Margaret Truman's Deadly Medicine

by Margaret Truman

  “Yes. I called him after I heard from Eugene. He came right over.”

  “I’m glad that he’s there for you. Just let Annabel and me know if there’s anything we can do.”

  “I will. I really appreciate it. How is Mr. Brixton?”

  Smith laughed. “Robert is fine. It’ll take more than a hit on his hard head to put him out of commission.”

  “What did he have to say?” Cousins asked after she got off the phone.

  “He thinks I should stay away from Eugene.”

  “What I’ve been saying to you all along.”

  “I know, Nate, I know.” She checked the wall clock. “I have to get ready for work. Thank you for being here for me. I never should have called. I guess I panicked.”

  “And for good reason. I have to get to the office, too. Promise me you’ll call if you hear from him again.”

  She walked him to the door where he embraced and kissed her.

  “I love you, Jayla,” he said.

  Her words expressing the same sentiment almost came out but didn’t. She locked the door behind him, drew a breath, and headed for the shower.

  CHAPTER

  39

  When Smith got off the phone with Jayla he called Brixton.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Pretty good, Mac. Nothing like a good night’s sleep. What’s up?”

  “I’d like to get together this morning to go over what came out of the meeting with our new client.”

  Our new client. Among many things Brixton admired about the attorney was his lack of ego. Our new client. Typical of the way Mackensie Smith saw things.

  “Sounds like a plan to me,” Brixton said. “Eleven?”

  “Earlier? I just got off the phone with Jayla King. Our friend Mr. Waksit called her last night. She’s shaken. I have some thoughts about that to run by you, too.”

  “I have an appointment at ten, Mac. I can cancel it but—”

  “No need for that. Eleven will be fine.”

  Brixton realized that at some point he should share with Smith that he was seeing a shrink. He knew, but didn’t necessarily agree, that being embarrassed at seeking help from a psychologist was uncalled for, yet he suffered discomfort with the concept. He had a ten o’clock appointment with Dr. Fowler and, as had often been the case, he looked forward to it. Maybe it was Flo’s satisfaction that he was seeing Fowler that influenced his positive attitude. But the why really didn’t matter. That he enjoyed the forty-five-minute sessions with the psychologist was good enough.

  The wounds on his cheek had faded to some extent; he no longer looked like a character from a Wes Craven horror film, and his headache had abated, just an occasional pulsation in his temple to remind him what had caused it.

  “Don’t forget your appointment with Dr. Fowler,” Flo reminded him as she prepared to leave the apartment for Flo’s Fashions.

  “I’ll be there,” he assured her.

  She was no sooner out the door than Will Sayers called.

  “Well, what do you think?” he asked Brixton.

  “About what?”

  “About the piece on Senator Gillespie. I e-mailed it to you.”

  “I haven’t looked at my computer in days.”

  “The original Neanderthal,” Sayers said. “Get with it, Robert. I’ll wait while you pull it up.”

  Brixton booted up the computer and brought the article up on the screen. He quickly scanned it, his eyes immediately going to his name. Sayers had devoted two paragraphs to Brixton’s meeting with Morrison and how Brixton had aided in researching the piece.

  “You should have left me out of it,” Brixton said.

  “Credit where credit is due, Robert. Now, let’s discuss when we can get together—and I pray it won’t be long—for me to interview you about your involvement in this sordid mess. It deserves an article all its own.”

  “I’d just as soon that you didn’t do that, Will.”

  “You don’t want me to have to depend upon what others have written, do you? The article will be done with or without your input, and I’d much prefer to include your view of things.”

  “I have to run, Will. Congratulations on the article. The fur will really fly when the senator reads it.”

  “I’d pay anything to be there when he does.”

  Brixton went to the underground garage and checked whether any media had staked it out. The coast was clear, and he drove to his appointment with Dr. John Bradford Fowler.

  “I see that I have a celebrity with me this morning,” Fowler said.

