Jeff Buick - Lethal Dose

“I don’t feel very well, Dad,” she said, falling forward. He caught her and almost dropped her on the stones, she was so hot. Burning up.

“Oh God,” Rothery screamed. He had seen the pictures of the victims in Austin and San Diego. He knew exactly what he was looking at. Hemorrhagic fever. The virus. He let his daughter slip to the ground and grabbed for the telephone. He hit the talk button and dialed his office. No answer. He dialed Jim Allenby. Voice mail. He hung up and dialed 911.

“Emergency,” the voice said.

“I need an ambulance,” he said. He recited his address.

“Yeah, you and everyone else,” the dispatcher said. “You think you’re the only one with the virus. Think again, buddy.”

He jerked awake, sweat running down his face and staining his shirt. His heart was beating faster than he had ever felt it, and his breath was coming in short gasps. Marissa stood in front of him with a scared look on her face.

“Dad,” she said. “Wake up. You were having a nightmare.” She was fine, her skin nicely tanned, her face and mouth showing concern but healthy. “Are you okay?”

He took a couple of deep breaths. “Yes, Marissa, I’m fine. Thanks for waking me. Must have had too much coffee today.” His breathing was returning to normal.

“Okay,” his daughter said hesitantly. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Yeah, sure, honey.”

She reentered the house and closed the door behind her. A nightmare. She had called it a nightmare. Was that it? he asked himself. Was it a nightmare?

Or was it a premonition?

“She’s all-wheel drive,” the salesman said as he approached the potential customer. “Three-point-six-liter rear-mounted engine, 320 horsepower, and 0 to 62 miles per hour in five seconds.”

Wes Connors whistled. He lightly stroked the sleek silver-gray sports car, the metal cool to his touch. “It’s beautiful.” He continued to walk slowly around the vehicle, taking in the elegance of its design.

“This color is Arctic Silver Metallic, one of the most popular in the Carrera 4S series. And this baby has the Tiptronic transmission. It’s a five-speed automatic with a couple of manual gearshift controls.” He leaned over the door of the convertible and pointed to the steering wheel. “And if you brake really hard, the transmission automatically downshifts to help stop the car.”

“How much?” Connors asked. “As it sits.”

“Ninety-three thousand two hundred.”

“Ouch.” Wes shook his head. “Too rich for me. I’ll have to look at something else.”

The salesman waved his arms at the showroom. “They’re all Porsches.” He extended his hand. “Jack Fraser.” “Wes Connors.” They shook, and Wes said, “A friend of mine referred your dealership.”

“Who would that be?” Fraser asked.

“Albert Rousseau. You know him?”

A startled look swept across Fraser’s face. “Albert? Yeah, I know Albert. That’s the exact model he was looking at. But you must have talked with him some time ago.”

Wes nodded and gave Fraser a grim look. “Yeah, just before he died. He was excited about getting a Porsche and told me if I was ever looking to come here.”

Fraser shook his head. “God-awful thing, that. Getting blown up in your own house. And it happened two 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 is in your price range, Wes?” Fraser said, leading the private investigator away from the flagship vehicle.

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.