She waited for him to complete what he was about to say.
“Nothing,” he said.
“What, Nate?”
“No, nothing. Let’s eat.”
They said little during dinner. Cousins was in the grip of a conflict of interest. He owed it to Milkin and Renewal to encourage Jayla to turn over her father’s research and allow the Renewal labs to work at refining it. His best interests dictated that he do that.
But his emotional side led him to sincerely want to do the right thing by her. She trusted him, and that meant something. He allowed his emotional side to prevail.
“When you joined Renewal,” he said, “you signed an employment contract, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Doesn’t everyone?”
“As far as I know. I just mention it because your contract might have a clause under which everything you develop at Renewal becomes its intellectual property. It’s a boilerplate clause in most contracts.”
“I haven’t looked at that contract since the day I signed it. Frankly, I never read it closely. I was just so thrilled to have been hired.”
“It probably means nothing,” he said offhandedly, “but I just thought I’d mention it before you make your decision.”
She frowned. “I can’t imagine that it would apply in this case,” she said. “I didn’t develop the research while working at Renewal. My father did in Papua New Guinea.”
“You’re probably right, Jayla. More wine?”
* * *
The conversation at Bobby Van’s Steakhouse also centered on Dr. Preston King’s research.
Eric Morrison and Eugene Waksit sat at a table for two. An observer would sense that both men were ill at ease. Waksit had arrived after Morrison, who had already finished half his drink when Waksit approached the table carrying his ever-present briefcase.
“I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice,” Waksit said as he took the chair opposite the lobbyist.
“Yeah, well, I figured I should at least hear you out. As I said, I have nothing to do with the actual work that my clients do, you know, developing medicines and things like that. I’m their lobbyist. I work with Congress to make sure that their work doesn’t get bogged down by governmental nonsense.”
“It must be interesting work,” Waksit said shakily.
“Yeah, it is. You say that this Dr. King left you the results of his research?”
“That’s right. He was a marvelous man. It was tragic the way somebody murdered him. Do you know much about him?”
Morrison shook his head. “He was some sort of maverick doctor in New Guinea, right?”
“In Papua New Guinea,” Waksit said, hoping that correcting Morrison wouldn’t offend him. “PNG for short.”
“Right. PNG. What kind of research did he do?”
“He developed a pain medication using plants and herbs grown in PNG.”
Morrison’s laugh was forced. “Doesn’t sound very scientific to me,” he said.
Waksit resented the comment but didn’t have a ready response.
“Look,” said Morrison, “I don’t know anything about this doctor and what you say he developed. If it is as effective as you claim, I’m sure that you’ll find a pharmaceutical company that’ll be willing to hear you out.”
Waksit started to respond but Morrison continued. “You have proof that the research belongs to you?” he asked.
“You mean some sort of document?”
“Right.”
“I worked closely with Dr. King for many years,” Waksit said, unable to keep the pique from his voice. “He told me many times that when he died he wanted me to continue his work.”
“Hey,” Morrison said, raising his hand. “I’m not arguing with you. Let’s have dinner. I have another appointment.”
Morrison mostly listened during dinner as Waksit talked nonstop about King’s research and his role in it. As he did Morrison went over in his mind what his assistant had come up with about the young man sitting across from him.
There hadn’t been much to report. He’d provided his boss with Waksit’s educational background, and had confirmed that he’d worked with Dr. Preston King in Papua New Guinea. He’d also written in his report that Dr. King had a daughter, Jayla King, who was a PhD working as a medical researcher at Renewal Pharmaceuticals. George Alard’s “operative” had reported back that when he arrived at King’s lab the physician was already dead. If that was true—and he tended to believe that it was—Waksit had to be the logical suspect. Here he was claiming that King had verbally willed him the fruits of his research. Had he murdered the physician in order to obtain it? If so, he was breaking bread with a killer.
They skipped dessert and Morrison called for a check.
“Are you interested in what I’m offering?” Waksit asked.
“As I told you, Mr. Waksit, I’m not involved in the workings of my clients.”
“But you could introduce me to the right people at those clients.”
“I’m really not comfortable in doing that,” Morrison said.
“I’m willing to share the money,” Waksit said.
“What about the doctor’s daughter, Mr. Waksit?” Morrison asked.
Waksit stiffened. He hadn’t expected the lobbyist to know about Jayla, and certainly wasn’t prepared to have her brought up in the conversation.
“She has nothing to do with this,” Waksit said defensively.
“Seems to me that her father would have left his research to her,” Morrison said as he added a tip to the bill.
Waksit repeated his offer to share money with Morrison.
“Sorry, Mr. Waksit, but I’ll have to pass on your offer. I wish you all the best.”
Morrison left the table, got in his car, and drove home. Waksit had come off to him like a cheap hustler. On top of that he might be a killer. Get involved with him? Not a chance.