  “Don’t believe everything you read about me,” Brixton said.

  “You’re all right, Robert? That was quite a traumatic experience you went through.”

  “I’m feeling fine, only I debated coming here this morning.”

  “I can certainly understand that,” Fowler said. “If you’d prefer to cut this session short we can—”

  “No, no, I don’t mean that. It’s just that I have a busy day ahead of me, which I suppose is good. I’m not much for sitting around.”

  “Yes,” said Fowler, “being active is good for anyone. So, tell me how this latest incident in your busy life has impacted your relationship with Ms. Combes?”

  “Impacts it?” Brixton said with raised eyebrows. “Why would it?”

  “I was just curious whether being involved in another high-profile incident, like the one in which you lost your daughter, influences your relationship with her—with others, too, friends, colleagues, everyday interactions.”

  “It doesn’t help, I guess. When Janet was blown up in that terrorist bombing it really changed me, and not for the better. Flo will testify to that. And this latest mess just sours me all the more about Washington and the big shots who run it. We really should pack up and leave.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a man of action,” Fowler said, “turning and running rather than making it work for you.”

  Brixton elaborated on his role in exposing Senator Gillespie’s sexual escapade in Georgia, and how he had tracked down Eugene Waksit on Jayla King’s behalf.

  “Is this Waksit fellow a danger to Ms. King?”

  “I think he is. He might have murdered her father back in Papua New Guinea.”

  “It sounds more like a police matter than something that you should take on.”

  “My friend Mac Smith, the lawyer, has told the cops where to find Waksit. I’m finished with it, the same way I’m finished with anything to do with that sleazeball Senator Gillespie and the lobbyist who paid for the abortion. Mac Smith has a new, high-paying client and I’ll be working on it with him. It’ll be nice to get back to normal.”

  “So things are working out?”

  “Yeah, but look, Dr. Fowler, maybe it’s time we end these sessions. Not that they haven’t been helpful, but like I said it’s time for me to get back to normal.”

  Fowler smiled. “I think that you’re probably right, Robert. I consider it a privilege having met you, and know that if you ever feel the need to talk with me again I’ll always be available. Please give my best to Ms. Combes.”

  Brixton paid for the session and drove to his office where Mrs. Warden handed him a batch of phone slips. “Some of these people from the media can be so rude,” she said.

  “That must be the first thing they teach you in journalism school, Mrs. Warden, how to be rude. Sorry you had to put up with them.”

  He surveyed the pile of papers on his desk and would have liked to attack it, but it was time to meet with Mac Smith, who was dealing with his own stack of correspondence in need of attention.

  Smith asked when Brixton entered his office, “No lingering fallout from your concussion?”

  “No, I’m fine. I just came from—well, I just saw a doctor.”

  “That’s good. The effects of a concussion can linger. Best to follow up on it.”

  “He’s a head doctor.”

  “A neurologist?”

  “A shrink.”

>   “A psychiatrist?”

  “A psychologist. I’ve been seeing him for a few weeks now, you know, to help me get over my daughter being killed the way she was. He’s a nice guy. You’d like him.”

  “And he’s helped you?”

  Brixton nodded.

  “That’s all that counts. Let me fill you in on the situation with Jayla King. Zeke Borgeldt sent a couple of detectives to the Days Inn in Silver Spring to convince Waksit to contact the authorities back in PNG.”

  “Good,” Brixton said.

  “But he’d checked out last night.”

  “Checked out? He’d just checked in.”

  “I know. The question is why did he leave, and where did he go?”

  “Something or somebody spooked him.”

  “He called Jayla last night.”

  “Maybe there’s your answer. You told her where he was?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe she let slip to him that she knew.”

  “I’ll ask her.”

  “So he’s still lurking around.”

  “Seems that way.”

  “Will Sayers’s piece on Senator Gillespie ran today in Savannah.”

  Brixton sat at Smith’s computer and brought up the article.

