Lethal Dose by Jeff Buick Page A

you some food and water, and leave. Cats. How the hell did you guys end up so different from dogs?”
    Jennifer picked up the mail that had accumulated on the floor under the slot in the front door and wandered into the house, glancing about and satisfying herself that all was in order. She set the mail on the kitchen table and refilled the cat’s water dish. A quick trip to the litter box to scoop out a few little logs and she was ready to leave. Then it hit her.
    What if she focused on somatostatin and corticotrophin to help as communication vehicles between damaged cells? She needed to access the Veritas mainframe and make a note for herself so she would remember this brain flash.
    Jennifer powered up Kenga’s computer and logged onto Veritas’s database. Since each computer that was authorized to access the mainframe required its own code, Jennifer knew her password wouldn’t work on Kenga’s computer. Not a problem. As the team leader, she had access to all the codes. She signed in to her home computer, pulled the file, and found Kenga’s password. Mischief. She logged off, then entered the Veritas site by typing “mischief” when prompted. She was in.
    An hour later, she closed the research file and leaned back in the chair. Now it was late, but that had been very productive time. Tomorrow, she would follow up on the ideas she had typed into the system. She logged off the Veritas site and moved the cursor across to power down the system, then stopped. A small icon shaped like an ankh caught her eye. It was tucked into one corner, almost obscured by a word processing file. She double-clicked on it and a file opened on the screen. Inside was a complex chemical formula. She scrolled through the remainder of the file, wondering why Kenga Bakcsi had this formula on her home computer. It was filled with links to other sites, all internal to Veritas and all dealing with a drug called Triaxcion. One of the sites answered her question. The formula resisted the modification of testosterone into dihydrotestosterone. The drug was touted as an alternative to hair loss in middle-aged males. Probably a big seller, she thought, still wondering why it was on Kenga’s computer. She was scrolling down to sign out when she saw a text file buried among the numbers. She opened it.
    Inside was a name and an address: Gordon Buchanan, Butte, Montana. There was no phone number. She tucked her hair behind her ears, stared at the name for a minute, shrugged, and closed the file. She powered down the computer, stroked the cat a couple of times, and headed home.
    Her new digs were in the Fan District, an expensive and trendy area just west of Richmond’s city center. She was on Plum Street, on the eastern edge of the Fan and one full block off Cary Street. One block to excellent dining and some of the best shopping in Richmond. Coincidence? Not a chance.
    The town house-style home was almost everything she liked mixed with a few things she hated. But her realtor had insisted you never get ten out of ten with a resale house. To start with, it was old, turn-of-the-century. That she did not like. Jennifer preferred new, with no sod and sticks for trees, and a bathtub that had never seen a naked bottom. But the previous owners had done extensive renovations to the house, including all new drywall, windows, doors, an off-white kitchen, and new fixtures in all three bathrooms. This she did like. Her ebony baby grand sat next to the massive bay window in the living room. She turned on one muted light and sat on the bench. Her fingers glided over the keys, Enya gently filling the room. She played “Watermark” and “Only If…,” then “By Heart,” one of her favorite Jim Brickman pieces. The room, with its soft tan and black striped sofa and love seat, and pewter and glass tables, resonated quietly with the last notes as she drew her fingers back from the keyboard. She used the remote to