Margaret Truman's Deadly Medicine Page 16

  Annabel insisted that Jayla take an umbrella with her. “You can drop it back the next time you’re here,” Annabel said, “which I hope will be soon.”

  After kisses all around, Jayla left. She was happy to have the umbrella because the rainfall had increased, and the wind had picked up. She scrambled into her car and drove home, the wipers barely keeping up with the deluge. She flipped on all the lights in her apartment and drew the drapes tightly closed. She turned on the TV after undressing for bed but turned it off after only a few minutes. The movies being played were scary ones, and the news channels reported nothing but bloodshed, including a gang slaying in town that had taken the lives of three young men. She turned off the living room lights and climbed into bed with a book she’d started, a thriller set in Washington that wasn’t any more relaxing than TV had been.

  She clicked off the bedside lamp and thought about Nate Cousins and the dinner they’d enjoyed together that evening. That reflection was comforting. But a vision of Eugene Waksit kept getting in the way, causing her to toss and turn. Finally, unable to fall asleep, she got up, went to the living room where she checked that the door was securely locked, returned to bed, and opened the book again.

  Two hours later sleep finally arrived, the windblown volley of raindrops against the window panes providing white noise.

  CHAPTER

  20

  Jayla’s kiss stayed with Nate Cousins as he headed toward his apartment on Capitol Hill. But instead of going home he went into Lounge 201, a popular bar with a genteel atmosphere and less noise than other drinking establishments in the area. He ordered a single-malt scotch, neat, and found a secluded corner table where he sipped his drink and put his thoughts in order.

  He’d promised Renewal’s CEO Walt Milkin a call following his dinner date with Jayla, and worked to summon the motivation to place it.

  His initial dates with Jayla for drinks and dinner had been at Milkin’s urging, and Cousins suffered guilt over it. The CEO had stressed to Cousins his interest in the work that Jayla’s father had been doing, and made it plain to him that he wanted—needed—to learn more about it. Not that spending time with Jayla was a hardship: “Somebody’s got to do it” came to mind. She was a stunning woman; had she been from a more advanced country he had no doubt that she could have entered and won every beauty contest available, maybe even going on to a Miss World or Miss Universe title. On top of her physical beauty was a heightened intelligence. Beauty and brains. What a combination.

  But while those initial dates had been at the urging of the man who wrote the monthly checks for Cousins’s PR agency, their time spent together had raised his appreciation of her to a new level. What he’d impetuously said at the end of dinner accurately reflected his feelings.

  Milkin had told Cousins to call him at home no matter what the hour. As much as he would have liked to have skipped it, he knew that wouldn’t be prudent. He ordered another drink and pulled out his cell phone.

  “Hello Nate,” Milkin said heartily. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you.”

  “Dinner ran later than expected,” said Cousins.

  “Must have been an especially pleasant one.”

  “Yes, it was very nice. We went to Bistro Du Coin on Connecticut.”

  “One of my favorites. So, how is our up-and-coming star, Dr. King?”

  “Jayla is fine. I admire how she’s dealt with the death of her father.”

  “Especially considering that it was a brutal murder. Did she talk much about him?”

  “About his research?”

  “Yes.”

  “Some.”

  Milkin filled in the ensuing pause. “And?” he said.

  “Nothing specific.”

  Cousins could see Milkin’s displeasure with his response during the next gap in the conversation.

  “What about the father’s assistant, Eugene Waksit? Was he mentioned?”

  “Ah, yes he was, Walt. I brought up the possibility that Waksit had been the one to steal her father’s research notes. She obviously doesn’t want to think badly of Waksit but she did acknowledge the possibility that he was the one who took them.”

  “Does she know where he is?”

  “No. I made the suggestion that we hire someone to locate him.”

  “Good idea.”

  “She didn’t see it that way,” said Cousins, taking a silent sip.

  “I want to find him,” Milkin said firmly.

  “I could hire someone but…”

  “But what?”

  “It seems unnecessary,” Cousins said. “Jayla is convinced that Waksit will simply drop his claim to having been the recipient of her father’s research and go on with his life.”

  “Maybe he can be convinced to do otherwise, and if he can’t, Jayla owes it to us to carry on at Renewal what her father had been doing.”

  Cousins wasn’t sure how to respond.

  Did Jalya owe Renewal Pharmaceuticals the results of her father’s work? He didn’t think so, but certainly wasn’t about to debate it with Milkin. He also questioned Milkin’s intense interest in King’s lab work. The maverick physician and researcher had concocted a crude painkiller using plants and herbs indigenous to Papua New Guinea, and had tested it on patients who’d visited his clinic. That was hardly a history of a drug’s development to cause anyone in the modern pharmaceutical world to salivate. If what King had come up with seemed to have alleviated their pain, it was probably the placebo effect at work. Much ado about nothing was Cousins’s unscientific view of it.

  “Have you pointed that out to her?” Cousins asked.

  “Not in so many words.”

  “Is the research he did really that important?” Cousins asked.

