Margaret Truman's Deadly Medicine Read online

  Brixton grimaced. “Morrison is more of a lowlife than I knew,” he said.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” she said.

  “That’s why we should work together,” said Brixton. “There’s plenty that I know that’d be great material for your book.”

  “That’s okay but…”

  “But what?”

  “It’s my book. I don’t want to share the money with anybody. That’s all I’ve ever done, shared the money, agents, publicists, everybody with their hand out. What do I have to show for it? Nada. Nothing.”

  “I’m not looking for money,” Brixton said.

  “Everybody’s looking for money. I had a guy who wanted me to do porn movies.”

  “Did you?”

  “No, I did not.” Her tone was defiant. “What do you take me for?”

  “You brought it up.”

  “He offered peanuts for me to do it. I told him where he could get off.”

  “Good for you. What about this guy Howie something-or-other?”

  She laughed and finished her drink, was about to signal for another but Brixton said, “Let’s wait until we go downstairs for dinner.” She pouted but didn’t argue.

  “What was his name? Howie…?”

  “Ebhart. He and Morrison go way back, college or something. When I was getting ready to bail on Morrison, I did some looking through his things.”

  “At his office?”

  “No, the apartment he kept where we used to get together. I lived there for a while.”

  “What’d you find?”

  “Dirt on Mr. Eric Morrison and his buddy Howie.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  She glanced at others at the bar before saying, “Look, Mr. Researcher, I can trust you, right?”

  Brixton nodded. “As far as I’m concerned,” he said, “we’re a team. What you tell me stays with me, like in Las Vegas, and I assume that what I tell you does the same.”

  She didn’t confirm his last statement. She lowered her voice—it became sexy when she did—and placed her hand with long nails tipped in pink polish on his. “Senator Gillespie almost had a love child back in Georgia.”

  Brixton didn’t know what to expect from her, but he didn’t expect this. He covered her hand with his other and looked into her eyes, exuding supreme interest coupled with honesty, a look he’d practiced over the years as a cop and private investigator.

  “That’s right,” she said. “The senator got some girl in trouble, and Howie fixed it for Morrison.”

  “Fixed it?”

  “Paid for an abortion and paid off the family.”

  “Howie did this, not Morrison?”

  She looked at Brixton as though he was feeble-minded. “Howie introduced Morrison to somebody who could arrange it.”

  Brixton glanced surreptitiously at his watch. He couldn’t believe how quickly the conversation had gotten to what Will Sayers was looking for. Play it cool, he cautioned himself. “Ah,” Brixton started, “this is really great stuff, Paula. I mean, if you have some sort of proof that these things took place you’ll have a bestseller on your hands, be rolling in dough.”

  “Proof?”

  “Yeah. You said you were looking through some stuff. Was there a note, a letter, maybe an e-mail about setting up this abortion?”

  “I’d like another drink,” she said.

  “Sure,” he said. Maybe a third drink will help her remember tangible evidence, or at least talk about it.

  He ordered a second martini. This was getting good.

  Drinks served, he asked again about some tangible piece of evidence.

  “Eric told me,” She replied.

  “Morrison told you?”

  “Yup. He bragged about it, how he ‘owned’ Senator Gillespie. That’s what he said. He owned him because of what he did for him.”

  Brixton took a moment to enjoy a sip before asking, “Where is this Howie Ebhart?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. He’s a creep, makes my skin crawl if you know what I mean.”

  “I think I do. Ready for dinner?”

  “Morrison is no better,” she said.

  “I’m sure he isn’t. He’s a lobbyist for the pharmaceutical industry. Right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He ever talk about a doctor named King?”

  She screwed up her face in thought. “King? No.”

  “He’s—he was—a doctor in Papua New Guinea.”

  “Where’s that?” She slurred her words now.

  “Near Australia. He was doing research into finding a better painkiller.”

  “Like aspirin?”

  “I suppose so. Morrison never mentioned him?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Just thought I’d ask. Part of my research.”

  “Oh. Who is he?”

  “Was. He was murdered.”

  She shuddered and drank.

  “Tell me more about Howie Ebhart and Morrison.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Then let’s eat.”

  They settled in a booth in the downstairs where they ordered another round of drinks despite Brixton’s reluctance, and a ribeye steak for him, Amish chicken for her.

  “You were talking about this Howie Ebhart.”

  “I was?”

  “Yeah. You don’t know what he does for a living besides setting up abortions for young girls?”

  “He used to—well, I think he worked for some congressman but not anymore.”

  “Who was the congressman?”

  “Jesus, I don’t remember. He hung out with Morrison and a few other guys like him. Alard was one.”

  “Alard? That’s his first name?”

  “I don’t think so.” She snuggled up next to him in the booth. The heavy, sweet scent of bourbon reached him as she said, “You know a publisher for my book?”

  “Well, I–I’ll check it out. I know someone who’s writing a book for a big publisher. I bet he can come up with one for you.”

  “For us,” she said, followed by a silly, drunken giggle.

  “Right,” he said. “For us. Here’s our dinner. Eat up. Enjoy!”

