“I’m off on Tuesdays,” she said.
“I’ll call you,” he said.
She wrote her number on a cocktail napkin.
When he walked in the door of his apartment he asked Flo how her evening at the shop had gone.
“It was busy,” she said gleefully. “How was your evening?”
“Okay.”
“Did you have dinner with someone?”
“Yeah. Look, I’m following up on a lead that Will gave me, and had a drink with her tonight. Name’s Paula Silver. If she should call and you see her name on the phone, don’t answer, okay?”
Flo cocked her head at him. “Robert,” she said.
“What?”
“Who is she?”
“I’ll pour us a drink and tell you all about it.”
CHAPTER
13
PORT MORESBY, PNG
Angus Norbis, the detective with the Australian Federal Police (AFP) assigned to Port Moresby, stood at the blackboard in his office at the PNG Constabulary headquarters in the suburb of Konedobu. Meeting with him that sweltering morning were two senior members of the Royal Papua New Guinea Constabulary (RPNGC). Norbis, one of fifty Australian police officers assigned to aid the PNG force of 4,800, ran his fingers between his neck and shirt collar, and wiped beads of perspiration from his prized rust-and-gray walrus mustache. The office’s air-conditioning, never especially efficient under the best of circumstances, had stopped working completely. Repairmen would try to get there by day’s end but no promises.
“So, Angus, what is this all about?” one of the constables asked.
“The King case,” Angus said, pointing to a crude chalk chart on the blackboard. He addressed one of the constables. “No sign of Waksit?”
“No, nothing. The landlady let us into Waksit’s apartment and we looked around. She says that the place came furnished, which explains why he would leave the furniture behind. The only thing missing as far as we could tell were suitcases, and clothing from his closet. At least we assume he had luggage to carry the clothing.”
“Did you check the bathroom for toilet articles?”
“Yeah. Gone.”
Norbis grunted and looked at the blackboard. There were four items contained in boxes outlined by yellow chalk lines. The first was the name Dr. Preston King. In the box next to it was the name Walter Tagobe. To its right was “Razed Land.” Eugene Waksit’s name occupied the fourth box.
“A question,” the second constable said. “I thought Waksit was cleared of any suspicion in the doctor’s murder.”
“That’s right, he was. I personally questioned him. He had a partial alibi for the night of the murder, a woman with whom he spent time. It took us a few days to locate her. She says that they were together but not for the entire night, leaving him plenty of time unaccounted for.”
“A quickie, huh?” the first constable said, laughing.
Norbis ignored him. “It was also my judgment at the time that Mr. Waksit had no reason to kill the good doctor. He spoke highly of him and was treated fairly and with a generous salary.”
“So, Angus, what has changed?”
“I spoke with Dr. King’s daughter, Jayla King, when she came here from the States. Not only had her father been murdered, whoever did it stole the results of his years of research.” He waited for a response until saying, “We’ve been going on the assumption all along that Dr. King was killed by a druggie looking for a quick fix and money.” Norbis smiled knowingly. “Unfortunately we come to such conclusions all too quickly and frequently.”
“That’s because it’s usually the case. I still think it was an intruder, a lowlife,” said one of the constables. “We have plenty of them here in Port Moresby.”
“Except,” Norbis said, forefinger in the air for emphasis, “somebody like that wouldn’t know to steal the doctor’s research results.”
“So what are you saying, Angus, that maybe it was this Waksit fella?”
“I’m not saying that at all,” Norbis said. “But I got a call from the attorney who’s handling Dr. King’s estate. You’ve heard of him, Elgin Taylor, very respected here in PNG. He’d received a call from Waksit during which he claimed that Dr. King had promised that if he died Waksit would inherit all his research results.”
“Ah,” a constable said, “a motive.”
“That’s assuming that the doctor actually did say that to Waksit, of which I’m not at all confident. Elgin Taylor is not the sort of man who would fabricate such a thing, but maybe Waksit is.” He paused before continuing. “Dr. King also bequeathed Waksit five thousand U.S. dollars in his will. The attorney told Waksit when he called that he would have to be able to get ahold of him once the estate was settled. Waksit said he would call again. He hasn’t.”
“Five thousand,” a constable said. “Seems he would stay around to collect it.”
“Unless what he took from the doctor’s laboratory is worth more—a lot more! I’ve contacted AFP in Sydney to keep an eye out for Mr. Waksit. But let’s not have any misunderstanding. Waksit is not considered a suspect, at least not at this time. But his leaving Port Moresby so suddenly, and his claim that Dr. King had left him the fruits of his research, make it prudent to have another talk with him. Check the airlines to see if he’s taken a flight recently, but keep up the investigation on the street in case anything new turns up.” Norbis consulted a sheet of paper. “All right then, enough of the King case. Let’s move on to the next item on the agenda.”
* * *
Before heading out for the evening, Eugene Waksit arranged for the Sydney, Australia, hotel in which he was staying to place his black leather briefcase in its safe. He debated doing it. Since leaving Port Moresby the satchel had never been out of his view. He trusted no one, and kept it close to his person.
