Margaret Truman's Deadly Medicine

by Margaret Truman

  After digesting what Smith had said, Borgeldt asked, “Are you saying that Morrison had something to do with that, too?”

  “It’s possible, at least based upon what Brixton and his journalist friend Will Sayers have conjured up.”

  “You put any faith in what Brixton ‘conjures up,’ Mac?”

  “Yes, I do. I know that Robert can be a loose cannon at times, a hardhead about many things, but I trust his instincts. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have brought him back to D.C. and set him up in an office next to mine.”

  “If you say so,” Borgeldt muttered.

  There were half a dozen cars parked on the street in front of the Morrison home as they approached.

  “I told Mrs. Morrison when I called that I wanted to interview her without others present,” Borgeldt said, not sounding happy at the sight of the cars.

  “I’m sure she’ll honor that,” Smith said. “Probably family and neighbors surrounding her to help cope with the grief. She might balk at me being there.”

  “I already told her that I would have another person with me,” Borgeldt said.

  The driver stayed with the car as Smith and Borgeldt walked up to the front door. Borgeldt rang. They were greeted in seconds by Peggy Sue Morrison, whose face mirrored the tears she’d shed.

  “Superintendent of Detectives Borgeldt,” Zeke said, extending his badge. “This is Mackensie Smith. He’s an attorney who’s involved with the investigation.”

  “Yes, please come in,” she said, stepping back to allow them to enter. Voices could be heard from elsewhere in the large, impressive house.

  “Friends and some family members are here,” Peggy Sue said, “but I told them that you would be coming and that I’d have to excuse myself.”

  “We’ll try not to take too much of your time,” Borgeldt said. “Sorry for your loss.”

  That prompted another flow of tears as she led them into the large living room where others had gathered.

  “These are the gentlemen I told you about,” Peggy Sue announced through a voice that cracked. “You’ll have to excuse me.”

  Smith and Borgeldt followed her from that room, down a hallway, and into a handsomely furnished and decorated library that obviously also served as a home office, a man’s refuge judging by the masculine surroundings.

  Peggy Sue confirmed it. “This is where Eric worked when he was home,” she said. “He was always working.”

  “I suppose being a top lobbyist demands lots of work,” Borgeldt said.

  “It certainly did for Eric,” she said. “Oh, I’m sorry. Let me get you some coffee or tea.”

  “Nothing for us thanks,” Borgeldt said, his eyes taking in the room.

  After an awkward silence, Borgeldt and Smith were invited to take seats in matching chairs; Peggy Sue pulled the chair out from behind the desk and faced them. “I hope this won’t be too difficult,” she said, her hands folded in her lap. “I know you have a job to do, and I hope you find who killed my husband.”

  “We’re doing our best,” Borgeldt said.

  Peggy Sue turned to Smith. “You’re an attorney involved in the investigation, Mr. Smith?”

  “Yes,” Smith replied. “I represent Robert Brixton, who—”

  “The man who shot Eric.”

  “No, ma’am,” Smith said. “Robert didn’t shoot your husband. Someone knocked him out and used his weapon to shoot Mr. Morrison.”

  Her expression didn’t say that she bought that scenario, nor did it indicate that she dismissed it. She sat silently as Borgeldt pulled out a pad and pen and said, “It’s obvious to us, Mrs. Morrison, that whoever killed your husband knew that he was meeting Mr. Brixton at eleven o’clock at Gravelly Point, and that your husband would be carrying twenty thousand dollars on his person.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Peggy Sue snapped. “Why would Eric be meeting some private detective in such a godforsaken place in the middle of the night with twenty thousand dollars? It’s absurd.”

  “I understand your confusion over the details of what happened,” Borgeldt said, “but right now we need to know of anyone who might have threatened your husband recently, someone with a grudge against him.”

  “Eric? Threatened? Someone with a grudge against him? He was the nicest, most easygoing man in the world. Yes, he worked hard, and I suppose he might have rubbed some people the wrong way. But enough to want to kill him? That can’t be.”

