Margaret Truman's Deadly Medicine Page 20

  “I was just going out,” she said.

  “Hopefully not for a date with someone else.”

  “As a matter of fact I’m going to see friends, Mac and Annabel Smith.”

  “My loss. I was hoping we could get together.”

  “I’d like that but—”

  “You’ve mentioned the Smiths before. They’re lawyers, right?”

  “Yes, although Annabel no longer practices. She owns a gallery in Georgetown. Mac left his teaching job at George Washington and is in private practice again. They’re terrific people. You’d like them and I know they’d like you.”

  “Is that an invitation to join you tonight?”

  “I wouldn’t be that presumptuous, Nate, but I can call and ask.”

  “Don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  “No trouble at all. Hold on. I’ll call them on my cell.”

  Annabel said they’d be delighted to meet Cousins, and Jayla relayed that to him. He said that he was still in the office but would leave in a half hour and meet her there.

  Because Cousins would be driving, Jayla would have a way of getting home. She took a cab to the Smiths’ and joined Brixton and Flo on the terrace where Annabel had set out a cheese platter to go with drinks. Jayla took her first sip of Chablis, sat back, closed her eyes, and sighed.

  “I should get a picture of you,” Flo said. “You look so relaxed.”

  Jayla’s eyes came open. “It’s the first relaxing moment I’ve had all day,” she said.

  “Tell us about this fellow who’s joining us,” Annabel said.

  “He used to be VP of public relations at Renewal where I work, but he left to open his own agency. Renewal is his biggest client.”

  “Is your relationship with him—serious?” Annabel asked. “Hope I’m not getting too personal.”

  Jayla laughed. “Not at all,” she said. “Nate and I are at that stage where we’re finding out who we are and whether we like what we’ve learned about each other. At the moment, I like what I’ve learned very much.” She decided to not repeat what he’d said about having fallen in love.

  “He’s a PR guy?” Brixton said.

  “Yes.”

  “You trust him?”

  The others looked quizzically at Brixton.

  “I just mean that I’ve known a few PR guys and—”

  “Your drink needs refreshing,” Annabel said, taking Brixton’s glass and disappearing into the kitchen.

  Brixton changed the subject. “What’s new with the investigation into your father’s death?” he asked her.

  “Robert, maybe she’d like to relax with her wine before you start cross-examining her,” Flo said.

  “That’s okay, Flo.” Jayla looked at Brixton. “Nothing that I know of.”

  Mac, who’d just joined them, said, “I thought you’d want to see this e-mail I received an hour ago from your attorney in PNG.” He handed the printout to her.

  “What’s it say?” Brixton asked.

  Jayla read aloud.

  Dear Mackensie. Greetings from Papua New Guinea. Hope all is well with you. I thought you’d be interested in the latest developments regarding the murder of Dr. King’s trusted assistant, Mr. Tagobe. The gentleman who’d been accused of having killed him, Mr. Paul Underwood, has himself died. As I told you the last time we spoke, the authorities in Wewak had taken him in for questioning in Tagobe’s death, which as you know, he claimed had been a matter of self-defense. Although I’m not privy to all the details, it seems that the authorities here in Port Moresby have confirmed that Underwood worked for an organization called Alard Associates, and was in Port Moresby the night Dr. King was killed. Based upon that he was taken to the Bomana prison in Port Moresby for further questioning. Unfortunately, before questioning could commence, Underwood was found dead in his cell, the apparent victim of suicide by hanging. As you may or may not know, corruption runs rampant among our police force and prison guards, and from what I’ve been told it was unlikely that Underwood would have taken his life in this way. An inquiry is under way. I’ll let you know of any future developments. My best to Jayla. Elgin Taylor.

  “That’s three,” Brixton muttered.

  “Three?” Flo said.

  “Three dead,” Brixton said, “Dr. King, his native assistant, and now the guy who probably killed that assistant.” He grunted. “What about this Whatsit character who worked with your father?”

