Close Enough to Hurt, page 3
My jitters aren’t helped by the research I did, always the first step in a pro case like this. I spent Saturday compiling information; first for Dr. Evelyn Chang, then for Brent, scouring the internet and his social media and business profiles. It hurts my pride to admit it, but the “self-made” wunderkind CEO won’t be an easy target. A recent headshot from a downright worshipful media feature is fixed in my brain. Still “boyishly handsome,” whatever the fuck that means, with a round face and blond, curly hair and large blue eyes. Vacant looking, really. As if the camera caught him between personalities before he could decide which one would better press his advantage.
More importantly, however, good ol’ Brent’s got more than enough wealth nowadays to insulate himself from recrimination. Clearly, as there wasn’t the slightest whiff of fraud, not in any of the newspapers or magazines I scoured. I’m dying to get Evelyn’s side of the story and learn what she envisions for justice.
Frustrated and overcaffeinated, I hop in my kayak to get the blood moving. Burn my restless energy, immerse myself in blessed solitude on Richardson Bay.
Except … another kayaker encroaches on my space. A novice, maybe? I drop a blade, make a sweep stroke, and survey.
Rented gear, maybe from the local tour company. Too wide a grip on the paddle, muscling his way through the water like he can tame the ocean itself. No wonder he’s struggling to straighten himself against the prevailing wind blowing down the Sausalito hills into the bay, getting pushed away from the marina and into the boat channel.
Something about him is vaguely familiar. The hapless recipient of Lady Justice’s punishment? It must be. After enough time, faces are bound to blur together and trigger my déjà vu. He has some height, long legs extended on his kayak. Gauging by the width of his shoulders, though, he ought to have the upper-body strength to figure his life out and get out of the way of oncoming yachts.
Convinced of his relative safety—never let it be said I’m heartless, just appropriately ruthless, Khaleesi scorching the earth when need arises—I sweep stroke again and continue my merry way north.
“Hey!”
The man’s voice reaches me in the wind. Distant but clear.
“Wait up! Please!”
I grit my molars shut and sweep stroke once more to face him. “Are you lost?” I raise my voice. “The shore is that way.” I indicate with my paddle in case the message is lost in translation.
If he hears my gratis advice, he ignores it. Maybe he can’t hear over the fuss he’s making struggling to get to me, stroking and thrashing. It’s painful to watch. Finally, he’s within yards, close enough we don’t have to shout.
Shaggy red hair. My age, maybe younger. A smile like he’s never been happier to see someone in his entire life. The overall impression is that of a manic, handsome golden retriever.
“Hi!” he says. “I know this is weird, but you looked like someone I knew when I was young, so I had to—”
Oh, great. A pickup artist. That’s a sure way to ruin whatever was left of my victory high from Friday. “Do I know you?”
He seems jarred by my abrupt manner, but I enjoy my time alone. He turns hazel eyes on me like lasers. “Are you Dylan?” he asks carefully. “Dylan Truman?”
I blink several times, glad for the mirrored shades covering my eyes. Few in San Francisco know my real name. I left it behind like I left Eureka behind. Like I left Gabrielle behind when I couldn’t be around her anymore. Couldn’t see that scar on her face and not want to cut Brent the way he did her.
“Who wants to know?” My voice is hard.
“I do,” he says with such sincerity, I have to laugh.
“You’ve got the wrong person. Sorry.” I turn again—so many about-faces today; how annoyingly wishy-washy—and make to leave. My precious time on the water is being eaten away by this hyper hot mess of a man who knows my name.
“You stood up for me. In second grade. Well, I guess you would’ve been older, fifth grade maybe?” He laughs, a little awkward, but dogged. I’ll grant him that. “Freshwater Elementary School, in Eureka? Home of the Dolphins?”
I pause.
He knows me. The real me. Somehow.
Then I remember, and it’s as if all the water beneath me has drained away.
