The Timer Game. Susan Smith Arnout

confidence, something that factors into all this. Want anything else to drink? Or a muffin or something?’

      ‘Thanks. I’m set.’

      He made himself a second drink. The last penguin was ratcheting up a ladder to the top. It dipped its head and dove down the chute. He took a chair across from her.

      ‘Have you any idea how much this company’s worth?’

      She shook her head.

      ‘The Center has developed, won regulatory approval for, and marketed over ten drugs dealing with specific immunology disorders: diabetes, Crohn’s, MS, transplants, cancer, AIDS.’

      He paused. ‘It’s worth close to eight billion dollars, Grace. I know that because I just went through an extensive process of determining assets and liabilities. I’m selling.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Just what I said. I built a world, and now I’m tired.’ He smiled dryly. ‘And perhaps a little old. I’ve never publicly traded the Center so it frees me in some ways to do slightly unorthodox things. Of course I have a team of high-priced experts, many of whom are sitting around my conference table right now wondering where the hell I am, but we’ve passed due diligence and it’s in escrow. We close at the end of the week. Everybody’s signed confidentiality agreements and noncompete clauses, and we’ve played it close to the vest. I’ve already signed off at the secretary of state’s office on a release of the name, so the new owners can continue using it.’

      There was a quiet knock on the door and Warren’s assistant, a striking black woman named Karen, stuck her head in the door.

      ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir. The eastern sector pharmaceuticals rep has a plane to catch.’

      Warren stood. ‘I’d appreciate it if you could stay. This will only take a minute.’

      Grace nodded. Karen smiled neutrally and held the door open for Warren, closing it after him. They both retreated down the hall. Grace heard Warren’s voice in the conference room, muffled and hearty.

      Eight billion dollars, Grace thought. To her it was Monopoly money, not real. She wondered what he was going to do with his share. His wife had died years before. All he had was this place. His telling her about it matter-of-factly, his trusting her with such a significant secret, troubled her. It had nothing to do with Eddie Loud and brought her no closer to finding Jazz Studio, and she feared it was his way of trying to hook her back in.

      The door opened and Warren reappeared. He closed the door. ‘Sorry about that. I wouldn’t have told you if it wasn’t necessary, and of course this information is confidential and not to be shared.’

      ‘I understand.’

      ‘It’s a Swiss company called Belikond. They have their own marketing arm in place to smooth the way. They’ve pledged no personnel changes in the first twenty-four months, which makes it somewhat more palatable.’

      ‘The Center’s worth close to eight billion dollars?’ She was still on that.

      ‘Not just the Center. The manufacturing plants are in the mix, too, but the most significant assets are patents. The deal’s gone hard.’

      ‘Excuse me?’

      ‘Belikond’s had to put hard money down, and whether the deal closes or not – and it will close, I assure you – the seller gets to keep the deposit.’ He paused. ‘Ten percent of the total purchase price is typical.’

      She did the math in her mind and wished she were still drinking. She could use something a lot stronger than papaya juice.

      ‘And that seller getting to keep the hard money would be you.’

      ‘And others. Underwriting the Center are drug development companies, a cluster of university research deals, and some investment bankers willing to take huge risks. I’m the director but six others sit on the board, and getting them to agree on anything is like trying to get a bag full of cats to stop fighting. We’ve jumped through hoops the past ninety days – proof of title, physical inspection of the lands, the buildings, improvements – worldwide, Grace, not just here – and due diligence inspection of the IP’s. Intellectual properties. Checking that all the patents have been properly registered, and that there are no existing or potential claim infringements, and then dividing up each investor’s share. Oh, and then the lending bank sends over its own team and we do the dance all over again.’

      ‘And you’re closing when?’ She was certain he’d told her, she just couldn’t remember. She was on the verge of taking out a second mortgage on her house, just to repair the roof.

      ‘Delivery of assets, titles, full custody, and control gets turned over at the end of this week. I don’t have to be present, but I have to be on top of it.’

      Under the tan, there were dark circles under his eyes.

      ‘My chunk – minus whatever part the government’s going to chip out for taxes – I want wired to an account in the Caymans. And since nobody but me has that access code, they’re going to electronically link me as the deal closes. I’ll have thirty seconds on my end to enter the access code, releasing my funds into my private account. If I miss that window, my share gets sent to my bank stateside, but for tax reasons, that’s something I’d like to avoid. My share is worth several hundred million dollars.’

      The shock must have shown on her face. She looked around the immaculate space, studying his daughter’s photo so she wouldn’t have to meet his eyes. She wasn’t afraid of money and people who had it, but power tripped her up sometimes, and she could feel herself starting to fall.

      ‘So. You sell. You leave. Eddie Loud acted alone as a crazy person, God knows how he got my name. Nobody else is after me.’

      ‘Not exactly. I told you it was complicated. Yesterday, I got this.’

      He went to his desk and unlocked the drawer and came back with a postcard. ‘Hand-delivered, left in a manila envelope for me downstairs at Information.’

      The postcard was faintly blue in color, on handmade paper stock, with streaks of heavier blue weaving through it. There was no address or postmark. Warren Pendrell’s name had been typed on the message side, with a single typed sentence underneath: He’s coming for you, the Spikeman.

      She turned the postcard over. Warren’s picture had been cut and pasted onto the postcard. It was blurred, shot as he stepped through the front door of the Center, a hand shading his eyes.

      Imbedded in his chest was a crudely drawn butcher knife, dripping with blood.

      ‘“He’s coming for you, the Spikeman.” And the butcher knife. It’s the same threat, Grace. The same. One thing science teaches, there are no coincidences.’

      ‘You’re saying somebody could be after both of us? Who? Why?’

      He shook his head. ‘I have no idea.’

      ‘I could take this in. Get somebody to run tests.’ She and Paul Collins were colleagues, but Marcie had worked next to Grace in the forensic biology lab for five years, and they were friends. The tall, emaciated, jumpy woman would figure out a way to have the postcard tested if Grace asked, even though fibers and documents were not handled in their lab, and the paper wasn’t saturated with biological fluids.

      Warren shook his head. ‘The last thing I want is the police involved while I’m negotiating this deal. Businesses run on rumors and innuendo, Grace. The total valuation of the business has been in flux over the period of time we’ve negotiated, and I’m talking a flux that could cost us millions. I don’t want to hand Belikond anything else its team could use.’

      ‘Marcie’s very discreet.’

      ‘Grace, I’m serious. I want things quiet and on schedule. I’m telling you this because I want you to protect yourself. Let me rephrase that. I want to protect you. And Katie.’

      ‘We’re okay.’