The one brilliant piece of maneuvering by Andrews since he took the reins was patenting the metabolite synthesized by the drugs inside the human patient. He was facing a legal challenge on that issue, but in the interim, if everything remained as it was, Veritas was looking to pocket almost seven hundred million over a three-year period. But a company that required a billion dollars a year just to keep its doors open needed more than that. It needed a new drug.
In addition to monitoring the company financially, Wes Connors had been watching its personnel. The company’s medical provider was an easy target, and he had his solitary associate, Jack Ramy, a computer specialist who worked for him parttime, hack in and stash a few lines of code that relayed all new claims directly to Connors and Company’s computer. The very computer that sat on his desk. There had been quite a few hits, but the one that Gordon Buchanan had been interested in was the death of Kenga Bakcsi in St. Lucia. He wondered why but didn’t press. Buchanan was the kind of guy who held his cards close to his chest.
But now he had ferreted out another death. Back on April 30, Albert Rousseau, an employee working in the cholesterol division, had died in a natural-gas explosion. The file had been suspended pending cause of death assigned by the local coroner. Since there was very little left of Rousseau, the paperwork had been slow coming. The gas company had a vested interest in the findings and was pressing for the investigator to determine that Rousseau cut the gas line and then sparked the explosion himself. Suicide relieved them from a lot of legal responsibility. The insurance company was pressing for the same conclusion. They didn’t get it. The final finding by the ME’s office and the police and fire investigators was a faulty valve on the stove. That left the gas company open to a lawsuit, the insurance company was on the hook for the book value on his policy, and the municipality could finally assign a company to come in and clean up the mess left by the explosion.
Since the file had been in a pending state since he’d begun his investigation, it had been transparent to his computer program. But now, with a decision on the books, Albert Rousseau’s death was visible. And that was news for Gordon Buchanan. That was a good thing. For the money Buchanan was paying him, Connors began to get jittery if he went a few days without finding something to report. He liked the steady income and he liked the work. It beat following a cheating husband to the local motel. He straightened the pages he had taken from the printer and lifted the phone. He dialed his client’s cell, and when Gordon picked up, he introduced himself.
“Anything new?” Gordon asked.
“Maybe. There was an employee killed in a natural gas explosion back on April thirtieth.” He gave Gordon the details and explained the delay in relaying the information. “They determined the explosion to be an accident, a faulty valve on the stove.”
“A faulty valve on a gas stove,” Gordon said slowly. “Now, how often does that happen?”
“Not often,” Wes Connors replied.
“No, Wes, not often at all.” He was quiet for a minute. “Let’s try something. Can you spend a few days in Richmond canvassing the local real estate offices and high-end car dealerships to see if Albert Rousseau was in the market to upgrade? Use your imagination-think of places where he might have gone if he thought a large payday was on the horizon.”
“Sure, Gordon,” Connors said. “There’ll be travel costs and a per diem expense as well. You okay with that?”
“That will be fine, Wes.” There was a moment of silence, then Gordon added, “There are a lot of people who work for Veritas dying lately. I wonder why.”
“You think something’s up?” Wes asked.
“I’m not sure what I’m thinking. Just continue to monitor the company through their health care provider and find out whatever you can on Albert Rousseau. I don’t care how you get the information, just get it. Expense what you have to.”
“Not a problem. I’ll be in Richmond sometime tomorrow.”
“Keep your cell phone on.”
“Of course.”
The line went dead and Wes Connors replaced the handset in its cradle very slowly. Gordon Buchanan was digging for something. His client was leaning toward his brother’s death being far more than just an isolated incident. Buchanan was favoring some sort of conspiracy. And that was just fine with Wes Connors. Christ, how often did a small-time private investigator get to go up against a company like Veritas? Never. This was like Erin Brockovich and that PG amp;E thing. One in a million.
And to top it off, he was getting paid damn well for his time.
27
It was 10:24 A.M. on Wednesday, August 31, when Jim Allenby took the call. It was patched through directly from the Department of Homeland Security to his office in the J. Edgar Hoover FBI Building on Pennsylvania Avenue. It was not a pleasant call.
“We’ve got a real problem, Jim,” J. D. Rothery said tersely. “The virus has reappeared. And this time we’ve got more than one infected person.”
“How many and where?” Allenby asked, holding his pen over a small pad of paper on his desk.
“Miami. An entire family is sick. Mother, father, and two kids. Only one death so far, but we don’t think any of them are going to make it.”
“Shit,” Allenby said under his breath. This was going to be difficult to keep under wraps. And if the media found out…“What do you need from us?”
“Get down to Miami and liaise with the local authorities. You can have jurisdiction if you want. It may look better with the FBI involved rather than DHS. We’ll stay in the background.”
“Okay. Where are the victims right now?”
“The three still alive are in their home.” He recited an address. “The father’s body is already en route to Fort Detrick for autopsy.”
“Who’s in charge at present?”
“Local cops, but they don’t know what’s going on. Let’s try to keep it that way.”
“This is going to be difficult, J. D.,” Allenby said. “Christ, an entire family.”
“I know, Jim, but do your best. And keep me in the loop.”
Jim Allenby hung up, then dialed again. He requested a company jet on standby at Reagan within the hour, then called the Miami field office. Arthur Wren, Special Agent in Charge, took the call. Allenby and Wren went back twenty years, and he was glad he was dealing with a veteran agent on this one.
“How are things in science, or counterterrorism, or whatever it is you do?”Wren asked. He was a likable man in his late fifties who had been decorated twice for bravery. Both medals were under a bunch of socks in his underwear drawer, and his office walls were covered with pictures of his grandchildren.
“They’ve got me stuck right in the middle,” Allenby said. “Anything relating to science or drugs and I’m the guy they call. That’ll teach me to pick a career with the Bureau after getting a science degree.” His tone shifted as he moved to the reason for the call. “We’ve got a problem, Arthur, and it’s in your backyard.”
“What’s up?”
“Local cops are all over an incident in Olympia Heights, but we’re going to be taking jurisdiction on this one. And quick.”
“It came through on the scanners about twenty minutes ago. How do you know about it?”
“Let’s just say I’m in the loop on this one. I’m leaving D.C. immediately and flying down, but I want you to personally take charge until I get there. And Arthur, don’t let anyone in that house without full protective gear. I’m talking lethal virus here. Very scary stuff.”
“Holy shit. What’s going on?”
“You control the scene and I’ll tell you when I get to Miami. Just keep the press away if possible. DHS will be around, but they’re going to stay in the background. When the victims die, the bodies will be wrapped and moved to Fort Detrick. DHS will handle that.”
“Department of Homeland Security? What’s going on, Jim? Have we got an act of terrorism on our hands?”