But after two days in the upscale hotel, and taking three meals a day in its restaurant, he felt the urge to get out, if only for a few hours.
After walking aimlessly he found himself in Kings Cross, Sydney’s red-light district, an area of the city in which prostitution was legal, and where adult clubs lined both sides of the street. He ignored the pitches made by young streetwalkers and settled at the bar of one of the clubs where he sipped drinks and watched the nude dancers perform. He was approached a number of times by prostitutes working out of the club but shunned their advances. While some of them appealed, he was afraid to allow anyone to get close.
Leaving Port Moresby had been a last-minute decision. The police investigating Dr. King’s murder hadn’t said anything to him about staying for further questioning, and he saw no need to tell them of his plans. As far as he was concerned he was not even remotely considered a suspect. He was free to do what he pleased and to travel where he wished.
His call to the attorney Elgin Taylor had been, in retrospect, a foolish, impetuous decision. What he’d said to the attorney hadn’t been an outright lie in his mind, although he had wildly stretched what Dr. King had said: “Maybe one day you and my daughter can carry on this work.” Or, “I appreciate the work you’ve done, Eugene, and value what you’ve contributed to the research.” Taylor had been courteous and pleasant on the phone, but Waksit picked up on his underlying message—that they’d have to have further talks and that Waksit would need to provide more tangible proof of what he was alleging.
His mind kept going back to the briefcase at the hotel and he left the club; he’d be more comfortable back at the hotel with the briefcase in his physical possession.
He drew a sigh of relief when he’d entered the hotel lobby, went to the desk, and presented his chit for the satchel. Alone in his room now, the briefcase on his lap, he watched a TV show until hunger set in. He ordered room service and ate while watching a movie. When it ended he clicked off the set and opened his laptop on which he’d been researching pharmaceutical companies around the world. There were a number of them in Australia, including that country’s largest, CSL, and he’d considered approaching one of them
with the results of Dr. King’s work. But he’d decided to eliminate them from the list, reasoning that it would be better to deal with companies in another country, particularly the United States. Without written, certified proof that he’d legally been given the rights to King’s research, the Australian legal system might step in and challenge his claim. He rationalized that his status as an outsider might hold him in better stead in America.
His online research of American pharmaceutical firms resulted in a number of possibilities, too many to make an informed judgment. He knew little about the American pharmaceutical industry, didn’t have a clue as to which companies would be the most likely to respond favorably. He needed advice from someone with a broad overview of the industry and who could point him in the right direction. He spent another hour peering at the screen, and making notes on a legal pad.
Finally, he sat back and exhaled. He’d made his decision. He would fly to the States and contact someone named Eric Morrison, who was listed as a lobbyist for the Pharmaceutical Association of America, which put him in the position of knowing which of its members would be most likely to be amenable to an approach.
He called his old college roommate, who’d settled in Los Angeles, and arranged to spend a few days with him before continuing his trip to Washington where PAA and Morrison were located. He was fond of American movies and looked forward to seeing where most of them had been made. His next call was to book a flight for tomorrow evening to L.A. He’d wait to reserve a flight to Washington after he’d outlived his welcome with his college chum.
As he mentally prepared for the trip, thoughts of Jayla King came with regularity. She’d worked with her father in the lab and likely was familiar with his successes. Too, she worked for a pharmaceutical firm and lived in Washington, D.C. Would she offer what she knew to her employer? That could seriously get in the way of what he intended to do.
CHAPTER
14
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“Why do you blame yourself for what happened to your daughter, Robert?”
“I didn’t act fast enough and get her out of that place.”
“But you say that your instincts kicked in and that you tried to get her to leave.”
“I didn’t try hard enough.”
Visions of that horrific day when the crazed young Arab woman detonated the bomb and blew away Brixton’s daughter along with a dozen others flooded him. He sat across from Dr. John Bradford Fowler in the psychologist’s client room, rigid in the tan leather armchair, determined not to go on a rant about terrorists and how he’d like to personally kill them all.
“Your friend Flo is concerned about you,” Fowler said.
“Yeah, I know, but she doesn’t have to be.”
“She cares.”
“Flo’s good people.”
“Have you ever discussed getting married?”
This shift in topic brought Brixton up short.
“I only ask,” Fowler said, “because she’s someone you can lean on while you work out your feelings about your daughter. As you say, she’s ‘good people.’”
“I’ll never work out my feelings,” Brixton said.
“You can if you want to and work at it.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“True, but the reason you’re here is to accomplish just that, to work out your feelings so that they don’t paralyze you. How is your work going? The last time you sat here you said that the tragedy with your daughter got in the way of it.”
Brixton shrugged. “I’ve got a few assignments.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Robert. Work is therapeutic.”
“That’s what Flo says.”
Fowler continued to probe Brixton’s inner feelings for the duration of the forty-five-minute session. Toward the end he said, “It might be helpful if you wrote down your feelings, committed them to paper.”
Brixton guffawed. “Why? I’m no writer.”
