Margaret Truman's Deadly Medicine

by Margaret Truman

  “Yeah, he liked me, but more important he knew how much I contributed to the research. I came here to talk with some big pharmaceutical companies about selling them the results of our work. It’s worth millions, could be billions.”

  “And you know that it’s effective?”

  “Of course I do. Look, this is a painkiller made from simple plants, it’s cheap, and doesn’t have any of the usual side effects—and it’s not addictive!”

  “Wow!” was all she could think of saying.

  “I just have to be careful about protecting my interests. You know how these Big Pharma companies rip people off.”

  “Do they? I mean, I’m sure you’re right. What did this doctor do, leave everything to you in his will?”

  “It was more of an understanding that we had.”

  His explanations didn’t ring true to her but she didn’t pursue it. Instead she asked, “How did the doctor die?”

  “Somebody broke into our lab and killed him.”

  She groaned. “How awful. And the police have never caught the killer?”

  “No, and they never will. Hey, you know how incompetent and corrupt the police are in Port Moresby. They can’t find their left hand with their right.”

  Nikki offered to refill his glass, which he accepted. When she returned from the kitchen she asked about Dr. King’s family.

  “Just one daughter,” he said.

  “Where is she?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s a flaky character, probably thinks that because he was her father she should be the one to benefit from his research. King knew that I was the right person to carry on his work. But I’ll take care of the daughter after the deal is made.”

  It occurred to him as he said it that there was the possibility that Nikki might know Jayla King. After all, how many young women from Papua New Guinea could there be in Washington? Did they have an expat club of PNGers in D.C.? Did women from PNG get together for girl talk over drinks one night a month? Of course, Jayla and Nikki traveled in different circles. Jayla worked in medical research for a firm in Bethesda; Nikki was with the embassy. He gave himself a mental reminder to not bring up Jayla again.

  “So,” Nikki said, “what are your plans while you’re here? Where are you staying?”

  Waksit grimaced and shook his head. “I have a cash flow problem,” he said. “I have a ton of money waiting for me back in Port Moresby, money the doctor left me. But you know how slow the government is in settling an estate. The truth is I got here on my credit card but it’s almost maxed out, and I don’t have a lot of cash, at least not enough to check into a hotel. I hear that hotels here in Washington are bloody expensive.”

  Nikki said nothing.

  “I suppose I can find some sort of hostel, you know, a place where students stay on the cheap.”

  “I don’t know about them,” she said.

  “Any chance of my crashing here with you for a few nights? I’m sure that when I make contact with the right pharmaceutical company the money will be rolling in.”

  “I don’t know, Eugene, that might be—”

  He flashed his most engaging grin. “Hey, Nikki, I’m not suggesting that we pick up where we left off back in PNG. I’m just talking as a friend.” He patted the couch. “If I could sleep here for a few nights I’d really be grateful. I’ll stay out of your hair. I know you have an important job at the embassy and I promise I won’t get in your way.” Another wide smile. “Hey, I may be short of cash but I’m not that broke. I’ll treat you to a nice dinner, your choice of where. I just need a few days to get my bearings in this city. Man, it makes Port Moresby look like some native village in Sepik, huh? I have an important contact I have to see in the next few days, a man with big connections in the pharmaceutical industry. I’m sure he’ll give me an advance and I’ll pay you for any time I’m here.” He paused. “What do you say, Nikki, for old times’ sake?”

  “I suppose it would be all right for a few days,” she said. “I’m leaving to attend a conference the day after tomorrow, but you can stay until then. I have small room I use as a home office. It has a pull-out sleeper couch. I’m sure you’ll be comfortable there.”

  “That’s great, Nikki. I’ll leave when you do. Want me to make us breakfast? I make terrific scrambled eggs.”

  “I don’t eat much breakfast,” she said.

  “Whatever you say. How about dinner tonight? You have a favorite local place?”

