by Jeff Buick
They were both silent for a minute. Gordon pointed to the main administration building and they started walking slowly toward it. The sun was peeking through the treetops and the woods had come alive with chirping birds. The air was fresh and felt good in her lungs. An occasional machine whirred for a bit, then stopped, but other than the birds, it was quiet.
“It’s really beautiful here,” she said as they walked.
“I enjoy it,” Gordon said, his cowboy boots kicking up puffs of dirt. “Logging and working sawmills has been my life.” He glanced over at her. “It’s been a good life.”
“I can imagine. I read the article on your brother that was in the Butte paper after his death. He was quite the guy. Everyone liked him.”
“Yeah, Billy was a great guy. I miss him.”
They reached the edge of the parking lot, and Jennifer pointed to her rental. They walked across the cooling pavement and she got in the car. She dug in the small travel bag she’d brought with her and extracted a business card. She handed it to him, and he took a few seconds to look it over. He tucked it in one of his jean pockets.
“Well, thanks for meeting with me,” she said, offering her hand.
He shook it. “Thanks for coming. It was an interesting story.”
“Give me a call if you think we could help each other,” she said, starting the car and putting it in gear.
“I’ll do that,” he said.
“And Gordon,” she said as he moved back from the car so she could pull away. “I never said Kenga died on St. Lucia. Just mentioned it was a Caribbean island.”
She left him standing in the parking lot, a thoughtful look on his face.
23
The closest charter service that featured either Lear or Gulf-stream jets was in Helena. When Gordon Buchanan wanted to get somewhere fast, he didn’t rely on United-he chartered a private jet. He called the company and booked a Lear 31A to fly him to St. Lucia, then called the Twin Pines helicopter pilot at home. He apologized for calling late on Saturday and asking the pilot to work on Sunday, but stressed how important it was that he be in Helena by eight in the morning. His pilot agreed to come in without telling Gordon he would just as soon be flying as sitting in church. It wouldn’t have mattered-Buchanan would have appreciated it anyway.
Sunday, August 28, dawned cool and rain threatened. Both men were a bit early, and at ten minutes before the hour, the chopper lifted off and, after forty minutes of choppy flying, deposited Gordon on the tarmac in Helena. The Lear was waiting, the fee for the two-day trip already preauthorized on Gordon’s Visa card. Once the plane was airborne and en route to Miami, Gordon opened his files on Veritas and withdrew the folder on Jennifer Pearce.
Hers was a thin file, with her being such a recent hire. His investigator had pulled a brief work history covering her time at Marcon, and he started there. She was a brilliant woman, of that there was no doubt. She held a Ph.D. in microbiology and had been instrumental in bringing two midlevel drugs to market before shifting over to head up the Alzheimer’s division. And Gordon knew that Alzheimer’s was an arm of the corporate structure that every pharmaceutical giant looked to for a huge breakthrough drug. A pill to combat Alzheimer’s was a multibillion-dollar pill. And being offered the lead position was definitive proof that Marcon was enamored with its rising star. Yet three years later, that star had somehow tarnished. Nothing in the file indicated why.
But she had moved over to Veritas three months earlier, assuming the same coveted position with the rival company. Gordon glanced out the window at the passing clouds and wondered what tucked-away secrets Jennifer Pearce had brought with her to Veritas. At three-sixty plus bonuses a year, she was too well paid to have come across empty-headed. Gordon suspected Bruce Andrews had made a good choice when he offered her the position. But without knowing Jennifer personally, how could Andrews have been so sure?
And therein lay the problem. Did Bruce Andrews and Jennifer Pearce know each other prior to her starting work at Veritas? If the answer was yes, then chances were good that Pearce was another Andrews toady. If no, then maybe she was someone he could trust. The answer to that question was weighing on him.
