Margaret Truman's Deadly Medicine

by Margaret Truman

  “Let me know if you learn anything new from Ms. Silver,” the journalist said as he walked Brixton to the door.

  “You’ll be the first to know,” Brixton said. But then he added, “Unless you want to ante up another fee for me, I’ll be taking on some new clients who pay my going rate.”

  “I wish I had more to give you,” Sayers said.

  “It’s okay, Will. Seeing a hypocrite like Gillespie exposed for what he really is will make it all worthwhile. Besides, I got to have dinner with a former Hollywood star. See ya.”

  * * *

  At noon, Eric Morrison and two associates left their offices on K Street for a lunch date with an executive of a major American medical equipment manufacturer whose firm was the backbone of the association representing that industry. The executive, Karl Simone, was looking to change lobbying agencies; Morrison Associates had come highly recommended. Ordinarily, Morrison would have been at the top of his conversational game when wooing a potential new client. But on this day every synapse in his body was close to firing off, and he dreaded having to make happy talk for two hours.

  They met at Del Campo on I Street, N.W., which had become one of D.C.’s in restaurants and whose prices reflected that status. The possible client had suggested it to Morrison when he called and Morrison didn’t debate it. If a steak for a king’s ransom made him happy, so be it. It was deductible as a business expense—Uncle Sam would eventually pay for it—and a new client would generate some welcome additional monthly cash in the coffers, which lately had been diminished, partially due to the money paid to George Alard to torch Dr. King’s land. Morrison had personally pocketed the bonus paid by the pharmaceutical company’s VP rather than run it through the agency. “I’m entitled for sticking my neck out,” was his self-justification, something that he’d become especially good at in recent days.

  His associates were aware that their boss was in a foul mood, and took the lead at lunch, presenting the usual dog-and-pony show of success stories for clients, letters of praise from elected officials thanking them for helping structure sensible and useful legislation in their industries, and copies of personal notes from House members and senators, which, the prospective client was informed, indicated the close personal ties the lobbying agency had forged with movers and shakers on the Hill.

  Morrison chimed in occasionally, extolling his friendships with elected men and women who could do the client’s association the most good. He casually dropped into the conversation family events that he and his wife had attended—weddings, birthday parties, fishing expeditions, and private plane jaunts to exotic vacation spots—a well-rehearsed pitch that appeared to impress the young man seated at the head of the table.

  But while Morrison managed to join the conversation, his mind was far from where they sat at Del Campo.

  Paula Silver’s threatening phone call reverberated in his head, and her injection of a PI named Robert Brixton into yet another project with which Morrison had been involved was, at best, unnerving, if not downright scary.

  His phone call to George Alard to set up another meeting had been impetuous, almost an act of desperation. Now, an hour from his seeing him, he seriously questioned the wisdom of getting together.

  What would he ask Alard to do, try and convince this Brixton character to back off? Do the same with Paula Silver? To what extent would Alard go to accomplish that? Have one of his mercenaries threaten them?

  Threaten them?

  With what? Physical harm?

  No, that was out of the question. He’d made it clear when arranging for the destruction of Dr. King’s acreage that there was to be no rough stuff, no bloodshed. That it had ended up with the doctor stabbed to death was unfortunate, but he, Eric Morrison, had had nothing to do with that.

  As he listened to his colleagues wax poetic to the manufacturer’s VP about what Morrison Associates could do for him, Morrison came up with a revelation. This was all about money. That had to be it. Arranging for Dr. King’s acreage to be destroyed didn’t involve money, at least not the payment of it to persuade the doctor to drop his research.

  But Paula Silver had made it plain during her call that she wanted money. That had to be Brixton’s motivation, too. They were both lowlifes, greedy hustlers who’d do anything for a buck. Gillespie had said the same thing. The question was, how much would it take to buy them off?

  Paula would probably be content with a small amount, enough to move away from D.C. and establish her life in another city—$10,000? $20,000? Everything about her was cheap, he thought while nursing his second drink during the lunch.

  But what about Brixton?

  The background check that Morrison had arranged for, as cursory as it was, painted a picture of the private investigator as being unstable, maybe even a psychopath. He’d been in plenty of trouble, which meant to Morrison that he was in all likelihood perpetually broke, maybe a gambler. How much would it take to buy him off? More than Paula, but how much more?

  Whatever the amount it would be within Morrison’s ability to pay. He knew that. The agency maintained an off-the-books slush fund with money collected from clients that had been established for just such purposes. Too, Senator Ronald Gillespie owed him big-time. The senator was loaded with money; surely he wouldn’t hesitate to spend some of it to buy off enemies like Paula and Brixton.

  “Do you agree, Eric?” one of his colleagues asked.

  “What?” Morrison said, snapping back to reality. “Oh sure, right, couldn’t agree more. You’re spot-on.”

  The other associate said, “Eric has an especially close relationship with Senator Gillespie from Georgia. Isn’t that right, Eric?”

  “Oh, yes, Ron Gillespie and I go back a long way. He’s a real champion of the PAA, goes to the mat for us every day. He’ll do the same for you, Karl, and your group, provided we’re on board to fight for you.”