  Borgeldt ignored her evaluation of her husband’s relationships and said, “What about the day he was murdered? Do you have any idea of his schedule that day, appointments he’d made, someone who would know about his meeting with Robert Brixton that night?”

  “No. I have no idea.”

  “He didn’t mention anyone?” Smith asked.

  “No. He was unusually high-strung the past few days, as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Eric was—well, he was dedicated to his job and respected the importance of it.” She sniffled and used a Kleenex to wipe away the tears. “He told me just a day or two ago that it was time for us to get away, maybe on a cruise somewhere. I’ve been looking into cruise lines.” She cried more openly now and Smith and Borgeldt waited patiently until she brought herself under control.

  “Did your husband keep an appointment book here at the house?” Smith asked.

  She seemed surprised at the question. “Yes, of course. Eric was meticulous about his schedule. He kept an appointment book here and at the office.”

  “Some of my detectives will be at his office later today,” Borgeldt said. “Could we see the appointment book he maintained at home?”

  “I suppose so,” she said, getting up and going behind the desk where she picked up a leather-bound book and handed it to Borgeldt. Smith leaned closer to share a look with the detective. They opened it to the date that Morrison had been killed. Among other entries was “Brixton 11 Gravelly Point.”

  Borgeldt turned the page back to the previous day. One entry captured the immediate attention of both men: “3-Alard.”

  “Do you know what this means?” Smith asked, handing her the book and pointing to the entry.

  She shook her head.

  “Do you know someone named Alard?” Borgeldt asked.

  “No. It must be someone in government that Eric worked with. He was so proud of what he was able to accomplish with elected officials. My goodness, they lead such busy lives and can’t possibly keep up with everything going on in the world and the votes they must make. Eric took a lot of pride in educating them about his clients, especially the pharmaceutical companies he represented.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” Smith said. “You’re sure you don’t know anyone named Alard?”

  “No, it’s not a familiar name.”

  Two loud voices from the living room captured her attention.

  “Is there anything else you need from me?” Peggy Sue asked.

  “I’ll want to take this book with me,” Borgeldt said.

  “I suppose that’s all right,” she said. “Is there anything else you want from me? I have family and friends here and—”

  “No, ma’am,” Borgeldt said, “but I’m sure we’ll have more questions at a future date. Thank you for your courtesy today.”

  “I just want to see Eric’s murderer behind bars where he belongs.” As an afterthought, she added, “You’re sure that this Brixton man, this private investigator, had nothing to do with it?”

  “Positive,” Smith said through a reassuring smile.

  “I heard on the TV that he’s an unsavory sort,” she said.

  Smith said, “He’s a very good private investigator, Mrs. Morrison, and an upstanding individual.”

  Once in the car Borgeldt said, “You call Brixton an upstanding individual, Mac?”

  “I sure do.”

  “He always seems to create trouble,” Borgeldt said.

  As they returned to the District, Smith thumbed through the pages in Morrison’s appointment book. “Look at
this,” he said.

  Borgeldt took the book and looked at what had captured Smith’s interest. “Looks like he had another meeting with Alard, days earlier.”

  Smith went through a mental calculation. “If I’m not mistaken this meeting with Alard precedes the murder of Dr. King in Papua New Guinea and the theft of his research.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” said Borgeldt as Smith noted the date and time on the back of a business card. He continued flipping through the pages until another entry stopped him. It was a notation that Morrison was scheduled to have dinner with Waksit.

  “Interesting,” Smith said.

  “What is?”

  Mac pointed out the entry. “Waksit worked for that doctor who was murdered on Papua New Guinea. Annabel and I are friends with the doctor’s daughter, Jayla King. Waksit claims that the doctor willed him the results of his research into finding a better pain medication.”

  “Did he? Will him the research?”

  “Jayla finds it hard to believe. I wonder if Waksit was meeting with Morrison to try and sell the research.”

