Jeff Buick - Lethal Dose

Buchanan could not win.

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 you’ve-got-two-heads look. “You’re in Richmond, man. The heart of Civil War country. This is where Robert E. Lee took over command of Virginia’s army and held the city for four years against the Union. Man, this place is the breadbasket of American Civil War history.”

“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.

“Main Street Station, and the Seventeenth Avenue Farmer’s Market in back of it. Main Street Station was the Virginia Department of Health until about two years ago, when they renovated it and put in a bunch of new shops. Now there’s all kinds of excellent stuff in there. Just excellent. And check this out: Shockoe Slip. Cobblestone streets and great shopping, if you like poking through little stores. Very eclectic.”

Two hours and another venti dark roast later, Bud dropped Gordon in front of a yellow building with a terra-cotta awning that stretched over the sidewalk patio. A tasteful sign indicating they had arrived at Amici Ristorante was fastened to the acrylic stucco. Gordon paid the amount on the meter and handed Bud an extra hundred for the tour. The driver showed his appreciation by leaping from the cab, running to the passenger door, and opening it.

“Usually only do that for little old ladies,” he said, grinning. “Thanks. That was fun.”

“Yeah,” Gordon agreed, shaking the man’s hand. “It was. Nice city. I like Richmond.”

He entered the restaurant and spied Jennifer Pearce at a table near the fireplace. He joined her, ordered a beer, and settled in. The restaurant was elegant, but with a homey feeling thrown in. The walls were deep ocher, the chairs polished ebony, and crisp white linen cloths covered the tables. A Josh Groban CD, Closer , played on the sound system, his throaty voice adding to the ambience.

“Do you always make decisions just like that?” Jennifer asked, snapping her fingers.

“You mean coming to Richmond?” he asked, and she nodded. “Sure. I wanted to see Albert Rousseau’s place before the contractors started work on it. Probably nothing there, but Rousseau’s a big piece of the puzzle, one untapped so far.”

“What about Kenga? There might be something at her place.”

Gordon shook his head. “Kenga forwarded everything she had to me before she left for Saint Lucia. I have all the technical data on Triaxcion, but that doesn’t really get me anywhere. It’s proving the drug is dangerous that’s key. When she got back from Saint Lucia, Kenga was going to start searching through the technical files to see if she could find evidence that the researchers working on that drug knew that people with A-positive blood would have negative reactions.”

“So what do you expect to find at Rousseau’s place? It’s been exposed to the elements for four months.”

He shrugged. “No idea. It’s just a part of the puzzle. Oh, there’s something else. My private investigator found the real estate agent Albert Rousseau was dealing with on the Carmel property. Purchase price was nine hundred and fifty thousand dollars, closing date was set for the end of September.”

“So Rousseau expected a large payday fairly soon.”

“Exactly. He died on the last day of April with very little money in the bank. The deposits on the Porsche and the Carmel property even left one of his accounts in overdraft. According to the real estate agent, the contract required an additional deposit of fifty thousand dollars on or before July fifteenth. The remainder of the purchase price was due about mid-September. And Rousseau told the agent he didn’t need a mortgage on the house.”

“So he was expecting at least a million dollars from some source over the course of the summer.”

Gordon nodded. “And where does an average Joe get a million dollars on short notice?”