  “It’s all in the close personal relationships we’ve developed,” an associate told Simone. “It takes time and money to forge those relationships and…”

  And so it went for the duration of the lunch. Simone seemed duly impressed, and after he’d left the table the consensus was that they’d “hit a home run,” “hit it out the park,” and other sports metaphors they were fond of using.

  “I think we’ve got ourselves a new client,” an associate said. When Morrison didn’t respond he said, “You agree, Eric?”

  “Yeah, definitely a home run. Look, I have to run to another appointment. You guys handle the bill, okay? I’ll see you back at the office.”

  His two colleagues watched their agency’s namesake walk from the table and disappear into a crowd at the front of the restaurant.

  “What’s with him lately?” one asked.

  “Maybe his wife’s giving him a hard time,” offered the other.

  “Or a girlfriend.”

  “He doesn’t shack up with that movie actress anymore, does he?”

  “No, that’s over. He had me run a background check on a private investigator named Brixton.”

  “Why?”

  The answer was a shrug.

  “Let’s get back. We promised Simone a written proposal. Time to get to work.”

  CHAPTER

  31

  Jayla had awoken at three that morning. Her first thought was that she was fully dressed and had to fight through the mental haze of a sudden awakening to remember why. A few seconds later her time spent with Nate Cousins came into focus and she smiled. Leaving her to fall asleep the way he had, without pressing for anything beyond being supportive and caring, said something good and positive about him.

  But then the memory of Eugene Waksit’s heavy cologne hit her hard.

  She sat up and looked around the bedroom, whose only light came from streetlamps outside the window. A moment of panic set in. She got out of bed and cautiously entered the living room, standing motionless in the silence, her eyes taking in every corner. He’d been there, had violated her space, her life. Anger r
eplaced anxiety.

  She checked that the door was securely locked. It was. But the locked door hadn’t prevented Waksit from entering and using her computer. She considered wedging a chair up against the door but dismissed that idea.

  The lock would have to be changed.

  Thoughts came and went as she continued to survey the apartment.

  She wondered why Cousins hadn’t stayed the night with her, knowing that Waksit had been there. But there had been no reason for him to stay to protect her. Protect her from what? Waksit was gone.

  She started to get undressed but stopped after removing her teal V-neck sweater. She patrolled the apartment again, looking into closets and behind chairs and the couch. “Stop it!” she said aloud. “Get a grip on yourself!”

  She got out of her street clothes, wrapped herself in a powder-blue terrycloth bathrobe, turned on the living room TV, and stared blankly at the screen on which a paid commercial program played, a toothy young man selling a device that promised to peel vegetables like vegetables had never been peeled before. As his voice droned on, every other sound that came from outside—a car’s horn or the screech of tires—or from within the building caused her to stiffen.

  She eventually dozed off sitting up. When she awoke the commercial show had been replaced by a movie featuring zombies. She turned off the set, and after another check of the door’s lock she shed the robe in the bathroom and stood under a hot shower, unable to shake the image of the woman in the shower being slashed to death in the film Psycho. Dressed, she passed the time until Cousins arrived, nibbling halfheartedly on a bagel and sipping tea that quickly became cold.

  Cousins arrived at eight thirty and they drove to the bank where she retrieved her father’s research material and packets of seeds from the safe deposit box. After rejoining him in the car they drove to Renewal Pharmaceuticals to drop her off for work.

  “I’ll take a look at this as soon as I get to the office,” he told her as he pulled up in front of the pharmaceutical company’s building.

  Her creased face spoke volumes.

  “Hey,” he said, taking her hand in his, “get that frown off your pretty face.”

  She forced a smile. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t get much sleep.”

  She placed her hand on the thick envelope resting on the console between them. “This means so much,” she said. “Even if nothing ever comes of it it’s what my father left to me.”

  “I understand how important it is to you, Jayla, but you have nothing to worry about. I’ll see if I can come up with an idea about what to do with it. As I said, once I’ve reviewed it I’ll get it to Mr. Smith.”

  “I’d rather you give it back to me,” Jayla said.

  “Sure, if it makes you feel better. What are you going to do about Waksit?”

  “I’d like to do nothing and just see him disappear.”

  “You can’t do nothing, Jayla. He broke into your apartment and—”

  “He had a key.”

  “Get the lock changed.”

  “I intend to today.”

  “What about that private detective, Brixton? He might be able to help.”

  “I’ll call Mac Smith and see what he suggests.”

  “Good idea,” he said.

  She drew a deep breath and kissed his cheek. “I’d better get inside. You’ll call me after you’ve looked at it?”

  “Count on it.”

  She got out of the car and walked to the front entrance, turning halfway there and waving at Cousins, who’d just begun to pull away. He returned the gesture and disappeared into traffic.

  Until that moment she’d felt comfortable turning over her father’s research to him. But as he drove away a sinking feeling settled in on her. She’d shared the research with no one, and now wondered if she’d become too trusting of him. She was second-guessing her decision as she entered the building, swiped her employee card in the slot, and walked through the door in the direction of the lab to which she was assigned.

