Lethal Dose (15 page)

31

Gordon was out in the field working the feller-buncher, a machine designed to topple the timber and strip the branches, when a message from his receptionist came through on his two-way radio. There was a call waiting that could be transferred to his cell phone. He distanced himself from the machine, with its noisy grinders and hydraulics, and found a quiet spot of forest. He used the radio to ask his receptionist to put the call through. Jennifer Pearce's voice came across the line.

“Thanks again for letting me sleep on your couch the other day,” he said, relaxing back into a Ponderosa pine. The bark tickled his back, and he liked the feeling.

“I hardly let you,” she said. “Two songs and you were out cold. I just covered you up with a blanket. Did anyone ever tell you that you snore?”

“Yeah,” he said sheepishly. “I've been told. How are things at work?”

“Difficult to concentrate. Can't keep my mind on task. I keep wondering what's really going on around here. And everyone is still depressed over what happened to Kenga. This isn't a great place to be right now.”

“How's the research coming along?”

She brightened. “That end of things is good. We've found a molecule that will bond to the membrane component. It's a significant step in the right direction. About half my staff is at a different facility at White Oak Technology Park, and they're concentrating on the new molecule. It's a pain in the butt running between the two locations, but right now the progress is worth it. So work in itself is good.” She glanced about her office, the desk piled high with pharmaceutical and medical texts. Science magazines and periodicals filled with dissertations were stacked on the chairs usually reserved for visitors. She was onto something, and the research materials were taking over her office.

“I'm glad,” he said. “I know you take your research work seriously.”

“It saves lives, Gordon,” she said. “Or improves quality of life, all depending.”

“I wish everyone at Veritas had the same ethics you have, Jennifer,” Gordon said, staring at the sky and feeling a warm sensation in his eyes. “Billy would be out here with me, cutting trees and bitching about the beer at the pub being warm.”

“You miss him,” she said. Her voice was soft and understanding. “That's natural, Gordon.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He lowered his line of vision to the forest and drank in the warmth of green and brown, framed by the brilliant blue sky. Moss clung to the sides of rotting stumps and tiny wildflowers peeked out from cracks in the mulch covering the forest floor. Birds chirped nearby and a squirrel squawked at him, irritated he'd chosen that particular tree to rest against. God, he loved the forest. And then it struck him. Jennifer Pearce didn't have a reason to call. They had been talking for a couple of minutes about nothing in particular. She had just called to talk.

He closed his eyes and envisioned her face and her body. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, with soft eyes that spoke of a caring and loving nature. Her smile was warm and real, and her passion for the truth unmistakable. For a moment, he was close to her and could smell the faint caress of perfume she wore on her neck. Her hair was soft in his hands, and he slipped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her closer.

“Gordon? Gordon, are you still there?”

“Yeah, I'm here,” Gordon said, suddenly feeling like a schoolboy caught staring at the prettiest girl in class. “I must have missed what you said. Sorry.”

“That's okay. I was just asking if you were thinking of coming back down to Richmond soon.”

Reality was back. “I guess that depends on what happens with Veritas. Right now I'm just waiting to hear back from Wes Connors. He's in Carmel, digging up the real estate company that represented Albert Rousseau on his purchase.”

“Why is that important?” she asked.

“Albert would need the cash to close the deal. The possession date on the real estate deal will tell us where Albert was in the process of blackmailing Veritas—if in fact that's what he was doing.”

“You're pretty well convinced he was,” she said.

“Yeah, I am. I think someone at Veritas had him killed because he was threatening to go public with damaging information.”

“Well, the Richmond police don't agree with you. His death has been officially ruled accidental. The city has just issued a permit for the contractors to start work on his town house. Four months with yellow tape around a bombed-out building. If I were his neighbors, I'd be pretty damned upset.”

Gordon was thoughtful. “Albert's town house is still intact? The same as it was when he died?”

“I think so. There was a lot of talk about who was responsible for what. The insurance company and the gas company weren't agreeing on things.”