  He knew that he could have accompanied her into her apartment when they parted in front of the building but nixed the possibility. He’d had to prop her up on the walk from the restaurant, keeping her from falling on a few occasions. He was conflicted as they approached where she lived. He didn’t like drunks, especially drunken women. On the other hand she’d given him information that he could share with Will Sayers, and he appreciated it, whether or not she talked through her booze.

  “You coming in?” she asked when they reached the building.

  “Love to,” he said, “but maybe another time.”

  He’d noticed during dinner that she was quick to pout, and his turndown of her invitation brought on a prolonged one.

  “I really enjoyed the evening,” he said, thinking of how expensive it had been. He’d have to hit Sayers up for more money. “We’ll do it again soon. I’ll call.”

  “Good night,” she said.

  “Good night,” he said, and watched her walk unsteadily through the front door and out of sight.

  CHAPTER

  17

  Brixton had intended to go home following his dinner with Paula Silver but was too wound up to call it a night. He was excited that she had confirmed what Will Sayers had said, that Senator Gillespie had gotten a teenage girl pregnant back in Georgia, and that the lobbyist Eric Morrison had played a role in arranging an abortion for her and buying off the girl’s impoverished family. He called Sayers on his cell phone, hoping that the journalist hadn’t made it an early-to-bed night. He hadn’t.

  “I just left Ms. Silver,” Brixton said, “and she had some fascinating things to say.”

  “You’ve made my day,” said Sayers. “I’ve gone up nothing but blind alleys since I got out of bed this morning.”

  “Pour me a drink and I’ll share what s
he said while it’s still fresh in my mind.”

  “My door is open.”

  Sayers, barefoot, wore a green silk bathrobe over his nakedness, and a Washington Nationals baseball cap.

  “You look like that guy in the Rex Stout novels, Nero Wolfe,” Brixton said when Sayers greeted him at the door.

  “I consider that a supreme compliment,” Sayers said, “although I don’t suppose that you meant it that way.”

  “Take it any way you want.”

  “I happen to be a fan of Nero Wolfe,” Sayers said. “I take it you are, too.”

  “I’ve read a few of the books,” Brixton said, slumping in a blue director’s chair with white flowers on its canvas back and seat.

  “So,” Sayers said, resuming where he’d been sitting behind his desk that overflowed with papers and books, “you’ve been out cheating on your Ms. Flo this evening.”

  Brixton started to respond but Sayers held up a beefy hand. “Only joking, Robert, only joking. Tell me about your evening with the faded Hollywood star.”

  “She’s hardly that. I kind of like her, only she can be difficult at times. She’s a drinker. She gets a snootful of booze and alternates between pouting and little girl giggles. I think she’s been through the mill, been emotionally beaten up by too many guys including Eric Morrison.”

  Sayers started to ask something but Brixton continued with his analysis of Paula Silver.

  “The way I figure it,” he said, “she’s one of those women who’s born beautiful and is told by somebody, maybe in her family or some dorky boyfriend in high school, that she’s a natural for Hollywood. Off she goes, gets passed around by a bunch of lying hustlers who promise her great things provided she sleeps with them. She ends up in a couple of forgettable low-budget flicks and thinks she’s on her way to stardom. Instead, the next crop of nubile teenage beauties comes along and she’s out on the street, ending up handing out menus to customers at the Char Bar.”

  “You sound like a shrink,” Sayers said.

  “Well, I—anyway I feel bad for her.”

  “Maybe she’ll meet a nice unattached member of the House of Representatives, get married, and live happily ever after.”

  “She’s better off greeting customers at Char Bar.”

  “Maybe so. You said she had some fascinating things to say.”

  “My drink?”

  “You know where the booze is. Help yourself, and make me one, too, while you’re at it.”

  Fortified, Brixton gave Sayers a briefing of what Paula Silver had to say about Morrison and his relationship with Senator Gillespie.

  “Anything tangible to back up what she said?”

  “I asked her the same thing. If there is she didn’t mention it. She talked about one of Morrison’s buddies, a guy named Howie Ebhart.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “He and Morrison go back a long way, according to her. She says that Howie put Morrison in touch with the abortionist who took care of the senator’s problem. Oh, she also mentioned somebody named Alard. Ever hear of him?”

  Sayer’s laugh confirmed that he did. “Hold on.” He rummaged through an overflowing file bin on the floor next to him and came up with a folder, which he handed to Brixton. Its tab read “Alard Associates.”

  “Who are they?” Brixton asked.

  “George Alard,” Sayers said. “He’s a shady frog, born in France, came here years ago and set up his company. They hire out to the government, mostly security assignments. The government is depending upon independent contractors more and more these days. At last count there were more than six hundred contractors supplementing the troops in Iraq and Afghanistan. That’s fifty percent more than military troops assigned to those places. Blackwater is the biggest, and you know what happened to them. Four of their soldiers of fortune were convicted of murdering Iraqis. That’s always been the bone of contention with these civilian hires. Too many of their guys hired by firms like Alard Associates get in trouble in the countries where they’re sent, you know, rape a few local women, break the religious laws, gun down innocent civilians because they think they’re above the law, offend some important official. Our government tries to cut deals with the local government to absolve independent contractors of any wrongdoing and not have to face being charged. I’ve been looking into this whole world of independent contractors, especially those providing security for our troops. Alard Associates always seems to come up close to the top of the list of independent contractors available for any assignment, no matter how shady it is, or even downright illegal.”