  Smith said, “Jayla called earlier to say that she saw Waksit here in D.C.”

  “Is that good or bad?” Flo asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jayla said. “I can’t imagine him coming here without getting in touch with me.”

  “You don’t know why he’s here?” Annabel asked.

  “No, I don’t, unless he’s trying to interest a pharmaceutical company in my father’s research. He claims that dad left his lab results to him, which I don’t believe for a second. Mr. Taylor doesn’t buy it, either.”

  “You’re your father’s legal heir,” Smith said.

  “I know, but Eugene told the attorney that my father had verbally promised him the research before he died.”

  “That could carry a little weight,” Smith said, “especially if he had any witnesses. But it pales when compared to a notarized piece of paper. Speaking of that, I went over your employment contract with Renewal Pharmaceuticals. It isn’t exactly cut-and-dried, but it seems to me that if you turn over your father’s research to your employer for further development they, not you, would have a legitimate claim on it based upon the way the contract is worded.”

  “I was afraid you’d come to that conclusion,” Jayla said.

  “Unless, of course, you can negotiate a new contract with them that specifically excludes your father’s work,” Smith said. “Think they’d be amenable to that?”

  “I’d like to think so, but no. I have a feeling that Walt Milkin—he’s the top guy at Renewal—would balk. He’s asked me about it a few times. Evidently my father’s efforts weren’t as unknown in scientific circles as I’d assumed.”

  “You obviously can’t offer it to another pharmaceutical company while employed at Renewal,” Smith counseled. “You’d have to resign first.”

  “Which I don’t want to do,” said Jayla. “I like working there.”

  “Maybe you and Waksit could team up,” Brixton suggested.

  Jayla emphatically shook her head. “That’s out of the question.”

  “I suspect that Robert wasn’t serious,” Smith said, looking at Brixton over raised bushy eyebrows.

  “Just thought I’d toss it into the conversation,” Brixton said, grinning.

  “The last time I was here you got on the phone with the lobbyist,” Jayla said to Brixton. “What was his name?”

  “Eric Morrison.”

  “You thought he might be involved in some way with what happened to my father and Walter Tagobe.”

  “I took a shotgun approach,” Brixton said, “fling out everything I’m thinking and see what gets a reaction.”

  “You raised the question of my father’s murder.”

  “That’s right, I did.”

  “And he denied any involvement in it.”

  “Right again. I also reminded him that he’d paid for a girl’s abortion back in Georgia on behalf of Senator Ronald Gillespie.”

  “Which he also denied, of course,” Annabel commented.

  “You’re following up this for Will Sayers,” Mac said.

  “He’s paying me,” said Brixton.

  Smith continued, “So you’re following two trails, the senator’s involvement in the girl’s pregnancy, and Jayla’s father’s murder.”

  “I’m being paid to run down the senator,” Brixton said. “Jayla’s father’s murder is off the meter, which doesn’t mean I’m not interested.”

  “You don’t have to do this for me,” Jayla said.

  “I know that,” Brixton replied, “but once something grabs me I have trouble letting go.”
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  “Amen to that,” Flo said, pleasantly.

  “So Waksit is here in D.C.,” Brixton continued.

  “Yes, I’m sure it was him,” Jayla said. “I only caught a glimpse but—”

  “And he hasn’t called you?” asked Annabel.

  “No. He was coming out of a parking garage near my apartment building. The doorman said no one had been there asking for me.”

  “Want me to find him?” Brixton asked bluntly.

  Another round of looks at him.

  “I’m curious, that’s all,” Brixton explained. “I’ve got a bad feeling about him.”

  Now all eyes went to Jayla.

  “I’m not sure I want to find him,” she said.

  “Up to you,” Brixton said. “Just thought I’d ask.”

  They were interrupted by a call from the doorman announcing the arrival of a guest. “Send him up,” Annabel said. Minutes later Nate Cousins was at the door holding a bouquet of flowers. Annabel welcomed him as he handed the flowers to her.

