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.
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
“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.