  Once settled in her cubicle she looked up locksmiths and arranged to meet a technician at her apartment at three that afternoon. After informing the lab’s supervisor that she would have to leave at two on personal business she called Mac and explained what had transpired the previous evening.

  “No sign of forced entry?” he said.

  “No. Eugene must have a key he took from my father.”

  “I don’t blame you for being concerned,” Smith said.

  “I’m having the lock changed at three,” she said. “I was wondering, Mac, whether Mr. Brixton might be able to find where Eugene is in Washington.”

  “It’s probably a long shot, but I’ll ask him. Where can I reach you?”

  She gave him the number at Renewal and he promised to get back to her as soon as he’d made contact with Brixton.

  After speaking with Jayla, Smith tried Brixton’s cell phone.

  “Robert, it’s Mac Smith. I received a call a few minutes ago from Jayla. That fellow, Waksit, who worked for her father, has evidently broken into her apartment. Jayla wonders if you would try and locate Waksit for her.”

  “There’s got to be a thousand hotels in D.C., Mac.”

  “I told her that it would be a long shot.”

  “Try ‘impossible.’”

  “Just thought I’d ask. I’d like to help her. She’s liable to be in danger.”

  “Has she mentioned anybody here in D.C. who Waksit might have gotten in touch with, you know, somebody from back home?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Does that place they’re from have an embassy here?”

  “Papua New Guinea? I assume so, at least a consulate or trade mission. Want me to check?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  Smith made the return call twenty minutes later and caught Brixton as he munched on a donut and sipped coffee at a Dunkin’ Donuts.

  “The Papua New Guinea embassy is on Massachusetts Avenue,” Smith said. “Here’s the phone numbers.”

  Brixton noted them on a napkin.

  “Jayla told me that she’s meeting a locksmith at her apartment at three this afternoon.”

  “I’ll swing by,” Brixton said.

  “I’m sure she’d appreciate that. Oh, by the way, I’ve decided to take on that client we talked about. I hope you can clear your schedule to work on the case with me.”

  “‘Clear my schedule’? What schedule? I’m yours, Mac.”

  When Brixton reached Jayla’s apartment the locksmith was there. While the technician plied his trade at the door, Brixton enjoyed a cup of tea with Jayla in her kitchen. He told her that Smith had mentioned Waksit having entered her apartment, and they discussed the potential ramifications.

  “Mac wants me to try and find Waksit,” Brixton told her.

  “I’d almost rather not know where he is,” she said.

  “That’s up to you.”

  “Do you think you can find him?”

  “Probably not but I’m willing to give it a try.”

  Brixton remained at the apartment after the locksmith had left. He enjoyed being with Jayla, appreciated her beauty, warmth, and intelligence. When it was time to leave he promised to do what he could to locate Waksit.

  “Is there someone in D.C. he might have contacted?” he asked.

  “There was a girl he dated in Australia. After college she went to work in New York City, but Eugene once said that he’d heard from her and that she’d moved to Washington to work at—ah, at the embassy, I think. Dorence was her name. Her first name was something like Mickey or Vickie.”

  “Did you ever meet her?”

  “No.”

  “How about we call the embassy and see if she’s there?”

  “You want to call the embassy?” she said.

  “Might be better if you did, you know, say you’re from—what is it, PNG?—and just say you’re looking to catch up with an old friend named Mickey Dorence.”

  “And what if she’s there
and comes on the line?”

  “You can hang up, or tell her that you’re looking for Waksit. If he’s been in touch with her she might acknowledge it.”

  She grimaced.

  “Want me to make the call?”

  “Would you?”

  “Sure.”

  He removed the napkin on which he’d written the embassy phone number and dialed it from the kitchen extension.

  “The Embassy of Papua New Guinea,” a woman answered.

  “Would you please connect me with Ms. Mickey Dorence.”

  “I’m sorry but we have no one here by that name. There is a Ms. Dorence but—”

  “And?”

  “Her name is Nikki. She works in our visa office.”

  “Right, sorry, I made a mistake on her first name,” Brixton said. “Nikki. That’s right. Please connect me with her.”

  A man came on the line.

  “I’m calling for Nikki Dorence,” Brixton said.

  “Sorry, but Ms. Dorence is away for the day.”

  “Oh, my bad luck. Thanks.”

  “I can leave her a message and—”

  Brixton clicked off the phone.

  “She’s not there, but you were right. She does work at the embassy. Let’s find her home phone and—”

  “Do we have to do it now?”

  “No, of course not. I’ll do it later. You told Mac that Waksit had accessed your e-mail. Anything interesting on it?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  She brought up the copy of the message that her PNG attorney had sent to Mac Smith. After reading it Brixton said, “If Waksit saw this when he was in your apartment it must have spooked him and sent him into hiding—either that or caused him to contact the authorities and make himself available to them for questioning. Of course, if he had anything to do with your father’s murder it’s unlikely that he’d do that, at least voluntarily.”

  “He also took a group of crime scene photos taken at my father’s lab,” Jayla said. “They were in this drawer.” She tried to not cry. “What do you suggest I do?” she asked.

  “You have any pictures of Waksit?”