Next: A Novel by Michael Crichton

didn’t think our idea was worthy. One said it was too ‘jokey.’”

    “Uh-huh,” Charlie said. “What does this have to do with Robbin’ Rob?”

    “Remember where we proposed to conduct our study?”

    “Of course,” Charlie said. “At two of the biggest amusement parks in the world, in two different countries. Sandusky in the U.S., and Blackpool in England.”

    “Well, guess who’s out of town?” Henry said.

    He hit his e-mail button.

    From: Rob Bellarmino, NIH

    Subject: Out of Office AutoReply: Travel

    I will be out of the office for the next two weeks. If you need immediate assistance please contact my office by phone…

    “I called his office, and guess what? Bellarmino is going to Sandusky, Ohio—and then to Blackpool, England.”

    “That bastard,” Charlie said. “If you’re going to steal somebody else’s research proposal, you should at least have the courtesy to change it a little.”

    “Bellarmino obviously doesn’t care if we know he stole it,” Henry said. “Doesn’t that piss you off? What do you say we go for it? Put him up for ethical violations?”

    “I’d like nothing better,” Charlie said, “but, no. If we formally charge misconduct, it means a lot of time and a lot of paperwork. Our grants could dry up. And in the end, the complaint goes nowhere. Rob’s a major player at NIH. He’s got huge research facilities and he dispenses millions in grants. He holds prayer breakfasts with congressmen. He’s a scientist who believes in God. They love him on the Hill. He’d never be charged with misconduct. Even if we caught him buggering a lab assistant, he wouldn’t be charged.”

    “So we just let him do it?”

    “It’s not a perfect world,” Charlie said. “We have plenty to do. Walk away.”

    CH011

    Barry Sindlerwas bored. The woman before him yammered on. She was an obvious type—the rich-bitch Eastern broad who wore pants, Katharine Hepburn with an attitude, a trust fund, a nasal Newport accent. But despite her aristocratic airs, the best she could manage was to hump the tennis pro, just like every L.A. fake-tit dimwit in this town.

    But she was perfectly suited to the dumb-ass attorney by her side—that Ivy League jackoff Bob Wilson, wearing a pinstripe suit and a button-down shirt with a rep tie and those stupid lace-up wingtips with the little perforations in the toes. No wonder everyone called him Whitey Wilson.
    Wilson never tired of reminding everyone he was a Harvard-trained lawyer—as if anybody gave a shit. Certainly Barry Sindler didn’t. Because he knew Wilson was a gentleman. Which really meant he was chickenshit. He wouldn’t go for the throat.

    And Sindler always went for the throat.

    The woman, Karen Diehl, was still talking. Jesus, these rich bitches could talk. Sindler didn’t interrupt her because he didn’t want Whitey to state on the record that Sindler was badgering the woman. Wilson had said that four times already. So, fine. Let the bitch talk. Let her tell in full, exhausting, incredibly stupefyingly boring detail why her husband was a lousy father and a total shit heel. Because the truth was,she was the one who’d had the affair.

    Not that that could ever come out in court. California had no-fault divorce, which meant there were no specific grounds for divorce, just “irreconcilable differences.” But a woman’s infidelity always colored the proceedings. Because in skilled hands—Barry’s hands—that fact could easily be turned into the insinuation that this woman had more important priorities than her darling children. She was a neglectful parent, an unreliable custodian, a selfish woman who sought her own pleasure while she left the kids all day with the Spanish-speaking maid.

    And she was good-looking at twenty-eight, he thought. That worked against her, too. Indeed, Barry Sindler could see his central theme shaping up quite nicely. And Whitey Wilson looked a bit anxious. He probably knew where Sindler would