  “You’d have to ask him.”

  “I hope I have the opportunity someday. Let’s talk about Alard,” Smith said. “When I raised his name the last time we were together I had the feeling that it struck a nerve.”

  Borgeldt, who’d been looking out the window, turned to Smith and said, “You seem to know about him, Mac.”

  Smith explained how Brixton had learned about Alard through Will Sayers and had shared what he knew. He finished by saying, “Alard evidently met with Morrison the day before he was shot and killed, at least according to what Morrison had written in his appointment book.”

  Borgeldt finished the thought. “As a result of that meeting Alard probably knew where and when Brixton and Morrison would be meeting.”

  Smith picked up the thread: “And Alard possibly knew that Morrison would be carrying thousands of dollars to buy off Robert.” Smith’s brief laugh was an editorial comment. “Fat chance buying off Robert Brixton,” he said.

  “The Justice Department is investigating Alard Associates,” Borgeldt said matter-of-factly.

  “Oh?”

  “Hired hands,” Borgeldt replied, “sort of a quasi–employment agency that takes on jobs too dirty for decent folks. They started in Iraq and Afghanistan but were split off from a larger independent contractor. Justice has evidence that Alard and the people he represents have been involved in assassination attempts here in the States and overseas.”

  “Nice folks,” said Smith. “How far has Justice gotten in its investigation?”

  “I’ll know more this afternoon. I have a meeting at Justice at five. I’ll bring to the meeting the possible connection between Alard Associates and Morrison’s murder. This is all between us, of course.”

  “Of course. Thanks for sharing it with me.”

  “You’ve shared plenty with me in the past, Mac. Tit for tat as they say. What’s on your schedule for the rest of the day?”

  “I’ll check in on how Robert is doing, and I have a meeting with a new client. I hope Robert gets back on his feet soon. I need him on this one.”

  Smith retrieved his car from where he’d parked at police headquarters and drove to his office where Brixton’s receptionist, Mrs. Warden, asked after Brixton.

  “I’m just about to call and find out,” Smith said as he settled behind his desk and picked up the phone. His first call was to the hospital and learned that Brixton had been released earlier that day. He tried Brixton’s number at the apartment and reached his answering machine. “Robert must be resting and is letting the machine take his calls,” he told Mrs. Warden. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

  CHAPTER

  35

  Brixton was fine aside from his head still aching, and one cheek looking as though it had been sandblasted. He’d assured Flo, who’d brought him home from the hospital, that he would take it easy for the rest of the day. He hadn’t been lying when he’d made that pledge to her. He intended to camp in front of the TV and let time heal his wounds.

  But after she left for Flo’s Fashions in Georgetown, he found himself pacing the apartment. A TV remote truck was parked on the street in front of the building, and a couple of print reporters milled around, drinking coffee and looking bored.

  He rapidly flipped through the TV channels, pausing at newscasts in which the Morrison murder had slid from the lead story to third place behind a trip the president had taken to the Middle East, and a terrorist attack in Iraq that had taken the lives of four Americans. In one of the reports on the Morrison murder Superintendent of Detectives Zeke Borgeldt held an impromptu and brief press conference. At its conclusion a reporter asked about Brixton’s role in the shooting.

  “Mr. Brixton has not been charged in this incident,” Borgeldt replied. “He was attacked by the individual who shot Mr. Morrison and who used Mr. Brixton’s handgun in the shooting.”

  Borgeldt’s statement buoyed Brixton’s spirits, but not for long. Along with being restless he was hungry and considered going to a local bar for a sandwich and beer. But he wasn’t eager to have anyone see his face with its little red dots and wonder whether he had a communicable disease. But there was always a drive-in. The few media types outside the building wouldn’t pose a problem. He knew from a previous experience when the media had hounded him—dozens of them had camped outside the building after his daughter had been killed in the outdoor café bombing and he’d shot a senator’s son who’d been with the terrorist bomber—that he could evade them by driving away from his underground parking spot that came with the apartment lease. After pondering how angry Flo would be if he went back on his word about staying put (he had it all figured out—she’d never know he’d left as long as he returned before she did; the answering machine would take her calls and she would assume he was sleeping), he slipped on a sport jacket over his black T-shirt, took a final peek at whoever lay in wait for him on the street, and left the apartment, ignoring the ringing phone as he got into the elevator and rode it down to the parking level where he got into his recently purchased used white Subaru, drove from the garage, and gunned it in a direction away from the media.