“We were on the playground after lunch,” he says, “and I was getting beat up by some older kids. You stepped in like you were Wonder Woman and told them all to go to hell. I couldn’t believe you cussed like that. My seven-year-old head almost exploded.”
I side sweep a last time, slowly, and face him. “Rhys? Rhys … Morgan, right?”
He gives a small wave, hand close to his chest.
The wind roars over my ears and years fall away and I see him, so much smaller than he is right now. Smaller than I was, and I wasn’t much. I’m still not much, sitting pretty at five foot two, but years of Krav Maga and kayaking have given me the dense build of a gymnast.
He’s gained at least a foot on me since then, and yet many things are the same. The panting eagerness, like a puppy. His righteous, do-gooder seven-year-old heart. No wonder he got picked on. Anyone could tell he cared about things, even then. How very uncool.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” Rhys says.
There’s something potent in his voice, but the emotion is gone before I can wrap my brain around it. If it’s awe, I can’t blame him. This is bizarre, finding someone from elementary school out on the water, without the aid of social media. How you like me now, Zuckerberg?
“Sorry to chase you like some stalker,” he says. “I just had to know.”
“Well, you were right after all.” Rhys must be a bloodhound, not retriever.
“Do you live here?” he asks. “In the city?”
I nod. “You?”
“I moved a few months ago.”
“For work?” I’ll keep asking questions, let him do the talking. It’s so easy to do, and it’s not until afterward people realize they know nothing of importance about me.
“Yeah. I was in LA for a while, writing for the Times, but I couldn’t stand the commute. The Chronicle will let me work from home, so that’s where I’m at now.”
A journalist. Ah, yes.
Whatever warmth I might’ve felt at seeing an old classmate disappears like fog. My hackles lift, suspicion crackling under my skin. This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been approached by someone trying to identify the person behind my alias, Lady Justice. My clients come to me from word of mouth, but the chain of anonymity is bound to have weak links. And if someone from my past knew who I was before, they could’ve recognized me at the scene of retribution, even with my myriad disguises. Damn everyone’s camera in their pocket and the internet’s long memory.
And that’s to say nothing of human error. It’s impossible to keep your guard up at all moments, though I do my best. Did I slip up? I don’t know, but I do know this meeting is not serendipitous, no matter the guileless expression on his face.
I give a noncommittal nod. “That’s great.”
He waits for me to offer information about myself, but I meet him with silence.
Around us, the sun rises, and the water is colored by the sky in shades of teal and deep navy blue. The wind has died down, just a gentle breeze ruffling our hair and clothing. When we were young, Gabrielle loved being out on the ocean on calm days like this. She always brought her camera with her, no matter where she went, until she stopped going anywhere at all. Normally, a day like today would thrill me to no end, but all possibility of enjoyment is gone with my spidey sense tingling.
“I won’t keep you, but it’s nice to see a familiar face,” Rhys says, still searching mine. “I haven’t … well, I guess I haven’t really found my footing here yet. It’s hard making friends as an adult, right?”
I already know where he’s heading with this, and I already know what my answer will be. Must be.
“Would you like to meet for coffee or something? Catch up?” he ventures.
Absolutely fucking not. “No. I don’t think so.”
“Oh! Okay.” He nods, too vigorously. “Sure, I understand.”
He has the worst poker face in the world, his entire being deflating. Maybe that’s his trick for investigative journalism—guilt. I won’t fall for it. I’ve seen every dirty trick in the book.
“Nice to see you again, Rhys. Take care.”
Before he can respond, I paddle away in determined strokes, carving into the water. If I let my feelings lead the way, I’d be in jail rather than enjoying vigilante life and the taste of reckoning and real power, strong as the tides. The kind most people only dream about.
At home, I shower, jump into a green wrap dress, and head to my office in Bay Front Park right by the water. Seeing a journalist and knowing I’ll have to put him off the scent has ruined my morning, but if nothing else, I can get some admin work done while I wait to hear from Daniel regarding Dr. Chang. Anything’s better than sitting around, waiting for the starter pistol to fire.
