Thursday, April 22, 3:12 a. m
Sula woke in the middle of night to the loud repetitive calling of what she later learned were Coqui tree frogs. Hundreds of the creatures, all belting out “ko-kee,” over and over, created a cacophony of overwhelming noise. How did people sleep here? She remembered the open window and got up to close it. She gulped down some water from the sink, worried for a moment that it might not be safe to drink, then went back to bed.
She awoke again at 6:33 a.m. bathed in sweat. With the air conditioning off and the window closed, her stucco-walled room had heated up. She reopened the window, relieved to hear only the faint sound of the ocean and the familiar hum of traffic. The air was just as warm at six in the morning as it was at midnight. She loved it.
She realized the research clinic would not open for hours, so she decided to wander around and enjoy herself. If she had packed a suit, she would have gone for a swim. Instead, she showered and dressed in the shorts and t-shirt she’d packed after reading that the average year-round temperature in Puerto Rico was seventy-eight degrees.
The breakfast room offered complimentary bananas, muffins, and coffee and she helped herself to all three. A little later, Sula started down the Isle de Verde, a long business strip that ran parallel to the coast line.
Nestled among familiar fast food restaurants-Burger King, Kentucky Fried Chicken, Taco Bell-were small stucco shops with Spanish names that offered tourist take-homes. Sula checked out a few gift shops, selling mostly t-shirts, towels, and swimsuits. A pair of bright blue nylon shorts with orange dolphins made her think of Tate. She wondered if she and her son would ever take any vacations together. More than anything, she wanted to take him to Disneyland, to see the joy on his face at every ride and every familiar character.
She turned away from the children’s clothes and selected a pair of sunglasses. She had not thought to bring hers and the sun was brighter than she’d ever experienced.
Back out on the street, the morning was still quiet and few pedestrians were out and about. As the traffic on the strip picked up, she was surprised by how American the cars seemed. She smiled at the thought. Of course they were American, but were they made here or did they have to be imported? She imagined that many things had to be imported, including food like ice cream. It seemed unlikely that the island had any dairies.
What it did have were dozens of drug manufacturing plants. For decades, U.S. pharma companies had built factories in Puerto Rico to take advantage of its low wages and status as a commonwealth with no federal tax. At one point, half of all the prescriptions consumed in the United States were manufactured in Puerto Rico. Sula wondered what other industries were here. She checked her watch: 7:46. Time to head back. She intended to be at the clinic when it opened.
Sula’s taxi pulled up in front of a low-slung stucco building painted a pale creamy yellow. Fernandez Juncos Clinica was sandwiched between a Rite Aid and a restaurant offering “carne guisada puertorriquena” as the house specialty. Sula thought it ironic that a drug studies clinic would be next door to a pharmacy.
She paid the cab driver and asked him to return in an hour, then sat on a bench across the street. Soon she was sweating. The black skirt and beige suit jacket she’d changed into were too warm for the tropical climate, but fortunately she’d decided to skip the nylons.
A tall middle-aged woman approached the clinic and unlocked the door. Her red skirt and jacket set off her long dark hair. Sula guessed her to be in her mid-forties, and hoped she looked that good in twenty years. Felisa Quinton was the clinic’s director, a psychiatrist who had been born, raised, and educated on the island. Sula had stayed up the night before her flight, searching the internet and learning everything she could about the island, the clinic, and its staff. The person she really wanted to talk to was David Hernandez, the doctor who had supervised the Nexapra trial.
Sula forced herself to be patient, to let the woman get settled in with a cup of coffee before she barged in asking questions. After checking her watch for the third time, ten minutes had finally elapsed. She took a long deep breath as she stood. She’d tried to prepare herself for the possibility she might come away empty handed-after borrowing a small fortune and enduring six plane rides. The money would be a setback either way, but the idea that she would fail to find the data she needed to stop the trials was hard to accept.
Sula had gone back and forth a dozen times about how to approach the doctor and had decided to use the journalist scenario she had used with the clinic in Eugene. It was also mostly true. Her career goal was to be an investigative reporter, and this was her first story. She intended to write about her experience, regardless of the outcome, and hoped to get the story published.
She stepped toward the street and waited for a pink convertible with a group of young girls to pass by. A minute later, she entered the air-cooled clinic. Cream-colored walls alternated with sage green, and a plush maroon couch invited visitors to sit. The soothing sound of water rippling over rocks served as background music. The effect was quite calming. Sula imagined a fountain in the courtyard, surrounded by big, brightly painted pots filled with ferns.
