CHAPTER
25
Waksit brooded in his room at the Embassy Inn on Sixteenth Street. Morrison’s quick dismissal of him had stung. He was angry; the lobbyist hadn’t given him ample time to make his case, had brushed him off like he was some crackpot trying to sell magazine subscriptions or prime land in the Australian desert.
What had especially upset him was Morrison’s question about King’s daughter. Not that raising her name had come as a surprise. He’d known from the moment that he’d removed King’s research results from the lab with the intent to sell it to the highest bidder that Jayla could be a stumbling block. Her father’s attorney, that pompous ass Taylor, had questioned his claim that he’d been verbally bequeathed the research by Dr. King, who’d left everything in his will to his stuck-up daughter aside from a measly $5,000 for his loyal assistant.
What had she ever done to deserve anything? He was the one who had worked side by side with her precious daddy while she was off having fun at college. He was the loyal assistant who gave those pathetic creatures who visited the clinic the medicine to make their pain go away. He scrubbed the lab every day, not her, made sure there were plenty of plants from the Sepik acreage for King to concoct his medicine. He deserved the results of the search, not her.
He’d spent part of the day following his dinner with Morrison driving his rented car past Jayla’s apartment building in Foggy Bottom, and cruising in front of Renewal Pharmaceutical’s headquarters in Bethesda. He didn’t have a specific goal in mind, nor did he expect to run into her at either location. But he was compelled to see where she lived and worked.
It occurred to him that she might have already approached her bosses at Renewal about using her father’s work as the basis for their own development of an improved pain medication. But what did she know? Okay, so maybe King talked to her about his work, but he, Eugene Waksit, had possession of King’s research logs and results, and that gave him an advantage over her. He had the goods; she had only her filial relationship. She’d been away at college in Australia while he had worked at King’s side in both the lab and the clinic. The fact that she’d gone on to receive her doctorate in molecular biology meant nothing.
Tired of driving, he parked in a garage and, carrying his briefcase with him, settled in an outdoor café on the same street as Jayla’s apartment building. The gray sky threatened rain, but it was a warm day with a gentle breeze that kept the humidity from being oppressive. He ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and a beer. While watching the passing parade he became introspective, and his anger swelled. He viewed the passing crowd with disdain, smug young men and women full of themselves, probably without an ounce of brains to share between them. Morrison was a prime example. Waksit had traveled all the way from Papua New Guinea to offer the lobbyist a-once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but he was too stupid to appreciate it. Waksit had been certain that Morrison would welcome the opportunity with open arms. That he didn’t, not only told Waksit that the man was dumb, it posed a dilemma. Because Morrison represented a number of leading pharmaceutical companies, he was the ideal person to point Waksit in the right direction. Now, without the lobbyist’s collaboration, Waksit was faced with having to choose a pharmaceutical firm to approach, a shot in the dark.
As he pondered the situation, the notion of contacting Jayla and suggesting that they form some sort of partnership came and went. He didn’t need her. He had the research, not her. He had intimate knowledge of its potentials. That was his road to riches.
He paid for lunch and headed back toward the parking garage. His car was brought to the exit and he got behind the wheel and began to ease into traffic. Jayla, who’d just returned from having run errands following her meeting with Mac Smith, saw him from the opposite side of the broad avenue.
“Eugene?” she shouted.
Her words were drowned out by a passing bus, which stopped, cutting off her view. When it moved on, Waksit and the car were gone.
“He’s here in Washington,” she muttered as she dodged traffic and stood in front of the garage.
Was it really him?
If it was, why would he be parking on her street? Surely, if he’d wanted to see her he would have called. Had he gone to her apartment building and rung her unit? What was he doing in Washington? The attorney Taylor had said that the Papua New Guinea police had been tracing his steps. Not that he was a suspect in her father’s death, but he was obviously a so-called person of interest.
Despite the warmth of the day, a chill stabbed her as she hurried to her building where she asked the doorman if anyone had been looking for her.
“No, Ms. King, no one’s been here.”
She went to the apartment and checked her answering machine. No call from Waksit. She looked down at the street in search of him, a wasted exercise she knew. She’d just seen him—if it was him—drive away. She checked her watch. Two o’clock. She considered calling the attorney in PNG but held that urge in check. Instead, she dialed Mac Smith’s office number.
“Hello,” Smith said in his usual cheery voice. “This is a nice surprise.”
“Mac,” she said, “I think I just saw Eugene Waksit, my father’s assistant.”
“Here? In D.C.? He would have called, wouldn’t he?”
“Yes, I would have thought so.”
“You sound upset, Jayla.”
“I suppose I am. There’s no reason for me to be but—”
“Why don’t you join us at the apartment? It’s a slow day here, and Annabel is on her way from the gallery. We can talk about the situation with Waksit and maybe make dinner plans.”
“I don’t want to intrude.”
“You won’t be. I think Robert and Flo will be joining us. I’ll be here this afternoon going over a contractor’s estimate to redo the kitchen. Maybe you can add some PNG design touches to the project.”
