Rizzoli & Isles – I certainly don't own them. I give a lot of credit to the people that do and thank them for letting me mess about with them for a bit.
The story and all original characters belong to my addled little brain and are copyrighted as such.
Announcement! – CharlietheCAG has offered herself as Tribute - aka the Beta for this project. Ahhh such a brave, beautiful soul. So willing. Wish her luck and many thanks. Oh and Charlie? May the odd be forever in your editing favor ;)
Warning: No fanfic writer wishes to turn off her audience, but for all of you who have read me before know when I give a warning, I usually do so out of respect to the readers. Because I love you all and I appreciate you all… that said… And perhaps I'm overdoing the warnings… yet… I want those people starting this journey with me to be ready for it.
If darker drama is not your thing… this is not your story.
If my other story "Run" put you off… this is not your story.
If death bothers you… this is not your story.
If a slow build bothers you… this is not your story.
If a long story bugs you… this is not your story.
With the "ifs" out of the way this is a Rizzles story. (Do I write anything else ;)? ). When the story starts the characters are as they are in the show. Not together. Half the fun is getting them there :)
Now I'm aware that some of my readers are younger but this is 18+ type story. After careful consideration this will include dealing with the loss of Frost. It will not be the focal point of the story but again, please be aware I'm going there. It will be done with as much respect and honor as I can manage with my own limitations as a writer.
Dedicated to all of you who were supportive through my surgery - this is my thank you in the only way I know how. (considering the story line that might be a wee bit twisted ;) )
The Hunter had learned cities had a flavor. Palpable almost from the moment you stepped off a plane. Even in something as bland as an airport you could catch a taste of what place you had walked into. His years had taught him not to discount this aspect in his overall planning. Be aware of the fabric binding the humanity around you. It is your greatest obstacle and your greatest buffer.
Boston was salt on the tongue. It had a flavor, a spice, common yet undeniable. An element of civilization that was somehow able to adapt to any culture, embrace any belief, willing to mix into a recipe of combined ethos. It was a city born from a melting pot of others where, despite ethnicity or class, you could build your own dominion with enough time, determination and capital.
His time on this earth had clearly defined that if as a human, you could rise to power you most certainly would. Political power, financial power, criminal power; all were thrones in their own right. Never did one stand vacant and each remained damned to eternal availability to those with the means to acquire.
And there was always one person hungry for that acquisition.
Power and control were only as real as the wealth substantiating it. Defense of that wealth could twist the morals of even the most candid of men. He had observed the way control slipped under the smooth veneer of people, twisting their insides until who they had been became unrecognizable in who they were. Some forgot their past either by intention or time. Some wanted to hide where they came from. Some were born into a class long removed from the collective conscious of the world around them that seemed to not understand they were merely made of flesh and bone like the rest of humanity.
It was for these men and women people like him were needed. When decisions in closed boardrooms caused a cascade of events that were unstoppable, falling, leaving a wake of carnage behind and a closet full of rattling bones.
He was not muscle. He was not a fighter. Men like him existed to clean the proof of those decisions off the plane of reality. To regale them to the grey area of speculation. To sweep them away. It was a service. A profession. He did not take joy in it but he did not suffer a malaise of conscience over it either.
It simply was.
He walked through the security gates of Logan Airport in a push of people. He was another business suit arriving with a wheeled black suitcase. This was not his first visit and he doubted it would be his last.
Joseph Landucci sat high in his office of glass in Charlestown. Through the window and across the black water Boston glimmered brightly. The blue lights of the Zakim lit the way into the city. He could remember this shoreline before it existed. When instead he'd see the long twisting lights of the upper deck of Route 93 breaking off the North and South End from the rest of Boston. His grandfather had made his fortune off the docks in the harbor and while the stevedoring portion of his company was now based in Gloucester, L-Ship still ran the piers around the World Trade Center. Only instead of cargo ships and freight liners, cruise ships now moored at the terminals.
He owed his own father for the office he now stood in. His father's graduation from Harvard Medical School had lead to an appointment at Beth Israel. His pioneering work in diabetes had put him in contact with the largest pharmaceutical companies in the world through clinical trials. Here his family with their resources and connections had invested heavily in novel agents in small start ups all over Cambridge through a shell LLC. It wasn't long before the investments became his father's passion and eventually Tetronis Pharmaceuticals was born. One acquisition after another built a pipeline of considerable force quickly. That he would follow his father in running the pharmaceutical branch of Landucci Enterprises was never in question.