“Buenos dias,” Felisa greeted her from the reception desk.
“Buenos dias.” Sula smiled. “Actually, I don’t speak Spanish.”
The director smiled back. “That’s fine. I like to practice my English with people who don’t speak with an accent.” She stood held out her hand. “Felisa Quinton.”
“Sula Moreno. From Eugene, Oregon.”
“You’re a long way from home. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to speak to Dr. David Hernandez.”
Felisa’s face closed up. “He no longer works here.” Anger flickered in her eyes. “I have no idea where he is or how to contact him. I’m sorry you came so far for nothing.”
A silence engulfed them, the director lost in an unpleasant memory while Sula reeled with disappointment and paranoia. Had Rudker paid off Hernandez? Or was it merely coincidence that the two people most familiar with the Nexapra suicides-Warner and Hernandez-were unavailable?
A chill ran up her spine. Did Rudker know she was here? What if he had followed her? For the first time, she realized she might be in over her head. Rudker obviously wasn’t taking any chances in letting the suicide data get out, and he undoubtedly considered her a risk.
“Did you know David? You look like you’ve just seen a paricion.”
Sula shook her head. “It was very important that I speak to him, but perhaps you can help me instead.”
Felisa shrugged. “If I can.” She touched Sula’s elbow. “Let’s go into the conference room.”
Sula followed her through an archway into a short hallway, then into the first room on the left. It seemed more like a cozy kitchen with a small dark-wood table and padded straight-back chairs. Sula glanced at the sink and refrigerator in the corner.
“Would you like something to drink?” Felisa moved toward the fridge.
“Please.”
The director came back with two bottles of cold frappuccino. Sula noticed Felisa’s eyes were light blue, contrasting with her dark skin. She’d read that Puerto Ricans were a racial melting pot of native Taino, Spanish, African, French, German, and Chinese. Her personal observation was that most of the islanders were attractive.
They sat at the table and opened their drinks. Sula took a long slug before speaking. “I’m a freelance writer, and I’m researching the Nexapra clinical trials. I understand that there were two suicides here.”
Felisa gave her an odd look. Sula couldn’t read the reaction.
“Where did you get that information? The trial was discontinued and the data was not released to the public.” Her impeccable English had picked up an accent.
“Were you involved in that study?”
“I assisted Dr. Hernandez with intake. What do you want to know?”
“Are the men’s files still here? I mean, is there a record of their participation and suicides?”
“Of course, but I can’t release any information to you. It’s very confidential.”
“Were you surprised when both Luis and Miguel Rios killed themselves within a month of taking Nexapra?”
Felisa stopped mid-air with her Frappaccino and set it down. She looked at Sula with a mix of surprise, respect, and fear. Sula decided to tell her everything. She had nothing to lose.
“I used to work for Prolabs. One day I heard Diane Warner and Karl Rudker arguing about Nexapra. Do you know who they are?”
“Of course. Dr. Warner discovered the drug when she worked for the Oregon Health and Science University. Rudker runs Prolabs.”
That was more than Sula had known. “Warner told Rudker she’d found evidence that the men who committed suicide shared a genetic mutation that influenced the way they responded to the drug. She asked him to halt the trials and give her two years to develop a screening test. Rudker said no. He also threatened to fire her if she didn’t drop the idea.”
“You heard all of this first hand?” Felisa let go of her drink and squeezed her hands together.
“Yes. I was waiting to talk with them about a press release I was writing.”
“Go on.”
“The next day, Dr. Warner didn’t show up for work. She didn’t call either. Two days later, we found out she was dead. Murdered while jogging along a riverside path.”
Felisa’s eyes flashed with speculation. Sula took a sip of the sweet caffeine and thought, wait until you hear the rest of the story.
“I became concerned that Dr. Warner’s theory and evidence would die with her and that a lot of people might kill themselves in the large Phase III studies.”
Felisa made a funny noise in her throat, then signaled Sula to keep going.
“I went into Warner’s office and found a disk tapped to the bottom of a desk drawer. I took it home. The files were labeled Miguel and Luis Rios.”
A young man burst into the room. “Hey, there you are. Sorry I’m late.” His dimpled cheeks and curly hair gave him a look of innocence.”
“Roman, I’m very busy right now. Please go watch the front desk and do not disturb me again.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.” He sheepishly backed out of the room.
