Free The Suicide Effect by L. J. Sellers Page B

building, her heart hammered with anxiety. Sula unlocked Warner’s door, stepped into the office, and closed it behind her. Her watch said 4:11.
    The tall windows and incredible view caught her attention, but she did not allow herself to gaze out on the lush green hillside. She sat at Warner’s desk and pulled open the top drawers. The neatness was stunning. Right away she spotted a small collection of keys in a special little holder.
    The second one she tried opened the drawers of the large, main filing cabinet. Sula riffled quickly through the folders, all labeled with phrases like cellular response to tumor necrosis factor. She wasn’t sure what she expected to find, but simple concepts like Nexapra or Nexapra’s Clinical Trials would have been helpful. She opened and searched the second drawer. It was also full of specific-science labels.
    Sula checked her watch: 4:18.
    In the third and fourth drawers there were folders with drug names, but most were products already on the market. Shit. Sula wanted to get into Warner’s computer, but that was risky and possibly pointless. Without an access code to the R&D database, she likely wouldn’t find much. She opened the smaller filing cabinet.
    There it was. A foot-thick Nexapra section, with folder after folder.
    The reams of paper almost overwhelmed her. She could spend days looking through this stuff and still not find exactly what she needed. She checked her watch: 4:23. She had eight minutes left. She had promised herself she would be in and out in twenty minutes.
    Sula frantically flipped through the files, looking for key words such as suicide or genetic response. The first half of the stack appeared to be about the preclinical development with many references to mice and rats. The second half looked more like a collection of personal notes and observations. She spotted a section with references to patients.
    Sula pulled out a handful and rushed to the copier in the corner. She shoved the papers into the auto loader, and while they copied, went to the large desk drawers and began to search. If Warner’s genetic discovery was recent, perhaps her notes about it were kept in an active file around her desk. Sula checked her watch: 4:28. She decided to give herself a little more time.
    Rudker had called a cab from the plane, so he only had to wait a few minutes in front of the airport. The dark green sedan pulled up and an elderly man with a Bin Laden beard got out to greet him. Rudker said “Prolabs” and hopped into the back seat. His butt made contact with something small and flat on the back of the seat. Rudker reached behind him and found a driver’s license belonging to Richard Morgenstern. The first thing he noticed was that the man shared his basic characteristics: late forties, blondish-gray, and wide jaw. Impulsively, he pocketed the license. It would come in handy for visiting some of Seattle’s private clubs while remaining anonymous.
    Just knowing he could pretend to be someone else gave him a warm sexy vibe. He was already eager to use the ID. It made him impatient with the driver, who took his time jotting down information.
    “It’s on Willow Creek Road,” he offered, hoping to get rolling.
    “I know where it is.”
    Of course he did. Prolabs was the biggest business in Eugene. It had started out twenty years ago as a little company that made drug discovery equipment. Then the founder, who had a talent for raising venture capital, had developed his own high-throughput screening lab. A couple of early hits, which the company had held onto instead of licensing out, had launched its drug making business. Rudker had been recruited to lead the company six years ago when the founder retired. Most days, it seemed like a good career move. Now he looked forward to the day that flying into Eugene meant only a quick trip to check on the factories.
    The twelve-minute drive took twenty. First they hit blue-collar traffic going home from their factory jobs, then