No, it's not like he even had a choice. He was the son. He would take over the family investments and grow it for the next generation.
Now standing at the window watching the trailing lights of a barge heading out to tow in a tanker, Joseph blamed that lack of option for his current predicament. Landucci Enterprises under his father's reign had all but removed itself from the international shipping business. What ships they still owned were in international partnership. The bulk of the company depended on Tetronis Pharmaceuticals to survive.
Under his father this had made sense. Under him however, this was a game that seemed as if it were designed to be lost. He was not a doctor. He was the grandson of an old fashioned stevedore. Ships came in, ships went out. Deals were made year to year. Fish, dry goods, oil, all much the same as the earliest colonies. It was in his blood. Life and death should not be part of the boardroom decisions.
Pharmaceuticals were a different business all together. Nothing was neatly on a shipping manifest. Ships did not arrive per a schedule and profits were not determined by cargo hold. No, Pharmaceuticals relied on a tightly orchestrated combination of good luck, pure science and industry timing. Pharmaceuticals were like panning for gold. You found a nugget and hoped that in the end you'd mined a fortune. But blockbuster drugs were few and far between. Even those potential drugs in the last stage of development could fail.
Failure cost millions.
Ultimately that was what left him alone in his glass office on top of Navy Pier with the lights of Boston laid out before him. Where he could see the last remnants of his grandfather's business chugging out to sea to pull another large cruise ship into harbor. Not for the first time he wished his father had left the stevedoring company untouched and unencumbered by Tetronis.
Tetronis could not afford another failed drug. If he bankrupted the pharmaceutical company, Landucci Enterprises would crumble. His entire extended family would lose their financial security, 13,000 people globally would be out of work and he would have failed.
Failure was not an option.
If only he could have realized Nicofen was a losing candidate for FDA approval before it reached the last stage of development. Half a billion dollars gone on one trial in a matter of two years. Joseph had never expected the drug would fail. Nobody had predicted it. Not the Wall Street analysts and not the thought leaders in the scientific community. Nicofen was supposed to be the next true blockbuster.
But suddenly there were a few subjects on the clinical trial that had sudden onset neutropenia. A fatal flaw for a drug destined to fight acne. None of the preclinical studies had shown this was possible but the subset of data was undeniable. If you knew where to look for it or how to look for it.
He pounded his fist lightly against the window. The analyst that had found it was an intern in the Biostatistics group. Joseph still wanted to know what had possessed the girl to pool all the data like that. It wasn't part of the statistical plan.
He wished he had asked her but soon it wouldn't be his problem anymore.
It wasn't fair that the possible effect on the patient population was miniscule in comparison with the number of people that could benefit. There was no reason not to push forward.
Except that if the statistical curves were correct the FDA would never allow the drug on the market. This wasn't a drug for a fatal disease. Any possible toxicity, even in a small subset of the population would mean the approval would be denied and Nicofen would fail.
Nobody but him had reviewed the report. The young woman's ambition had served him well in that regard. Her natural paranoia from academia had kept her mouth shut and her work private. She had been so pleased to show him. So proud.
Part of him felt badly for knowing she would never reach the potential she offered but business was business. He had a company to run and thousands of employees depending on him for their financial security. Sometimes you had to look for outside vendors to fix an inside problem. With discretion he had found himself a reliable resource. The contract was little more than faith and a phone call. There were no signatures, no proof and after the introduction the middle man was gone, leaving a phone number behind.
The call to rid himself of the situation had been surprisingly easy to make. He looked at his hand on the glass, expecting somehow to see blood staining the surface. His nails were buffed, neat. His hands sturdy, if a little soft. They looked the same as they did yesterday.
Knocking on his office door pulled him away from sight of the city at night. His secretary smiled briefly. Lauren Harper was a lovely young woman. The type of person he had hoped his own daughter would turn into. She'd been by his side for the past five years, unobtrusive but always there. Highly qualified and gave invaluable insight into many of his operating decisions. He was lucky to have her. She ran his life
Ran his life.
Joseph felt the blood drain from his face as he wished Lauren goodnight and the doors closed again.
He and the analyst were not the only ones who could possibly know about the neutropenia.
This time his chest tightened. This call would not be easy to make.
If he was able to make it at all.