  He pulled into a drive-through line at a McDonald’s and ordered a Big Mac, fries, and a vanilla shake, which he consumed while parked at a mini-mall. His hunger sated, and after depositing the wrappers and cup in a refuse can—Brixton was meticulous about keeping the interior of his car clean—he drove to Nikki Dorence’s apartment building.

  Jayla King’s problem with Eugene Waksit had dominated his thinking while eating lunch and he thought that another pass at spotting Waksit would be a productive way to spend the next hour. He knew that he should check in with Mac Smith and Will Sayers but preferred, at least for that moment, to be alone.

  He’d taken magazines with him when leaving the apartment and browsed them while simultaneously keeping an eye on the entrance to Nikki Dorence’s building from where he’d parked across the street. He hadn’t been there for more than twenty minutes when a man emerged. Brixton narrowed his eyes and took in the man, then looked at the photo that Jayla had given him. No question about it. It was Eugene Waksit.

  Waksit had his carry-on suitcase and briefcase with him as he went to the curb and looked for a taxi. Brixton felt adrenaline flow as he started his car and waited for a cab to show up. It did a few minutes later. Waksit got in the back and the taxi drove off. Brixton executed an illegal U-turn and fell in behind. He surmised that Waksit was going to the airport considering he had luggage with him, but the direction the cab took ruled that out, either that or the driver had no idea where he was going. Brixton followed the cab as it made its way up Georgia Avenue past Howard University and the Walter Reed Medical Center, and crossed into Maryland. Once in Silver Spring it navigated local traffic until pulling up in front of a Days Inn on Thirteenth Street.

  Brixton found a parking space that afforded him a view of the hotel and watched as Waksit got
out of the taxi, paid the driver, and disappeared into the building. Brixton’s mind went into gear and he considered his possibilities. He could sit there and wait for Waksit to emerge, but that could take hours. He could go into the hotel and linger in the lobby, which was no better than sitting in the car.

  He decided that there was nothing to be gained by staying. He didn’t have a reason for confronting Waksit, although he wished he did. He didn’t like the guy based upon what Jayla had said about him, and there was the possibility that he’d murdered her father and stolen his research. The e-mail on Jayla’s computer indicated that officials back in Papua New Guinea wanted to question Waksit in the King murder; the Washington PD would be interested in where to find him. Jayla, too, would want to be informed of his whereabouts. A call to Mac Smith would accomplish both needs.

  “Hi, Mac, it’s Robert.”

  “Hello soldier. Feeling better?”

  “A little.”

  “I left a message for you but I assumed you were resting.”

  “Not exactly. I’m sitting in my car in Silver Spring.”

  “Oh? Why?” The hint of exasperation in Smith’s voice summed up what he was thinking.

  “I got antsy hanging around the apartment so I took a ride, got me some fast food, and picked up where I left off the other day, looking for Jayla’s old pal from PNG, Mr. Eugene Waksit.”

  “You found him?”

  “Yeah, I did. He was staying with a friend from PNG but he left there and checked in to the Days Inn on Thirteenth Street in Silver Spring. I thought you might want to let Jayla know, and Zeke Borgeldt, too. The cops back in PNG will be interested in talking with him.”

  “How did you locate him?” Smith asked.

  “A trade secret, Mac.”

  “Superior investigatory technique?”

  “Exactly. Do me a favor. Flo assumes I’m resting at home. I want to get back before she returns from the shop. I never left the apartment. Right?”

  “Right, Robert.”