. I cannot predict. I think we must be