“Go figure,” Gordon said. “Nobody wants to admit fault.”

“Something like that.” There was a voice in the background, and Jennifer said, “Sorry, Gordon, I've got to go. Small problem to take care of.”

“Okay. Can I call you at home? Later, maybe?”

“Sure,” she said. She sounded happy at the suggestion. “I'd like that.”

Gordon closed his cell phone and sat in silence. Jennifer Pearce. He had noticed her looks the moment he had pulled himself out from under the planer machine on her visit to the mill, but he hadn't let his thoughts drift toward her as a woman he may be attracted to, not until today's phone call. Was she interested in him? She'd asked if he was planning to visit Richmond again soon. And his suggestion that he call her later had met with a very positive response. Then again, maybe someone was in her office and she had to be polite. Who knew?

A wisp of a breeze rustled through the pines and he felt a touch of sadness lift from his heart. For the first time since Billy died all those months ago, he sensed happiness creeping back into his life. It was Jennifer Pearce. In some way, her presence in his life reassured him that things would get better, that laughter and love would return. There was a goodness in her heart that was reaching out to him, drawing him close to her. Yes, that was it. He felt closer to her than any other person in his life. She was physically distant, across the breadth of the continent, and they had never touched other than to shake hands, but he instinctively knew she was drawing him in to her. And he made a decision. He would not push her away, as he had done with so many other women in his life. He would let Jennifer Pearce getto know him. He would let her get close. If that was what she wanted.

And he hoped it was.

“What is it, Robert?” Jennifer asked. Robert Blakely, one of her junior researchers, was hanging halfway in her office, trying to get her attention.

“They need you at White Oak,” he said. “Josh sounded real excited when he called. You were on the phone.”

“I'll call over,” she said, reaching for the phone she had just hung up.

“Nobody will answer. They're all in the lab. They've got some promising results on that new molecule they're testing.”

“Okay,” she said, “I'll drive over.” Her research assistant disappeared, and she glanced again at her computer screen. She had been slowly scrolling through her accounting files while talking with Gordon, and she didn't like what she saw. Everyday expenses for her research group were being shuffled over into the R&D column. That would qualify those expenses for government research tax credits. It was impossible for her to tell whether Veritas was actually claiming those tax credits or not, but the accounting practices she was looking at would allow for that to happen. And that would not only be unethical, it would be illegal.

She sat back and thought about the potential implications this kind of accounting could have on a company the size of Veritas. If they were redirecting even thirty percent of their expenses into research and claiming the tax credits, that would amount to over three hundred million dollars a year. And three hundred million a year in the asset column rather than the debit column netted six hundred million in profits that was nonexistent. Shades of Enron, she thought.

She closed the file and locked out her computer. She would talk to someone about it at some point, but right now she had to get over to White Oak.

32

The office of Wes Connors, Private Investigator, was locked, but it took the man less than five seconds to line up the tumblers in the deadbolt and jimmy the lock. He slipped inside the darkened office, adjusted his night-vision goggles, and switched them on. The room took on an eerie green glow.

There was a desk, three filing cabinets, and a scratched coffee table sitting in front of an old couch. A computer monitor sat on the desk, and the intruder immediately moved to the computer and turned it on. He adjusted the light level on the monitor so it wouldn't blind him, pulled out each desk drawer, and searched through them as the computer booted up. There was little of value in the drawers, just pens and pencils, paper clips, scissors, and other office staples. The bottom drawer had a few files, but they were filled with receipts, neatly labeled for filing with the IRS. The computer finished powering up, and the man turned his attention there.

He scanned the hard drive for Wes Connors's clients' files. They were grouped together in a folder in Microsoft Word. Each client had a profile, including their address, phone number, and why they had sought out the services of a private investigator. Most were local clients, but a handful were from out of state. Attached to the client profile was an accounting sheet with detailed expense reports, billable hours, and dates. The intruder switched his approach when he saw that Connors kept exact dates on when he worked for each client. He searched the client files for any customers with August 2005 dates. The search produced three names. He perused each of the files and sent them to the printer. Then he closed each file, shut down the computer, and shifted his attention to the filing cabinets.

