Dear Mackensie. I hope that all is well with you. I write only to inform you that Dr. Preston King’s former assistant, Eugene Waksit, is now actively being sought in the King murder, and the PNG authorities are seeking the help of U.S. authorities in locating him. It is my understanding that he is not considered an active suspect in the murder, but authorities wish to question him further. I have a suspicion that their interest in him goes beyond simply wanting to ask more questions. I thought you would like to know. All my best, Elgin.
Waksit reacted as though the e-mail had physically assaulted him. He hunched over in the chair, his arms wrapped tightly about him, and emitted a low, slow moan. He snapped out of that response and willed himself to think. What to do? Maybe he should present himself to the local authorities. Surely that would work in his favor. A man who was suspected of murder surely wouldn’t do such a thing.
But would they believe him?
A sense of urgency took over. He needed to find a pharmaceutical company that would pay him for King’s research, no questions asked, no queries about King’s daughter, just cash on the barrelhead. There had to be someone who would leap at the opportunity to build upon what King had created in his lab, someone out there with the brains to see its potential and pay handsomely for it.
But what if he was arrested before he could find that person and make the deal? If that were to happen everything he dreamed of would be in jeopardy.
He pondered what to do next. He’d better leave before she or someone else arrived. But before he got up from the desk his eyes went to its long horizontal drawer. He opened it. Along with assorted pens, pencils, and other office items was a manila envelope. He removed it from the drawer, opened its clasp, and pulled from it the 8x10 color crime scene photographs taken of the lifeless body of Dr. Preston King. His eyes widened as he shuffled through the prints, and a sense of revulsion coupled with fascination filled him. His hands shook as he replaced the prints in the envelope, held it beneath his arm, and went to the apartment door, opened it, and peered into the corridor. No one. He left the apartment and went down the stairs to the main floor where he surveyed the lobby through the small window. The doorman and the husband and wife were bringing in the last of the cartons. Waksit waited until the three of them had disappeared into the elevator before opening the door and crossing the lobby to the street where he waved down a taxi. He went to his room at the Embassy Inn, packed his bag including the crime scene photos, and placed a call.
“Nikki? It’s Eugene Waksit.”
“Oh, hello, Eugene.”
“How was your conference?”
“Fine. Lots of speeches. How are you? Making progress with the pharmaceutical companies?”
He forced a laugh. “Couldn’t be better, although they sure do hang on to their money. I’m close to a deal with a big one but the wheels grind slow. Look, I’m calling to ask a favor.”
Waksit couldn’t see Nikki wince, nor did he know that the first thing she’d done upon returning from her conference was to open the window wide in her guest room and air out the odor of Cuba Black cologne.
“What is it, Eugene?”
“I need a place to stay for a few days.”
“I don’t know, I—”
“Just a couple of days, Nikki, until all the red tape with the pharmaceutical company is resolved. I’d really appreciate it. I loved seeing you again and—well, you’d be doing me a big favor and I’ll do whatever I can to be a good houseguest and pay you back, in spades!”
“A few days?” she asked.
“Two, three at the most.”
“All right.”
“Great. You’re a doll. I’ll be there within the hour. A nice dinner out? My treat.”
CHAPTER
27
Despite the cost of the dinner at the Occidental—Brixton’s rib-eye steak was $48—even he appeared to enjoy himself. Flo’s dress shop was doing better than anyone had anticipated, which Brixton both applauded publicly while silently suffering the discomfort of not being the primary breadwinner in their relationship, at least for the moment.
“How’s your steak?” Mac asked.
“How could it be anything but good?” Brixton replied. “At these prices they should have served the whole cow.”
“There are so many good restaurants in Washington,” Annabel said.
“And expensive,” her husband added.
“It wasn’t always that way,” Annabel continued. “People from out of town used to joke about how dismal the restaurant scene was here.”
“Plenty of ethnic restaurants,” said Cousins.
“It’s such an ethnically diverse city,” Annabel said.
“I usually try and avoid Chinese restaurants,” Brixton said. “I like Chinese food but there’s not one of them that knows how to make a decent martini.”
“Martinis aren’t a Chinese drink,” Flo said.
“Still, they ought to know how to make one for their customers,” Brixton countered, sipping his.
While the banter skipped happily from subject to subject, Cousins sensed that the others at the table were scrutinizing him, but that was to be expected. He was viewed as Jayla’s beau, which pleased him; he felt an inner pride at sitting next to the beautiful young woman whom he’d accompanied that evening.
“What was it like playing in the minor leagues?” Flo asked. She was an inveterate baseball fan and an avid booster of D.C.’s Nationals.
“Lots of fun,” Cousins answered. “No money, of course, but exciting. Every young guy on the team had visions of making it to the big show even though the chances of that were pretty low except for a select few. But I enjoyed it. I learned a lot about competing and teamwork.” He turned to Brixton. “You enjoy baseball, Robert?” Jayla had warned him not to call Brixton Bobby.