He scanned down the page detailing her short tenure at Veritas. She was telling the truth about Kenga Bakcsi working in her department. She was Kenga’s direct boss. His investigator had not been able to ascertain whether their relationship went beyond the office to friends, but Jennifer’s story about tending to Kenga’s cat seemed plausible. In fact, there was nothing about Jennifer Pearce that did not seem plausible. He stared out the window and tried to put himself in her position. She was the new gal on the block in an increasingly alien environment. She suspected her employer might be responsible for the death of one of her staff. How disconcerting must that be? It would scare the crap out of most people, have them running for the door. But Jennifer Pearce did not run. She was doing the same thing he would do: assimilating information. She was making no decisions until all the facts were on the table, then she would make a rational choice. But what were her options? Remain at Veritas, bury her head, and hope the ax didn’t strike her? Unlikely: She wasn’t an ostrich. Involve the police while continuing to work at Veritas? Dangerous; very dangerous. Quit, walk away, and develop a severe case of amnesia? Again, dangerous if someone at Veritas was killing people to keep them quiet. Or search out someone to help her?
Gordon knew he was beginning to believe her. Time to play the devil’s advocate. Someone inside Veritas had been alerted by their legal team that Gordon Buchanan in Butte, Montana, was considering legal action against the company. They recruit a new hire, Jennifer Pearce, to visit Buchanan and find out the validity of his claim. He grinned at the absurdity of it. Jennifer Pearce was a Ph.D. researcher with a proven track record in the pharmaceutical industry, making extremely good money, with no history of being anything except what she claimed to be. She started at almost the same time Billy died, and at that time Veritas had no idea their product was responsible for Billy’s death. And if they were to send someone across the country to visit, the last thing a company spy would do is accuse her employer of killing its employees.
Gordon made his decision. Jennifer Pearce was the real thing.
He had an ally.
24
The Lear 31A touched down at George F. L. Charles Airport in Castries, St. Lucia’s largest and most modern city, and taxied to a private hangar. The Castries airport serviced mostly private jets and cargo, while international travel came in through Hewanorra on the south tip of the island, close to the world-famous Pitons. Gordon waited until Customs had come and gone, lazily poking their heads into the fuselage to see who had arrived, before deplaning. The sun was intense, even late in the afternoon, and he lounged in the shade next to the hangar, waiting for his ride to show. Ten minutes later, an older silver van pulled up a few feet away. The driver glanced over at him and waved. Gordon opened the door and slid in the front seat. The upholstery was worn but clean.
“Christopher,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “Good to see you, my friend.”
“Gordon Buchanan,” the man said in lilting English. “Welcome back to St. Lucia, mon.” He was native Lucian, with roots easily traced back to when the slave traders had populated the Caribbean with Africans, torn from their homes and families on a distant continent. He was a large man, over six feet, and had a perpetual smile, his teeth punctuated with gold fillings. A pair of sunglasses was perched on the top of his head, and he was dressed in blue jeans and a crisp white shirt. “What brings my favorite country singer to our beautiful island?”
Gordon grimaced. Christopher had talked him into singing a country song at a local karaoke bar one night and had never let him live it down. He was good at cutting and processing trees, but not so good carrying a tune. “What new bands have you found lately?” Gordon asked as the van started moving slowly along the runway toward Vigie Beach. Christopher was the local promoter for musicians from all over the Caribbean and ofte
n brought new talent to St. Lucia. There was no place on the island that Christopher could escape to without someone shaking his hand and asking what was happening.
“He’s not a musician, but I’ve got a good one, my friend. There’s a boxer on the island who could be Olympic caliber. I’m bringing in some carded boxers from other islands and putting on a few matches. Sold out, every one of them, mon.”
“Excellent,” Gordon said. “Listen, Christopher, I need a favor. I’m only here for a day or two, and it’s sort of on business.”
“I’m your man,” Christopher said.
“Can you get your hands on a police report for me?”
His guide looked puzzled. “A police report? What’s going on, Gordon?”
“There was an accident last week. A tourist died when her cab went over a cliff. You hear anything about that?”
“It was in the papers,” Christopher said. “She a friend of yours?”
Gordon shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m interested.”
“Okay, I can get you the report. But let’s not visit the police station ourselves. That’s not a good place to be. I’ll have someone deliver it. Where are you staying?”