  “That’s a tough piece of reporting,” Smith said after he’d read it over Brixton’s shoulder. “I see that he mentioned Alard Associates toward the end.”

  Brixton looked up. “I stopped reading when I got to my name,” he said as he finished the piece.

  “Alard! Dr. King! Senator Gillespie!” Brixton rattled off. “Morrison was involved with all of them.”

  “And Eugene Waksit,” Smith said. “His name was also in Morrison’s appointment book. They evidently had dinner together.”

  “It’s a shame Morrison is dead,” Brixton said. “I’d love to get him one-on-one for questions. Are Zeke and his people continuing to look for him?”

  “Probably not,” Smith replied. “The police in PNG aren’t labeling Waksit a suspect in the King murder. I have a feeling that Zeke checked out the Days Inn in Silver Spring as a favor to me. I’m sure they have more pressing things to do.”

  “Jayla must be freaked out by all of this,” Brixton offered.

  It was one o’clock when Smith and Brixton concluded their meeting. Smith handed Brixton a check as an advance on the project and ordered in lunch, which Brixton declined. “Not hungry,” he said. “I’ve got a lot of paperwork to catch up on. Glad to be on board with this new client, Mac. Thanks for the advance. It’ll be put to good use.”

  He was in the midst of sorting papers into piles when Mrs. Warden informed him that Paula Silver was on the line.

  “Is she? Well, I—okay, might as well take it.”

  “Hello Paula. I’ve meant to call you but—”

  “You heard what happened to Eric.”

  “Heard what happened? Hey, I was there, or don’t you read the papers or watch TV?”

  “I talked to him before he died.” She had trouble getting the words out.

  “Did you? So did I. That’s how we ended up meeting.”

  “The bastard! He was going to pay me to not write about him in my book but—” She cried.

  “I’m sorry it ended this way for you. Are you still going ahead with the book?”

  “You said you’d help me.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “I want the world to know what a lousy guy he was. It’ll be a bestseller, probably be a movie, too.”

  How many times had people said that? Brixton wondered. He knew nothing about books and writing and publishing, but he’d heard his share of people claiming to have a bestseller when all they had was their inflated egos and a mundane story to tell.

  “I’m sure you’re right, Paula, but I’m really busy now and—”

  “You, too,” she said angrily.

  “Huh?”

  “Just walk away when somebody needs help.”

  Her words stung. He didn’t have any obligation to her. At the same time he’d lied to find out what she knew about Morrison and Gillespie. Conning people to achieve a goal was a staple in a detective’s bag of tricks, and Brixton had often used it without feeling guilty. But there was something about Paula that struck a nerve with him, a vulnerability that she wore on her sleeve. Despite her whiskey-fueled tough talk she was a frightened little girl in grown-up clothes, a victim of the Hollywood myth of glamour and success.

  “How about I buy you a drink at the end of the day?”

  “All right.”

  “I’ll meet you at—”

  “Pick me up. I would like that.”

  “Okay. I know where you live. Six o’clock?”

  “Yes. Six o’clock.”

  He hung up and hoped that she’d run out of booze. She was already drunk, and he didn’t look forward to being with her in that condition. He’d buy a drink, apologize for not shooting straight with her, wish her well, and sever the connection.

  A bag of potato chips and two Cokes comprised lunch as Brixton waded through paperwork, and read Mac Smith’s long dictated report about the new client and what was expected of him as the investigator in the case. While his focus was on the work, his thoughts kept shifting between Jayla King, the whereabouts of Eugene Waksit, and Will Sayers’s article about the senator from Georgia and what flames it would fan once the D.C. media got ahold of it. He called Flo at her shop to tell her that he was meeting someone for drinks but would swing by about eight. It was her late night at the store; with any luck customers would stop coming in by eight and she could close up earlier than the stated closing hour of nine.

  “Who are you having drinks with?” she asked.

  “Ah, that actress I told you about, Paula Silver.”

  “The one who had an affair with the lobbyist.”