In the office, I flop down in the vintage leather armchair and admire the view through succulents and cacti in the window. Dark Horse Consulting has come a long way from the days when I shared an apartment in the Tenderloin with three other roommates. It’s been seven years since I returned to California and officially started my business, but the details are still clear as soju. Petty revenge for hire held me over for almost two years until I reeled in my first big client. Ruth. The woman who told me how she’d been fucked over on a crucial performance review after refusing her superior’s advances and reporting him to HR. When she finished the three very dry martinis I’d whipped up behind the bar at the St. Regis—the perfect haunt for hearing the stories of misogyny and maliciousness, over and over—I slid her my business card, heart in my throat, sure I’d never hear from her again.
She called me the next morning, her voice crisp and bitter as vermouth. How do we fuck him right back?
Leave it to me, I said.
I spent weeks following her boss (married, two children at home). Photographing him with Gabrielle’s camera, which felt more than a little apropos, and still does. Much of my research happens via the internet—if pervs and stalkers can do it, why not me?—but people leave so much of themselves online, they forget there are eyes in real life too.
Within a month, I had photos of him picking up a string of women and various sex workers, including my friend Nadya. She helped me score the money shots, lingering outside the hotel with him, blonde hair like a sheet of platinum in the encroaching dusk. The compendium of evidence was sent to his wife, then leaked online. When the floodgates opened, years of pent-up fury from others he’d groped, demeaned, and threatened swept him away. He lost his job and wife within a week, and my new best friend Ruth took his job and sent the promotion pay my way, balancing the cosmic scales at last.
After Ruth, things took off. She referred me to a friend of hers, a Black start-up founder being harassed by a VC who proposed funding in exchange for sex. After her, the guy who ran off with his sidepiece and used his fiancée’s money to finance their escapade. Then the guy posting his ex-girlfriend’s nudes online. The whisper network brought me a never-ending torrent of douchebags, long overdue for a taste of their own poisonous medicine.
I jump when my phone buzzes, excavating my tote bag until I find it.
Dr. Chang wants to speak to you. Can you meet her at noon? Daniel’s text lights up the screen.
I type my reply. Yes, today would be perfect. Your timing is impeccable—I’m already at my office. Thank you for convincing her to see me, I add. I wasn’t sure if she’d come.
She’s still spooked, Daniel says. Hellfire may not be the best approach. So go easy, tiger.
I will.
Of course she’s still shaken, if she was threatened on her way out the door. I would’ve put that together anyway when I met her, but I appreciate his heads-up. It’ll help me tailor my approach.
When she arrives, Dr. Evelyn Chang is taller than I expected. My nose barely comes to her collarbone when we hug.
“Volleyball,” she says, when I ask her if she participated in any sports for Stanford.
“I might’ve guessed.”
She sits across from me in the large hanging wicker chair, lighting up at the mention of her sport. The chair might be an odd choice, but my clients enjoy it—something about the gentle swaying helps people open up. That and the essential oil diffuser, filling the room with my favorite cedar and sage scent, mellow and relaxing.
As far as the Division I sports goes, it doesn’t surprise me. She has the upright posture of an athlete. A woman who knows the strength of her own body as well as her mind.
“Can I get you something to drink? Water, coffee? Tea?” I ask. “I have rooibos, sencha, chamomile?”
“Tea would be great. Chamomile, please.”
“You got it. I’ll have chamomile too. I hit my caffeine quota at zero dark thirty, and I think I hear colors.”
She looks tired. Deep-purple circles darken her eyes, making her seem older than my own thirty-two. Still, she musters a smile for me and my silly joke as I heat our water and pour it into two earthenware mugs. I can’t help it—my liking for her is intense and immediate. She’s a fighter, too, in her own quiet way. She wouldn’t be here otherwise.
As our tea steeps, I have her talk. We must know each other and trust each other to embark on this project. “So, tell me about your job for Prometheus.”