They were locked, but it took him seconds to pick the lock and slide them open, one drawer at a time. He flipped through the files, looking for hard copy on the three clients Wes Connors had been working for during August. He found a single file for each client. Receipts were neatly filed in the folders, and when he opened the third one he knew he'd hit pay dirt. Gordon Buchanan's file had a Visa receipt for an electronic ticket to Richmond dated August 31, just five days prior. And Connors had been in Richmond, poking into something that had ruffled some big feathers. The man replaced the files exactly as he had found them and quietly left the office, locking it behind him.

When he was on the street, two blocks away at his car, he made a phone call from his cell. “I think I've found what you want,” he said.

“And?” the voice asked.

“Wes Connors was hired by Gordon Buchanan. There's a receipt for a plane ticket, dated five days ago, in Buchanan's file.”

“Anything else?”

“The only other things in that file were Buchanan's particulars and a brief write-up on his brother's death. There was mention of a pharmaceutical company—Veritas, I think.”

“Thanks.”

The man closed his phone and slid out of the misty evening into his car, dry and comfortable. The rain picked up in intensity almost immediately, and he was glad to be inside. He started the car and pulled away from the curb, wondering why it had been so important to check out Wes Connors's office that evening. But when the orders came from as far up the food chain as they had, you didn't ask why, you just did what they asked. He called his wife as the downpour started and told her he was on his way home. When it was raining, she usually fixed him hot chocolate, even during the summer. He liked that.

The line went dead in his hand and he set the phone on the desk. The information from Seattle was interesting but not unexpected. Since his last discussion with Bruce Andrews, he had made some discreet inquiries about Gordon Buchanan, and what he had found was quite interesting.

Buchanan was a self-made man in the logging industry, a tough business in which to excel. He ran a sawmill just outside Divide, Montana, lived in Butte, and preferred the tranquillity of the northern forests to the congestion of any major cities. He had played hockey during his youth, achieving reasonable success with a triple-A junior club before an injury took him out of serious contention for a coveted spot in the NHL. One of his mills had burned to the ground, but he'd taken the insurance money, about twenty cents on the dollar, and rebuilt. The man was not a quitter. That was not good. Buchanan was intent on nailing Veritas for his brother's death, and his prodding was proving to be a nuisance, disruptive even. He called Bruce Andrews's private line.

“About Gordon Buchanan,” he said when Andrews answered. “My guy found a receipt for a recent plane ticket to Richmond in his file in Wes Connors's office.”

Andrews's voice was thoughtful. “Gordon Buchanan. This guy is like the Energizer Bunny. He just doesn't stop.”

“He's becoming a pest.”

“We have to send him a message,” Andrews said. “I think I'll have someone waiting when Wes Connors arrives back in Seattle. Maybe Buchanan will get the idea I'm not to be trifled with.”

“Why not just remove Buchanan? He seems to be the quarterback. Connors is just a PI he hired to check out Albert Rousseau.”

“Because if Buchanan disappears or dies violently, eyes are going to be looking at Veritas. It's no secret that he was trying everything in his power to get some sort of admission out of us that Triaxcion was responsible for his brother's death. I'd rather just send him a message.”

“Okay. Do you want me to take care of it?”

“No, it's okay. I've got someone close by,” Andrews said.

“All right. Let me know if there's anything you need.”

“I'll tell you what I need. I need this whole thing to stay on track.”

“That's what this is all about.”

“I'll talk to you later. Don't call unless it's important.” Andrews hung up.

The man on the other end of the phone also hung up. He reassured himself that things were fine. When Wes Connors disappeared, Gordon Buchanan would surely understand he was battling against an unstoppable tide. One man could not derail the machine that Bruce Andrews had built at Veritas. Right now, it was just a matter of getting that simple concept through to Buchanan.

Buchanan could not win.