He’d also decided that the nature of the pain medication, and the natural ingredients used to formulate it, helped his cause. It wasn’t as though he was stealing a patented synthetic formula from another pharmaceutical company. He would be bringing to Morrison and the companies he represents a revolutionary pain medication made from indigenous plants grown in Papua New Guinea, a medication that is cheap to produce and produces no known side effects. What a story! Who could possibly turn down what he had to offer?
But while his grandiose visions of pharmaceutical companies falling over each other to buy the rights from him ruled his thinking, he also knew that there was one person who stood in his way—Jayla King, Dr. Preston King’s daughter, who happened to work in medical research and who could challenge his claim to have been heir to the medicinal formula. He didn’t know how to deal with that potential complication, aside from making it clear to Morrison and whoever else was involved that it was never to be offered to Renewal Pharmaceuticals, Jayla’s employer.
He helped himself to a bowl of cereal with milk and sugar before taking a shower and dressing. He brought the briefcase from where he’d secluded it behind the pullout couch to the kitchen and opened it on the table. He removed King’s research notes and the packets of seeds and took out another envelope. In it was $9,000 in cash, his American Express credit card, and an Italian stiletto switchblade knife he’d purchased in a specialty shop at Dulles Airport. It reminded him of one that an uncle had given him on his sixteenth birthday and that he’d reluctantly left behind in Port Moresby, knowing that it would be confiscated at the airport.
* * *
While Waksit prepared for his first day in Washington, Will Sayers was getting ready to launch his day, too, although their plans differed.
The journalist had been buoyed by what Paula Silver had confided in Brixton during their dinner. He was well aware that without tangible irrefutable proof that Senator Gillespie had gotten a young Georgia woman pregnant and arranged for her abortion, he couldn’t run with the story. But Paula’s comment that Eric Morrison had bragged about “owning” the senator said to Sayers that the rumor was true. Maybe it was time to ratchet up his inquiry into Morrison’s relationship with the silver-haired politician, and that meant making direct contact.
He packed the juicer away in a kitchen cabinet—how anyone could start a day with the vile concoction was inconceivable to him—and stopped in his favorite luncheonette where he consumed a double order of pancakes, link sausages, and orange juice. Back in his apartment he formulated his next move. He’d left for breakfast having decided to call Morrison himself, but thought better of that once relieved of his hunger pangs. He called Brixton at home and caught him as he was leaving for the office.
“Just wanted to say how much I appreciated the information you squeezed out of Paula Silver,” he said.
Brixton glanced to see whether Flo was in earshot. She wasn’t; he heard the shower running. “It was my pleasure,” he said. “How often does a former cop like me get to wine and dine a Hollywood star on your dollar?”
“If you say so. Look, Robert, here’s why I’m calling. I think it’s time to put some pressure on the lobbyist, Morrison.”
“Based on what, a woman scorned?”
“She’s not the only source of the story,” Sayers said.
“Then do it.”
“I was wondering whether it would be better, more effective, for you to do it.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Because you’re so good at getting people to talk.”
“It’s not my fight, Will. Besides, I’ve got a few potential clients on the string, clients who pay real money.”
“A thousand bucks isn’t ‘real money’?”
“Not when I’m paying for expensive drinks and dinners.”
“I’ll reimburse you,” Sayers said.
“Good. How do you suggest I put the pressure on Morrison?”
“Call him. Make up a story about who you are and why you’re calling.”
“You’re asking me to lie?”
“Oh, sorry to have offended you, Robert.”
“No offense taken,” Brixton said. He’d lied plenty of times as a cop in Washington and Savannah, as well as in his more recent incarnation as a private investigator. His “courtship” of Paula Silver was but the latest example.
“I’ll think about it,” he said.
“Fair enough,” said Sayers.
“Anything else?” Brixton asked.
“Just that I’m going out and buying a coffeemaker today, one of those fancy ones with little cups filled with coffee.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.”
“I want you to be happy when you visit.”
“I’m touched, Will, truly touched. I’ll get back to you.”
* * *
Jayla King already had a Keurig and used it that morning to brew a cup. She awoke with a headache and finicky stomach, thanks to having had a third glass of wine the previous night, and considered taking the day off. But she began to feel better after coffee and a bowl of yogurt with blueberries.
She’d gone out to dinner the night before with Nate Cousins, who’d introduced her to a charming French restaurant, Bistro Du Coin, on Connecticut Avenue, which he claimed had the best steamed mussels in town. While experiencing his favorite restaurants—an obvious perk of being in the public relations business—represented part of the enjoyment of going out with him, she’d also found herself becoming increasingly interested in Cousins on a more personal level.
Her dating history, if you could call it that, was not extensive, nor had it resulted in her becoming enamored of the men she’d seen. That thought was on her mind as she exercised on the treadmill in her bedroom.
