Lethal Dose (16 page)

33

United Flight 5641 touched down at Byrd Field, as Richmond International Airport is commonly referred to by the locals, twenty minutes late. Strong headwinds out of Denver, the pilot had told the passengers. Gordon Buchanan didn't care. Twenty minutes one way or the other was of no consequence. He wasn't meeting Jennifer Pearce for dinner until six-thirty, and it wasn't even four in the afternoon. He hailed a cab and sat in the front seat with the driver, a mid-fifties leftover from the hippie days.

“Where to?” he asked. His hair was almost entirely gray, and very long, past his shoulders. He was clean shaven, but his eyes were glazed over and he looked like he needed a shower to wake up. That struck Gordon as odd, given the time of day.

“The nearest Starbucks,” Gordon said. “I'll buy you a coffee.”

That brightened the driver a touch. “That's great, man. I just came on, and I'm kinda still getting my brain around all the traffic.”

“Great,” Gordon said. “Starbucks. Get me there and we'll pour a couple of venti lattes in you. That ought to get your brain going.”

“There's one nearby,” he said, pulling out into traffic and cutting off a delivery truck. They saluted each other and the ride was on.

Gordon stared out the side window, his mind on Jennifer Pearce. Three days ago, on Monday, he had spoken with her and she'd asked if he planned on returning to Richmond in the near future. He hadn't thought of it. Not until she had called. Then two separate things had stirred him to action. First off, he got the feeling she wanted to see him again, and that was something he decided he wanted as well. Second, he wanted to see Albert Rousseau's burned-out town house. He didn't know why, it was just something that was gnawing at him. Rousseau's town house had been off-limits for four months while the insurance companies fought to release themselves from any obligation to pay. Funny, he thought, how quickly they took their premiums but how slowly they paid out on a claim. But the end result of the battle was that Albert Rousseau's condo had remained untouched for the duration. And maybe, just maybe, that was a good thing.

They pulled up to the Starbucks, and for his driver Gordon ordered the largest, strongest coffee on the menu. For himself, he ordered a small dark roast with a touch of cream. He watched the man wake up a little bit with every sip of the life-sustaining liquid. By the time he drained the last of the coffee from the cup, his driver was alive and animated.

“My name's Bud,” he said. “Damned nice of you to visit Richmond.”

“Gordon.”

“Okay, Gordon, I'm on my game now. Where to?”

Gordon checked his watch. “I need to be at Amici Ristorante at six-thirty to meet someone.”

“Amici? I know Amici. Best northern Italian food in Richmond. Carey Street. Better have a reservation, my friend.”

“I imagine my date took care of that. What can we do in the interim? We've got a couple of hours to spare.”

“What can we do?” Bud said, giving Gordon the
you've-got-two-heads
look. “You're in Richmond, man. The heart of Civil War country. This is where Robert E. Lee took over command of Virginia's army and held the city for four years against the Union. Man, this place is the breadbasket of American Civil War history.”

“And you're my guide?”

“You buy the coffee and pay the meter, and you get the best guide Richmond has to offer. I'm an original, Gordon. Born and raised. You're in my backyard now.”

Armed with a second venti dark roast, Bud was unstoppable. “Main Street,” he announced as they arrived on the eastern edge of downtown Richmond. “Picture this. Benedict Arnold, theson-of-a-bitch traitor, marching down this very street with a bunch of British soldiers in tow, burning down the tobacco warehouses. And tobacco in those days was like cash in the bank.” He pointed as they passed Old Stone House, the oldest building in Richmond, dating back to 1736. “That's part of the Edgar Allan Poe Museum. Weird stuff in there, man. Weird guy. This is Shockoe Bottom, best nightlife in the city. Just rocks, man.”

“What's that?” Gordon asked, nodding at a grand old building on the north side of the road.

“Main Street Station, and the Seventeenth Avenue Farmer's Market in back of it. Main Street Station was the Virginia Department of Health until about two years ago, when they renovated it and put in a bunch of new shops. Now there's all kinds of excellent stuff in there. Just excellent. And check this out: Shockoe Slip. Cobblestone streets and great shopping, if you like poking through little stores. Very eclectic.”

Two hours and another venti dark roast later, Bud dropped Gordon in front of a yellow building with a terra-cotta awning that stretched over the sidewalk patio. A tasteful sign indicating they had arrived at Amici Ristorante was fastened to the acrylic stucco. Gordon paid the amount on the meter and handed Bud an extra hundred for the tour. The driver showed his appreciation by leaping from the cab, running to the passenger door, and opening it.

“Usually only do that for little old ladies,” he said, grinning. “Thanks. That was fun.”

“Yeah,” Gordon agreed, shaking the man's hand. “It was. Nice city. I like Richmond.”