Felisa shook her head. “Please continue. I’m intrigued by your story.”
Sula hesitated, ashamed of her night in jail. “Rudker had me arrested. While I was in jail, he broke into my home and took Warner’s disk.”
The director leaned forward, disbelief evident in her expression. “The CEO of a pharmaceutical company broke into your house and stole a disk that you believe contained clinical trial data for Nexapra?”
“Actually, it had their intake information and some kind of DNA files. I have no proof that it was Rudker, but the CD disappeared, and he is the only one who would have a reason to think I had it. Who else would break into my house and take only a disk with DNA information?”
“Nothing else was stolen?”
“No.”
The director pushed her hair back with both hands. “This is ajeno.”
Sula didn’t need a dictionary. “I know. Now I find out Dr. Hernandez is no longer with the clinic.”
“That was a personal issue. I don’t think it’s related.”
There was a long silence, both of them mulling over the question: What now?
Sula spoke up. “There was also a suicide in the Portland arm of the trial. The clinician said he thought the girl was Hispanic. A lot of lives could be at stake. Hispanic lives.”
Felisa jumped up. “David must have talked with Dr. Warner. If she analyzed the Rios men’s DNA, she got the samples from here.” Her gorgeous face was deeply troubled. She held out her hand. “Please excuse me. I have to check something.”
The director strode out of the room, dark hair swinging. Sula stood and stretched her legs, checking her watch out of habit: 10:07. Would Felisa bring her a copy of Miguel and Luis’ files? It seemed too good to be true. Yet, even if she did, having the clinical trial records would not be enough. She needed a sample of their DNA, so that someone-maybe at FDA or even a university-could replicate Warner’s work.
Sula paced the room, glancing at the art on the walls. The outdoor market scenes were colorful, but not particularly skillful or intriguing. She sat at the table and picked up her pen. She hadn’t taken a single note during their conversation. It had gone too quickly and had been too intense. Sula jotted down a few questions she still wanted answers to: 1) Was there any history of suicidal thoughts mentioned during either of the Rios’ intakes? 2) Why was the trial discontinued?
Felisa was gone for eleven and a half minutes and came back with only a single piece of paper in her hands. Sula tried not to look disappointed.
The director’s voice had the quiet tone of a conspirator. “Both Miguel and Luis Rios’ paper files are gone. Their blood samples are gone. I think David must have sent the samples to Warner. I have no idea what happened to the paperwork.”
“Why was the trial discontinued?”
“We failed to meet our goal for enrollment. And David was having problems at home and asked to take a leave of absence. So Prolabs shut it down.”
“It wasn’t about the suicides?”
“I didn’t think so at the time, but I’m starting to wonder.”
“Did you file adverse drug reaction reports with FDA?”
“We notified our advisory board and Prolabs.” Felisa sounded a little defensive, but in a moment she continued. “If data from this arm of the trial was never submitted to the Center for Drug Evaluation, then it probably never made it into the MedWatch database.”
“Can you file an ADR now? I want the FDA to know about the suicides.”
“Yes, I can and I will. But it’s not enough to get their attention. We need to get new DNA samples.”
Sula noticed her use of the word we. “You believe me?
“Do I think Rudker took the disk from your home? Maybe.” Felisa shook her head. “What I do believe is that David Hernandez and Diane Warner both thought there was a genetic vulnerability to Nexapra. If that’s true, as you said, a lot of lives are at stake.”
“So what now?”
“Go see their families and ask for a lock of hair or fingernail clippings they might have saved.”
It seemed like such a long shot. Before Sula could protest, Felisa cut in.
“Don’t worry. They’ll have something. When you combine Catholicism with Taino superstitions, you get a culture that never lets go of the dead.”
Sula understood this. Their bodies had been cremated, but she still had things that belonged to each member of her family. Her father’s pocketwatch, a small red and yellow blanket her mother had kept over her legs when she watched TV, and her sister’s brown wool sweater that still smelled like the lilac-scented shampoo Calix always used.
“How do I find their families if the files are gone?”
Felisa held up the paper in her hand. “Their names and addresses were still in our database of initial call-ins.”
“Will you go with me?”
“I can’t. And you can’t tell them I gave you the information. It’s confidential and I could lose my license.”
“What if they won’t talk to me? What if they don’t trust me?”
“If you tell them you’re trying to stop Nexapra, they’ll help you. Both families have come here to vent their anger about the deaths. They blame the drug.”
