Lethal Remedy by Richard Mabry Page B

a five-dollar word instead of saying, "His fever's coming down." "Yes, he seems to be responding well. I looked in on him earlier this morning, and—"

"I'll just pop in to see him myself."

It only took Ingersoll a minute to make what Rip termed his usual cameo appearance: nod to the family, put a hand on the patient (didn't seem to matter where, it was the touching that counted), assure everyone that things were going well, and exit.

"You have the lab results from yesterday?"

"Aren't they on the chart?" Rip said.

"If they were, I would have seen them. Did you deliver the blood samples?"

"Yes, sir. To both the hospital lab and Resnick."

"Then get the results, and see that they get onto the ICU chart."

"Will do."

Ingersoll pushed back his sleeve and consulted a watch that appeared to have every function except the position of the International Space Station. "I'm leaving this afternoon to attend a meeting in Bermuda, where I'll be speaking on Jandramycin. Take care of things while I'm gone. See you Monday."

Rip ducked back into Mr. Rankin's room to answer questions the family had apparently been hesitant to ask his chief. He checked the chart, wrote a couple of orders, and decided he'd treat himself to a mocha latte before tracking down the errant lab reports.

The Starbucks in the medical center's basement was crowded. Rip had almost decided to sit outside in the courtyard when he saw Carter Resnick at a table for two in the corner. His first inclination was to ignore the research associate, but at the last minute he veered offtoward Resnick. "Mind if I join you?"

"Help yourself." Resnick moved his briefcase from the second chair and gestured toward it. "The great one turn you loose long enough to get a cup of coffee?"

Rip eased into the vacant chair. "He's leaving for Bermuda. But there's still plenty of work for both of us to do. What are you doing here?"

"I had to get out of the lab for a bit. You can't believe how boring it is, running lab tests on our patients, collating data. I wish Ingersoll would let me have some patient contact." Resnick sipped his drink—he'd also opted for a latte—then swiped at the foam moustache on his upper lip.

Rip tasted his coffee, found it too hot to drink, and set it aside, spilling a few drops in the process. "What do you know about the new drug application for Jandramycin?"

"Not much. I know Jandra said they wanted a hundred patients before they submit."

Rip toyed with his cup, making wet circles on the table. "And how many patients have we collected?"

"You know that as well as I do. Thirty-nine."

"Ingersoll told me this morning that the NDA has already gone in. Where did all the patients come from?"

"There are a couple of investigators in Germany, but they didn't start collecting patients until after we did."

"So how did Jandra come up with the volume of data needed for a new drug application?"

Resnick finished his drink, this time ignoring the foam moustache. It made his Cheshire cat grin more pronounced. "It's magic, isn't it?"

 

 

John Ramsey had been in the medical center's Faculty Club before, but never as a faculty member. The club wasn't what the name implied—no dark wood, overstuffed furniture, and faculty members sitting around sipping drinks and smoking cigars. It was bright and airy and highly functional. Windows on three sides showed views of Dallas or the buildings of the Southwestern campus. Tables were set for groups of diners from two to ten. Steam tables held several entrees. There was a well-stocked salad bar. But for John, the best thing on the menu, and his lunch of choice, was a Reuben sandwich on pretzel bread, and that was what he now held.

"Thanks for meeting me for lunch, Mark." John took a bite of his sandwich, chewed, and washed it down with iced tea.

"Glad to do it," Dr. Mark Wilcox said. "Besides, I don't get invited to the Faculty Club at the medical center very often."

"You can thank my chairman," John said. "He let me