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  “That sample was lost.”

  “Okay. It was lost. But what good does that do? They can always dig up the body and get all the tissues they want.”

  “Correct.”

  “So?”

  “So let them do that. That’s Legal’s advice. Exhumation takes time, permits, and money. We’re guessing they won’t have the time or the money—and this thing will go away.”

  “Okay,” Marty said. “And I am here because?”

  “Because I need you to go back to pathology and confirm for me that, unfortunately, we have no more samples from the deceased, and that everything not given to the daughter has been lost or misplaced.”

  “Got it.”

  “Call me within the hour,” McCormick said, and turned away.

  Marty Roberts enteredthe basement pathology lab. His diener, Raza Rashad, a handsome, dark-eyed man of twenty-seven, was scrubbing the stainless steel tables for the next post. If truth be told, Raza really ran the path lab. Marty felt himself burdened by a heavy administrative load, managing the senior pathologists, the residents, the medical student rotations, and all the rest. He’d come to rely on Raza, who was highly intelligent and ambitious.

  “Hey, Raza. You remember that forty-six-year-old white guy with crush injuries, a week back? Drove himself into an overpass?”

  “Yeah. I remember. Heller, or Weller.”

  “The daughter asked for blood?”

  “Yeah. We gave her blood.”

  “Well, she ran a paternity test, and it came back negative. Guy was not her father.”

  Raza stared blankly. “That right?”

  “Yeah. Now the mother’s all upset. Wants more tissues. What’ve we got?”

  “I’d have to check. Probably the usual. All major organs.”

  Marty said, “Any chance that material got misplaced? So we couldn’t find it?”

  Raza nodded slowly, staring at Marty. “Maybe so. Always possible it could be mislabeled. Then it would be hard to find.”

  “Might take months?”

  “Or years. Maybe never.”

  “That’d be a shame,” Marty said. “Now, what about the blood from the tox screen?”

  Raza frowned. “Lab keeps that. We wouldn’t have access to their storage facility.”

  “So they still have that blood sample?”

  “Yeah. They do.”

  “And we have no access?”

  Raza smiled. “It might take me a couple of days.”

  “Okay. Do it.”

  Marty Roberts went to the phone and dialed the administrator’s office. When McCormick came on the line, he said, “I have some bad news, Kevin. Unfortunately, all the tissues have been lost or misplaced.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” McCormick said, and hung up.

  “Marty,” Raza said, coming into the office, “is there a problem with this Weller guy?”

  “No,” Marty said. “Not anymore. And I told you before—don’t call me Marty. My name is Dr. Roberts.”

  CH010

  At theRadial Genomics lab in La Jolla, Charlie Huggins twisted his flat-panel screen around to show Henry Kendall the headline:TALKING APE CLAIMED FRAUD . “What’d I tell you?” Charlie said. “A week later, and we learn the story’s a fake.”

  “Okay, okay. I was wrong,” Henry said. “I admit it, I was worried about nothing.”

  “Very worried…”

  “It’s in the past. Can we talk about something important?”

  “What’s that?”

  “The novelty-seeking gene. Our grant application was denied.” He began typing at the keyboard. “Once again, we’ve been screwed—by your personal favorite, the Pope of Dopamine, Dr. Robert A. Bellarmino of the NIH.”

  For the lastten years, brain studies had increasingly focused on a neurochemical called dopamine. Levels of dopamine seemed to be important in maintaining health as well as in diseases such as Parkinsonism and schizophrenia. From work in Charlie Huggins’s lab, it appeared that dopamine receptors in the brain were controlled by the geneD 4DR, among others. Charlie’s lab stood at the forefront of this research, until a rival scientist named Robert Bellarmino from the National Institutes of Health began referring toD 4DRas the “novelty gene,” the gene that supposedly controlled the urge to take risks, seek new sex partners, or engage in thrill-seeking behavior.

  As Bellarmino explained it, the fact that dopamine levels were higher in men than women was the reason for the greater recklessness of men, and their attraction to everything from mountain climbing to infidelity.

  Bellarmino was an evangelical Christian and a leading researcher at the NIH. Politically skilled, he was the very model of an up-to-date scientist, neatly blending a modest scientific talent with true media savvy. His laboratory was the first to hire its own publicity firm, and as a result, his ideas invariably got plenty of press coverage. (Which in turn attracted the brightest and most ambitious postdocs, who did brilliant work for him, thus adding to his prestige.)

  In the case ofD 4DR, Bellarmino was able to tailor his comments to the beliefs of his audience, either speaking enthusiastically about the new gene to progressive groups, or disparaging it to conservatives. He was colorful, future-oriented, and uninhibited in his predictions. He went so far as to suggest that there might one day be a vaccine to prevent infidelity.

  The absurdity of such comments so annoyed Charlie and Henry that six months before, they had applied for a grant to test the prevalence of the “novelty gene.”