He entered the restaurant and spied Jennifer Pearce at a table near the fireplace. He joined her, ordered a beer, and settled in. The restaurant was elegant, but with a homey feeling thrown in. The walls were deep ocher, the chairs polished ebony, and crisp white linen cloths covered the tables. A Josh Groban CD,
Closer
, played on the sound system, his throaty voice adding to the ambience.

“Do you always make decisions just like that?” Jennifer asked, snapping her fingers.

“You mean coming to Richmond?” he asked, and she nodded. “Sure. I wanted to see Albert Rousseau's place before the contractors started work on it. Probably nothing there, but Rousseau's a big piece of the puzzle, one untapped so far.”

“What about Kenga? There might be something at her place.”

Gordon shook his head. “Kenga forwarded everything she had to me before she left for Saint Lucia. I have all the technical data on Triaxcion, but that doesn't really get me anywhere. It's proving the drug is dangerous that's key. When she got back from Saint Lucia, Kenga was going to start searching through the technical files to see if she could find evidence that the researchers working on that drug knew that people with A-positive blood would have negative reactions.”

“So what do you expect to find at Rousseau's place? It's been exposed to the elements for four months.”

He shrugged. “No idea. It's just a part of the puzzle. Oh, there's something else. My private investigator found the real estate agent Albert Rousseau was dealing with on the Carmel property. Purchase price was nine hundred and fifty thousand dollars, closing date was set for the end of September.”

“So Rousseau expected a large payday fairly soon.”

“Exactly. He died on the last day of April with very little money in the bank. The deposits on the Porsche and the Carmel property even left one of his accounts in overdraft. According to the real estate agent, the contract required an additional deposit of fifty thousand dollars on or before July fifteenth. The remainder of the purchase price was due about mid-September. And Rousseau told the agent he didn't need a mortgage on the house.”

“So he was expecting at least a million dollars from some source over the course of the summer.”

Gordon nodded. “And where does an average Joe get a million dollars on short notice?”

“Veritas,” Jennifer said quietly. “Christ, Gordon. These people, whoever they are, are killing anyone who gets in their way.”

“Well, let's think about who they could be. Usually, people don't kill other people without a reason. And more often than not, that reason is money. So you have to ask, who stands to benefit from Veritas's continued success as a company?”

“That's easy,” she answered. “Anyone who owns large chunks of company stock and the top company executives.”

“And who owns big chunks of Veritas stock?” Gordon asked. Jennifer shrugged. “Not counting the top brass at Veritas, there's not one individual who stands out as a shareholder. Mutual fund companies and pension funds are the big stakeholders. And no one inside those companies is going to kill to keep Veritas healthy.”

“So that leaves the top execs.”

“Exactly.”

A waiter arrived at the table with bread and menus, explained the evening specials, and disappeared.

“Bruce Andrews is the top dog. He'd stand to gain the most.”

Gordon finished his beer. “He certainly would. The information is public, so I checked into exactly how much stock the top executives at Veritas own. Bruce Andrews is way out front with six million shares of common stock and another three million in options.”

“Six million shares?” she said. “It's trading at thirty-one dollars. Jesus, that's a lot of money.”

“It's not just the shares,” Gordon said. “It's the options. He has the option to purchase another three million shares at seventeen dollars. The options expire in three months, on December fifteenth. Any downward fluctuation in the stock price is bad news, both for the common shares and the options. An upward surge would be very beneficial.”

Jennifer was silent. She sipped on her drink, then said, “So I was hired by a murderer?”

“Maybe,” Gordon said. “We don't know for sure. We have no proof.”

The waiter reappeared, and Jennifer ordered the Vitello al Porcini. Gordon opted for the Buffalo con Fonduta Tartufata. They ordered one more drink each and sat in silence for a minute after the server had left.

“What do we do?” Jennifer asked. “What do I do? How did I get involved with something like this?”

Gordon gave her a weak smile. “There was no way you could have known. Think of it like Tom Cruise in
The Firm.
They made him a great offer and it seemed like such a good law firm to work for.”

“This isn't a movie, Gordon. This is really happening. I'm working for a company that kills anyone who stands in their way.”

Gordon pursed his lips and swallowed. “All right, then, let's do this. We try to find something we can go to the authorities with, some sort of evidence that Andrews or whoever is guilty of murder. Then we let the police take care of things.”

“And in the interim?” she asked.

“We try to stay alive,” he said, a grim look on his face.

She shook her head in disbelief. In the past few months, her life had taken an unimaginable direction, and there seemed no end to the depth of deceit someone was willing to stoop to in order to hide whatever it was they were attempting to achieve. She pasted a wry smile on her face and said to Gordon, “Veritas is Latin. Do you know what the translation is?”

“No.”

“Truth,” she said. Neither of them smiled.

