32

The office of Wes Connors, Private Investigator, was locked, but it took the man less than five seconds to line up the tumblers in the deadbolt and jimmy the lock. He slipped inside the darkened office, adjusted his night-vision goggles, and switched them on. The room took on an eerie green glow.

There was a desk, three filing cabinets, and a scratched coffee table sitting in front of an old couch. A computer monitor sat on the desk, and the intruder immediately moved to the computer and turned it on. He adjusted the light level on the monitor so it wouldn’t blind him, pulled out each desk drawer, and searched through them as the computer booted up. There was little of value in the drawers, just pens and pencils, paper clips, scissors, and other office staples. The bottom drawer had a few files, but they were filled with receipts, neatly labeled for filing with the IRS. The computer finished powering up, and the man turned his attention there.

He scanned the hard drive for Wes Connors’s clients’ files. They were grouped together in a folder in Microsoft Word. Each client had a profile, including their address, phone number, and why they had sought out the services of a private investigator. Most were local clients, but a handful were from out of state. Attached to the client profile was an accounting sheet with detailed expense reports, billable hours, and dates. The intruder switched his approach when he saw that Connors kept exact dates on when he worked for each client. He searched the client files for any customers with August 2005 dates. The search produced three names. He perused each of the files and sent them to the printer. Then he closed each file, shut down the computer, and shifted his attention to the filing cabinets.

They were locked, but it took him seconds to pick the lock and slide them open, one drawer at a time. He flipped through the files, looking for hard copy on the three clients Wes Connors had been working for during August. He found a single file for each client. Receipts were neatly filed in the folders, and when he opened the third one he knew he’d hit pay dirt. Gordon Buchanan’s file had a Visa receipt for an electronic ticket to Richmond dated August 31, just five days prior. And Connors had been in Richmond, poking into something that had ruffled some big feathers. The man replaced the files exactly as he had found them and quietly left the office, locking it behind him.

When he was on the street, two blocks away at his car, he made a phone call from his cell. “I think I’ve found what you want,” he said.

“And?” the voice asked.

“Wes Connors was hired by Gordon Buchanan. There’s a receipt for a plane ticket, dated five days ago, in Buchanan’s file.”

“Anything else?”

“The only other things in that file were Buchanan’s particulars and a brief write-up on his brother’s death. There was mention of a pharmaceutical company—Veritas, I think.”

“Thanks.”

The man closed his phone and slid out of the misty evening into his car, dry and comfortable. The rain picked up in intensity almost immediately, and he was glad to be inside. He started the car and pulled away from the curb, wondering why it had been so important to check out Wes Connors’s office that evening. But when the orders came from as far up the food chain as they had, you didn’t ask why, you just did what they asked. He called his wife as the downpour started and told her he was on his way home. When it was raining, she usually fixed him hot chocolate, even during the summer. He liked that.

The line went dead in his hand and he set the phone on the desk. The information from Seattle was interesting but not unexpected. Since his last discussion with Bruce Andrews, he had made some discreet inquiries about Gordon Buchanan, and what he had found was quite interesting.

Buchanan was a self-made man in the logging industry, a tough business in which to excel. He ran a sawmill just outside Divide, Montana, lived in Butte, and preferred the tranquillity of the northern forests to the congestion of any major cities. He had played hockey during his youth, achieving reasonable success with a triple-A junior club before an injury took him out of serious contention for a coveted spot in the NHL. One of his mills had burned to the ground, but he’d taken the insurance money, about twenty cents on the dollar, and rebuilt. The man was not a quitter. That was not good. Buchanan was intent on nailing Veritas for his brother’s death, and his prodding was proving to be a nuisance, disruptive even. He called Bruce Andrews’s private line.

“About Gordon Buchanan,” he said when Andrews answered. “My guy found a receipt for a recent plane ticket to Richmond in his file in Wes Connors’s office.”

Andrews’s voice was thoughtful. “Gordon Buchanan. This guy is like the Energizer Bunny. He just doesn’t stop.”

“He’s becoming a pest.”

“We have to send him a message,” Andrews said. “I think I’ll have someone waiting when Wes Connors arrives back in Seattle. Maybe Buchanan will get the idea I’m not to be trifled with.”

“Why not just remove Buchanan? He seems to be the quarterback. Connors is just a PI he hired to check out Albert Rousseau.”

“Because if Buchanan disappears or dies violently, eyes are going to be looking at Veritas. It’s no secret that he was trying everything in his power to get some sort of admission out of us that Triaxcion was responsible for his brother’s death. I’d rather just send him a message.”

“Okay. Do you want me to take care of it?”

“No, it’s okay. I’ve got someone close by,” Andrews said.

“All right. Let me know if there’s anything you need.”

“I’ll tell you what I need. I need this whole thing to stay on track.”

“That’s what this is all about.”

“I’ll talk to you later. Don’t call unless it’s important.” Andrews hung up.

The man on the other end of the phone also hung up. He reassured himself that things were fine. When Wes Connors disappeared, Gordon Buchanan would surely understand he was battling against an unstoppable tide. One man could not derail the machine that Bruce Andrews had built at Veritas. Right now, it was just a matter of getting that simple concept through to Buchanan.

Buchanan could not win.