head up the Alzheimer’s division. And Gordon knew that Alzheimer’s was an arm of the corporate structure that every pharmaceutical giant looked to for a huge breakthrough drug. A pill to combat Alzheimer’s was a multibillion- dollar pill. And being offered the lead position was definitive proof that Marcon was enamored with its rising star. Yet three years later, that star had somehow tarnished. Nothing in the file indicated why.
But she had moved over to Veritas three months earlier, assuming the same coveted position with the rival company. Gordon glanced out the window at the passing clouds and wondered what tucked-away secrets Jennifer Pearce had brought with her to Veritas. At three-sixty plus bonuses a year, she was too well paid to have come across empty-headed. Gordon suspected Bruce Andrews had made a good choice when he offered her the position. But without knowing Jennifer personally, how could Andrews have been so sure?
And therein lay the problem. Did Bruce Andrews and Jennifer Pearce know each other prior to her starting work at Veritas? If the answer was yes, then chances were good that Pearce was another Andrews toady. If no, then maybe she was someone he could trust. The answer to that question was weighing on him.
He scanned down the page detailing her short tenure at Veritas. She was telling the truth about Kenga Bakcsi working in her department. She was Kenga’s direct boss. His investigator had not been able to ascertain whether their relationship went beyond the office to friends, but Jennifer’s story about tending to Kenga’s cat seemed plausible. In fact, there was nothing about Jennifer Pearce that did not seem plausible. He stared out the window and tried to put himself in her position. She was the new gal on the block in an increasingly alien environment. She suspected her employer might be responsible for the death of one of her staff. How disconcerting must that be? It would scare the crap out of most people, have them running for the door. But Jennifer Pearce did not run. She was doing the same thing he would do: assimilating information. She was making no decisions until all the facts were on the table, then she would make a rational choice. But what were her options? Remain at Veritas, bury her head, and hope the ax didn’t strike her? Unlikely: She wasn’t an ostrich. Involve the police while continuing to work at Veritas? Dangerous; very dangerous. Quit, walk away, and develop a severe case of amnesia? Again, dangerous if someone at Veritas was killing people to keep them quiet. Or search out someone to help her?
Gordon knew he was beginning to believe her. Time to play the devil’s advocate. Someone inside Veritas had been alerted by their legal team that Gordon Buchanan in Butte, Montana, was considering legal action against the company. They recruit a new hire, Jennifer Pearce, to visit Buchanan and find out the validity of his claim. He grinned at the absurdity of it. Jennifer Pearce was a Ph.D. researcher with a proven track record in the pharmaceutical industry, making extremely good money, with no history of being anything except what she claimed to be. She started at almost the same time Billy died, and at that time Veritas had no idea their product was responsible for Billy’s death. And if they were to send someone across the country to visit, the last thing a company spy would do is accuse her employer of killing its employees.
Gordon made his decision. Jennifer Pearce was the real thing.
He had an ally.
24
The Lear 31A touched down at George F. L. Charles Airport in Castries, St. Lucia’s largest and most modern city, and taxied to a private hangar. The Castries airport serviced mostly private jets and cargo, while international travel came in through Hewanorra on the south tip of the island, close to the world-famous Pitons. Gordon waited until Customs had come and gone, lazily poking their heads into the fuselage to see who had arrived, before deplaning. The sun was intense, even late in the afternoon, and he lounged in the shade next to the hangar, waiting for his ride to show. Ten minutes later, an older silver van pulled up a few feet away. The driver glanced over at him and waved. Gordon opened the door and slid in the front seat. The upholstery was worn but clean.
“Christopher,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “Good to see you, my friend.”
“Gordon Buchanan,” the man said in lilting English. “Welcome back to St. Lucia, mon.” He was native Lucian, with roots easily traced back to when the slave traders had populated the Caribbean with Africans, torn from their homes and families on a distant continent. He was a large man, over six feet, and had a perpetual smile, his teeth punctuated with gold fillings. A pair of sunglasses was perched on the top of his head, and he was dressed in blue jeans and a crisp white shirt. “What brings my favorite country singer to our beautiful island?”
Gordon grimaced. Christopher had talked him into singing a country song at a local karaoke bar one night and had never let him live it down. He was good at cutting and processing trees, but not so good carrying a tune. “What new bands have you found lately?” Gordon asked as the van started moving slowly along the runway toward Vigie Beach. Christopher was the local promoter for musicians from all over the Caribbean and often brought new talent to St. Lucia. There was no place on the island that Christopher could escape to without someone shaking his hand and asking what was happening.
“He’s not a musician, but I’ve got a good one, my friend. There’s a boxer on the island who could be Olympic caliber. I’m bringing in some carded boxers from other islands and putting on a few matches. Sold out, every one of them, mon.”
“Excellent,” Gordon said. “Listen, Christopher, I need a favor. I’m only here for a day or two, and it’s sort of on business.”
“I’m your man,” Christopher said.
“Can you get your hands on a police report for me?”
His guide looked puzzled. “A police report? What’s going on, Gordon?”
“There was an accident last week. A tourist died when her cab went over a cliff. You hear anything about that?”
“It was in the papers,” Christopher said. “She a friend of yours?”
Gordon shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m interested.”
“Okay, I can get you the report. But let’s not visit the police station ourselves. That’s not a good place to be. I’ll have someone deliver it. Where are you staying?”
“Caribbees,” Gordon replied. “I phoned from the plane and they had a room.”
“I’m sure they did,” Christopher said, steering off the runway and heading onto Vigie Peninsula. Caribbees Hotel was set into a hill near the lighthouse, with stunning views of Castries Harbor and the ocean. Vacancies were rare at the hotel, but when Gordon Buchanan flew in, things changed.
Gordon had a long history with a few of the Caribbean Islands, but especially with St. Lucia. He had been traveling to the Caribbean for years, scuba diving and spending time in the sun. Gordon had a creed he lived by, which was to always leave whatever place you visit a little better for having been there. And twelve years ago, when he first met Christopher, he had asked what was a problem on the island-a problem that dealt with people. Christopher had answered immediately: domestic violence. The stuff that happened between husband and wife behind closed doors. And there was nowhere for these women to go when threatened. Gordon had changed all that.
He returned to the United States, made some calls, had his bank wire some money to the West Indies Bank in Castries, and flew back to the island. He bought a large house in need of work, hired contractors to refurbish it, then donated it to the city. There were sixteen rooms, a fully functional kitchen, three family rooms with televisions and PlayStations, and a full-time guard on the front door. Now the women had a safe place to go, at least for the short term. His generosity had been the talk of the island for months. The island government tried to honor him by naming a street after him, but he respectfully turned them down, preferring to keep a low profile.
But that didn’t mean people forgot. They didn’t. And now when Gordon needed something, it became available. Like a room in a popular hotel.
Christopher pulled up in front of Caribbees and grinned. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock?”
“Nine o’clock is fine. Don’t forget the police report.”
Christopher gave him a pained look and stomped on the gas. Gordon checked in and thanked the manager for finding him such an excellent room on such short notice. The balcony wrapped around the corner of the hotel, with a view of the Caribbean to the west and a sweeping vista of Castries and its harbor to the south. He ate dinner in one of the on-site restaurants and retired early. By nine on Sunday morning, he was sitting outside the lobby waiting for Christopher. At precisely the top of the hour, the driver/promoter pulled up, a huge grin on his face.
“What are you looking so smug about?” Gordon asked as he slid into the front passenger’s seat.
