Prescription: Makeover. Jessica Andersen

his brain. Couldn’t she have sent him something that didn’t need a translator?

      Telling himself it wasn’t an excuse, he grabbed the phone and dialed the number she’d called from earlier. There was a funny sounding click after the third ring. Then she picked up. “Ike here.”

      “Summarize this technobabble for me, will you?”

      There was a pause before she said, “And you are…?”

      He gritted his teeth. “William Caine.”

      “I know. I was just messing with you.” Her voice shifted from teasing to serious. “You want the short version on Duchenne? The word unfortunate pretty much sums it up. It’s a sex-linked genetic disease seen in about two out of every ten thousand live male births. Affected kids suffer from a progressive wasting of muscle starting around the age of three. They’re usually wheelchair-bound by ten and dead by twenty.” A thread of pain in her voice added humanity to the clinical rundown.

      William paused a moment before he said, “And Kupfer?”

      “Dr. Lukas Kupfer, age forty-two, divorced from Lucille Kupfer eight years ago. They had one son—Matthew—who died nine years ago of DMD, at the age of ten, which is early for the disease. Kupfer led the initial efforts to cure DMD at the genetic level, faded from the scene for a few years after his son’s death and then reappeared five years ago at the Markham Institute, where he’s been working on using adenovirus-based gene therapy to cure DMD.”

      “Any idea why Odin would go after him versus another DMD researcher?”

      “No, damn it,” she answered, frustration sharpening her voice. “As far as I can tell, none of the dead men were connected to Kupfer, his competitors or the drug companies supplying the current DMD therapies. And, to be honest, the DMD drugs probably don’t command enough of a market share to interest The Nine.”

      “So it’s either personal for Odin or we’re missing something,” William mused. He glanced at the clock and realized he had to wrap it up. “Keep digging and e-mail me whatever you find. I have a ten-o’clock appointment.”

      “Will do. Try not to scare off the paying customers.”

      Figuring he’d let her have the last word this time, William hung up and sat for a few minutes, turning over the new information in his mind. If she was right about the DMD drugs, then what was Odin’s angle? More importantly, how could they get to the bastard if they couldn’t find a way into the lab?

      They’d already discussed and discarded the idea of warning Kupfer of the possible danger—it was just too damn risky. The man at the Coach House meeting had said Odin was going to take care of Lukas Kupfer personally before the press conference. What if “taking care of” Kupfer meant paying him off? What if the DMD researcher was already on board with The Nine?

      No, until they figured out Odin’s identity and the identities of the men he planned to recruit to rebuild his organization, they had to assume anyone they met could be a possible suspect.

      Out in the hallway, Max’s voice said, “This way, please. Can I get you a cup of coffee? Soda?” It was his week to play secretary. Until Vasek & Caine plowed out from underneath the mountain of debt they’d accumulated during start-up, there wasn’t enough money for an official receptionist. And, to be honest, there hadn’t been sufficient business to warrant one yet.

      At least not of the paying variety.

      “I’m fine, but thank you for offering,” a woman said, her voice soft and a little hesitant.

      William stood as Max appeared in the doorway. “This is Maxine Waterson,” he said, keeping his voice low, as though he were afraid of scaring off the prospective client.

      And with good reason, William thought as Max ushered her into the office, where she stood glancing from the men to the door and back.

      Her rounded shoulders were hunched inward beneath a shapeless green sweatshirt that had cats embroidered across the chest, and her sturdy looking hips and legs were encased in megamart blue jeans. She wore a shiny brown purse slung bandolier-style across her body with country-girl goes-into-the-big-city nerves and had her arms crossed protectively just below the embroidered cats. A simple gold wedding band seemed to be her only jewelry, and her long midbrown hair hung straight down like a curtain, covering her ears and shielding her face. As she peered through her too long bangs with pale, wary eyes, she looked about a half second away from bolting.