“Caribbees,” Gordon replied. “I phoned from the plane and they had a room.”
“I’m sure they did,” Christopher said, steering off the runway and heading onto Vigie Peninsula. Caribbees Hotel was set into a hill near the lighthouse, with stunning views of Castries Harbor and the ocean. Vacancies were rare at the hotel, but when Gordon Buchanan flew in, things changed.
Gordon had a long history with a few of the Caribbean Islands, but especially with St. Lucia. He had been traveling to the Caribbean for years, scuba diving and spending time in the sun. Gordon had a creed he lived by, which was to always leave whatever place you visit a little better for having been there. And twelve years ago, when he first met Christopher, he had asked what was a problem on the island-a problem that dealt with people. Christopher had answered immediately: domestic violence. The stuff that happened between husband and wife behind closed doors. And there was nowhere for these women to go when threatened. Gordon had changed all that.
He returned to the United States, made some calls, had his bank wire some money to the West Indies Bank in Castries, and flew back to the island. He bought a large house in need of work, hired contractors to refurbish it, then donated it to the city. There were sixteen rooms, a fully functional kitchen, three family rooms with televisions and PlayStations, and a full-time guard on the front door. Now the women had a safe place to go, at least for the short term. His generosity had been the talk of the island for months. The island government tried to honor him by naming a street after him, but he respectfully turned them down, preferring to keep a low profile.
But that didn’t mean people forgot. They didn’t. And now when Gordon needed something, it became available. Like a room in a popular hotel.
Christopher pulled up in front of Caribbees and grinned. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock?”
“Nine o’clock is fine. Don’t forget the police report.”
Christopher gave him a pained look and stomped on the gas. Gordon checked in and thanked the manager for finding him such an excellent room on such short notice. The balcony wrapped around the corner of the hotel, with a view of the Caribbean to the west and a sweeping vista of Castries and its harbor to the south. He ate dinner in one of the on-site restaurants and retired early. By nine on Sunday morning, he was sitting outside the lobby waiting for Christopher. At precisely the top of the hour, the driver/promoter pulled up, a huge grin on his face.
“What are you looking so smug about?” Gordon asked as he slid into the front passenger’s seat.
Christopher held up a tan-colored file folder. “Your police report,” he said.
“You’re good,” Gordon said, smiling as he took the report. “What’s in here?”
“You want me to tell you or you want to read about it?”
“Why don’t you fill me in while I read?”
“Okay, boss. Your friend was taking a tour of the island near the Edmond Forest Reserve down near Soufriere. They had passed through a twisty part of the road we call The Gap, just south of Piton Canarie. They went off the road on the Enbas Saut Trail. It’s really steep and slippery there.”
“Let’s go have a look,” Gordon said, his eyes glued on the police file. “A picture paints a whole lotta words.”
Christopher nodded and shoved the car into gear. He navigated the tight streets of the island capital, flashing by brightly painted houses and small children with white, toothy smiles. Shacks with corrugated metal roofs bordered the road and unneutered dogs lounged in the shade or strolled next to the drainage ditches, irritated at best by the traffic rushing past inches from their scrawny bodies. Bridge Street began to rise as Christopher reached the southern edge of Castries, and he geared down for the uphill series of switchbacks that dominated the road between the capital city and Soufriere. Gordon knew the road well, and he watched the city tenements slowly dissipate and lush fields of banana and mango rise from the jungle clearings. The road, a two-lane goat path that Gordon swore was the training ground for New York cabbies, weaved its way through steep Lucian valleys. Occasionally, as he glanced out the right side of the van, he caught a quick glimpse of the ocean, far below them with tiny whitecaps as the waves approached shore. As they drove south, the Pitons came into view.
