The elevator moved smoothly, the air inside filtered and cool. The doors opened onto a third-floor lobby painted in pale gray with glossy white trim. The floor was polished stone, the pattern subtle but precise. Modern art hung at regular intervals in bright, geometric pieces that likely cost a fortune.
A woman approached them, her heels striking the floor with measured steps.
“Hello,” she said with a polite, open smile. “I’m Dr. Bertra Yannish, and please call me Bertra. Welcome to Oakridge Solutions. We’ve been expecting you.” She held out her hand, shaking both of theirs with a firm grip. Her hand was cool, her shake quick and efficient. She appeared to be in her mid to late forties, with sandy blond hair pulled into a smooth, low twist. She wore gold-rimmed glasses over brown eyes.
“I was Dr. Liu’s assistant,” she said. “Please, come this way.” She led them down a wide hallway past several glass-walled offices. Each office contained a sleek desk, computer monitors, and chairs arranged with precision. The surfaces were clear of clutter. No loose papers, cords, or personal items in sight. Potted plants—broad-leafed, healthy, and real—stood at regular intervals along the hallway.
Bertra stopped at a corner office near the rear of the building, opened the door, and gestured for them to enter. “This was Miriam’s office.”
Laurel stepped inside. The office was large, with dark wood furniture and a polished desk. A closed laptop sat at the center. Several framed certificates and degrees hung on the wall, their labels clean and legible. Bookshelves lined one side of the room, filled with medical texts and neatly labeled binders. The air here was slightly warmer than the hallway.
“What projects was she working on at the time of her death?” Laurel asked.
Bertra stood near the door, hands clasped in front of her. “Just one. We’re working on a clinical combination aimed at preventing Alzheimer’s and certain dementias, as well as potentially curing them. Dr. Liu was heavily involved in the project.”
Laurel walked over to the glass windows and looked out at the rolling hill leading to a mountain. “How many floors do you have in this building?”
“Three above ground. Four below.” Bertra remained by the doorway. “Most of our research and anything involving chemicals is documented and protected. Neither of you have clearance to enter the laboratories, but if you obtain it, I’d be happy to give you a tour.”
“Was Dr. Liu working exclusively on this trial?” Laurel asked, turning her attention back to Bertra.
“Yes. We have contracts with several pharmaceutical companies, private investors, and government agencies.”
Footsteps sounded from the hallway, and a man entered without knocking. He appeared to be in his early fifties, with brown hair streaked with silver. His eyes were brown, and he wore a dark suit with no tie over a lean body.
“Matteo,” Bertra said. “These are the agents from the FBI.”
The man nodded once, his gaze clear behind wire-rimmed glasses. “Dr. Matteo Sandoval. Chief of Operations. Bertra, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I had another call.” His voice was smooth and even. He stepped into the office, reaching out a hand. “I worked closely with Dr. Liu.”
He shook Laurel’s hand first in a firm grip. Then Walter’s. Afterward, he moved around the polished desk and settled into the high-backed leather chair.
Bertra shifted her feet, her lips pressing together.
Walter lifted an eyebrow, his expression sharpening in that way it always did when he noticed something off. “I take it you got the new office.”
Dr. Sandoval nodded. “Yes. This has a better view than my previous one, and since Dr. Liu and I shared resources, the files are already here.” He gestured toward the two leather chairs facing the desk. “Please, have a seat.”
Laurel sat. The chair was firm but comfortable. Walter lowered himself into the other chair, his shoulders loose but his gaze steady.
Bertra remained standing, her skin noticeably paler than when they’d entered the building.
“Dr. Yannish, I’d like to speak with you alone after this interview, if you don’t mind,” Laurel said.
“Again, please call me Bertra, and of course I’ll speak with you.” The woman looked directly at Dr. Sandoval. “I’ll go move my belongings into your former office, Matteo.” She turned on her high heels and strode gracefully from the room.
Walter cocked his head, his eyes on Dr. Sandoval. “She’s pissed. You’re taking over her boss’s office.”
Dr. Sandoval leaned back in his chair, folding his hands on the desk. “She’s not mad at me. She’s mad at the world. They were close, and Miriam’s death is a tragedy. I heard she might have been drinking again after being sober for over a decade. Do you have the autopsy results yet?”
“No,” Laurel said, noting a slight tension in his posture.
Dr. Sandoval pushed his glasses up his nose, the silver frames catching the light. The wooden desk in front of him was sleek and minimalist, with clean lines and no drawers. A matching credenza behind him appeared to be the only storage unit, its doors closed and precisely aligned. “We’re shocked about Miriam’s death. Just shocked.”
Laurel observed the tidy efficiency of the office. Everything in place. Everything controlled. “Is there any chance her death wasn’t an accident?”
Dr. Sandoval adjusted his glasses again. Was that a nervous habit? “Of course not. She was a nice woman who worked on cures for the elderly. I can’t imagine anybody wanting to harm her.”
Walter cocked his head to the side. What had he noticed? Laurel couldn’t see it.