  They went to a neighborhood Thai restaurant where Waksit spent much of the evening extolling the plans he had for the research that Dr. Preston King had bequeathed him. Nikki listened patiently and kept to herself her doubts about his grandiose ideas and claims of being on the cusp of a fortune. They returned to the apartment, drank wine, and she went to bed—she had an early morning meeting at the embassy. Waksit fell asleep on the couch in her office/guest room wearing his boxer shorts and a T-shirt. Nikki lay awake for a time in her darkened bedroom and thought over what had occurred since his arrival. She second-guessed her decision to allow him to stay, but kept justifying it based upon their former, albeit brief relationship, and the need to be gracious to a visiting person from her home country. But while explaining away her decision to give him a place to sleep for a few days made sense, she was uneasy having him in the next room.

  Sleep finally put an end to these doubts—at least for that night.

  CHAPTER

  16

  As promised, Mac Smith contacted Elgin Taylor, the attorney in PNG handling Jayla’s father’s estate, calculating the time difference before placing the call. Taylor’s secretary answered, and the lawyer came on the line seconds later. After the initial introductions were out of the way and they’d settled into a comfortable lawyerly conversation, Mac said, “Ms. King is quite an impressive young lady.”

  “Yes, sir, she certainly is that,” Taylor agreed. “She was Preston King’s little princess, even after she’d become an adult.” He laughed. “Her dad was so proud that she’d followed in his footsteps and was forging a career in medical research.”

  “How did Dr. King spend most of his time?” Smith asked, “practicing medicine, or doing laboratory research?”

  “Quite a bit of both actually. He was passionate about healing his patients, most of them from the poorer echelons of our society. But he was also passionate about his research, became more so toward the end when it seemed to be bearing fruit.”

  “Yes, Jayla told us quite a bit about him and his work when she was our dinner guest one evening. You say his work developing a better pain medication was beginning to bear fruit. Had he documented his findings in the papers that Jayla said were missing?”

  “I’m sure he did. Preston was a complicated man. As his best friend I saw the many sides of him. He wore his heart on his sleeve, but was at the same time extremely protective of his research. I suggested to him more than once that he share it with others, but that was unthinkable to him. He was also meticulous about keeping records.”

  “But he did have an assistant, didn’t he, someone named Waskit?”

  “Waksit,” Taylor corrected. “That’s one of the things I’d like to discuss with you, Mac.”

  He recounted for Smith the call he’d received from Waksit in which he claimed that Dr. King had given him ownership of his research.

  “Jayla mentioned that,” Mac said, “and claimed that her father would never have done such a thing.”

  “I’ve been trying to make sense of it the past few days. Waksit said that he would call again but hasn’t. I’ve been in touch with the officer in charge of the King case, a delightful fellow, Angus Norbis. He’s one of a number of officers assigned to Port Moresby by the Australian Federal Police. Our local police don’t have the best reputation, Mac, but Norbis is a bright gentleman with a sterling record. I was afraid that the local boys would chalk Preston King’s murder up to a drug addict and not bother to pursue it, but Norbis is keeping the case open and is in the process of trying t
o locate Mr. Waksit. He’s had some success on that score. His people checked airline records and it seems that Mr. Waksit took a flight from Sydney to Los Angeles.”

  “What would bring him to the States?”

  “I don’t have an answer to that, but I do have some additional news about the murder of Walter Tagobe.”

  “Jayla told us about him.”

  “Walter was a tribesman from Pagwi. That’s a village in the Sepik River region of Papua New Guinea. Very primitive. He’d been found beaten to death in Wewak, one of the larger towns in the region.”

  “So she said. According to her, this tribesman had been hired by King to oversee his four acres outside Pagwi where he grew and cultivated native plants used in his pain medicine.” Smith paused. “I see where this is heading,” he said. “First King is murdered, and then this fellow he hired to watch over his acreage is killed. Add those two deaths to the fact that the doctor’s research results went missing from his lab—and on top of that his acreage is destroyed—and any possibility of coincidence falls apart.”

  “It seems that way. Allow me to pass along one additional bit of information. The authorities in Wewak have arrested someone in the Tagobe murder.”

