Margaret Truman's Deadly Medicine

by Margaret Truman

  “You’ll be representing Brixton?” Borgeldt asked.

  “I suppose so, although he’s not being charged with anything, at least not at this point.”

  “He is the pivotal witness to what went down tonight,” Borgeldt said. “I’ll be speaking with Morrison’s widow tomorrow to see whether she has any clue as to why her husband was meeting with Brixton and carrying twenty thousand dollars in cash.”

  “I’d be interested in what you come up with,” Smith said. “Actually, I’d like to be there.”

  Borgeldt looked at him quizzically. “Because you’re representing Brixton?”

  “That’s as good a reason as any. Look, Zeke, the last thing I want to do is get in your hair. You’ve got a major investigation to conduct, and far be it from me to get in the way. But there might be more to this than simply what happened tonight.”

  “You’ll inform me of these other things?”

  “Count on it,” said Smith.

  They were interrupted by the young emergency room physician, who announced that Brixton was about to be taken to his room for overnight observation. “He’ll be kept awake for a period of time to make sure that he has full brain function,” the doctor said.

  Flo might have made a sarcastic comment were it not a serious situation.

  Smith stayed with Brixton and Flo until he was settled in his hospital bed.

  “Take you home?” Smith asked her.

  “Thanks, Mac, but I’m going to stay.”

  She walked with him into the hallway where a uniformed police officer sat in a chair just outside the room. Smith informed her that Brixton would not be charged with Morrison’s murder but would have to maintain a low profile. “Keep him on a short leash,” he advised.

  She managed a laugh. “If I can find one strong enough,” she said as she kissed Smith on the cheek and watched him walk from the area.

  * * *

  Jayla King and Will Sayers learned of Brixton’s hospitalization and involvement in the shooting almost simultaneously. Both had turned on their TV sets at the about the same time the following morning and saw the “Breaking News” report that one of D.C.’s leading lobbyists, Eric Morrison, had been shot to death in Gravelly Point. The anchor went on to say: “The details of the shooting are murky at this early stage but sources tell us that Morrison was shot twice in the chest by a weapon belonging to Washington private investigator Robert Brixton. We’re told that Brixton had arranged to meet Morrison at Gravelly Point for reasons yet unknown. These same sources also tell us that Brixton has claimed that he was offered a twenty-thousand-dollar bribe by Morrison to drop an investigation, was knocked unconscious by an unidentified person or persons, and his weapon was taken from him and used in the killing. Brixton, you may recall, had been involved in another high-profile case, the shooting of former senator Walter Skaggs’s son Paul following a terrorist bombing in an outdoor café that took the life of Brixton’s daughter. He was exonerated in that shooting. Mr. Brixton was admitted to George Washington University Hospital and remains there under observation. More on this breaking story as details come in.”

  Sayers’s first call was to Brixton’s apartment where he was greeted by Brixton’s voice on the answering machine. He tried Flo’s shop and was again connected with a machine. Frustrated, he tried Mackensie Smith’s number and was pleased to hear a live human voice. “Will Sayers here,” he said. “Hope I’m not waking you.”

  “I’ve been up for hours,” Smith said. “You’ve heard, of course.”

  “Hard to miss it. How’s Robert?”

  “He’s all right. I just got off the phone with a doctor at the hospital. They’re releasing him in a few hours.”

  “Did the TV talking heads get it right?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “He was meeting Morrison for me,” Sayers said.

  “So he said.”

  “I have to talk to him.”

  “I imagine he’ll be up for it later today.”

  “I’ll call him. But before I get off, did Robert mention Alard Associates?”

  “Not last night as I recall, but I remember the conversation about them at our apartment. Why?”

  Nothing, Mac, just free-associating. Hope to see you soon.”

  Mac had no sooner hung up when Jayla King’s call sounded.

  “I just heard about Mr. Brixton,” she said.

  “Quite a story,” Smith said.

  “Is he all right? Is he in trouble?”