Petit Piton and Gros Piton were the primary memories most tourists took home from St. Lucia. Towering above the adjacent jungle-clad hills, the cone-shaped volcanic rocks graced the cover of almost every St. Lucia publication. Gordon took a passing interest in them as the road turned inland and the jungle thickened. The interior of St. Lucia is in places a true rain forest, and the best example is in the Edmond Forest Reserve. They followed the West Coast Road to St. Jacques Road, then headed due east into the forest. The road was thinner now, at times almost impassible by a single vehicle. Encountering another car driving the opposite direction was scary in many places, as someone had to back up. They reached The Gap without incident, and Christopher drove three kilometers onto the Enbas Saut Trail and stopped. Ahead of them was a switchback, the road dropping off into an abyss. There was no guardrail.
“This is the place,” Christopher said. “I read the police report after I picked it up last night. I know this corner. Lots of people go over this cliff. They should put up a concrete barrier or something. It would save lives.”
Gordon stepped from the van into the jungle heat and humidity. There had been no rain over the past twenty-four hours, but the dirt surface was slick with moisture just from the mist settling out from the surrounding air. Gordon had read the police report on the drive up and knew that the vehicle in which Kenga had been the passenger had been traveling toward the switchback from the opposite direction. He walked up to the corner and glanced up the hill. A hundred feet farther, there was another sharp corner the vehicle would have had to navigate prior to reaching the switchback. That severely limited the speed at which the driver would have been approaching this curve. That and the fact that he should know the road would suggest he had been traveling extremely slowly. Yet the police report stated that the vehicle had left the road at an estimated thirty kilometers an hour.
He glanced over at Christopher. “No one in their right mind would attempt this corner at thirty kilometers an hour. Not even in a Ferrari with dry roads.”
“Is that what the police report says?” Christopher asked. “Thirty kilometers an hour?”
Gordon nodded. “Seems excessive.”
“Seems stupid.”
Gordon walked to the edge and looked over. It was an almost sheer drop, punctuated by ridges jutting out from the wall. The first ridge was about forty feet down and stuck out six or seven feet. It was covered with trees and shrubs, their roots clinging to the rocky outcrop. Gordon stared at the foliage for a few minutes, then motioned Christopher to join him.
“See that tree?” he said, pointing to a palm angling out from the wall. “It has a huge gash in it, almost at the roots.”
“I see it,” Christopher said. “And a couple of shrubs are broken as well.”
Gordon looked back up the road. “Imagine a vehicle coming down this road at thirty kilometers an hour. It goes over the edge but somehow manages to hit the tree next to its roots. How is that possible? The trajectory of the vehicle would send it flying out into open space, not tumbling over the edge. A vehicle moving at that speed would probably clear that tree, or at best shear it off near the fronds. But not this. This is all wrong.”
“Maybe the car did clear the tree. Maybe that’s an old cut mark on the bark.”
“You know that’s not true, Christopher. In this heat, that mark will be overgrown in another week. No, that’s where her vehicle hit. Which means it was just barely moving when it went over.”
“Pushed?” Christopher asked.
“Pushed,” Gordon said, gazing out over the St. Lucia rain forest canopy. “Which would explain why the driver wasn’t in the vehicle when it went over the cliff.” He brushed his hair back off his forehead and slipped a toothpick from his pocket and between his teeth. “I think someone murdered Kenga Bakcsi.”
25
The estate was invisible from the main road, obscured by a border of thirty-foot butternut and black birch, trees indigenous to the central Virginia area. Numerous flower and shrub beds ran parallel to the highway asphalt and offered a warm touch, almost inviting. But the wrought-iron gate and eight-foot fence told a different story. So did the guard dog signs posted every hundred feet on the fence. Bruce Andrews took the issue of home security very seriously.
Inside the gates was a true country estate. The drive was long and winding, through groves of trees, trimmed grass fields punctuated with equestrian hurdles and numerous ponds, some complete with ducks and geese lazing on the still, summer waters. The main house was set almost in the center of the forty-six-acre package. Its facade was two-story, Southern plantation style, with Ionic pillars on volutes. A wide second-floor balcony ran the length of the house with four separate sets of French doors opening to it. The mixture of Grecian columnar architecture and Palladian-style house worked beautifully, and off-white shutters framed all the windows.
