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“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 escorted to Roarke’s hotel office where she could interview the waiter who’d served Moniqua and her attacker.
She preferred her visit to Rikers where the facilities were spare, the staff snarly, and the inmates vicious. Even if her interview with Gunn had been a dead end, it had been in more comfortable surroundings.
“I’ll have Jamal brought up to you the moment he arrives.” The ruthlessly sleek lounge hostess gestured when the elevator doors opened. “If there’s anything else I, or any of the Palace staff, can do to aid in your investigation, you’ve only to ask.”
It required both a thumbprint and a code to unlock the office, and this required enlisting the help of the executive office manager.
Security was never taken for granted in a Roarke Industries holding.
“In the meantime”—the hostess smiled warmly—“may I offer you any refreshment?”
“A sparkling mango.” Peabody leaped in with the request before Eve could throw up the wall against such niceties. She met Eve’s dour look. “I’m kind of thirsty.”
“Of course.” The hostess glided over to the carved cupboard that held the refreshment center and programmed the AutoChef. “And for you, Lieutenant?”
“Just the waiter.”