  “He got a pretty good blow to the head, and some gravel in his cheek from his fall. Other than that—and of course his involvement in the shooting—he’ll be fine.”

  “He didn’t—he didn’t shoot that man, did he?”

  “No. Whoever attacked Robert took his weapon and used it to kill him.”

  “I recognize the name of the man who was shot. Morrison. Mr. Brixton talked about him regarding my father’s murder.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “The last time I spoke with him was here at the apartment when I was having the lock changed. He said that he was going to see if he could find Eugene Waksit for me.” She told Mac about finding the name of one of Waksit’s former girlfriends who now worked at the PNG embassy. I think he intends to contact her.

  “I don’t know anything about that, Jayla, but I’ll ask him when I see him, which I hope will be later today. He’s being released from the hospital and will recuperate at home. I’ll tell him you called and asked after him.”

  “Please do.”

  “How about you, Jayla? Are things all right? No more unannounced visits from Mr. Waksit?”

  “No, thank goodness. Is there anything I can do for Robert and Flo? I almost consider them family along with you and Annabel.”

  “The feeling is mutual, Jayla. No, I’m sure that they have everything they need. Please stay in touch.”

  Smith had the TV on in the background during their conversation. The Morrison shooting was the lead story on every cable news channel, and Smith tired of the constant repeat of the same information, all wrapped in breathless “Breaking News.” He turned off the set as Annabel came into the room.

  “Robert certainly has a knack for being at the center of controversy,” she said.

  Her husband couldn’t help but agree. “At least this time he didn’t lose a member of his family. Will Sayers called. So did Jayla King. They saw it on TV. Robert was meeting with Morrison for a story that Sayers is doing.”

  “I imagine Zeke and his people have their hands full trying to find who shot Morrison with Robert’s gun.”

  “He’s interviewing Morrison’s widow at noon. I’m going with him. He didn’t balk when I asked to be there. After all, I am representing Robert, who’s considered a material witness.”

  Smith sat back and rubbed his eyes.

  “You’re thinking?” Annabel said.

  “There’s more to this than what happened last night, Annie, and I shared that with Zeke. In a way, Zeke wants to question me as much as he does Morrison’s widow. When I mentioned Alard Associates he reacted, didn’t say anything, but it rang a bell with him.”

  “Does Robert know you’re going with Zeke?”

  “No. I’ll tell him when I go to see him this afternoon after he gets home from the hospital. Maybe I’ll have information that he’ll find useful. On a more pragmatic note I want to see him back in action as soon as possible. My new client will keep him busy once he starts working for him.” Smith’s laugh was sardonic. “I know one thing, Annie. With Robert ‘Don’t call me Bobby’ Brixton around we can always count on some excitement in our lives.”

  CHAPTER

  34

  As Smith and Superintendent Borgeldt prepared to interview Peggy Sue Morrison, Jayla King arrived at Renewal Pharmaceuticals for another day of lab work. She’d called Nate Cousins before leaving her apartment but didn’t reach him. She later tried his office and was told that he was away at meetings and wouldn’t return until that afternoon.


  She was eager to hear his reaction to the materials that her father had left her. She hadn’t heard from him since turning over the items and wondered why. Since they’d started seeing each other socially he’d been quick to keep in touch; the sudden lack of contact concerned her, even though she knew that was unreasonable. He had other things on his mind besides calling her. He was busy. His PR agency was growing. He was chasing new business. He’d call soon.

  The call she’d been waiting for came as she was about to head for lunch in the company cafeteria. Most of the gossip that morning at Renewal revolved around Eric Morrison’s murder. Although Jayla knew more about it than the others, thanks to Mac Smith, she didn’t add her knowledge to the conversations.

  “Hi,” Cousins said.

  “Hi. How are you?”

  “I’m okay, swamped with work but okay. I saw on the news that the guy I met at the Smiths’ apartment was involved in the shooting of Eric Morrison.”