34

Wes Connors arrived in Seattle to a light mist.
Typical crappy weather
, he thought as he retrieved his Taurus from the long-term parking lot at Sea-Tac International. It was late, almost midnight on Thursday, but he drove to his office. He wanted to total Gordon Buchanan's invoice and send it as an e-mail so Buchanan's office staff would have it the next morning. With all the travel expenses, plus his daily rate, this bill was getting up there. He wasn't worried about Buchanan honoring the bill, he just wanted the money in his account sooner than later.

Parking was easy at this time of night, and he took the stairs to the second floor, unlocking his office door and switching on the light. Nothing happened. He flipped the switch a couple of times, cursing himself for letting so many bulbs burn out that when the last one crapped out there was nothing but darkness. He moved across the open space to his desk and touched the power button on his computer. A soft glow from the monitor washed light on his face and threw a dim illumination about the room. His eyes picked up the form on the couch a split second before his brain processed the image. His right hand moved instinctively toward the top desk drawer. He yanked it open and reached in for the gun.

It was gone.

His breathing was coming quick now. He swiveled slightly in his chair and said, “Who's there?”

The figure didn't move. “Wes Connors?” was all he said.

“Who are you and what do you want?”

“Put your hands on your desk and keep them there.”

Connors complied. “I don't have any money here. This is just my office. Any cash I have is either at home or in the bank.”

“I don't want your money.”

Connors stared at the figure, camouflaged by the shadows and lack of light. He didn't recognize the voice, but it could be a pissed-off husband from one of his marital surveillances. Some dumbass he'd caught with a young bimbo in a hotel room, their cars parked out front in plain sight, the blinds not properly closed. Maybe he'd shot them with his 35-mm through the shades, maybe a few nights of finding the two cars together, license plates front and center. Who knew how he'd nailed the guy, but that was probably it.

“Look, buddy, whatever happened with your marriage or your life, it's not my fault. If I caught you doing something and your wife was paying me, then it's just business. You okay with that?”

“I don't cheat on my wife,” the man said, leaning forward slightly. “Never have, never will.”

Connors could see the man's face now: Caucasian, about forty with slightly receding brown hair. He didn't recognize him. This was not someone he'd followed and photographed. He never forgot one of those faces. Sometimes they wanted to beat the crap out of him for catching them, and he wanted the upper hand in such a situation. That meant remembering who these guys were. And if this guy wasn't some jerk who let his dick do the thinking for him, who was he?

“What do you want?” Connors asked. He was sweating now, his armpits and forehead wet with perspiration.

“I want you to stop screwing up my kid's chance at having a normal life.”

“What?” Connors said. “Man, you got the wrong guy. I've never done anything in my life to hurt a child.”

“You ever heard of Veritas Pharmaceutical?”

Christ, where is this going?
His mind whirred through the possibilities. Albert Rousseau had worked for Veritas, but none of the information he had provided to Gordon Buchanan on Rousseau was going to affect some kid. Somehow this guy had things all wrong. He made a decision.

“I was hired to look into the death of one of their employees.”

“Who?”

“Albert Rousseau.”

“Bullshit.”

The comment was not at all what Wes Connors expected. He stared at the man. “It's not bullshit, it's the truth. Somebody hired me to find out if Rousseau was expecting a payoff of some sort. I don't know the why or what of the whole thing, just that Rousseau had recently looked at an expensive car and some prime real estate.”

“That's it?” the man asked, leaning forward even farther. The unmistakable outline of a silenced pistol was clearly visible.

“That's it,” Connors said.

“That's enough,” the man said, pulling the trigger. The first bullet caught Connors in the throat, the second in the head as he slumped forward. They were 9-mm slugs with hollow points, designed to cause maximum damage on exiting the victim. What were two small holes in the front of Connors's neck and forehead were six-inch gaping holes in the rear. The second bullet stopped his forward progress and threw him back, brains and blood spattering the wall and carpet. He crashed to the floor, dead instantly.

Evan Ziegler rose and stood over the man. It had played out exactly as Bruce Andrews had said it would. Connors was trying to discredit Veritas by pinning Rousseau's murder on someone inside the company. And a scandal of that magnitude would surely result in all research work grinding to a halt. With the Phase I trials for the brain chips slated to begin in less than two months, way ahead of schedule, that would spell disaster. And his son Ben was at the top of the list for one of the experimental chips. No goddamn way some piece of crap like this was going to keep his boy in that wheelchair.

He unscrewed the silencer and replaced the pistol in his shoulder holster. One more glance at the corpse and he was gone, wiping the door handle clean of all fingerprints on his way out. It was late, and he encountered no one on his way out of the building or on the street as he walked to his car. He put the windshield wipers on intermittent and pulled away from the curb with one thought on his mind.

Two more months until the tests were to begin. Ben was almost out of the chair.