In Death 13 - Seduction in Death

Stiles snorting out what might have been a laugh.
    "In any case," Roarke continued, "I need information about the partnership, the project, and the players."
    "I look like a fucking data bank to you?"
    Roarke ignored the question. More, he ignored the delivery, something he wouldn't have done for many. "I've already accessed considerable data, but the personal touch is helpful. Theodore McNamara."
    "Asshole."
    "As I believe that's your affectionate term for nearly everyone in your acquaintance, and out of it, perhaps you could be more specific."
    "More interested in profit than the results. In glory than the big picture. Administrate you to death and back again just for the enjoyment of proving who was pushing the buttons. Wanted a name for himself. He was top dog around here then, and he made sure we all knew it by pissing on everyone as often as possible. Courted the media like a publicity whore."
    "I take it you didn't get together for a quick beer after a hard day over the petri dish."
    "Couldn't stand the son of a bitch. Can't knock his professional skills. There's a brilliant mind in that puffed up prima donna."
    He sucked on his pipe a little, thinking. "He hand-selected most of the teams. Brought his doormat of a daughter in on it. What the hell was her name... Hah, who gives a shit? Good brain, worked like a dog, and had nothing to say for herself."
    "Can I assume from this the project was primarily McNamara's baby?"
    "He made the majority of decisions, made the blueprints for the direction the work took. It was a corporate project, but McNamara was the figurehead, spokesperson, main son of a bitch in charge. There was a lot of money riding on the deal. Corporate money, private investors. Sex sells. We had some luck in a couple areas."
    "Considerable."
    "Guaranteeing a man he can still get a boner when he's a hundred and two and letting a woman keep her biological clock ticking past the half-century mark." Stiles shook his head. "Money and media from that bumped things up. The less snappy stuff we accomplished -- infertility aids without the risks of multiple births -- wasn't as newsworthy. The brass was looking for more, and McNamara put on the pressure for us to give them more. We were working with dangerous elements, unstable ones. Tempting ones. The costs rose, and experiments were pushed too fast to make up the margin. Bad chemistry. Side effects, unsanctioned use. Recreational, too. Lawsuits started piling up, and they shut the project down."
    "And McNamara?"
    "Managed to stay out of the stink." Stiles's mouth turned down in disgust. "He knew what was going on. Nothing ever got by him."
    "What about staff? Anyone you remember who had a particular affection for recreational use?"
    "Do I look like a weasel?" Stiles barked.
    "Actually... ah, you meant metaphorically, not literally."
    "Give it another fifty years, you won't look so pretty either."
    "Just one more thing to look forward to, Stiles." Roarke switched gears, sobered, leaned forward. "This is hardly gossip. Two women murdered, one in a coma. If there's a possibility the source springs back to that project -- "
    "What women? What murders?"
    Roarke nearly sighed. How could he have forgotten who he was talking to? "Get out of the lab occasionally, Stiles."
    "Why? There are people out there. Nothing fucks things up faster than people."
    "There's a person or persons out there right now drugging women with the very chemicals you and this lab experimented in. Drugging them to death."
    "Not bloody likely. Do you know how much it would take to induce death? The cost of the elements involved?"
    "I have that data, thank you. The cost in this case doesn't seem to be an issue."
    "Hell of a lot of money, even if he's cooking it himself."
    "What would it take to cook it himself?"
    Stiles thought for a moment. "Good lab, diagnostic and equation units, first-class chemist. Air-seal lock for holding during stabilization process. Has to be privately funded, black market. Any accredited lab or center was working on this, I'd know about it."
    "Put your ear to the ground," Roarke told him, "and see if you hear about anything that's not accredited." His pocket-link beeped. "Excuse me."
    He engaged privacy mode, flipped on the earpiece. "Roarke."
    Eve hated cooling her heels. She particularly hated it in a space where she was considered as much Roarke's wife, maybe more, than a badge. The Palace was one of those spaces.
    She hated it only slightly less after being