  “He didn’t shoot anybody, Nate. Someone hit him and—”

  “Yeah, I know. He claims that somebody knocked him out and used his gun to kill Morrison. The whole pharmaceutical industry is in shock. Morrison was the top lobbyist for Big Pharma. Did you ever meet him?”

  “No.”

  “He was a powerhouse in Congress, had the ear of every House member and senator whose vote impacts the industry.”

  She recalled Brixton’s cynical view of Morrison and lobbyists in general but thought better of bringing it up.

  “Have you had a chance to go over my father’s research?” she asked.

  He hesitated.

  “Nate?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I was distracted by something on my computer. I did peruse it but need to spend more time with it. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, not at all. I just feel—I feel funny not having it.”

  “I can understand that. I’ll carve out time later today to take a better look. Up for dinner tonight?”

  “Yes, that would be fine, only I’ve been going out a lot lately. How about ordering something in at my apartment?”

  “Sure. Whatever you say.”

  “Will you have had a chance to go over it again before we get together?”

  “No promises, but I’ll try. I’ve got a series of meetings today, including one with our boss, Walt Milkin.”

  “Stop by the lab?”

  “If I can. Have to run. If not, see you at seven.”

  * * *

  The TV newscasts also informed Eugene Waksit that Eric Morrison had been shot to death.

  The news stunned him. While Morrison had blown him off, Waksit hung on to the belief that he could eventually convince the noted lobbyist to work with him.

  Nikki Dorence also watched the TV reports as she prepared to leave for work at the embassy. As the reports played out on the screen, Waksit told her of his connection to the slain lobbyist, which he’d done before—too many times.

  “I can’t believe this,” Waksit said. “We were going to be partners. Murdered? Shot by this private eye? What a tragedy.”

  Nikki’s thought was that the real tragedy for Waksit was that he had lost a potential business partner, not that a man had been brutally murdered. But her less than sanguine view of her houseguest wasn’t based on his reaction to a lobbyist’s murder. She’d decided that he had to leave—and soon. Having another person sleeping in her apartment was annoying enough. She liked her privacy. But the longer he was there the more the traits that had turned her off during the period when they’d dated back in Australia were now magnified. She wasn’t trained in psychology but had decided that he had a passive-aggressive personality, cloyingly sweet one moment, grumpy and indifferent the next. And there was his ego, outsized and fed by his grandiose talk of making millions from the medical research he’d been given by Dr. Preston King. Added to those negative personality traits was her conclusion that he was an inveterate liar, to say nothing of being pathologically cheap. She’d never been particularly fond of Eugene Waksit, but her feelings had now progressed to active dislike.

  “What will you do now that your future partner is dead?” she asked before leaving for work.

  “I have to figure that out. Maybe one of his partners will want to hook up with me.”

  “Do you know his partners?” she asked, not particularly successful in keeping sarcasm from her voice.

  “Not personally, but I’ll give them a call. They’ll want to hear from me. I’m sure that Eric filled them in on everything. I’ll wait a few days out of respect for him. We were close.”

  “Eugene, I hate to bring this up at the same time that you’ve lost your good friend and future partner, but when will you be leaving?”

  “Soon. Soon.”

  There were many angry things she was on the verge of saying. Instead, she grabbed her purse from a chair, left the apartment, and slammed the door behind her.

  Waksit, too, was angry. He seethed as he went to the window and watched her leave the building and wave down a taxi. “Stuck-up bitch!” he muttered.

  He poured a second cup of coffee in the kitchen and carried it into Nikki’s bedroom where he went through her dresser drawers. He did the same with her night table and searched the closet shelves for anything of value. Empty-handed, he returned to the living room and sprawled in a chair, his mind racing as he attempted to sort out his options.

  He could book another hotel room, preferably one outside the city. He had money and a credit card, although he hated to use it.

  It occurred to him that what he’d seen on Jayla’s computer about authorities back in PNG wanting to question him precluded returning there, or to Australia. Maybe his best move was to leave the United States and travel to a country where no one would think to look for him, Thailand, an Arab nation, maybe even Korea. But that meant giving up on turning Dr. King’s research findings into gold. He wasn’t ready to do that yet. There had to be a way. Morrison’s death complicated things, of course, but maybe he’d been foolish putting all his hopes in the shortsighted lobbyist.

