“What’s going to happen with Curedon now that Dr. Sparks is gone?” Oliver asked.
“Not much probably. The initial trials of Curedon have been quite successful in general.” Decameron’s smile was tight. “Although we have had a few ups and downs lately. That’s why I was so pleased when I saw Azor’s data coming through his fax. I just couldn’t wait for him to come out of surgery. But it was wrong. An invasion of his privacy.”
Marge tapped her pencil against her pad. “What do you mean ‘ups and downs’?”
Decameron looked pained. “A small rise in the mortality rate—”
“That’s death rate in common folk language,” Marge interrupted.
Decameron smiled. “Yes. Death rate.”
“With Curedon.”
“Yes, with Curedon.” Decameron looked at Marge pointedly. “The patients aren’t dying from the drug, they’re dying from heart and renal failure. The sharp rise is puzzling, but kinks aren’t uncommon. Ah, the glamorous life of a research physician. Probably data error. Or a transcription error … or, alas, it could actually be a problem with the drug.”
“And if it is a problem with the drug?” Oliver asked.
“We’ll work it out. Curedon’s been a marvel. Too good to be true. Some bumps are inevitable. But mark my words. The drug will come on the market within the next five years.”
He paused.
“For Azor not to see the fruits of his labors … that is a tragedy of Greek proportions.”
Oliver asked, “Who do you do the trials on?”
“Actually, our team doesn’t run the trials. The FDA—Food and Drug Administration—analyzes the numbers in conjunction with Fisher/Tyne, which actually runs the trials.”
“Wait a minute.” Marge turned to Heather. “I thought you said Fisher/Tyne bought the drug from Sparks.”
“They did buy it from Sparks,” Decameron stated. “I don’t know how much they paid for it. But I do know Sparks received a huge initial cash deposit and was promised a percentage of the profits after the drug hit the marketplace.”
“Who will get Sparks’s percentage now that he’s dead?” Marge asked.
“I don’t know,” Decameron said. “Certainly not me. Effectively, Fisher/Tyne owns the rights to produce and market Curedon. Those rights were sold to them by the cash deposit.”
Oliver looked over his notes. “I’m confused about something.”
“Sorry. Teaching isn’t my forte.”
Oliver asked, “What do you mean when you say that the FDA is testing the drug in conjunction with Fisher/Tyne?”
“Fisher/Tyne, under our guidance and protocol, is running the lab tests for Curedon. The FDA gets copies of the results and analyzes them. At the moment, I’m the liaison between Fisher/Tyne, Dr. Sparks, and the FDA.”
“Fisher/Tyne is running the FDA tests for a drug it owns?” Marge was taken aback. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”
“Happens all the time, my dear,” Decameron said. “Who do you think ran the tests for Prozac? Eli Lilly, of course. The FDA doesn’t have the skill, manpower or knowledge to test all the thousands of drugs that get put on the market. The FDA is the drug police. They determine policy and safety, but in general, they do not test. They rely heavily on the drug companies for their results.”
Oliver and Marge traded looks.
“That’s incredible!” Marge shook her head. “Who protects the consumer?”
“The integrity of the drug company.”
“We’re in big trouble,” Oliver stated.
“Actually, it’s not as bad you think,” Decameron said. “It’s not that drug companies are the bastion of honesty. But they are practical animals. An unsafe drug goes on the market, it spells L-A-W-S-U-I-T-S. They have a vested interest in making sure the drug is safe.”
“How about safe and effective?” Oliver asked.
“Effective?” Decameron raised his brow. “Of course, the drug must be effective.” He paused. “How effective? Well, that’s another issue entirely.”
The accusing voice hit Decker in the face like a bucket of ice.
“What the hell is going on!” it boomed.
Bram said, “Can you please let the man walk through the door first?” He stepped aside, allowing Decker to enter.
A sea of eyes upon him. With a sweeping glance, Decker took them all in. By now, he could tell who was who. Luke appeared older than his twin, his face fleshier and heavily lined, his eyes weary and cushioned with deep pouches. He was dressed in jeans and a sweater, his feet housed in sandals and socks. Unlike his twin, he wasn’t wearing glasses. Could be he had on contacts.
Mr. Booming Voice was Paul, the odd man of the trio. Handsome, though, with fiery blue eyes that held a nervous twitch. He blinked often and hard. He wore the standard gray business suit, but the tie was off, the white shirt was open at the collar.
Maggie and Michael sat on the sofa, eyes on Bram’s face. The remaining sister, Eva, was off to the side staring into space. Her complexion was as smooth as alabaster, her features fine and delicate. Her hair was pulled back, gold earrings clamped to her lobes. Garbed in a pale pink silk pants suit, she was very striking in an unapproachable way.
Michael got up, took Bram’s coat. “You’re white,” he said. “Let me get you some tea.” He turned to Decker. “Would you like some tea, Lieutenant?”
Decker shook his head.
Maggie stood. “I’ll brew a pot, Michael.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
Bram kissed his sister’s cheek. “Thanks, Mag. Did you take your medication?”
“Yes.” The young woman’s face crumpled. She ran off, disappearing down a hallway.
Paul blinked rapidly. “Can I talk now or do I have to raise my hand?”
Bram gave him a tired glance. “Why don’t we all sit down.”
“I don’t feel like sitting,” Paul said.
“Fine, Paul. You stand. I’ll sit.” Bram went into the living room and sank into the floral-faded overstuffed couch. Paul continued to pace, Eva remained leaning against the gold flocked-papered wall of the entry hall, staring upward at the dusty chandelier. Some of the brass fittings had been corroded rusty red.
Decker surveyed the room once again. The worn sofa took up most of the space. It was a three-piece sectional and faced two lumpy overstuffed chairs. A distressed-wood coffee table stood amid the seating. It held a half-dozen garden magazines and the King James Bible. In the far corner was a black grand piano, the sound box lid shut tight. Again, Decker was struck by the absence of any art on the walls. Just montage after montage of family photographs. He sat in one of the chairs.
Bram asked, “How’s Mom doing?”
“She’s sleeping.” Michael tugged at his sweater. “I gave her tea to keep her fluids up. She drank a little.