  “You are full of news,” Smith said.

  “According to Detective Norbis, the Wewak police have taken in a man they claim beat poor Tagobe to death. This fellow—his name is Paul Underwood—was evidently drunk at some bar bragging about having beaten up a native from Pagwi. He claims it was an accident and was acting in self-defense. The cops continue to question him.”

  “Any connection to Dr. King?” Smith asked.

  “None that I know of. He’s a roustabout, works for an international firm, Alard Associates. Ring a bell?”

  “No. What sort of firm is it?”

  “All I was told is that it hires out people to do contract work for governments, security, that sort of thing, Afghanistan, Iraq, other places I’m sure.”

  “What does the accused do for this Alard Associates?”

  “I don’t know. Underwood is Australian if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Anything else?” Mac asked.

  “Just wondering how Jayla is doing,” said Taylor. “It’s somewhat difficult handling her affairs with so much distance between us.”

  “She seems fine,” Smith said. “Considering.”

  “Please give her my best,” Taylor said.

  “I certainly will.”

  “And stay in touch,” Taylor said. “If you become confused about the time difference and wake me in the wee hours, I’ll understand.”

  “We’d be better served exchanging e-mail information,” Smith suggested. “I prefer voice communication, but considering the time difference and—”

  “A splendid idea,” said Taylor.

  They swapped e-mail addresses and promised to stay in touch.

  Smith hung up and ran through his mind what he’d learned from the Port Moresby attorney.

  There was obviously a connection between the doctor’s death and that of the man who oversaw his acreage. Taylor had mentioned during the call that the missing documents from King’s lab probably ruled out the murder having been done by a drifter, a drug addict. That scenario just didn’t play. Jayla had mentioned that her father’s plot of land had been bulldozed and torched at the same time her father had been killed. What connection did that have with the theft of his research results? It sounded to Smith that whoever killed Preston King and taken his documents had also arranged for the destruction of the land, possibly to erase any evidence that King had made progress in his search for a better painkiller.

  Who would benefit from that?

  The obvious answer was a pharmaceutical company with much to lose if an inexpensive, nonaddicting painkiller came on the market in competition with its own pain medication. Smith knew that the pharmaceutical industry was a cutthroat business with billions at stake.

  Big enough to motivate someone to commit murder in pursuit of profits?

  * * *

  Brixton had been out of the office for much of the day. While having lunch he reflected upon his most recent appointment with the shrink and tried to talk himself out of believing that the two sessions had been beneficial. But he had to admit, if only to himself, that he was now thinking about aspects of his life that he’d kept secluded in a dark corner of his often befuddled mind. His receptionist/secretary, Mrs. Warden, was a good example. He’d resented her from the moment she’d started working for him. But as he pondered the situation while eating the final wedge of his BLT and washing it down with a draft beer, he realized that he’d been unfair. Mrs. Warden was a nice woman, efficient, not unpleasant (although she would never be crowned “Miss Sunshine”), and had told him that she needed the job since her husband passed away. Be nicer to her he told himself as he drained what was in the glass and paid the bill.

  Later that day, he swung by the apartment to freshen up and change clothes. His “date” with Paula Silver, the former B movie actress, was that evening, and while he didn’t have carnal thoughts about what might develop, he did want to look his best. He was glad that Flo was at her clothing shop and not home to further question him about his dinner plans. While she seemed to have bought his explanation why he would be spending time with Ms. Silver, he sensed skepticism on Flo’s part that created a certain awkwardness between them, nothing overt but enough to leave discomfort wafting in the air.

  When he’d called Paula on Monday to see if she was free for dinner the following evening it took her a moment to remember who he was.

  “Robert Brixton,” he reminded her. “We had drinks the other night and we talked about the book you’re writing.”

  “Oh, right, sure. Sure.”

  He wondered if she’d been drinking.

  “You said that Tuesday was your night off, and I wondered if we could have dinner tomorrow.”