Sula’s stomach knotted up. She knew she had to do this, but it intimidated her. “What if they don’t speak English? What if I can’t find them?”
Felisa dismissed her fears with a small wave of her hand. “Roman will take you. He’ll interpret if he has to, but most people here speak some English.”
Sula sighed with relief. “Thank you for helping me.”
Felisa squeezed her arm. “Thank you for coming all this way to find the truth. There are not many who would get so involved.” The director gave her a quizzical look. “Why is this so important to you?”
“My father committed suicide.” That simple statement didn’t even come close to describing the horror of what really happened that day, but it was all Felisa needed to know. “I couldn’t bear to do nothing and let others make that same tragic mistake.”
The director escorted her out to the front lobby. Her young assistant chatted happily on the phone. Felisa walked up behind him and touched his shoulder. “Roman.”
He jumped, mumbled something, and hung up. “Yes?”
“I need you to drive Ms. Moreno to these two addresses.” She handed him the paper. “Wait in the car unless she asks you to interpret for her.”
Roman glanced at the addresses and moaned. “One of these is in Bayamon. It’ll take half the day.”
Felisa’s tone was patient, but firm, like a parent. “I’ll give you gas money. You get paid by the hour, so it makes no difference whether you sit on your ass here or in the car.” She smiled to take the sting out of her words.
“What about lunch money?”
“You test my patience.”
Felisa retreated into a back office and returned with a twenty. “Drive nicely.” She turned to Sula. “Good luck.”
Roman scooted across the waiting area and held the door open. Sula stepped out into the bright sunshine. After the air-conditioned office, it seemed quite warm.
“This way.” Roman headed toward the corner and turned left. A parking lot behind the building contained his 1985 white Volkswagen bug. He grinned and opened the passenger door for her.
After they were both buckled up, he turned to her and said. “I’m Roman Batista.”
“Sula Moreno. Thanks for driving me.”
“No problem. I like to get out of the office.”
“The name Batista, wasn’t he a famous artist?”
Roman pulled out into the street with a squeal. Sula braced herself.
“He was a sculpturist.”
“Are you related to him?”
“I wish. I’d love to be an artist.”
Sula liked his accent. It sounded more African than Spanish. “What’s stopping you?”
“A wife and two kids.”
The island was more mountainous and the vegetation was scrubbier and drier than Sula had expected. She’d thought it would be more lush and tropical, like Hawaii, which she’d never been to but had seen in plenty of photos and movies. Yet the countryside here was green and beautiful in its own way, and the sky was a perfect shade of blue.
Sula tried to forget, for a moment, why she was here and soaked in the scenery like a tourist. Roman occasionally played the part of tour guide, pointing out things of interest like two mountain peaks that looked like breasts, which the locals called, “Mt. Pechos.”
Many of the homes that dotted the green hillsides were large and new with pink-painted stucco and red tile roofs. Mixed in were dilapidated shacks surrounded by broken down washing machines, car parts, and smaller shacks. In one yard, it looked as if the occupants were digging up the grass to bury their garbage. Sula wondered about the water supply. They were clearly outside the city limits. Were those people drinking from a well on their property?
After thirty minutes or so, they turned off the well-maintained four-lane highway onto a narrow two-lane road. They were headed toward Bayamon to see Miguel Rios’ widow. Here, the houses were more tightly clustered and many had chickens in the front yard. After a few miles, Roman pulled the paper Felisa had given him out of his shirt pocket.
“We’re looking for 4940. See if you can spot an address.”
She didn’t see numerals near any of the front doors so she tried to eyeball the mailboxes, but they were moving too fast. Suddenly Roman slammed his breaks and shouted in Spanish. Sula looked up to see a black-and-white goat in the road. While the car was stopped, she took the opportunity to read a mail box.
“This is 4752, so we must be close.”
Roman grunted and took off. “Hard to say.”
Two minutes later, he made a sudden turn down a long dirt driveway. They passed the small home near the road and bumped their way back to a larger home, a pale blue two-story with a long balcony wrapping around the second floor. A boy of around five played with a dog in the front yard. He looked up and waved as they stopped in front of the carport.
Roman hopped out and spoke to the boy in Spanish. Sula thought she heard the word for mother. The boy grinned and ran inside, using both hands to push open the heavy wooden door. Sula reluctantly stepped out of the Volkswagen, her heart suddenly pounding with anxiety. A warm breeze played on her skin and instantly soothed her.
