Jeff Buick - Lethal Dose

“Her parents are still in Romania, and her dad has a Web site he uses to post family stuff on. When I was searching the Web, looking for hits on Veritas, the search engine found a hit on his site. He mentioned his daughter was in America working for Veritas Pharmaceutical. I used the information on the Web site to locate her, talked to her a few times, then offered her money to get what she could on Triaxcion.” His eyes teared up again. “Christ, I never thought they’d kill her.”

Jennifer moved across to the love seat and sat beside him, her hands on his arm. “It’s okay, Gordon. What happened isn’t your fault.” They sat in silence for a minute or two.

“Thanks,” he said. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and continued. “I had an inside source with Kenga, but I wanted more. So I hired a private investigator to dig into Veritas. Among other things, he found some questionable accounting practices.”

“Veritas is in trouble financially?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. But they’ve stretched themselves pretty thin. Haldion was their first FDA recall, and the tort suits drained a lot of money out of the corporate coffers. Triaxcion was looking like it was going to follow suit, and that’s probably why they decided to defend it so vigorously. Stop the bleeding before it starts. A successful tort suit could have cost them in excess of five hundred million dollars. That’s money Veritas doesn’t have right now.”

“What about the new drugs in the pipeline?” Jennifer asked. “Veritas is close to getting FDA approval on three new chemicals.”

“One for reducing blood pressure, one an antiviral, the other for cholesterol. But not one of the three is there yet. From what I saw, they’re stuck in Phase III trials.”

“But if any one of those drugs is approved, the money will be flowing again. These aren’t orphan drugs we’re talking about here.”

Gordon looked confused. “What are orphan drugs?”

“Sometimes a major pharmaceutical company will develop a drug that works against a serious affliction that only affects a few people. Without the numbers to generate the sales once the drug is FDA approved and on the market, there’s no upside to manufacturing it other than some R amp;D credits. Orphan drugs are very much a goodwill gesture by the company.”

“No, they are certainly not orphan drugs.”

“What else did your PI uncover?” she asked.

“Another dead Veritas employee. Albert Rousseau. He died back in late April when his gas stove exploded.”

“You think Veritas had something to do with it?”

Gordon finished his coffee and set the mug on the kitchen table. “What are the chances of a gas explosion? Natural gas is about the safest form of energy on the market. These things just don’t happen every day. If I had to guess, I’d say the explosion was planned. The private investigator I hired is on his way to Richmond to see if Rousseau was planning any big purchases or trips.”

“You think he was blackmailing someone at Veritas?”

“No idea. But it’s suspicious, his dying like that.”

Jennifer finished her coffee and poured both of them another cup. “It’s decaf,” she said, pouring a touch of cream into her mug. She offered him the cream and he topped off his coffee.

“This isn’t my life, Jennifer,” Gordon said. She looked confused, and he said, “People dying and corporations killing their employees. I’m completely out of my element here. I’m comfortable in a flannel shirt with a chain saw in my hand. This is so alien to me. I don’t know what to do.”

“You seem to have done pretty good so far,” she said. “You found the pills, talked to the doctor, brought in legal counsel first and then a private investigator. And when that wasn’t working, you searched out Kenga. You’ve certainly adapted to this whole mess quite well.”

His face wore a dejected look. “But we have nothing. Veritas is probably guilty of some horrific things, but we can’t prove it. So far, they’re winning.”

“So far,” she said. “You look tired. I’ve got a guest bedroom set up. Want to spend the night?”

He shook his head. “No, thanks. It’s not proper. I’ll get a hotel room. In fact, I’ve already got one. Left all my bags there before I came over.”

She nodded, knowing he had just told her the first lie of the night. “Okay, if you insist.”

“I do,” he said, rising from the kitchen chair. They walked through the living room, and he stopped. “Would you do me one favor?”

“Sure,” she said.

“Play for me. Just one or two songs. I love the piano.”

“Of course,” Jennifer said, a little taken aback by the request. It had come out of left field. “Just relax on the couch and get comfortable.”

Gordon stretched out on the sofa, his legs overhanging the armrest. Jennifer sat at the bench and the gentle sounds of Enya spilled through the darkened room. Every key she touched was as it should be, and her cadence was perfect. He felt the notes blurring together into a silky wall of sound. His thoughts drifted to the woman at the piano, and how she had taken the incentive to search him out and speak with him about Kenga. She was a well-educated, intelligent woman, and he admired her strength of character. Perhaps together they could give Veritas a run for its money.

The notes washed over him, and his breathing became more and more rhythmic.

J. D. Rothery chaired the meeting in his office in L’Enfant Plaza. The office was six hundred square feet with thick wall-to-wall carpet, a large redwood desk, and a sitting area with three leather couches and two overstuffed armchairs. Two walls were solid windows and the other two richly paneled with bookcases and original canvases. Present were Craig Simms, Deputy Director of the CIA, and Tony Warner, Director of Intelligence Analysis with the National Security Agency. Jim Allenby arrived as the meeting started. He had just flown in from Miami on a Bureau Gulfstream.

“Jim, you’re back from the crime scene. What have you got for us?” Rothery asked.

“Some good news mixed with a whole lot of bad. All four members of one Cuban-American family are dead. There’s no doubt we’re dealing with the same hemorrhagic virus we had in Austin and San Diego. Source of contamination was a TGIF restaurant in Miami. The restaurant is under quarantine, but we suspect the terrorists planted a set of infected silverware and the Chavez family was the unlucky party. The dishes have all been through a commercial washing machine with temperatures on some of the cycles that will kill the virus.”

“No chance of the virus spreading?” J. D. asked.

“At the restaurant, we suspect not. At the house, we’re hopeful. These people lived inside that house for four days since they ingested the virus, and there are levels of contamination in the home. But our experts think they’ve got it contained.”

“So what’s the good news?” Simms asked.

“At first, we thought we were going to have a media circus on this one,” Allenby replied. “The father, Enrico Chavez, was a bit of a public figure in the Cuban community, having run for municipal office. But the press hasn’t suggested his murder was politically motivated, and we’re fine with them taking that stance. And it turns out there’s no immediate family in the United States. All relatives are still in Cuba. And without immediate family banging on the door and demanding autopsy results and answers to questions, this might blow over quicker than we thought. We don’t have to answer to anyone who isn’t directly related to the Chavez family. So we can deflect the questions, and as long as no one on our end does anything stupid, we should be able to hunker down until this blows over.”