Another female student in her college had accused her of being stuck-up, feeling superior to other women, a charge that Jayla considered patently untrue. Yes, she would admit—but only to herself—that she had a certain disdain for the young men who asked her out, considering them intellectually shallow and immature. She was a dedicated student who always seemed to be studying while other coeds immersed themselves in an active social life that involved multiple dates with an array of young men, their quest for a suitable lifelong mate seemingly as important as obtaining a degree. Jayla’s stunning beauty probably played a role in their reaction to her, although an inborn, honest modesty precluded her from thinking that.
As she ratcheted up the treadmill’s speed a familiar question occupied her. She knew that her mixed parentage—her father a white Australian, her mother, Lanisha, a dark-skinned Melanesian—played some role in her view of romantic possibilities. She’d dated both white and black young men and could never shake the feeling that she didn’t belong to either race. Was Nate Cousins’s mixed parentage why she felt comfortable with him, confident that he would understand her confusion about who she was and where she belonged? If so, that was all right. All she knew was that her feelings for him had grown stronger each time they were together.
* * *
Their date the previous night had started out with casual conversation over wine and appetizers, world affairs, the arts (he was a voracious reader, partial to biographies and history; she read historical novels but also enjoyed romance novels, which she didn’t mention), and other nonprofessional topics. It was during dinner that he brought up her father’s research.
“I know you don’t like to talk about it,” he said, “and I certainly understand, considering what happened to him, but I can’t help but wonder how successful he was. If anyone would know, it’s you.”
“He claimed to have had success with patients in his clinic,” she said, “but that’s only anecdotal.” The letter her father had left her contained a series of stories involving clinic patients who’d received the painkiller he’d created and who reported significant relief from their pain.
“Mind a suggestion?” he said.
“Of course not.”
“Since you and your lab c
olleagues have been trying to accomplish the same thing that your father was seeking, maybe you should apply what you know about his work to developing it further at Renewal.”
“I’ve thought about that,” she said, “but I’m not ready to do anything with his efforts in the lab.”
“Sure, and I understand. It was just a suggestion. Maybe the reason I brought it up was the fellow you’ve mentioned who worked as your dad’s assistant.”
“Eugene.”
“Right, Eugene. Waksit is it?”
She nodded.
“Have you heard anything from him?”
“No. The last time I spoke with him was in Port Moresby when I went home following my father’s death.”
Cousins’s face became grim. “You know, Jayla, it’s possible that he’ll try to use your father’s work for his own benefit.”
“I know,” she said. “He claims that my father willed him—verbally—the rights to his research.”
“Is that possible?”
“Not to me it isn’t.”
“Your dad left everything to you, right?”
“Yes, but Eugene called the attorney handling dad’s estate and made his claim.”
“Did he follow up? Estates have to be settled through a legal process.”
“He promised to call the attorney again but never did. I assumed that he was still in Port Moresby—he has an apartment there—but he’s gone. The attorney tried his number, and so did I.”
“Where is he?”
“I have no idea.”
“I don’t like the sound of this,” Cousins said.
“Neither do I, although I keep trying to ignore the possibilities. To think that Eugene would do something underhanded is—”
“Maybe you didn’t know him well enough.”
Which was true. Most of Jayla’s knowledge of Eugene Waksit came through her father, and even he had never said much about his assistant. Her innate distrust of the young man hadn’t been based upon anything tangible. But claiming that he was heir to her father’s research? That told a different story.
“You said that your father’s research notes were missing from his lab.”
“Yes.”
“It had to be Waksit.”
She drew a deep breath and sat back. “I hate to admit it but it does seem logical, doesn’t it?”
“It’s also logical that—”
“That Eugene killed my father? I pray that’s not true.”
“You don’t know where he’s gone?”
She shook her head.
“There’s ways to find out, Jayla.”
“I’m not sure I even want to know,” she said.
“I’ll do it.”
“You’ll do it? What do you mean?”
“I’ll hire someone. There are people who specialize in such things.”
“Please don’t.”
“Why?”
She reached across the table and placed her hand on his. “Nate,” she said, “I appreciate how much you care about this—about me—but I really don’t want to become involved. I don’t think that Eugene will ever follow through on his claim. He’s probably gone back to Australia and will find a new job and forget about my father and his research.” A smile crossed her face. “Dad left him five thousand dollars in his will. He’ll return to collect that money and that will be the end of it.”
“If you say so,” Cousins said, smiling. “I just want to be helpful, Jayla. To be candid, I’d like to be a bigger part of your life.”
She cocked her head and looked at him quizzically.
“This may sound corny, but I think I’m falling in love with Jayla King.”
CHAPTER
19
Jayla didn’t know how to respond so she didn’t, at least for what seemed a very long time. When she did she said, “I’m flattered.”
“I wasn’t flattering you,” Cousins said. “I just wanted to express what I’m feeling.” He laughed. “Please don’t take it as something to be concerned about. I’m not suggesting that you respond in kind. I’m just glad that I got it off my chest. Let’s have dessert and talk about less weighty things.”
After dinner he walked her to her car.
“I know you probably view me as some impetuous fool,” he said.
“No, I don’t view you that way, Nate. I view you as—well, as someone I like being with. Let’s leave it at that for the moment.”