  “Right. She’s the one who gave me some information for Will Sayers about Morrison and—”

  “You don’t need information from her about him any longer, Robert. He’s dead.”

  “I know, but she called and—well, I feel sorry for her.”

  “I have to go,” Flo said, her voice cold. “Enjoy your evening.”

  He sat back in his desk chair and slowly shook his head. Maybe he shouldn’t have made a date for drinks with Paula. Maybe he should have blown her off. But then he decided that he was entitled to have drinks with anyone he wanted. It wasn’t as though he had carnal thoughts about Paula Silver. He’d taken advantage of her and the least he could do was buy her a drink to atone. What could be wrong with that?”

  * * *

  There was plenty wrong in the Gillespie household.

  The senator had told his wife, Rebecca, the previous evening that they needed to take a vacation. Pressures were piling up at the Senate and he had to get away. He’d called their travel agent and had her book a trip for the following day to Aruba.

  “Tomorrow?” Rebecca had said. “I can’t get ready to leave on a vacation trip tomorrow.”

  “I really need the break,” Gillespie told her, “and it would do you good to get away, too. I’ve already made the arrangements and that’s that! Our flight leaves tomorrow at three from Reagan. You get yourself packed up and be ready to go. Hell, you don’t need more than a couple a’ bathing suits and a big floppy hat.”

  Now, the next morning, the phone rang as Rebecca was trying on outfits to put in her suitcase. The caller was a reporter from the Washington Post.

  “Mrs. Gillespie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Kerry Brothers from the Post. Is your husband there?”

  “No. He’s at his Senate office gathering up some materials to take on our trip.”

  “Oh, you’re taking a trip. To a nice place I hope.”

  “Aruba. I—why are you calling?”

  “I’m calling about the article in the Savannah Morning News about your husband and—”

  “What article?”

  “I’ll read you the headline,” the reporter said. “‘Teen
Abortion Funded by Senator Gillespie.’”

  Rebecca, who wore only her bra and panties, fell back on the bed. “What abortion?” she managed. “What in hell are you talking about?”

  Brothers read her the first few paragraphs of the Will Sayers article. She listened quietly, breathing rapidly, furiously chewing her cheek.

  “I’ll try to get ahold of your husband, Mrs. Gillespie, but as long as I have you on the phone maybe you’d like to make a statement.”

  “I have nothing to say,” she said and ended the connection.

  She went to Gillespie’s home office, turned on the computer, Googled the article, and read it with a combination of disgust and fury. “You bastard!” she screamed loud enough for a passerby to hear on the street. “You rotten, filthy, miserable…”

  * * *

  Will Sayers’s exposé of Senator Ronald Gillespie affected another wife, too.

  The piece had chronicled Eric Morrison’s role in the abortion, how he had arranged for and paid the abortionist on behalf of the senior senator from Georgia. That prompted another phone call, this one to Peggy Sue Morrison, who had just met with the funeral director. She was watching him drive away when a different reporter from the Post, a young woman, Nita Evans, called. The reporter read portions of the piece relating to Morrison to Peggy Sue, who remained silent. When she was done reading, Peggy Sue said through clenched teeth, “My husband was a fine and decent man, Ms. Evans. He was a respected member of the lobbying industry, a man loved by everyone he worked with. How dare you slander such a man after he was gunned down by an evil, demented person? How dare you call me on the day I am arranging his funeral and spew such venom? How dare you?”

  CHAPTER

  40

  Waksit’s sudden and unplanned departure from the Days Inn in Silver Spring the previous night had further unraveled him.

  * * *

  Deciding to call Jayla hadn’t been easy, and he’d assessed her possible responses, ranging from slamming down the phone to expressing joy at hearing his voice. Neither extreme had occurred. But she had put him off, which to Waksit in his frazzled mind-set represented a cruel rejection. On top of that he’d been forced to flee the Days Inn and find another place to stay, this time a Holiday Inn in Crystal City, close to Reagan National Airport.