Later that night he sat in his home office and reviewed the second report given him at the end of the day by his assistant, a dossier on the private investigator Robert Brixton:
Brixton, Robert … 53 yrs old … former cop in D.C. (4 yrs) and Savannah, Georgia (retired from there) … Divorced, two daughters, one deceased in terrorist café bombing in D.C.… involved in Savannah case, teen girl killed, traced to First Lady and D.C. social type … involved in other controversies … broke gunrunning plot in D.C. and Hawaii … considered a hothead … office in lawyer Mackensie Smith suite … girlfriend Flo Combes, owns dress shop in Georgetown …
There was more, and the further Morrison read the more concerned he became. The dinner with Eugene Waksit was a distant memory, a waste of time and money. But this investigator Brixton posed a real cause for concern. Brixton had mentioned Howie Ebhart, who’d introduced Morrison to both the abortionist, and to George Alard. Ebhart was a blowhard in Morrison’s estimation, capable of shooting off his mouth.
Morrison didn’t need all these complications. He was supposed to spread money around Congress on behalf of his pharmaceutical clients, not be arranging abortions or contracting with a slimy Frenchman to have a physician’s plot of land bulldozed in some godforsaken place like Papua New Guinea.
He knew one thing for certain. He wasn’t about to let some two-bit private investigator destroy everything he’d worked for. His firm, Morrison Associates, was successful and respected. He’d built it from scratch into one of Washington’s top lobbying forces.
He made two decisions.
He would call Robert Brixton in the morning to find out more about what he knew.
And he would call Senator Gillespie to give him a heads-up.
* * *
Jayla King also did some reading after returning from her dinner with Nate Cousins. She dragged out the employment contract she’d signed when going to work at Renewal Pharmaceuticals and read it carefully. Cousins had been right; it did contain the standard clause that gave the firm intellectual property rights to any breakthrough conceived and developed by her as an employee.
But did her father’s research fall under that clause? She needed legal advice. A call in the morning to Mackensie Smith was very much in order.
CHAPTER
24
Jayla took the day off following her dinner date with Nate Cousins, using personal days she’d accrued. She had a number of items on her to-do list beginning with a ten a.m. appointment with Mackensie Smith to go over her employment contract. Annabel was there when she arrived.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything important,” Jayla said.
Smith laughed. “We’re discussing whether to spend money sprucing up our kitchen. I suppose that’s important.”
“Yes, I would say that it is,” Jayla said.
“How are you, Jayla?” Annabel asked.
“Confused would be the best way to describe it.”
“You mentioned that you have an employment contract you wanted me to take a look at,” Mac said.
She pulled it from her briefcase and handed it to him.
“I’d better be going,” Annabel said. “I don’t like to be late opening the gallery.”
“I’d love to stop by and see it one day,” Jayla said. “My father had a few pieces of pre-Columbian art, although he primarily collected artifacts from the Sepik River region, tribal masks, smoking apparatus, headdresses, bamboo musical instruments.”
“Maybe you should start collecting those things, too, Annie,” Mac told his wife. “You could set up a corner of your shop featuring items from PNG.”
“I’m having enough trouble keeping up with the market for pre-Columbian art,” she said, “but it’s an intriguing suggestion.”
“If you ever decide to do it,” Jayla said, “I’ll be happy to help.”
“And you’ll be the first person I’ll turn to,” Annabel said. “Please stop by the gallery one day soon.”
“I’ll make a point of it.”
Annabel left the office and Mac read Jayla’s employment contract.
“Well,” she said when he’d finished, “will Renewal own the rights to anything I do with my father’s research?”
“They could certainly make a case for it,” Mac replied. “I’d like to give it some more thought. Leave this with me?”
“Sure.”
“Have you heard from your father’s assistant, Mr. Waksit?”
“No. Knowing that he’s in the United States prompted me to consider working with my employer, Renewal Pharmaceuticals, to further develop my father’s research. If Eugene stole the notes from the lab—and I don’t know for certain that he did—he’s probably already trying to interest a pharmaceutical company in buying dad’s discoveries.”
“He’d have a tough time selling that information, Jayla,” Smith said. “As far as I know from speaking with your attorney in PNG, there’s nothing in writing to confirm that he has legal rights to the research. By the way, Mr. Taylor told me during our most recent conversation that the police in PNG have arrested someone in connection with the murder of that fellow who oversaw your father’s acreage.”
She was about to respond when Brixton knocked and entered Smith’s office. “Sorry,” he said.
“Come in, Robert,” Smith said. “Jayla and I were just discussing her father’s murder and the death of the man who tended his plot of land.”
“Walter Tagobe,” Jayla said.
“They’ve arrested someone in his murder,” Smith said. “It seems that this man got drunk in a bar and bragged about killing him. He’s an Australian, works for an outfit called Alard Associates.”
“Whoa,” Brixton said, sitting forward. “Alard Associates? That’s a private security firm that hires out to any government.”
“Did this man admit to having killed Walter?” Jayla asked.
“He claims he did it in self-defense,” Mac said.
“Ever hear of a lobbyist named Morrison?” Brixton asked.
“I’ve read about him,” Smith said.
Brixton said, “Morrison is evidently friends with the guy who runs Alard Associates. Morrison represents big pharmaceutical companies, you know, shoveling cash under the table to politicians in return for voting his way. Anyway, Jayla’s father was involved in developing a new medicine, right?”
“A pain medication,” Jayla said.
