Free Megan's Cure by Robert B. Lowe

search on his laptop for Rosewell, adding the term “biology,” and found a listing that showed her as a senior researcher at the Merrick & Merrick pharmaceutical company based in San Francisco.
     
    When he called the company, Lee was quickly patched through to Rosewell.
     
    “Hello?” she said.   Rosewell sounded older.   Lee placed her as middle-aged.
     
    “Uh…hello,” he said.   “My name is Enzo Lee.   I’m looking for Walter Novak and I’m wondering if you know how I can reach him.”
     
    “You’re who?” she said.   “Why do you want him?”
     
    “My name is Enzo Lee.   I’m a reporter for the San Francisco News.   But, I’m actually calling on a private matter.   My grandmother is ill.   She has leukemia.   And I just wanted some information about the drug that…uh…Mr. Novak was working on.   Her doctor…my grandmother’s…remembered hearing about it.   I guess she heard Mr. Novak speak about it and…”
     
    “I can’t talk about that,” she said.   “I can’t talk about that.   And you’re with who?   The media?”
     
    Lee could hear the rising stress in Rosewell’s voice.
     
    “Look,” he said.   “I’m just trying to get a phone number or email address.   My grandmother’s sick.   I just want to know what’s out there.”
     
    There was silence on the other end.   But Lee could hear her breath.   It was coming fast.   Her heart was pumping.   He could feel her indecision.   Then, he heard the phone bang against something as if she missed the cradle the first time before she hung up with a loud click.
     

Chapter 17
     

     
    THE CLIPBOARD WAS everything.  
     
    John Average hadn’t been sure when he first heard the suggestion.   But, now he knew it was absolutely true.  
     
    The scrubs were, of course, essential as well.   Thankfully, he had found that the four sets he’d bought – two shades of blue and two of green – covered almost everything.   He could drive around a hospital at almost any hour and spot somebody in the parking lot or just inside the emergency room lobby wearing whichever color was standard for the facility.
     
    Then, he simply pulled those on over his jogging pants and T-shirt.   Add running shoes and the clipboard and he was good to go.
     
    It all worked together as a package but it was the clipboard that sealed the deal.   It was better than a name tag or any badge or credential he might have conjured for the occasion.   Something like that was just an invitation for someone to read his name and title, and start asking questions.   Who was he there to see?   What was a physical therapist doing at 2 a.m. in an oncology wing?   If he was a radiology technician, where was the gurney to wheel away the patient?
     
    The clipboard gave him purpose without details – authority without any fine print.   He had placed graph paper on the clipboard and filled it with words he was pretty sure would be meaningless to anyone who looked closely.   They were random Latin words written hurriedly in his own handwriting which was atrocious.   Finally, his Catholic education was proving useful.
     
    If questioned by some particularly territorial nurse, he had two replies ready.
     
    “Inventory,” he had answered twice when asked his purpose on a ward.   Then, he had gone back to looking closely at all the medical equipment in the room he was in, from beds and chairs to heart monitors and oxygen tanks.  
     
    Once, when he was questioned by a particularly prickly woman, he had replied, “Surprise hygiene check.”
     
    Then, he had stepped back and closely scrutinized the overzealous, middle-aged registered nurse from her white orthopedic shoes to her dyed red hair tied back in a bun.   He made a few marks on his clipboard, gave her a polite smile and continued down the hallway.  
     
    Tonight, though, no one had done more than glance quickly at him as he walked through the hospital.   He was late-30s, a normal