  “How can we know unless we see what he accomplished? As I’ve told you, there’s been talk about King at various conferences I’ve attended. Some paint him as a crackpot. Others have heard—and it’s all secondhand—that he was on to something. All I know, Nate, is that I owe it to Renewal’s stockholders to check it out. That’s what I’m depending on you for. You’ve gotten close to her. Use that relationship you’ve developed to get me the answers I need.”

  Cousins started to respond but Milkin said angrily, “And find this Eugene Waksit character. Between him and Jayla maybe we can determine just how successful King was in his lab.”

  “Yes, of course,” Cousins said.

  “While we’re on the phone, Nate, your contract renewal is up for review.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “We’ll need to meet about it.”

  “Whenever you say, Walt. Anything else?”

  “Not at the moment. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  Cousins reclined in his chair and held his glass in both hands, peering into the amber liquid. Milkin’s final comment about his contract being up for renewal wasn’t lost on him. The CEO was perfectly capable of canceling the contract without batting an eye; there were dozens of other agencies who would love to pick up the Renewal account. Cousins decided while nursing his drink that he would continue to try and learn from Jayla about her father’s research because chances were that it would amount to nothing. His developing “crush” on her was premature at best. Whether she would develop similar feelings for him was only conjecture. And if their personal relationship were to advance to something more meaningful, it didn’t preclude his meeting his business obligations to Renewal.

  Or did it?

  CHAPTER

  21

  Waksit spent one additional day and night at Nikki Dorence’s apartment. She’d made it plain, in a nice way, that she would be uncomfortable having him remain there when she was away attending the conference.

  “Hope you don’t mind finding another place,” she said over breakfast.

  “No, not at all. I called a few hotels while you were at work. A few of them are within my budget. I’ll be fine.”

  “Have you begun your talks with pharmaceutical companies?”

&n
bsp; “That’s on top of my agenda today,” he said. “Once I get settled in a hotel I’ll make my appointments. I’m really excited about it.”

  “You should be, and I’m sure they will be, too.”

  “Take your time leaving,” she said as she cleared plates from the small kitchen table. “Just be sure to close the door firmly behind you. It doesn’t always catch.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said brightly, tossing her a snappy salute.

  She laughed. “It’s really good seeing you again, Eugene.”

  “Same here.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial level. “I thought about making a move on you when you were in bed but decided not to.”

  Another laugh from her. “I’m glad you didn’t,” she said. “It would have spoiled things.”

  He watched her wheel a small suitcase from the apartment and get into a cab in front of the building. She’d be gone for two days, and he briefly considered staying at least an additional night, but thought better of it. After casually perusing her closet, dresser, and bedside table in search of nothing in particular—he took a pair of pink panties and a pink bra from the dresser which he held up and admired—he settled in front of the living room desk with his briefcase, pulled out notes he’d made on a yellow legal pad, and picked up the phone. The call was answered by the receptionist at Morrison Associates on K Street, N.W.

  “Mr. Morrison, please,” Waksit said.

  “Whom shall I say is calling?”

  “Eugene Waksit.”

  “Will Mr. Morrison know what this is in reference to?”

  “No, but he’ll want to speak with me.” He referred to his notes. “It’s regarding the work that I did with Dr. Preston King in Papua New Guinea to develop an advanced pain medication. I’m sure he’s heard about it.”

  “Please hold.”

  Waksit drew deep breaths as he waited for Morrison to come on the line, and debated what he would do if the lobbyist declined to take the call.

  “Hello?” a man’s voice said.

  “Mr. Morrison?”

  “Yes. What can I do for you?”

  “My name is Eugene Waksit, Mr. Morrison. I’m here in Washington to meet with pharmaceutical companies regarding the painkiller I developed with Dr. Preston King. I’m sure that you’re aware of the work we did.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve called the wrong person, Mr. Waksit. I’m a lobbyist for the Pharmaceutical Association of America. I’m not involved in any of the actual work our clients are engaged in.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that, Mr. Morrison, but surely you have a good insight into which companies might be interested in the results of the work Dr. King and I did. By the way, as you may know, Dr. King is deceased, the victim of a brutal stabbing in his lab. In appreciation of my contribution to the research he left everything to me. I’m here in Washington with the results of that research and—”

  “I’m afraid I have to cut this conversation short, Mr. Waksit. There’s a long-distance caller on my other line. If you’ll tell me how to reach you, I’ll run this by some of my people and get back to you.”

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Morrison, and I’ll wait for your call. I’m staying at the Embassy Inn on Sixteenth Street, Northwest.” He gave him the number.

  Waksit felt as though a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He’d made his initial contact, and thought the conversation had gone well. At least Morrison hadn’t blown him off.

  As he contemplated what might ensue next he realized that he’d better get to the hotel, at which he’d reserved an inexpensive room. Careful to fully close the apartment, he took his suitcase and briefcase to the curb, waved down a passing cab, and an hour later sat in his room, the briefcase at his feet, the phone inches away.

