Page 140 of The Fourth Option
FROM THE TWELFTHfloor of One River Place, Derek Matheson watched the Mississippi crawl past, a slow-moving leviathan.
The river was high this morning, swollen from spring runoff. The barges moved sluggishly through the current. Matheson liked the height of his perch. It gave him perspective. Distance. Safety. Even Cuchillo couldn’t reach him up here.
The apartment was all glass and steel, minimalist and cold. A single espresso steamed on the marble counter. The news played on mute with footage of a teen who had OD’d, a high school football star with a bright future. A scrolling chyron warned of rising opioid deaths across the Southeast. Matheson frowned. The narrative was shifting again.
The door chime rang.
Matheson’s security man set his protein shake on the glass table and went to the door.
He rounded the corner from the foyer a moment later and ushered in Irene Isaacson, followed closely by Walt Kimbel.
Icy was dressed in a tailored navy suit, her hair pinned back, her expression unreadable. She scanned the apartment, noting the changes since she had last been here. Matheson offered a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and Kimbel and Dale dropped into the other room to discuss an upcoming industry conference in the Napa Valley.
Icy took in the view and admired the kitchen, everything built into the walls, nothing on the counters, not even salt and pepper.
“You redid a few things,” she said. “Looks nice.”
“I’m teaching myself to cook.”
“No more private chef? What was her name? Gina?”
“Who do you think is teaching me?”
Icy nodded and forced a strained smile.
“My team is waiting downstairs in the lobby. We have an event this afternoon.”
Matheson led her to the low leather sectional in the main room. “May I offer you a drink?”
“I’m fine. I can only stay for a few minutes.”
“Of course, you are a busy woman.”
The media had responded favorably to the PR blitz after the earnings meeting in New York. But now three kids had died at a pill party outside Chattanooga. Tennessee law enforcement, accustomed to detecting fentanyl in tox screens, hadn’t found it. That set up a media narrative now echoing through Louisiana with the death of the photogenic athlete. Matheson’s carefully plotted PR strategy was losing steam.
“Let’s get to it,” she said, her piercing blue eyes moving from Matheson to the view of the river behind him.
Matheson remembered how she liked to gaze out over the Mississippi at night, glass of wine or champagne in hand, wearing only a thin silk robe. He gestured toward the window. “Five million dollars buys a hell of a view. And, I trust, a little goodwill.”
“It buys a meeting to say thank you. It is not a quid pro quo. I want to be clear about that,” she said.
Matheson nodded.
“Walt, please join us,” he called to the next room.
Kimbel settled into the far corner of the sectional.
“We’re not asking for much, Ms. Isaacson, just a little clarity in your messaging,” Kimbel began. “The opioid crisis is getting worse, and we need to draw a line between what Genyra is doing and what everyone else is doing. You can help with that, rather than just, you know, bludgeoning Big Pharma to death.”
“Xylaxyn,” Matheson interjected, savoring the word. “It’s not fentanyl. It’s not addictive. We’re starting to see local stories equating us to Purdue Pharma. Everyone associated with that company was an evil facilitator of the opioid crisis, from the CEO down to the lowest-level slimeball lobbyist. Xylaxyn is different. It wasn’t that long ago that you helped me lobby the FDA.”
Icy crossed her arms. “Is Xylaxyn so different? It’s still a synthetic analgesic with limited clinical trials.”
“And a cleaner safety profile than anything else on the market,” Kimbeladded. “We’re not asking you to endorse it. Just to acknowledge the difference. Maybe even position Genyra as a company trying to change things.”
Matheson leaned forward. “You’re running for governor, Irene. You want to be the face of reform. This is your chance to back a solution instead of only prosecuting symptoms. It’s a smart play.”
Icy didn’t blink. “Tell you what. I’ll review the data. If it holds, I’ll mention something in the right context, when and if appropriate.”
