Wes Connors arrived in Seattle to a light mist. Typical crappy weather, he thought as he retrieved his Taurus from the long-term parking lot at Sea-Tac International. It was late, almost midnight on Thursday, but he drove to his office. He wanted to total Gordon Buchanan’s invoice and send it as an e-mail so Buchanan’s office staff would have it the next morning. With all the travel expenses, plus his daily rate, this bill was getting up there. He wasn’t worried about Buchanan honoring the bill, he just wanted the money in his account sooner than later.
Parking was easy at this time of night, and he took the stairs to the second floor, unlocking his office door and switching on the light. Nothing happened. He flipped the switch a couple of times, cursing himself for letting so many bulbs burn out that when the last one crapped out there was nothing but darkness. He moved across the open space to his desk and touched the power button on his computer. A soft glow from the monitor washed light on his face and threw a dim illumination about the room. His eyes picked up the form on the couch a split second before his brain processed the image. His right hand moved instinctively toward the top desk drawer. He yanked it open and reached in for the gun.
It was gone.
His breathing was coming quick now. He swiveled slightly in his chair and said, “Who’s there?”
The figure didn’t move. “Wes Connors?” was all he said.
“Who are you and what do you want?”
“Put your hands on your desk and keep them there.”
Connors complied. “I don’t have any money here. This is just my office. Any cash I have is either at home or in the bank.”
“I don’t want your money.”
Connors stared at the figure, camouflaged by the shadows and lack of light. He didn’t recognize the voice, but it could be a pissed-off husband from one of his marital surveillances. Some dumbass he’d caught with a young bimbo in a hotel room, their cars parked out front in plain sight, the blinds not properly closed. Maybe he’d shot them with his 35-mm through the shades, maybe a few nights of finding the two cars together, license plates front and center. Who knew how he’d nailed the guy, but that was probably it.
“Look, buddy, whatever happened with your marriage or your life, it’s not my fault. If I caught you doing something and your wife was paying me, then it’s just business. You okay with that?”
“I don’t cheat on my wife,” the man said, leaning forward slightly. “Never have, never will.”
Connors could see the man’s face now: Caucasian, about forty with slightly receding brown hair. He didn’t recognize him. This was not someone he’d followed and photographed. He never forgot one of those faces. Sometimes they wanted to beat the crap out of him for catching them, and he wanted the upper hand in such a situation. That meant remembering who these guys were. And if this guy wasn’t some jerk who let his dick do the thinking for him, who was he?
“What do you want?” Connors asked. He was sweating now, his armpits and forehead wet with perspiration.
“I want you to stop screwing up my kid’s chance at having a normal life.”
“What?” Connors said. “Man, you got the wrong guy. I’ve never done anything in my life to hurt a child.”
“You ever heard of Veritas Pharmaceutical?”
Christ, where is this going? His mind whirred through the possibilities. Albert Rousseau had worked for Veritas, but none of the information he had provided to Gordon Buchanan on Rousseau was going to affect some kid. Somehow this guy had things all wrong. He made a decision.
“I was hired to look into the death of one of their employees.”
“Who?”
“Albert Rousseau.”
“Bullshit.”
The comment was not at all what Wes Connors expected. He stared at the man. “It’s not bullshit, it’s the truth. Somebody hired me to find out if Rousseau was expecting a payoff of some sort. I don’t know the why or what of the whole thing, just that Rousseau had recently looked at an expensive car and some prime real estate.”
“That’s it?” the man asked, leaning forward even farther. The unmistakable outline of a silenced pistol was clearly visible.
“That’s it,” Connors said.
“That’s enough,” the man said, pulling the trigger. The first bullet caught Connors in the throat, the second in the head as he slumped forward. They were 9-mm slugs with hollow points, designed to cause maximum damage on exiting the victim. What were two small holes in the front of Connors’s neck and forehead were six-inch gaping holes in the rear. The second bullet stopped his forward progress and threw him back, brains and blood spattering the wall and carpet. He crashed to the floor, dead instantly.
Evan Ziegler rose and stood over the man. It had played out exactly as Bruce Andrews had said it would. Connors was trying to discredit Veritas by pinning Rousseau’s murder on someone inside the company. And a scandal of that magnitude would surely result in all research work grinding to a halt. With the Phase I trials for the brain chips slated to begin in less than two months, way ahead of schedule, that would spell disaster. And his son Ben was at the top of the list for one of the experimental chips. No goddamn way some piece of crap like this was going to keep his boy in that wheelchair.
He unscrewed the silencer and replaced the pistol in his shoulder holster. One more glance at the corpse and he was gone, wiping the door handle clean of all fingerprints on his way out. It was late, and he encountered no one on his way out of the building or on the street as he walked to his car. He put the windshield wipers on intermittent and pulled away from the curb with one thought on his mind.
Two more months until the tests were to begin. Ben was almost out of the chair.