A heavy-set woman in her late forties came out into the yard. Her black hair was streaked with grey and pulled back into a short ponytail. She wore cutoff jeans, a white man’s t-shirt, and worn out sandals.
“Hola,” Roman called out cheerfully. He obviously had no intention of sitting in the car as Felisa had directed.
“Hola.” The woman glanced at Sula and raised an eyebrow.
“Are you Lucia Rios?” Roman asked.
“Si.” Now she looked skeptical.
“We’re from the Fernandez Juncos Clinica.”
Her face closed up. “Why do you come here?”
Roman turned to Sula. It was her turn. “I’m Sula Moreno. I used to work for Prolabs. I want to find out what happened to your husband Miguel.”
“He killed himself. You know that already.” Her English was quite good.
“I think the drug he was taking in the trial may have helped cause his death, but I can’t prove it without your help. Can I ask you some questions?”
Lucia hesitated for a full minute. Finally she shrugged. “Come in.” The widow went back through the heavy door and held it open for Sula. She looked back to see if Roman was coming. He waved and leaned against the hood of his car. She was on her own.
Lucia led her to the dining room table. Sula found herself staring at the walls, which were painted in varying shades of burnt orange. One wall was lined with family photos, another had a large painting of Jesus on the cross. Through an open window, she could see plantains growing on a tree in the back yard. She vowed to come back to the island some day when she had time to explore.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“Yes. Thank you.” She was over her caffeine limit, but Sula wanted to be polite.
She watched Lucia pour from a thermos, then add some kind of syrup and maybe cream. She wasn’t fond of sweet coffee, but she would be open-minded. Lucia brought the beverages in heavy white mugs, then sat across from her.
“If you work for Prolabs, why do you want to prove the drug is bad? It’s called Nexapra, is that right?”
“Yes. That’s right.” The way Lucia said it gave the word a whole new sound. “I don’t work for the company anymore. I’m here on my own. I don’t think Nexapra is bad for everybody, just some people who share a genetic mutation.”
“Mutation?” Lucia frowned. “You’re saying something was wrong with my Miguel?”
“Oh no. I just mean he had a certain genetic characteristic that made him react badly to the drug.” Sula pulled her recorder out of her big shoulder bag. “I would like to tape parts of our interview, as documentation. Is that all right?”
Lucia shrugged. Sula took a sip of the coffee. It was surprisingly good, not too sweet, but with a peculiar flavor she didn’t recognize. She turned on the recorder and pushed it to the middle of the table. “Please state your name and your relationship to the deceased, Miguel Rios.”
Lucia leaned forward. “I am Lucia Maria Sanchez Rios. Miguel Rios was my husband of twenty-three years.”
“Before taking Nexapra, did Miguel ever talk about suicide? Or attempt to commit suicide?”
“Never.” Lucia shook her head emphatically. “He loved his family. I know he was depressed and life was hard for him sometimes, but he never wanted to die.”
“Did he receive any counseling for his depression?”
“He went to a special doctor.” She tapped her head. “What’s the word?”
“Psychiatrist.”
“Yes. For a while, when the kids were young. The doctor gave him Prozac. It made Miguel feel better, so he stopped going.”
“What year was that?”
“1990.”
“Was he still taking Prozac before he entered the Nexapra trial?”
“No. He switched drugs many times. I think he was taking Zoloft before joining the study.”
“Why did he enter the trial?”
“The Zoloft wasn’t so good any more. Dr. Hernandez said the new drug was very good.”
“Was he more depressed than usual?”
“A little, but he had been like that many times before. He always tried to get better. That’s why he entered the study. He never talked about suicide.” Lucia’s eyes started to get watery. Sula felt bad for dwelling on such a painful subject.
“Did you notice a change in his behavior after he started taking the Nexapra?”
“Right away. At first, he had more energy. He was more like his old self.” Lucia’s dark eyes caught Sula’s and held them. She was trying to say something without saying it. Was she talking about sex?
“Then what?”
“Then he got irritable like he does sometimes when he drinks too much coffee.” She lifted her cup for emphasis. “He stayed that way for weeks. I asked him what was wrong. He didn’t know. I asked him if thought it was the new drug. He didn’t know.” She paused and took a long slug of coffee.
“Then one Sunday, I came home from the market and he was dead on the floor of our bedroom. Part of his head was blown off.” Tears filled her eyes. “It tore my heart in a way that will never heal.”