  Their proposal was simplicity itself. They would send research teams to amusement parks to draw blood samples from individuals who rode roller coasters time and again during the day. In theory these “repeat coasters” would be more likely to carry the gene.

  The only problem with applying to the NSF was that their proposal would be read by anonymous reviewers. And one of the reviewers was likely to be Robert Bellarmino. And Bellarmino had a reputation for what was politely termed “appropriation.”

  “Anyway,” Henry said, “the NSF turned us down. The reviewers didn’t think our idea was worthy. One said it was too ‘jokey.’”

  “Uh-huh,” Charlie said. “What does this have to do with Robbin’ Rob?”

  “Remember where we proposed to conduct our study?”

  “Of course,” Charlie said. “At two of the biggest amusement parks in the world, in two different countries. Sandusky in the U.S., and Blackpool in England.”

  “Well, guess who’s out of town?” Henry said.

  He hit his e-mail button.

  From: Rob Bellarmino, NIH

  Subject: Out of Office AutoReply: Travel

  I will be out of the office for the next two weeks. If you need immediate assistance please contact my office by phone…

  “I called his office, and guess what? Bellarmino is going to Sandusky, Ohio—and then to Blackpool, England.”

  “That bastard,” Charlie said. “If you’re going to steal somebody else’s research proposal, you should at least have the courtesy to change it a little.”

  “Bellarmino obviously doesn’t care if we know he stole it,” Henry said. “Doesn’t that piss you off? What do you say we go for it? Put him up for ethical violations?”

  “I’d like nothing better,” Charlie said, “but, no. If we formally charge misconduct, it means a lot of time and a lot of paperwork. Our grants could dry up. And in the end, the complaint goes nowhere. Rob’s a major player at NIH. He’s got huge research facilities and he dispenses millions in grants. He holds prayer breakfasts with congressmen. He’s a scientist who believes in God. They love him on the Hill. He’d never be charged with misconduct. Even if we caught him buggering a lab assistant, he wouldn’t be charged.”

  “So we just let him do it?”

  “It’s not a perfect world,” Charlie said. “We have plenty to do. Walk away.”

  CH011

  Barry Sindlerwas bored. The woman before him yammered on. She was an obvious type—the rich-bitch Eastern broad who wore pant
s, Katharine Hepburn with an attitude, a trust fund, a nasal Newport accent. But despite her aristocratic airs, the best she could manage was to hump the tennis pro, just like every L.A. fake-tit dimwit in this town.

  But she was perfectly suited to the dumb-ass attorney by her side—that Ivy League jackoff Bob Wilson, wearing a pinstripe suit and a button-down shirt with a rep tie and those stupid lace-up wingtips with the little perforations in the toes. No wonder everyone called him Whitey Wilson. Wilson never tired of reminding everyone he was a Harvard-trained lawyer—as if anybody gave a shit. Certainly Barry Sindler didn’t. Because he knew Wilson was a gentleman. Which really meant he was chickenshit. He wouldn’t go for the throat.

  And Sindler always went for the throat.

  The woman, Karen Diehl, was still talking. Jesus, these rich bitches could talk. Sindler didn’t interrupt her because he didn’t want Whitey to state on the record that Sindler was badgering the woman. Wilson had said that four times already. So, fine. Let the bitch talk. Let her tell in full, exhausting, incredibly stupefyingly boring detail why her husband was a lousy father and a total shit heel. Because the truth was,she was the one who’d had the affair.

  Not that that could ever come out in court. California had no-fault divorce, which meant there were no specific grounds for divorce, just “irreconcilable differences.” But a woman’s infidelity always colored the proceedings. Because in skilled hands—Barry’s hands—that fact could easily be turned into the insinuation that this woman had more important priorities than her darling children. She was a neglectful parent, an unreliable custodian, a selfish woman who sought her own pleasure while she left the kids all day with the Spanish-speaking maid.

  And she was good-looking at twenty-eight, he thought. That worked against her, too. Indeed, Barry Sindler could see his central theme shaping up quite nicely. And Whitey Wilson looked a bit anxious. He probably knew where Sindler would take this.

  Or maybe Whitey was troubled by the fact that Sindler was attending the depo at all. Because ordinarily Barry Sindler didn’t conduct spousal depos. He left those to the jerkoff peons in his office, while he spent his days downtown, racking up expensive courtroom hours.

  Finally, the woman stopped to catch her breath. Sindler moved in. “Mrs. Diehl, I would like to hold this line of questioning and go on to another issue. We are formally requesting that you undergo a full battery of genetic tests at a reputable facility, preferably UCLA, and—”

  The woman sat bolt upright. Her face colored swiftly. “No!”

  “Let’s not be hasty,” Whitey said, putting his hand on his client’s arm. She angrily pushed him away.

  “No! Absolutely not! I refuse!”

  How wonderful.How unexpected andwonderful.