“Sometimes,” Brixton said. “Flo’s the baseball nut in our house.”
“I like the pace of it,” Flo said. “Football and basketball are too fast.”
“I get bored watching it on TV,” Brixton said.
“Speaking of TV,” Annabel said, “did any of you watch…?”
And so the conversation turned to TV sitcoms, then morphed into a discussion of the gridlock in Congress, and …
“Time to go,” Brixton announced when everyone had been served after-dinner drinks, compliments of the house.
“Busy day tomorrow, Robert?” Cousins asked.
“Yeah, it looks that way.” He didn’t mention that it would start with the shrink, Dr. Fowler. He hadn’t told anyone, even Mac and Annabel, that he was seeing a therapist. Flo was the only person in his life who knew, and he preferred that it remain that way.
Mac and Annabel took the first cab that passed, and Brixton and Flo took the second. Cousins had driven from the Watergate with Jayla, and they got in his car and set out for her apartment.
“Great people,” Cousins commented as he drove. “Thanks for including me.”
“They certainly are,” Jayla concurred. “Flo’s the one who introduced me to the Smiths. Mac has been like a second father to me. He’s been in touch with my attorney in PNG.”
“What’s new on that front?” he asked.
“Mac showed me an e-mail he received today from my attorney. The man who was accused of killing my father’s helper, Walter Tagobe, was found dead in his jail cell. He supposedly committed suicide.”
“That’s interesting.”
“That same man was reportedly in Port Moresby the night my father was stabbed to death. It’s possible that he was the killer.”
Cousins backed into a parking spot.
“You’ve been through a lot,” he said as he turned off the ignition.
“Three people dead,” Jayla said. “Robert Brixton commented on that before you arrived. Oh, and I saw Eugene Waksit here in D.C.”
“You did?” He came around and opened the door for her. “Where?”
“Coming out of that parking garage up the street. I only caught sight of him for a
few seconds. A bus blocked my view. When it moved he was gone.”
“And he didn’t try and contact you?”
“Not yet. Knowing he’s here gives me the creeps.”
They entered her building.
“Hello Ms. King,” the night doorman said. “Did you have a pleasant evening?”
“Yes, very pleasant. Has anyone been here looking for me?”
“Not since I came on my shift. Can’t account for earlier.”
“Thanks. Have a good night.”
She and Cousins got on the elevator and rode to her floor. He’d briefly seen her apartment when he’d picked her up for a previous dinner. Now, as she turned on the lights, he had a better sense of the space. What immediately struck him was how neat everything was. It put his housekeeping to shame.
She went to her answering machine and checked for messages. There were a few, nothing important. But as she clicked off the machine, she raised her head. Cousins came up beside her and put his arm around her.
She audibly sniffed the air.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“That odor,” she said.
“What odor?”
“You don’t smell it?”
He, too, inhaled. “Sweet-smelling,” he said.
“It’s Eugene.”
Cousins glanced around the apartment.
“He’s been here,” Jayla said. “It’s that cheap cologne he always wears.”
“You’re sure?”
“Unless someone else wears that particular cologne. He’s been here, Nate, in my apartment.”
“How could he have gotten up here without the doorman knowing?”
“I don’t know. Robert Brixton offered to try and find him.”
“Find Waksit?
“Yes. Why would he come without me here? How did he get in?”
Cousins plopped in a chair by the desk. “Maybe he’s looking for whatever of your father’s research is in your possession.”
“The material dad left me is in my safe deposit box.”
“Good thing.”
Jayla looked at her desk. The computer mouse was not where she usually left it. “It’s been moved,” she whispered. “He must have used it.”
“Your computer? How could he? Does he have your password?”
“I don’t have a password at home. I’m the only one who uses this computer.”
“You’d better add a password to your computer, but changing your lock is at the top of your priority list.”
She turned on the computer and went through the requisite prompts until reaching her e-mail site. A few clicks of the mouse brought her to the most recent message.
Dear Mackensie. I hope that all is well with you. I write only to inform you that Dr. Preston King’s former assistant, Eugene Waksit, is now actively being sought in the King murder, and the PNG authorities are seeking the help of U.S. authorities in locating him. It is my understanding that he is not considered an active suspect in the murder, but authorities wish to question him further. I have a suspicion that their interest in him goes beyond simply wanting to ask more questions. I thought you would like to know. All my best, Elgin.
Cousins read the message over her shoulder.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, absently opening desk drawers in search of something else amiss. “The pictures!” she said.
“What pictures?”
“Of the crime scene in my father’s lab. Pictures of him! They’re gone.”
She got up from the computer and walked around the living room in search of other evidence of her space having been violated.
“Any other signs of him?” Cousins asked as he joined her.
Jayla shook her head. “I don’t think so. Should I call the police?”
“Based upon smelling a cologne and a few missing photos? They won’t do anything. If he’s here in D.C. he has to be staying in a hotel. You say that Robert offered to find him for you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he’d be the right one to do that. He’s a trained investigator.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Jayla.