“But only for the moment.”
They kissed, and she felt sparks.
“Thank you for another lovely dinner,” she said.
“Just one of many more we’ll have,” he said. “Good night.”
She’d turned off her cell phone to avoid an unwanted intrusion at the restaurant, and now turned it on once in her car. There were a few messages, including one from Mackensie Smith. She checked her watch: a few minutes past nine. Not too late to return the call.
“Hello Jayla,” Mac said.
“Hi. I just came from dinner and saw your message.”
“Nothing important,” he said. “I made contact with Elgin Taylor in PNG. Lovely man. We had a long talk.”
“I’m so glad. What did he have to say?”
“Many things. Feel like an after-dinner drink?”
“I don’t know, I—yes, I’d like that very much.”
“Drop by. Robert Brixton and Flo are here doing the same thing. I’ll fill you in on my chat with Mr. Taylor when you arrive.”
She said she’d be there in a few minutes. As much as she wanted to dismiss what Nate Cousins had said at dinner, his words professing that he loved her had both touched and energized her. She was wide awake and not ready to go home; a nightcap with the Smiths and Brixton and Flo was appealing.
It had started to rain lightly when she and Cousins left the restaurant, and by the time she reached the Watergate apartment complex it had become a downpour. She held a newspaper over her head as she dashed to the entrance and told the doorman who she was visiting. She was buzzed in and arrived at the Smiths’ door where Brixton waited.
“Doing doorman duty,” he said. “Making myself useful.”
“Good for you,” she said.
He took the soggy newspaper from her and they joined Mac, Annabel, and Flo in the living room.
“You need a drink,” Mac said, disappearing into the kitchen and returning with a glass into which he’d poured two fingers of Armagnac over ice.
“Thanks,” Jayla said and sat on the couch next to Flo, who squeezed her hand.
“Mac was just telling us about his conversation with your attorney back in Papua New Guinea,” Flo said.
“Just started to,” Mac said. “You haven’t missed anything. Mr. Taylor sends his best to you.”
“He’s such a sweetheart,” she replied. “Did he have anything new to report? I feel helpless being this far away.”
“I’m sure you do,” said Mac, “but you obviously have a top-notch surrogate working on your behalf. I was just saying that the police there are considering your father’s murder an open case. And he told me that someone has been arrested in the murder of the native gentleman your father hired to oversee his crops.”
“Walter Tagobe,” she said.
“That’s right,” said Mac. “Your attorney has been in touch with a police officer named Norbis, Angus Norbis. He has contacts in the town where Mr. Tagobe was killed.”
“Wewak,” she provided.
“You’ve got some funny names in New Guinea,” Brixton said.
Jayla laughed. “Guess it does sound funny to someone who isn’t used to it. What else did he have to say, Mac?”
“Let’s see. He mentioned the fellow who used to be your dad’s assistant, Eugene Waksit.”
Jayla sat up a little straighter. “What did he have to say about Eugene?”
“You already know that he’s claimed to have inherited your father’s lab research results.”
She sighed. “Yes.”
“Looks like he might be vi
siting you.”
“What? He’s coming here?”
“I don’t know about Washington,” Mac said, “but Mr. Taylor says that airline records indicate that Mr. Waksit flew to Los Angeles.”
“That certainly is news to me,” Jayla said.
Brixton interrupted the conversation. “The local police are checking up on this guy Waksit’s travel?”
“According to Jayla’s attorney,” Mac affirmed.
Brixton looked at Mac. “Maybe what I said is true,” he said.
“What was that?” Jayla asked.
Brixton hesitated before answering. “Well,” he said, “after you left the last time I played the what-if game, you know, what would I write if this was a novel.”
Jayla’s puzzled expression reflected her confusion.
Mac interjected, “Robert was speculating, that’s all,” he said. “He wondered whether your dad’s assistant might have killed your father in order to gain access to his research. You said that the notes were missing.”
Jayla shook her head. “No matter what I might think of Eugene, he’s not a killer.”
“Just doing some blue-sky thinking,” Brixton said.
“But he’s here in the United States?” Jayla said.
“In Los Angeles at least,” Mac said.
“Refresh anyone’s drinks?” Annabel asked.
“Love it,” said Brixton.
“Please,” said Flo.
Jayla declined.
The conversation shifted to other things, but Jayla could not shake loose what Mac had told her about Waksit coming to the United States. Los Angeles was three thousand miles away, but she felt Waksit’s presence as though he were sitting next to her.
Brixton and Flo announced that they were leaving.
“Busy day tomorrow?” Annabel asked.
“I hope so,” Flo replied. “I hate slow days at the shop.”
“You, Robert? You have a full schedule?”
“Yeah, I, ah—just the usual.”
He hadn’t told anyone that he was seeing a therapist and had an appointment in the morning with Dr. Fowler. Seeing a therapist represented for him weakness, something that he was never comfortable with. He’d learned as a cop that showing weakness could get you killed, and he worked hard at conquering that feeling whenever it injected itself into his life.
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