Jeff Buick - Lethal Dose

“You’ve probably already tried the legal channels, where the biggest and most prestigious firm in your hometown sends Veritas a series of threatening letters and they swat at you like you’re an insignificant insect,” she said. There was something in his eyes that told her she had hit a nerve, and she continued. “It’s pretty typical. The drugs that are released on the markets often have side effects. Listen to the television advertisements. Half the talking is the announcer telling you not to take the pill if you have high blood pressure, diabetes, are subject to skin rashes, are or could be pregnant, blah, blah, blah. There are risks associated with taking prescription drugs. And with risks come reactions to the drug and accidents the research company did not foresee. Suddenly, there are seriously injured or dead people looking for justice.

“So their lawyers begin to circle the castle. But the guys inside the castle are smart, powerful, and flush with cash. The corporation’s lawyers fill the moat, pull up the drawbridge, and fortify the walls with a hundred high-priced lawyers. Then they tell you to come and get them. Most legal firms won’t touch a major pharmaceutical company unless they’ve got a serious tort case. Even then, there are no guarantees. So if Billy’s death is tied in to Triaxcion, it’s natural that you’re going to want answers. Just as I want answers about what happened to Kenga. But answers and retribution are slow coming, if ever.”

“And how would we find those answers, Ms. Pearce?” Gordon asked, leaning forward. The waning light ebbed onto his face and she could see an incredible inner strength in his eyes.

“You could have a source inside the company,” she said.

“According to you, I already had one. She’s dead now. Remember?”

Jennifer didn’t take the sarcasm well. “I came to you,” she snapped. “I’m offering you assistance. Being facetious is not necessary.”

“Why would you offer me anything, Ms. Pearce?” he asked, backing off, his voice softer.“You don’t know me from a hole in the ground, yet here you are, asking me if I want your help nailing your employer to the wall. Can you see how I may be a little skeptical?”

“Why would I want to help you?” she asked, and he nodded, unfolding his arms and dropping them to his sides. “Because I liked Kenga. She was a really nice woman, with a life that no one had the right to take. If they murdered her, then they should pay.”

“I see,” Gordon said quietly.

“And,” Jennifer added, “because I’m scared. I don’t want to work for a company that kills its employees. I don’t feel safe quitting, not after seeing what I saw on Kenga’s computer. And I know that someone from the company came back to Kenga’s computer and removed the Triaxcion file. The file that had your name in it, Mr. Buchanan. I didn’t know where else to go. I thought of asking the local police for help, but that would be insanely stupid. If the police were to begin nosing around, whoever killed Kenga would be looking for a piece of paper somewhere in the precinct report with a name on it. And eventually they would find it. Then I’d be in the same condition Kenga is-on a cold slab in some morgue.”

“There are other avenues of help available, Ms. Pearce,” Gordon said. “Both the FBI and the FDA would probably take an interest. The CIA as well, as Kenga’s death happened outside the country’s borders.”

“Same reason,” she said. “I’m sure the FBI could protect me much better than the local police, but what about my life? I’m a pharmaceutical researcher with a great career. And if I went up against these guys, I could never work in my chosen field again. I don’t want to end up in a witness protection program for the rest of my life. And that’s the best-case scenario.”

“So you came to Butte to meet with Billy Buchanan’s brother.”

“Yes. I came to Butte to talk with you.”

They were both silent for a minute. Gordon pointed to the main administration building and they started walking slowly toward it. The sun was peeking through the treetops and the woods had come alive with chirping birds. The air was fresh and felt good in her lungs. An occasional machine whirred for a bit, then stopped, but other than the birds, it was quiet.

“It’s really beautiful here,” she said as they walked.

“I enjoy it,” Gordon said, his cowboy boots kicking up puffs of dirt. “Logging and working sawmills has been my life.” He glanced over at her. “It’s been a good life.”

“I can imagine. I read the article on your brother that was in the Butte paper after his death. He was quite the guy. Everyone liked him.”

“Yeah, Billy was a great guy. I miss him.”

They reached the edge of the parking lot, and Jennifer pointed to her rental. They walked across the cooling pavement and she got in the car. She dug in the small travel bag she’d brought with her and extracted a business card. She handed it to him, and he took a few seconds to look it over. He tucked it in one of his jean pockets.

“Well, thanks for meeting with me,” she said, offering her hand.

He shook it. “Thanks for coming. It was an interesting story.”

“Give me a call if you think we could help each other,” she said, starting the car and putting it in gear.

“I’ll do that,” he said.

“And Gordon,” she said as he moved back from the car so she could pull away. “I never said Kenga died on St. Lucia. Just mentioned it was a Caribbean island.”

She left him standing in the parking lot, a thoughtful look on his face.

The closest charter service that featured either Lear or Gulf-stream jets was in Helena. When Gordon Buchanan wanted to get somewhere fast, he didn’t rely on United-he chartered a private jet. He called the company and booked a Lear 31A to fly him to St. Lucia, then called the Twin Pines helicopter pilot at home. He apologized for calling late on Saturday and asking the pilot to work on Sunday, but stressed how important it was that he be in Helena by eight in the morning. His pilot agreed to come in without telling Gordon he would just as soon be flying as sitting in church. It wouldn’t have mattered-Buchanan would have appreciated it anyway.

Sunday, August 28, dawned cool and rain threatened. Both men were a bit early, and at ten minutes before the hour, the chopper lifted off and, after forty minutes of choppy flying, deposited Gordon on the tarmac in Helena. The Lear was waiting, the fee for the two-day trip already preauthorized on Gordon’s Visa card. Once the plane was airborne and en route to Miami, Gordon opened his files on Veritas and withdrew the folder on Jennifer Pearce.

Hers was a thin file, with her being such a recent hire. His investigator had pulled a brief work history covering her time at Marcon, and he started there. She was a brilliant woman, of that there was no doubt. She held a Ph.D. in microbiology and had been instrumental in bringing two midlevel drugs to market before shifting over to 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?