“I’m afraid that design isn’t one of my strong suits, Mac, but I’d love to catch up with everyone. Five?”
“Sounds perfect.”
* * *
As Jayla caught up on paperwork and bill paying—and pondered Waksit’s presence in Washington—Eric Morrison stood on the deck of his Aquariva yacht awaiting the arrival of Senator Ronald Gillespie. His call to the senator’s office had been met with “The senator isn’t available at the moment.”
“You tell the senator,” Morrison replied, “that this is damned important, more important than anything else he’s doing at the moment.”
Gillespie came on the line a minute later.
“What’s so damn urgent that I had to pull myself out of a meeting?” he growled.
“I’ll give it to you straight, Senator. I got a call from a private investigator here in D.C. who knows all about—all about the thing that happened in Georgia.”
“What thing?”
“Not on the phone,” Morrison said, “but you know damn well what I’m talking about.”
Gillespie fell silent.
“This is serious, Senator,” Morrison said. “He knows everything.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Brixton, Robert Brixton.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Well, he knows about you. Look, I’m in your corner and have been for a long time. If what he knows becomes public you’ve got one big mess on your hands, personally and politically.”
“Can’t you take care of it?”
“Not without talking to you first,” Morrison said. “I suggest that you break away from your meeting and meet me at the dock. I’ll be on my boat. Be there in an hour.”
Morrison hung up and worked to control his shaking. He’d never spoken to Gillespie in that way, had never spoken to any member of Congress with such forcefulness. But the situation demanded it. The investigator Brixton not only seemed to know the intimate details of the young woman’s abortion, he’d mentioned George Alard and the murder of Dr. Preston King and the destruction of his acreage. It sounded to Morrison that Brixton was not on
ly digging into Senator Gillespie’s ill-advised tryst with a teenage girl, he was also building a case against the lobbyist.
He brushed off queries about why he was leaving the office and drove to the harbor in Snoots Bay. He kept reminding himself to calm down as he loosened ropes tethering the yacht to the dock and checked the fuel level, constantly looking to the parking lot for Gillespie’s arrival. He wondered whether the senator would show. If he didn’t—well, he was not about to take the fall for Gillespie if it came down to that.
He reread the report his assistant had written about Brixton.
“Jesus,” he muttered. Brixton sounded like a foul ball, the proverbial loose cannon. Who was he working for? What political organizations back in Georgia had hired him to dig up dirt on Gillespie—dirt on him?
He was about to give up on Gillespie when the red Mercedes convertible came into view. Gillespie parked, got out, and walked with purpose to the boat.
“I thought you might not show,” Morrison said.
“You took me away from some very important legislative matters,” Gillespie said angrily. “This had better be worth my walkin’ out of that meeting.”
“Your meeting was not as important as this,” Morrison said. “Come on, let’s get out on the water where the media whores can’t snoop on us.”
Morrison didn’t take the craft far out into the river. He found a spot along the shore and anchored.
“You say that this private investigator knows about what happened with that little lady back home?” Gillespie said.
“That’s right.”
“Where’d he get his information?”
“I don’t know, but it has to be from your political enemies in Georgia.”
“And what’s he intend to do with this information?”
Morrison shrugged.
“What’s this bum into, blackmail? Is that what his game is, blackmail?”
That possibility hadn’t crossed Morrison’s mind. “Maybe,” he said. “He didn’t say what he was after other than information.”
“Got to be money. Why else would he get involved?”
“As I said before, Ron, he has to be acting on behalf of your political foes back in Georgia.”
“You got anything to drink on this boat?” Gillespie asked.
Morrison pulled a half-consumed bottle of Kentucky bourbon from a cabinet and poured a glass for Gillespie. “Sorry, no ice,” he said.
Gillespie ignored him and downed the drink. He smacked his lips and looked out over the river.
“I paid that little girl and her folks plenty to keep their mouths shut.”
Morrison didn’t correct him. He’d been the one who’d paid the girl’s family, and picked up the tab for the abortion.
“What’s important,” Morrison said, “is that you decide what to do next. This private investigator might just be blowing smoke, but I don’t think so. He’s trouble, Ron, and he’s not simply going to fade away. Whoever’s paying him has his sights trained on you and your reelection. If this gets around with the voters you’ll—”
“You think I don’t know the ramifications?” Gillespie said. “Not only won’t it go over well with the voters, it’ll play havoc with my marriage.”
Your marriage is a farce anyway was Morrison’s unstated thought.
“What do you know about this Brixton character?” Gillespie asked as Morrison poured more bourbon into his glass.
“I had someone run a background check on him. He’s a real foul ball, troublemaker, ex-cop, been in a couple of high-profile cases though. He rents office space from an attorney, Mackensie Smith.”
“Mac Smith,” Gillespie muttered. “He was a big-time lawyer in town. Last I heard he went to work teaching law at some university.”
“GW. He’s back in private practice again,” Morrison said.
“And this Brixton is a licensed private eye?”
“Yes.”
“Got to be a lowlife.”
“My read exactly,” said Morrison, wondering where the conversation was heading.
“So,” Gillespie said, “what are you goin’ to do about it?”
