days after he put a ten-grand deposit on the Carrera. He said this beast was going to look so good in his driveway in Carmel.”
“Carmel? California?”
Fraser gave Connors a questioning look. “You didn’t know he was moving to California?”
“No idea,” Connors said, laughing. “But that’s typical Albert. He’d probably move without telling anyone, then invite his friends over for the housewarming party. Do you know if he’d already found a place out there?”
“He told me he’d made an offer on a house just off the ocean. Said he couldn’t afford one right on the water.”
“He could if he wanted, just didn’t want to pay the price.”
“So what car
Twenty minutes later, Wes Connors thanked Fraser for his time, hopped in his rental, and pulled out into the Richmond traffic. He was halfway down the block when his cell phone connected to Gordon’s. He relayed the information from the dealership to his client.
“So he had a deposit on a top-end Porsche and was looking at property in Carmel. Rousseau had either just collected a good chunk of cash or he was expecting some in the near future.”
“It would appear so.”
“Wes, get out to Carmel and find out what property he was
looking at, and when the closing date was on the purchase. And good work.”
“Thanks. I’ll get on it right away.”
Connors clicked his phone shut and grinned. Some days, he really loved this private investigator stuff.
“He was a friend of Albert Rousseau’s?” the manager asked, scanning the card Connors had given Jack Fraser. There was no company name, just Connor’s name sans title, and a Seattle address and phone number.
“Told me Rousseau had referred him. Bit of a flake, I think. He did the squid when I tried to get him out for a test drive.” “The squid” was auto-industry shorthand for a buyer who raises his or her hands and waves them about when they don’t want to do something, usually take the car for a drive or make an offer. “Anyway, you said once that if anyone came in mentioning Albert Rousseau, you wanted to know.”
“Thanks, Jack,” the manager said. He waited until Fraser was out of his office, then looked up a number and dialed. “Bruce Andrews, please,” he said when the receptionist answered. She took his name and asked him to hold. A few moments later, Andrews’s voice came over the line.
“Mr. Andrews, I don’t know if you remember me, but this is Stan Reichle over at Motorsports Porsche. You mentioned that if anyone came asking about Albert Rousseau, you wanted to know.”
“Of course I remember you, Stan. I called you because we had given Albert a cash bonus and we were concerned that the IRS would find out and try to get the taxes out of his estate. What’s the reason for the call?”
“Someone came by today looking at cars. Told the salesman Albert had referred him. My sales rep didn’t think this guy was legit.”
“So what did he want?” Andrews asked.
“No idea. But he left his card. He’s from Seattle. Name is Wes Connors.” He recited the address and phone number off the card. “Strange. No business name on the card.”
“Well, it doesn’t sound like the IRS, but you never know. Thanks for calling. In fact, your timing is perfect. We need to pick up a couple of cars and one of those new SUVs for employee bonuses. I’ll send down one of my management team to pick them out. Should they ask for you when they stop by?”
“That would be fine, Mr. Andrews. Thanks.”
“Thank you,”Andrews said, replacing the phone in the cradle.
Bruce Andrews stared at the phone. What the hell was going on? He had figured the Albert Rousseau issue to be a dead one. Why was someone asking questions about Rousseau almost four months after his death? This was exactly the last thing he needed on his plate right now.
He picked up his phone and dialed a number from memor y. The voice he knew would answer said hello. He explained what had happened at the car dealership and recited Wes Connors’s name and address.
“Do you want me to look into it?” the voice asked.
“Yes. I want to know who this Connors guy is and why he’s poking around. Rousseau is history. Bad history. I don’t need anyone digging into this.”
“I’ll take care of it.” The line went dead.
The CEO of Veritas Pharmaceutical rose from his desk and stood by the bank of windows, looking across downtown Richmond. He stared at the Coliseum a few blocks south. The structure had always reminded him of an alien spacecraft anchored to a matching landing pad. It was the venue where Elvis played to four sellout crowds and the same arena in which Richmond City Council, in all their infinite wisdom, had voted to prohibit the Grateful Dead from performing. Frank Zappa, yes, the Grateful Dead, no. God, life was strange.
It was the small stuff that could hurt you, Andrews thought as he released the Coliseum from his gaze and scanned across the city. Sometimes the best-laid plans were tripped up by the most inconsequential things. Trivial idiosyncrasies that came back to bite you in the ass when you were least expecting it. Albert Rousseau was a prime example. His death had been ruled an accident, the insurance company had agreed to that and
had paid, and the city had released an order to allow reconstruction of the town-house unit destroyed by the explosion. But out of nowhere somebody from Seattle comes sniffing around, asking questions about a murdered man. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like this at all.
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