Cousins followed her to the kitchen where she stood motionless, as though not remembering why she’d gone there.
“How about some coffee?” Cousins suggested.
“All right.”
She turned on the Keurig coffeemaker, leaned against the counter, and began to cry. Cousins put his arms around her and pulled her close.
“I can’t believe that all this is happening,” she said into his chest.
“It’ll get resolved soon, Jayla. I know it’s easy to say but you just have to be strong.”
“I thought I was,” she said, disengaging from his embrace. “I just want to go to bed and pull the covers over my head.”
“Then why don’t you?”
He turned off the coffeemaker and urged her in the direction of the bedroom. They stood in the dark at the foot of the bed, saying nothing, Jayla’s emotional fatigue almost palpable. She sat on the edge of the bed, then stretched out and let out a sigh. Cousins joined her, both on their backs, his hand reaching for hers. He was conflicted. He’d wanted to be in bed with her since the first moment they’d met, and had hoped when leaving the Smiths that it would happen that night.
It had.
But they were both fully clothed. He considered initiating lovemaking but stifled the urge. This was not the time to take their relationship to the sexual level.
There was something strangely satisfying lying there with her, hearing her soft breathing and smelling the remnants of her subtle perfume. He felt very much the protector, and liked the feeling.
“Are you awake?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, her voice indicating it was only partially true.
“You have to do something about Waksit,” he said.
“I know. Maybe I should take Robert up on his offer to find him.”
“But what will you do if he does?”
“I don’t know. Talk to him. Find out why he’s here. Ask him—”
“Ask him whether he murdered your father?”
He felt the nod of her head.
“Jayla, you have to do something with your father’s research before he does.”
She turned on her side and faced him. “What do you suggest?”
“I was thinking that maybe you should give it to me. I know a lot of people in the pharmaceutical industry and could at least narrow down possibilities. You have enough on your plate and—”
“I thought I’d take it out of the safe deposit box and give it to Mac Smith.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because—because I trust him. He’s been a good friend and confidant.”
Cousins fell silent.
“Do you agree?” she asked.
“Well,” he said, “he’s obviously a nice man and a good lawyer, but he really doesn’t know anything about pharmaceuticals. I’m not a scientist but I do have a sense of what’s happening in the industry. All I’m suggesting is that I might be able to point you in the right direction.”
She was more awake now. “I’m so confused,” she said.
“And I don’t blame you.” He paused. “You aren’t concerned, are you, that I’d share your father’s research with anybody at Renewal?”
“No, of course not.”
“How about this?” he said. “I’ll take a look at it and come up with some suggestions. Then I’ll deliver it personally to Mac for safekeeping.”
She turned on her back again and said dreamily, “I’m so tired.”
“Then you should rest.”
He got up, straightened his clothing, leaned over, and kissed her forehead. “I’ll leave,” he said. “You get dressed for bed and have a good night’s sleep. I’ll swing by at eight thirty in the morning and we can go to the bank, be there when it opens, and I’ll take the research. Trust me, Jayla. I only want to help you fulf
ill your father’s goal of creating a better pain med. He deserves whatever we can do to make that happen.”
“All right,” she said. “Thank you, Nate.”
“Come double lock your door behind me.”
“Of course.”
“I love you, Jayla,” he said, and left.
CHAPTER
28
Robert Brixton sat in the tan leather armchair across from Dr. Fowler.
“So, Robert, how are things going with you?”
Brixton’s shoulders went up and down. “Could be better,” he said.
“Oh? A problem?”
“Business is slow. I’ve talked to a couple of potential clients but nothing’s come out of it, at least not yet. In the meantime I’m…”
Fowler’s raised eyebrows encouraged Brixton to elaborate.
“My friend, Mac Smith—he’s the lawyer I’ve told you about—he’s involved with a young woman, a medical researcher, whose father was murdered. I’ve sort of gotten involved.” Brixton snorted. “Not that I’m making any money from it but—well, I’ve become obsessed with it.”
“Do you often become obsessed with things, Robert?” Fowler asked.
“Sometimes, when it’s important to me.”
“And how is Flo?” Fowler asked.
“She’s terrific. I brought her flowers and—”
“What was the occasion?”
“No occasion. I just felt like doing it. I bought some for my secretary, too, Mrs. Warden.”
“Just because you wanted to.”
“Yeah. That seem strange to you?”
Fowler laughed and held up his hand. “No, no, to the contrary, Robert. I’m sure that they both appreciated the gesture.”
“They seemed to. How much longer you figure I should see you like this?”
“That’s entirely up to you. If you think that nothing is being accomplished by coming here, you’ll stop coming.”
Brixton was impressed with the shrink’s attitude. He’d expected him to come up with reasons to keep the sessions going and the fees coming in.
“Have you had any success with coming to grips with the death of your daughter?” Fowler asked.
Margaret Truman's Deadly Medicine Page 21