  Maybe Jayla was the way to go. Her father’s work was worthless to her without his notes, and he had them. Surely she would want to see her father’s work carried on by a large, reputable pharmaceutical company, and he, Eugene Waksit, could make that happen.

  But could he simply call her out of the blue? How would she respond? Why did she dislike him so? He’d always been courteous with her, and he felt that her father viewed him as the son he’d never had. Did she consider him a suspect in her father’s murder, or a so-called person of interest? How could she? Such a dreadful thought would never cross her mind; she knew him better than that. He had her phone number at Renewal Pharmaceuticals and at home. Maybe she’d enjoy going out for lunch or dinner. He’d suggest it when he called—if he called. He had to plan what he would say and how he would say it, the way he’d written a script of sorts before his cold call to Morrison.

  The images on the TV screen changed as fast as his thoughts. He’d mentioned Morrison’s partners to Nikki, assuming that Morrison had partners. Maybe that was the direction to take, call his agency and ask to speak with the one in charge now that Morrison was dead.

  Who was the attorney, Mackensie Smith, who was mentioned on the e-mail he’d read on Jayla’s computer? Why was the PNG attorney Elgin Taylor, King’s buddy, writing to this Smith character about the authorities wanting to speak again with him concerning King’s murder? The question resurrected Waksit’s concern that they were looking for him. Staying with Nikki Dorence was ideal; who would think to look for him here? But she wanted him gone. “Bitch!”

  He’d have to find another place to stay. Would Jayla let him crash at her apartment for a few days? He knew nothing about her living arrangements. Maybe she lived with a boyfriend. Had she married? He saw no evidence of either.

  He poured what was left of a bottle of vodka into his empty coffee cup and downed it. It burned his throat and caused him to gag. He didn’t want to leave Nikki’s apartm
ent but knew he’d have to. Charming her into allowing him to stay longer had its limits. He decided against staying in Washington itself, in the District, and booked a room at a Days Inn in Silver Spring, Maryland. He’d become convinced that people were watching him, judging him, waiters and shopkeepers, cops walking the beat and everyday passersby.

  Check-in was at three. It was now a little after nine. He decided to linger until after lunch. Nikki had bought an assortment of cold cuts and a loaf of artisan bread. No sense wasting a free lunch.

  * * *

  Mac Smith met up with Detective Zeke Borgeldt at police headquarters on Indiana Avenue and rode with him in the backseat of an unmarked squad car driven by a uniformed officer to Eric Morrison’s house in Chevy Chase. Borgeldt had phoned Peggy Sue Morrison and arranged for a convenient time to interview her.

  “Tell me more about Morrison arranging for an abortion on behalf of Senator Gillespie,” Borgeldt said as they crossed the line separating the District from Maryland.

  “You’ve met Will Sayers, the D.C. editor for the Savannah News,” Smith said.

  “At your place.”

  “Right. Sayers is chasing down the Gillespie story and hired Robert to help dig up facts about it. There’s a former movie actress named Paula Silver who also knows some of the details. She was Morrison’s mistress for a time.”

  “Jesus,” Borgeldt said, “this sounds like some cheap novel.”

  “It does have that ring to it, doesn’t it?” Smith said through a laugh.

  “So Brixton tells Morrison that he’s on that story and arranges to meet him to gather more information.”

  “Right you are,” said Smith. “You heard from Brixton about the twenty grand that Morrison offered him.”

  “To keep quiet about the abortion.”

  “Right. But there’s another angle to this.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Borgeldt said. “The abortion never happened and the baby is being raised by this former actress Paula Silver.”

  “You should write cheap novels, Zeke.”

  “I may do that when I retire. What’s this other angle?”

  Smith gave him a capsule account of the murder of Dr. King in Papua New Guinea, the torching of his research site, and the theft of the research results from his laboratory.