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 amp;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