  “In anticipation of your possible refusal,” Sindler continued, “we have drafted a request that the court order these tests”—he passed a document to Whitey—“and we fully expect the judge to agree.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Whitey said, thumbing through the pages. “Genetic testing in a custody case…”

  By now Mrs. Diehl was full-bore hysterical. “No! No! I will not! It’shis idea, isn’t it? That prick! How dare he! That sneaking son of a bitch!”

  Whitey was looking at his client with a puzzled expression. “Mrs. Diehl,” he said, “I think it’s best if we discuss this in private—”

  “No! No discussion! No test! That’s it! No!”

  “In that case,” Sindler said, with a little shrug, “we have no choice but to go to the judge…”

  “Fuck you! Fuck him! Fuck all of you!No fucking test! ”

  And she stood up, grabbed her purse, and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  There was a moment of silence. Sindler said, “Let the record show that at three forty-five p.m. the witness left the room, thus ending the deposition.”

  He began to put his papers into his briefcase.

  Whitey Wilson said, “I’ve never heard of this, Barry. What’s genetic testing got to do with child custody?”

  “That’s what the tests are intended to find out,” Sindler said. “This is a new procedure, but I think you’ll find it’s the coming thing.” He snapped his briefcase shut, shook Whitey’s limp hand, and left the office.

  CH012

  Josh Winklerclosed the door to his office and started toward the cafeteria when his phone rang. It was his mother. She was being pleasant, always a danger sign. “Josh, dear, I want you to tell me, what have you done to your brother?”

  “What do you mean, done to him? I haven’t done anything. I haven’t seen him in two weeks, since I picked him up from jail.”

  “Adam had his arraignment today,” she said. “And Charles was there, representing him.”

  “Uh-huh…” Waiting for the other shoe to drop. “And?”

  “Adam came to court on time, in a clean shirt and tie, clean suit, hair cut, even his shoes polished. He pleaded guilty, asked to be put in a drug program, said he had not used in two weeks, said he had gotten a job—”

  “What?”

  “Yes, he’s got a job, apparently as a limo driver for his old company. Been working there steadily for the last two weeks. Charles says he’s gained weight—”

  “I don’t believe this,” Josh said.

  “I know,” she said. “Charles didn’t either, but he swears it’s all true. Adam’s like a new man. He’s acquired a newfound maturity. It’s like he suddenly grew up. It’s a miracle, don’t you think? Joshua? Are you there?”

  “I’m here,” he said, after a pause.

  “Isn’t it a miracle?”

  “Yes, Mom. A miracle.”

  “I called Adam. He has a cell phone now, and he answered right away. And he says you did something to help him. What did you do?”

  “Nothing, Mom. We just had a talk.”

  “He said you gave him some genetic thing. An inhaler.”

  Oh Jesus, he thought.There are rules against this kind of thing .Serious rules . Human experimentation without formal application, meetings of the approvals board, following the federal guidelines. Josh would be fired in an instant. “No, Mom, I think he must be misremembering. He was pretty whacked out at the time.”

  “He said there was a spray.”

  “No, Mom.”

  “He inhaled some mouse spray.”

  “No, Mom.”

  “He said he did.”

  “No, Mom.”

  “Well, don’t be so defensive,” she said. “I thought you would be pleased. I mean, you’re always looking for new drugs, Joshua. Big commercial applications. I mean, what if this spray gets people off drugs? What if it breaks their addiction?”

  Joshua was shaking his head. “Mom, really, nothing happened.”

  “Okay, fine, you don’t want to tell me the truth, I get it. Was it something experimental? Is that what your spray is?”

  “Mom—”

  “Because the thing is, Josh, I told Lois Graham about it because her Eric dropped out of USC. He’s on crack or smack or—”

  “Mom—”

  “And she wants to try this spray on him.”

  Oh Jesus. “Mom, you can’t talk about this.”

  “And Helen Stern, her daughter is on sleeping pills; she crashed her car; they’re talking about putting her baby in foster care. And Helen wants—”

  “Mom, please! You can’t talk about itanymore !”

  “Are you crazy? Ihave to talk about it,” she said. “You gave me my son back. It’s a miracle. Don’t you realize, Joshua? You have performed a miracle. The whole world is going to talk about what you have done—whether you like it or not.”

  He was beginning to sweat, to feel dizzy, but suddenly his vision became clear and calm.The whole world is going to talk about it.

  Of course, that was true. If you could get people off drugs? It would be the most valuable pharmaceutical in the last decade. Everybody would want it. And what if it did more? Could it cure obsessive-c
ompulsive disorders? Could it cure attention-deficit disorders? The maturity gene had behavioral effects. They already knew that. Adam sniffing that aerosol was a gift from God.

  And his next thought was: What’s the state of the patent application onACMPD 3N7?

  He decided to skip lunch and head back to the office.