“A pain medication,” Brixton repeated. “Okay. Morrison is a friend of the guy who runs Alard Associates. The guy who killed your father’s helper works for Alard Associates. If your father had hit on a new and better pain medication, that’s got to create plenty of sweat in the pharmaceutical industry. Am I right?”
Smith looked at Jayla before responding. “Go on Robert,” he said.
“Look,” Brixton said, “I don’t know anything for sure, but it just seems to me that your father’s murder is somehow wrapped up with these other people. Want some juicy insider D.C. gossip?”
Smith and Jayla stared at him blankly.
“This lobbyist for Big Pharma, Eric Morrison, has a U.S. senator in his pocket. Senator Gillespie? Ring a bell?”
“Of course,” Smith said.
“So,” Brixton said, “Senator Gillespie is a champion in Congress of the pharmaceutical industry. Morrison does lots of favors for the senator besides funding his campaigns with money from his clients, including arranging an abortion for a young gal back in Georgia whom the senator got in the family way, as the saying goes.”
“That’s shocking,” Jayla said.
“Welcome to Washington, D.C.,” Brixton said. “Anyway, this Alard Associates, according to my very reliable source, hires out to whoever pays the most, which naturally includes the government.”
“And?” Smith said.
“And,” Brixton said, leaning forward as though he’d just solved the world’s greatest mystery, “if the guy who killed the native, Toby—”
“Tagobe,” Jayla corrected.
“Right, Tagobe,” Brixton said. “The guy who killed Tagobe might also be the one who torched your father’s land, Jayla. And maybe he was also the one who killed your father. And maybe he did it because he was told to do it by his employer, Alard Associates. And…”
They waited for him to complete his thought.
“And maybe our lobbyist friend, Morrison, put him up to it on behalf of one of his clients, a pharmaceutical company.”
Everyone fell silent.
“Plays for me,” Brixton said proudly.
Mac started to say something but was interrupted by Mrs. Warden, who’d knocked before entering. “Mr. Brixton,” she said, “you have a call from a Mr. Eric Morrison.”
Brixton looked from Mac to Jayla before saying, “This should be interesting. Don’t go away. I’ll be back to give you a play-by-play.”
Brixton took the call in his office.
“Brixton here.”
“I’m returning your call,” Morrison said.
“I appreciate that, Mr. Morrison.” He injected pleasantness into his voice.
“What’s this all about?” Morrison asked brusquely.
“Well,” Brixton said, “to cut to the chase, I’m investigating a situation involving Senator Ronald Gillespie. You know who he is, of course.”
“Of course I know who he is.”
“A very important senator, chairs important committees including one that oversees the pharmaceutical industry.”
“So?”
“So, Mr. Morrison, I’m wondering why you would pay an abortionist to cover up for this important senator.”
“You have one hell of a nerve suggesting that.”
“Hey, I’m not shooting in the dark. I have plenty of proof that this happened. What I’m doing is giving you a chance to tell your side of it.”
“You say you have proof. What proof?”
Brixton forced a chuckle. “You didn’t think that you could pull off something like this without other people getting wind of it, did you?”
“Is there any other reason that you called, Mr. Brixton?”
Brixton decided
to go for broke. The scenario he’d painted in Smith’s office for Mac and Jayla had been another what-if exercise. But as long as he had Morrison on the phone…”
“Mr. Morrison, what about the murder of Dr. King on Papua New Guinea and the guy who was hired by Alard Associates to burn his crops—and, maybe kill the doctor? Ring a bell?”
The silence on the other end of the line said that Brixton’s statement had hit home.
“You there Mr. Morrison?”
“Yes, I’m here.” He was breathing heavily. “I know nothing about what you’re talking about.”
“Did one of your pharmaceutical clients suggest that you arrange to get rid of the doctor’s crops—and the doctor himself?”
“You keep spouting these kinds of lies and you’ll be on the hot end of a slander suit.”
“It won’t be the first time. Look, Mr. Morrison, Dr. King had a daughter who would like some closure on her father’s murder. I’m not looking to get you in trouble. I know that you’re a successful and respected lobbyist in town. How about we find time to sit down, someplace private and quiet, and talk it over? I’ll make myself available anytime you say.”
Morrison’s response was to slam down his phone.
Brixton held his phone away from him as though it might be contagious. “Touchy, huh?” he said as he hung up and rejoined Mac Smith and Jayla King in Smith’s office.
“I’m sure you have a compelling tale to tell us,” Mac said.
Brixton replayed his conversation with Morrison.
“You realize, Robert, that you’ve gone out on a limb with those kinds of accusations,” Smith said.
“Just trying to stir the pot,” Brixton countered. He turned to Jayla. “You have a problem with what I’ve done?”
“No,” she said. “I would like closure about my father’s murder.”
“Which you deserve,” said Mac.
“Hear anything about where your father’s assistant, Whatsit, is it?” Brixton asked.
“No,” Jayla said, deciding not to correct him.
“I’d be wary of him,” Brixton offered. “If he stole your father’s research he might be capable of other things that aren’t very nice.”
Margaret Truman's Deadly Medicine Page 18