Sula knew. “I’m very sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry to put you through this. I won’t take up much more of your time.” She took another sip of coffee to be polite. “Do you have something that has Miguel’s DNA?”
“What do you mean?”
“A lock of his hair, or a toothbrush. Something like that?”
Lucia gave her an odd look. “This will help you find out if the drug made him kill himself?”
“Yes.”
Lucia shrugged again. “Okay.”
Sula clicked off the recorder as Lucia padded down the hallway. In a minute she came back with a small wooden box inlaid with colored glass. Lucia set the box on the table and opened it. Against red velour padding lay a thick lock of dark curly hair.
“I only need part of it. Do you have a Ziplock baggie?”
Miguel’s widow rummaged through a kitchen drawer and came back with a good-sized freezer bag with a sealing mechanism. “This is okay?”
“It’s fine. How about some masking tape and a pen?”
Another longer trip to the kitchen produced both.
“Please write your husband’s name on a piece of tape and stick it on the bag, then transfer some of the hair to the bag and seal it. I’ll turn on the recorder, and I want you to say what you’re doing as you do it.”
Lucia did as she’d been asked and tried not to smile at the silliness of it. Sula shut off the recorder and put the hair package into her shoulder bag. She hoped she didn’t get searched on her flights home.
“Would you like me to contact you later and let you know what I found out?”
“Please. It would be nice to know.”
Lucia wrote down her phone number and address on Sula’s yellow tablet.
“Thank you. Do you know Luis’ wife?”
“Si. Are you going to see her?”
“We’re going there next. Do you think she’ll talk to me?”
“I don’t know. She’s moody. Marta’s at work now and doesn’t get off until three. I’ll call her and let her know you’re coming, so she’ll go straight home.” Lucia made a face. “Sometimes she stops at the taberna.”
Sula wandered into the living room while Lucia made her call. The conversation was in Spanish, and although she didn’t understand the words, she could tell it became intense at one point. She stared at the patterns in a wall tapestry and worried that Luis’ widow didn’t want to cooperate. One set of DNA wouldn’t do any good. The FDA needed a pattern to show the link between the mutation and the behavior. She hoped the agency’s researchers would get samples from the young woman in the Portland trial who killed herself, the one named James who looked Hispanic.
Lucia hung up and joined her near the door. “Marta will meet you at her home at 3:15. Do you have the address? It’s in San Juan.”
“Is she still at 55 Cristo St.?”
“Si.”
“Thanks again. I’ll be in touch.”
The sun’s brightness almost blinded her after the dark interior, and the day was starting to heat up. Sula checked her watch: 12:13. Roman chatted with the young boy in the shade of a tree. She thought he must be a grandchild or neighbor. She smiled and waved at the two and climbed in the car. In a moment, her driver joined her. Roman had smoked a cigarette and worked up a light sweat while waiting, but the combination of smells was strangely masculine and pleasant. Almost sexy.
“Did you get what you need?”
“Yes. Thanks. Lucia called Marta and we’re meeting her at 3: 15.”
“Good. We have time to stop for lunch then.”
Roman took off with his usual foot to the floor. Sula buckled herself in.
They ate lunch at a little roadside stand just outside of San Juan. The asopao de pollo was the best on the island Roman assured her. Sula loved the zesty combination of oregano, garlic, cilantro, and chili peppers. Garden fresh green peas cooled the fire and kept the dish from being too hot. Despite her hearty breakfast, she ate with gusto, sitting at a picnic table under a tattered sun umbrella. It was the best meal she’d had in a long time, and it had cost only two dollars and seventy-five cents.
Marta lived on the sixth floor of an apartment building in an area of San Juan called Hato Rey Central. They parked in a garage under the building and took the elevator up. Sula normally avoided both parking garages and elevators, but after surviving the flights to get here, finding Lucia, and getting a DNA sample, she felt too optimistic to give either much thought. Although on the way up, it occurred to her that the building was quite old, and she wondered if the elevator was regularly maintained.
No one answered their knock. Sula checked her watch: 3:07.
“We’re a little early.”
“So we wait.” Roman took a seat on the floor and leaned back against the wall. Sula joined him.
“I really appreciate your help today. This would have been so much more difficult without you.”
“You don’t have to keep saying that. It’s nothing, really.”
Marta didn’t show up until 3:47, and when she did, she told them to get lost.