  Her long pause told him that she might decline. But then she said, “Yeah, sure, that’d be fine. Brixton?”

  “Robert Brixton,” he said pleasantly.

  “Right, sure.”

  He offered to pick her up but she seemed reluctant to give him her home address. He suggested instead that they meet at the Jack Rose Dining Saloon on Eighteenth Street, a popular Adams Morgan establishment that boasted almost two thousand bottles of scotch, bourbon, and other whiskeys, and three dining levels. Ordinarily, Brixton would not have chosen such a place. It had become a go-to spot later in the evening for party animals, and friends who’d been there said it was noisy. Brixton preferred smaller, more intimate venues in which to enjoy drinks and dinner. But he thought that its cachet might appeal to her; the goal was to spend time together again no matter where.

  “That’s a nice place,” she said. “I’ve been there a few times.”

  “Great. We’ll meet at the bar on the roof at six?”

  “All right. Sure.”

  She was twenty minutes late arriving, and Brixton wondered whether she’d be a no-show. But she suddenly appeared and stood at the edge of the terrace looking for him; based upon their phone conversation he wondered whether she’d even recognize him. He left his seat at the bar, approached, and extended his hand. “Hi,” he said accompanied by a broad smile.

  “Oh, hello,” she said.

  She was dressed for an evening out, body-clinging red-and-yellow silk dress with a deep neckline that exposed freckled cleavage, gold drop earrings, and heels.

  “Come on,” he said, taking her elbow, “I saved a seat for you at the bar.”

  He was aware as they crossed the room that Ms. Silver, former minor-league screen actress, elicited plenty of admiring male glances, and Brixton enjoyed being with the target of their interest. She made a show of settling on the barstool and looked up at the array of bottles in the backbar.

  “This place is known for all its whiskeys,” Brixton said.

  She told the young bartender that she would have a single-barrel bourbon, which she had also ordered the
first night they’d been together. Brixton’s Beefeater martini sat half consumed before him. He raised the glass. “Here’s to seeing you again,” he said.

  She took a healthy swig of the drink and continued to stare straight ahead.

  “So,” Brixton said, “have you been thinking about your book?”

  “What?” She turned and looked as though she was surprised to see him. “My book? I’m always thinking about it.”

  “I guess that’s true of all writers. They’re always thinking about it.”

  She nodded and drank again.

  “I thought we’d have dinner downstairs,” he said, “but it’s nice having a drink up here outdoors. Beautiful night.”

  “It’s nice. I’ve been here before.”

  “Yeah, you said that when I called. Funny that you know Eric Morrison.”

  “What’s funny about it?”

  “Not funny ha-ha. It’s just that he’s one of the lobbyists I’m researching.”

  “Bastard!” she snorted, waving for the bartender and pointing to her empty glass.

  “No love lost, huh?”

  “I hate him,” she said.

  “That bad, huh? He’s married, isn’t he?”

  “Sure he is, but he told me—he tells every woman he cons—that he’s about to get a divorce.”

  “An old line. How did you get involved with him?”

  She waited until she’d sampled her refreshed drink before answering. “A friend of his introduced us. His name’s Howie. Howie Ebhart.”

  “He a lobbyist, too?”

  “I don’t know what he does.”

  Brixton was tempted to ask whether she’d had an affair with this Howie guy but thought better of it.

  “Last time we talked I said that maybe I could help you with the book you’re writing. I don’t know if you’re aware that Morrison has a U.S. senator in his pocket.”

  “Gillespie,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Right. Senator Ronald Gillespie.”

  “He’s a pig. I used to think that guys in Hollywood who played the casting couch game were pigs but Gillespie puts them to shame.” Raising Gillespie’s name seemed to inject animation into her. She turned to Brixton and said, “Eric—Morrison—plays pimp for the senator. I didn’t know that when I got involved with him, but once I put two and two together it made my skin crawl. He even tried to hook me up with Gillespie for a one-night stand. That’s when I told him what I thought of him and walked away.”