I read about the company already, but listening to her story in her own words helps me learn what’s important to her. The things she pays attention to, the details she highlights. All the while, I build a portfolio in my mind, gauging the scope of her ambition. The nature of the revenge she’ll seek.
“It started years ago. Brent was obsessed with the idea of finding an antidepressant that ‘cured’ major depression and pitched the idea to investors before we even had a viable product. At the time, I swallowed the Kool-Aid and was flattered he’d tapped my department to make it happen, though what he was asking for was extremely difficult.”
She sips her tea, and her face hardens, tightening around her eyes. “When I couldn’t deliver, I and my entire team were replaced with students straight out of grad school.”
“Yes men, in other words.” I jot it down in my notepad with the heavy, fancy-pants fountain pen Daniel gifted me with a few years ago.
She nods. “Yeah, but in all honesty, I probably would’ve said yes too, if I were in their shoes, if I had less seniority. And less sense of responsibility. Who wants to blow a huge opportunity working for a unicorn pharmaceutical start-up straight out of college? Of course they’re going to sign off on the science.
“Against all odds, the new team managed to get the antidepressant to phase-three clinical trials. But”—she pauses—“they didn’t, not really, because Brent falsified the safety data from the clinical trials. Risederon has significant toxicity and numerous side effects.” She ticks them off with both hands. “Headaches, high blood pressure, hallucinations. For some, intense muscle spasms, paresthesia—pins and needles. And worse, a huge percentage of people in the early clinical trials attempted, and sometimes succeeded in, suicide.”
Goose bumps break out on my skin, small hairs lifting over my entire body. This is much bigger than I imagined.
“And you found out,” I say.
Her smile could freeze the Mojave. “But I don’t have physical proof—I just saw the papers on his desk. Which is where you come in, or so I’ve been told.”
It’s quiet in my office. Just our breathing and the gentle hum of the air conditioning as it kicks on, adding to the purr from my sound machine, masking our voices.
“And now he’s defrauding his investors,” she says. “Pushing to promote the drug, despite the toxicity, despite knowing at some point or another the general public will catch on.”
“Have you considered going to federal agencies about this?” I ask. “Reporting the falsified data—the existence of it, anyway? The SEC, maybe? There has to be a way to do this and stay anonymous.”
She shakes her head vigorously. The first fear I’ve seen from her. “Not unless I had the proof. Officially, I was fired for not delivering on Risederon, but I think he knows what I saw. I think …” She looks out the window. “He has someone following me. There’s been this car parked outside our apartment for several weeks now. I’m taking a huge risk being here.”
It’s no surprise he has someone tailing her. With billions of dollars at stake, a sociopath like Brent would do anything to protect his image and wealth. Anyone who gets in the way will be collateral damage.
“I’ll put you in touch with a private security specialist,” I say. “They’ll bill me, so don’t be shy about asking for what you need. And in the meantime, don’t talk to anyone else. Don’t answer your door, don’t answer phone calls from numbers you don’t recognize, don’t answer any new emails. You should assume anyone trying to contact you is working for him.”
Her eyes widen. “You don’t think I’m just being paranoid?”
“I listen to women when they feel threatened. They’re rarely wrong.”
Evelyn’s face crumples. Tears leak when she blinks.
It hurts to watch. I remember every one of my cases. The details stay with me years down the road. This job is like holding a double-edged sword in my palms, hoping I don’t get sliced along the way, but even when I do, it makes me want to hold on harder.
“I don’t know what to do,” she says. “Part of me wants to raise hell and see this man finally get what’s coming to him. The other part of me is so scared. Confronting him was the right thing to do.” She sniffs hard. “But it came with such a price. You can imagine how well he took it. He smiled, told me how I was mistaken, I didn’t have all the correct data … he said all the right things, voiced the rationalizations I myself had come up with. Made me question my sanity, my perception of reality. In the end, though, I knew I wasn’t losing my grip, because all the while he was speaking, he looked at me like he wanted to … I don’t know … kill me or something.” She shudders, shoulders quaking.