“I—”
“I am up to my neck at the moment negotiating with my colleagues on the other side of the aisle about the new legislation I’ve proposed that will make your Big Pharma clients millions. Be a damn shame for you and your clients if I get sidetracked by this nonsense over some stupid slut and a money-grubbing private eye.”
His words hung over Morrison like a cloud of gnats.
Gillespie’s threats weren’t finished.
“I had a very pleasant dinner last night with someone you know,” he said.
“Who was that?”
“An interesting fella, Roger Rockland.”
Morrison’s “Oh?” didn’t represent the impact of the name had him.
Rockland was vice president of operations for the largest and most influential member of Morrison’s prime client, the Pharmaceutical Association of America, the man who’d set the stage for Morrison going to Alard Associates to destroy Dr. Preston King’s acreage in Papua New Guinea.
“We had dinner at Bobby Van’s,” Gillespie continued. “Roger says that you and he like to get together for a drink there now and then.”
The senator’s casual use of Rockland’s first name unsettled Morrison. What was he getting at?
“I suppose I shouldn’t be tellin’ tales outta school, but hell, Eric, I like you and always have. Anyway, Roger was tellin’ me that he and his company—it sure is a big pharmaceutical company, isn’t it?—that he and his company might be in the market for some new representation.”
“Representation? You mean—?”
A smug smile crossed the senator’s craggy face. “You know, maybe time for a change of lobbying groups.”
Gillespie waited for what he’d said to register.
“Why would they want to do that?” Morrison said, annoyed at his hesitancy in asking the question.
Gillespie shrugged. “You know how it is, Eric,” he said. “Sometimes people get stale, get lazy, lose their edge, become complacent.”
“Why would Roger be telling you this?” Morrison asked.
“As long as I’ve brought it up, I might as well be candid about it, Eric. Roger talked about what a new lobbying firm for PAA might be willing to do for me.”
Morrison started to ask what Gillespie meant but the senator anticipated the question.
“Don’t get me wrong, Eric. I’ve always been appreciative of everything you and your firm have done for this United States senator, damned appreciative. But some of your competitors would give their eyeteeth to have PAA as a client.”
Morrison tried to put his thoughts in order before responding. While Gillespie was supported handsomely by PAA for voting its way on legislation impacting the pharmaceutical industry, he wasn’t in a position to decide which lobbying firm should represent the trade association.
The senator spoke again, filling the leaden silence.
“You see, Eric, I’m like any politician. I don’t get paid a hell of a lot as a U.S. senator.” He held up his hand. “Not that I’m complaining. It has been my privilege to represent the good people of Georgia, and I wouldn’t trade a day of it. But I also know that a politician’s lifespan is limited, has to come to an end someday.” His laugh was forced. “I’m lookin’ forward to returning to the private sector, and so’s my lovely wife, Rebecca. Frankly, she’s not happy being a United States senator’s wife, would like to see me use my talents and contacts to make a better living, have more of the finer things in life. Can’t blame her, can you?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“The point is that some of the other lobbying firms in town might set me up real nice when I leave the Senate, and I’d be a big fool to turn my back on that, now wouldn’t I?”
“Of course.”
Morrison started to elaborate but the senator’s hand again went up.
“So I’m faced with a
nasty situation,” he said. “It’s nasty because I believe in loyalty. My friends know that about me. Ronald Gillespie is loyal, always loyal.”
“I’ve always appreciated that about you, Ron,” said Morrison.
“And I wouldn’t want to be—well, how shall I put it?—wouldn’t want to be disloyal to Eric Morrison.”
Morrison could only nod.
“I’m also someone who doesn’t like to blow his own horn.”
Another nod, completely dishonest, from the lobbyist.
“But I know that I carry considerable clout where the pharmaceutical industry is concerned. Without me watching out for Big Pharma’s interests in Congress, there’s not a hell of a lot a lobbyist can do for PAA. Am I right?”
“I’ve always known that, Ron.”
This time it was a hearty laugh from Gillespiue. “So, my friend,” he said, slapping Morrison on the back, “as long as you take care of me, those competitors of yours don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of me using my weight to bring in one of your competitors. Do I make myself clear?”
“You certainly do, Ron. I also assure you that when you decide to pack it in as a senator, you’ll always have a job with Morrison Associates.”
“I much appreciate that, Eric, I truly do. But right now we’ve got a nasty situation on our hands with this Brixton character.”
There were many things that Morrison wanted to say at that moment, but more than anything he wanted to get away from the senator from Georgia. He took some comfort in knowing that what he knew about Ronald Gillespie could bring down the senator. But that would be counterproductive, at least at that juncture.
He simply said, “I’ll take care of it.”
Later that night, after a few drinks with his wife and salads for dinner, he went to his home office, pulled out a phone number that he’d sworn never to use again, and dialed it.
“Alard Associates,” the man answered.
CHAPTER
26
Jayla was about to leave her apartment and head for the Watergate when Nate Cousins called. “Catching you at a bad time?” he asked.
Margaret Truman's Deadly Medicine Page 19