“Just a suggestion. Putting our feelings on paper sometimes helps clarify them. Think about it. I’d also like you to consider how your daughter would feel if she knew that her death was negatively impacting your life. I think she’d want you to go forward as a tribute to her.”
What Fowler had said made sense, and Brixton had thought the same thing on many occasions. He left after making another appointment. As he walked down the street to where he’d parked his car he had the same sensation as the last time he’d come from a session. He felt better and walked with a lighter step.
What was going on here?
CHAPTER
15
Eugene Waksit stayed for three days in Los Angeles with his college friend, which gave his former roommate a reminder of how annoying Waksit could be—and cheap. His friend paid for everything, figuring that Waksit eventually had to make a gesture, which he finally did, picking up a small tab in a Chinese restaurant during his last night in L.A. He hadn’t changed much from his undergraduate days in Australia, filling his conversation with delusions of grandeur, saying that he was on the cusp of great wealth. He was never specific beyond mentioning that his former employer in Port Moresby had willed him the results of experiments that would “stand the pharmaceutical industry on its ear.” His friend pressed him but never managed to elicit more specifics. He was aware, however, of the black briefcase that Waksit seemed to always be cradling, and that he slid beneath the bed whenever they went out.
“What’s in that briefcase?” he asked when driving Waksit to the airport.
“My future,” Waksit replied.
He didn’t ask any follow-up questions. He bid Waksit a safe and pleasant flight and drove home, thankful that the visit was over.
Waksit arrived at Dulles International Airport in suburban Washington with a sour stomach from drinks and a barely edible airline meal on the six-hour flight. He climbed into a waiting taxi and gave the turbaned driver an address in the District of Columbia, near Rock Creek Park. He settled back in the cab, his carry-on suitcase on the seat next to him, the leather satchel containing Dr. Preston King’s research results on his lap, his fingers intertwined with its handles.
The driver pulled to a stop in front of a small, modest two-story apartment building. Waksit paid the fare, added a small tip, and stood looking at the building as the taxi sped away.
There were myriad times during the journey when he’d second-guessed his decision to pick up and leave on the spur of the moment. His invalid mother still lived in Australia, and he felt a modicum of filial guilt for not having told her of his plans. Waksit’s father had succumbed to cancer when Eugene was ten years old, his father’s battle with the disease responsible in part for his son’s decision to pursue a career in medicine and medical research. His one year as a premed student had gone badly, and he’d switched his major to biology, graduating with an undergraduate degree in that discipline, although his academic results were anemic.
As he prepared to climb the short flight of stairs to the front door it opened and Nikki Dorence, a pretty young redhead wearing jeans and a T-shirt, stepped out.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hey, hello, Nikki,” Waksit said, going up the stairs, dropping his suitcase, and using his free arm to embrace her. “Great seeing you.”
“I wondered whether I would ever see you again,” she said pleasantly. “Good trip?”
“Tough trip. I thought I’d never get here.”
“Well, here you are. I bet you wouldn’t turn down a drink.”
He grinned. “Sounds like a plan,” he said.
Her apartment was on the ground floor of the building. He dropped his suitcase just inside the door but held on to the briefcase.
“Nice place,” he said, taking in the sunlit living room.
“Thanks. It’s at the top end of my budget but I love living here. A drink? I have wine, and some vodka.”
“Make it wine,” he said, going to a couch near the window and falling heavily onto it. “Whew!” he said. “I’m beat.”
“To seeing you again,” he said.
“Yes,” she said with less enthusiasm than he’d exhibited.
Nikki’s mother and father, both Australian, had worked in Australia’s High Commission in PNG’s capital city, and had given birth to Nikki while stationed there. She’d been attending college in Australia when she met Waksit during a visit home, and they’d fallen into an affair that ended when she returned to school. But they’d stayed in touch, even after she’d graduated with a degree in public administration and had left Australia for a job in New York with the Papua New Guinea Permanent Mission to the U.N. She’d worked there a year until landing a position in Washington with PNG’s embassy on Massachusetts Avenue, D.C.’s Embassy Row. “So,” she said, “here you are in Washington, D.C. When you called you said that you were on a business trip.”
“That’s right.”
“What sort of business? You were working for that doctor.”
“King. He died.”
“Oh. He was involved in some sort of medical research, wasn’t he?”
Waksit changed position on the couch and winced at pain in his lower back. “Yeah, he was researching a new painkiller using plants and herbs. I could use one.”
She laughed. “Sounds like voodoo.”
“It does, only it isn’t voodoo. It works. I’ve seen it firsthand with patients in the clinic Dr. King and I ran.”
“You ran a clinic, Eugene? I didn’t know you were a doctor.”
“I’m not, but I knew enough to treat patients. King wasn’t much of a doctor. I knew more than he did.”
His boast reminded Nikki of some of the conversations they’d had when dating. She’d decided that while Waksit was a bright young man, he tended to overstate his knowledge and accomplishments, an overactive ego at play.
He sat forward as he said, “King left all his research to me when he died.”
Now she sat forward in her chair. “That’s impressive,” she said. “He must have really liked you.”
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