  “Well,” said Brixton, “Alard and Morrison are buddies, according to Paula.”

  “Interesting grouping,” Sayers muttered.

  “I asked her about the doctor, King, who was murdered.”

  “Why?”

  “Morrison is a lobbyist for the pharmaceutical industry. I just figured that he might know something about King. You met King’s daughter, Jayla, at the Smiths’ apartment. She’s a PhD in biochemistry, and one of Flo’s customers.”

  “A beauty.”

  “Paula never heard of King.”

  “No surprise. But I’m not interested in Dr. King,” Sayers said. “Gillespie’s the one I’m after.”

  “Yeah, I know, Will, but the King murder interests me. Mac Smith feels the same way. He met with Jayla and me. She was looking for legal advice, only Mac really can’t do much about things in a place like Papua New Guinea. But after Jayla left, Mac and I got to talking about her father’s murder. He had an assistant named Waksit, Eugene Waksit. Great name, huh? Anyway, Mac asked me for my take on the King murder, and I said that if I was writing a novel based on it, this Waksit guy killed his mentor and boss, Dr. King, stole all his research notes from his lab, paid to have somebody kill the native who watched over the doctor’s patch of land where he grew the plants used in his research, and burned down the crops.”

  “Make a good novel,” Sayers said. “Maybe you’ve missed your calling.”

  “Maybe I did. Of course it’s all supposition on my part. By the way, Ms. Silver thinks I’m a researcher who wants to work with her on the book she intends to write.”

  “For shame, Robert, misleading a nice young lady like that. Where is this Waksit character?”

  “Beats me,” said Brixton. “Jayla King says that he called her attorney in PNG and claimed that the doctor had left him all his research results. She says that’s impossible, although you never know. Anyway, Waksit was supposed to call the attorney again but never did. Chances are he’s flown the coop.”

  “He’s a suspect in the doctor’s murder?”

  “Evidently not. The cops there haven’t read my novel.”

  “Maybe they’ll get around to it. I appreciate what you got out of Ms. Silver, although it couldn’t have been unpleasant duty. She’s gorgeous.”

  “She was, although she’s still damned attractive.”

  “I’ll pass along to my contacts in Georgia what you’ve told me.”

  “Sure, go ahead, but make sure nobody calls her. If she knows why I was pumping her that’ll be the end of seeing her again and getting more information for you.”

  “Fair enough, Robert. Thanks again.”

  Brixton went home where Flo was watching TV.

  “How did your date go?” she asked.

  “Date? It wasn’t a date. It was strictly business.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Any popcorn left?”

  She handed him the almost empty bowl that had been on her lap.

  “You hear any more from Ms. King?” he asked her.

  “Jayla. No. Why?”

  “I keep thinking about her father’s murder and all the other stuff that happened. This guy Waksit she talks about, her father’s assistant. I’d like to know more about him.”

  “Then you should call her,” she said. “Good night. I’m tired.”

  He watched her disappear into their bedroom, a puzzled expression on his face.


  Do I detect a hint of jealousy? he asked himself as he changed channels and settled in to watch the Nationals baseball game from San Francisco. I’ll have to mention it the next time I see the shrink.

  CHAPTER

  18

  Waksit had pretended to be asleep when Nikki Dorence left the apartment to go to work. Once confident that she wouldn’t return, he got up and went to the kitchen where she had written him a note: “Orange juice and milk in the fridge. Cereal in cabinet above sink. Instant coffee on counter. Back about six.” She had also left a copy of that morning’s newspaper on the table, which he scanned while the tea kettle heated. He poured the boiling water into a cup with instant coffee, helped himself to orange juice, and went to the window and looked out over the street where men and women hurried to work. It was a sunny morning, which contributed to his feeling of well-being. He’d slept well; the pullout bed was comfortable.

  His eyes might have been closed while hearing Nikki get ready to leave but his mind was wide awake.

  He was now in Washington, D.C., where the Pharmaceutical Association of America was headquartered, and where its chief lobbyist, Eric Morrison, was also based. He’d spent much of the flight from Los Angeles mentally preparing a script he would use when contacting the lobbyist. He’d decided that he needed to put together a clear-cut narrative of how Preston King’s pain medication worked, and why just the right mixture of herbs and plants was crucial, something that only he knew.

  He wasn’t oblivious to the roadblocks he might encounter. The Port Moresby attorney, Elgin Taylor, had asked whether he had any documentation backing up his claim that King had bequeathed his research results to him, which, of course, he didn’t. But who was to refute that claim? The doctor was dead. He’d worked at King’s side for years, and had become so trusted that he was allowed to see patients in the clinic, enabling him to have hands-on experience with the drug. On top of that King had left him $5,000 in his will. Surely that bequest was an indication of the high regard King held him in.