The office door opened and a thin, dark spectacled-woman with streaked blonde hair stuck her head into the bland room. “He wants to see both of you–together.”
Feinberg and Trumble looked at each other with an “I told you so grin.”
They sat in identical maroon leather chairs angled to face the Director of Drug Development Enforcement. The needlepoint triangular, ruler-size nameplate was an orange and red knit background with embossed sapphire blue letters–Dr. Phillip Skiller.
“You two have worked together before.” Skiller’s sandpaper words were all the introductory dialogue they would get. He tossed two different newspapers in front of them. “Take a look. One’s the New York Times and the other the Chicago Tribune. The small article on page one is expanded to a whole page inside.”
“Wilson Medical Products. I heard it on the radio yesterday.” Feinberg scanned the text. “Two people murdered. A bit extreme even for the drug industry.” Feinberg adjusted her skirt as a platform for the newspaper.
Trumble refolded the New York Times. “I read the DC version this morning at breakfast.” He looked at Feinberg and back to Skiller. “Is this our assignment?”
“The investigation is going to need the smoothness of an intellectual MD, Pharm D and the suspicious mind of a statistician.” Skiller’s lips faintly turned up at the corners in execution of a smile.
“You want our combined minds plus my muscle.” Trumble put the paper back on Skiller’s desk.
“Beauty and the beast. That’s what the DEA called you two the last time.” Skiller leaned forward on his marked-up desk blotter. “Seriously, two people were shot to death and the NDA–including the truck–was burned. If you accept the assignment, I want you both to re-qualify and have your weapons at least available to your person.”
Feinberg looked at Trumble and raised her eyebrows. Her small frame belied her strong physical fitness status.
“It’s our cup of tea Purity. We both know there are ongoing wars out there. What do you say?” Trumble held his eye contact on Feinberg’s brilliant blue irises.
“I’m in. What’s next?” Feinberg pushed a lock of light brown hair away from her right eye to around her right ear. It bounced back.
“Here’s the folder on Wilson Medical Products and Legg Pharmaceuticals.” Skiller handed a copy to each.
“You think Legg was the money behind the hijacking?” Feinberg hefted the two meaty files.
“It’s a place to start–after you qualify with the Walthers.” Skiller stood up. “I want you to call me regularly on what you’re doing.”
When Feinberg and Trumble were at the door Skiller gave one last raspy comment. “I called the President’s Secret Service Agent at the White House Armory. You’re due there at two. Have a light lunch or your hands will be shaky with most of the blood flow going to your digestive tract.”
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