  Morrison’s reaction to the call was different. He’d developed a sweat during it and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. Who was this guy Waksit? He claimed to have worked with Dr. King in PNG. Not only that, he further claimed that King had willed him his research. He’d said that he assumed that he, Morrison, was aware that King was dead. Did he know something about the arrangement through Alard Associates to have the field burned and the notes taken from the lab? Alard had told him that his “operative” couldn’t go through with taking the notes because when he’d arrived at King’s lab the doctor was dead, murdered. Had his assistant Waksit taken the notes? Had he killed his boss?

  Other questions and thoughts assaulted him.

  Was this a setup? Had someone become aware that he had arranged for the destruction of King’s crops and was now building a case against him? His next thought brought about another burst of perspiration. Was someone trying to implicate him in King’s murder?

  His secretary entered the office.

  “I need you to sign some checks,” she said, a daily occurrence.

  “What?” he said. “Oh, checks. Later. I’m running late for a meeting.”

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Me? Oh, sure. Just pressed for time. I’ll be back after lunch.”

  He left the K Street building and took a taxi to the apartment he maintained a few blocks from the office, the apartment in which he and Paula Silver had often rendezvoused. He stripped off his suit jacket and dialed a number. After navigating a few voice prompts he reached the person he was calling, the VP of PAA’s biggest member and one of the world’s largest pharmaceutical companies.

  “We have to talk,” Morrison said.

  “I’m listening,” said the VP.

  “In person,” Morrison said. “Meet me in an hour.”

  “Hey, I can’t just run out because you tell me to. What’s this about?”

  “My apartment,” Morrison said firmly. “An hour. We have a problem, a big problem regarding Dr. King.”

  * * *

  Jayla spent the day at Renewal Pharmaceuticals immersed in the latest attempt to combine known chemical substances into a better painkiller. One of her male colleagues commented that she seemed distracted, nervous.

  “Me? No. Not at all. I just want to see this attempt reap some rewards.”

  But his observation had been accurate. She would lose herself in the task for a few minutes, but knowing that Waksit was in the United States intruded. She went through mental games, reminding herself that there was no reason to be upset at learning that he’d left PNG and was in the States. He’d said when they’d parted at the airport that he might visit her one day in Washington. What was wrong with that? The speculation that he might have been the one to take her father’s research notes from his lab was solely that, speculation. And the notion that he possibly was her father’s killer was—well, it was pure conjecture of the sort crime novelists conjure. Robert Brixton, Flo’s boyfriend, had even admitted that he was playing a novelist’s what-if game, creating fiction. He, she, or anyone else had no firm basis for thinking such dreadful thoughts.

  But hard as she tried, she couldn’t stop thinking of Waksit being closer. Eventually, as the day wore on, her reactions faded, and she became more relaxed. But vestiges of her visceral reactions followed her from Renewal’s headquarters in Bethesda and into her Foggy Bottom apartment. After doing a load of laundry and cleaning out a closet that she’d been meaning to get to for some time, she phoned Nate Cousins.

  “This is a pleasant surprise,” he said.

  “Hope I’m not taking you from something.”

  “Nothing as important as hearing from you. What’s up?”

  “I thought you might be free for dinner.”

  “As a matter of fact I am.”

  “That charming French place again, Bistro Du Coin?”

  “You liked it, huh?”

  “I loved it. You were right. The steamed mussels were wonderful. But one caveat.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This time it’s my treat. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  “I’ll be on my best listening behavior. I’ll pick you up in a half hour.”

  * *
*

  The VP was fifteen minutes late arriving at Morrison’s pied-à-terre. By the time he rang the buzzer Morrison was in a high state of anxiety. He’d continued to imagine scenarios regarding Waksit’s call, and none of them was pleasing.

  “What’s going on?” the VP asked when Morrison greeted him at the door.

  “Sit down and I’ll tell you about it,” Morrison said. “You want a drink, coffee?”

  “I want to get back to the office.”

  “I received a call this morning from a guy named Waksit, Eugene Waksit.”

  “So? Who’s he?”

  “He was Dr. Preston King’s assistant in Papua New Guinea.”

  That got the VP’s attention.

  Morrison went on to replay the gist of Waksit’s call. He finished with, “He must know something about me arranging to have the doctor’s field burned. As you know, the doctor’s murder made getting ahold of his notes impossible. I might add that I still had to pay the total bill. The people I contracted to do the job—”

  The VP held up his hand. “I’m not interested in who you hired, Eric, and don’t want to know.”

  His words hit home to Morrison. The meaning was clear. Whatever fallout might occur as a result of him having entered into an agreement with Alard Associates would be his problem, and his alone. Until Waksit’s call he’d forgotten about the deal he’d struck with Alard to destroy the crops and get the notes. If he never saw the slick little French con man again it would be too soon. But now his connection with Dr. Preston King, as tangential as it might have been, had come to life, and he could only wonder what it meant.

  “Look,” the VP said, “I have to get back to headquarters. Why don’t you get together with this guy who claims to have the doctor’s research and see what he’s all about. Hell, maybe he’s invented the world’s next polio vaccine or morphine and we’ll make a fortune.”