  “How lovely,” she said.

  “Lovely that you welcome me,” Cousins said.

  Jayla came to Cousins and he kissed her cheek. She led him to the terrace where hands were shaken and Smith delivered him a single-malt scotch.

  “Jayla tells us that you have your own public relations agency,” Flo said.

  “I haven’t had it very long,” Cousins said. He explained how he’d once worked at Renewal Pharmaceuticals but had left to open his own shop, with Renewal his prized account. “That’s how Jayla and I met.”

  The conversation shifted to a lively discussion about where to go for dinner. Brixton, as expected, nixed ethnic restaurants, and Flo expressed a yen for seafood. Mac ultimately acted as arbitrator and suggested the Occidental Grill & Seafood, which provided an acceptable compromise. He called, made a reservation, and the six of them set out for dinner at one of Washington’s iconic restaurants, the one-hundred-year-old gathering place of politicians, celebrities, and athletes whose photographs would look down on them as they ate.

  “Too expensive,” Brixton muttered in Flo’s ear.

  “We don’t go there every day,” she said.

  “What’s wrong with Martin’s Tavern?”

  “Relax and enjoy it, Robert. Think of yourself as a Washington mover and shaker.”

  His response was to growl and to keep his displeasure to himself for the rest of the evening.

  * * *

  Eugene Waksit hadn’t been thinking about dinner as the Smith entourage headed for Pennsylvania Avenue. He was in his hotel room planning his next move to try and interest a pharmaceutical company in Dr. Preston King’s research.

  He’d made an overture that afternoon to two smaller firms and was met with similar responses: they weren’t interested in developing pain medications. One woman he spoke with asked how it was that he was attempting to sell the research developed by King. “I’d heard about his lab experience using native plants from Papua New Guinea, but from what I’d learned his work was primitive and shoddy at best.”

  “I disagree,” Waksit replied angrily.

  “Besides,” said the woman, “he had a daughter who works at Renewal in Bethesda. Are you saying that the doctor left his research to you and not to his daughter?”

  Waksit stumbled through an explanation, which led the woman to thank him for the call and hang up in his ear.

  Waksit’s frustration and resulting anger stayed with him, and he tried to bring himself under control with a couple of drinks at a nearby bar before returning to his room. Now, having achieved a calmer state, he surveyed everything that had been contained in his briefcase.

  Along with King’s research results were the cash, the AmEx credit card, notes he’d made before leaving PNG, and the switchblade knife. There were other miscellaneous items in the briefcase, including a leather key case containing a variety of keys—the one for his apartment in Port Moresby, car keys for the Range Rover Dr. King had leased and loaned him, and a few assorted keys whose function he was unsure of. As he turned one of those unidentified keys over in his fingers its origin struck him. On Jayla’s last visit to Port Moresby, after she’d begun working and living in Washington, she’d wanted her father to have a key to her D.C. apartment for use whenever he found time to visit her there. King was busy seeing patients in the clinic and had asked Waksit to run to a locksmith and have a copy made for him. But Waksit had two copies made, one of which he’d kept—the key in his hand.

  He’d also been privy to e-mail correspondence between Jayla and her father, and had noted her father’s password on the pad of paper, which allowed him to log into the doctor’s account. He knew that his intrusion into their private communications would be viewed harshly by King, and he limited it to whenever the doctor was away from the house. There wasn’t a lot of e-mail between them, and Waksit found the scant exchanges boring and sappy.

  He put everything back into the briefcase except the key and a slip of paper on which he’d written Jayla’s address, slid the case under the bed and covered it with a towel, splashed cold water on his face, and left the room. Having returned his rental car earlier he hailed a cab and gave the driver the number of Jayla’s building in Foggy Bottom. He wasn’t sure why he was going there. It was probably a matter of taking an action rather than holing up in a hotel room and wallowing in indecision over what to do next. The notion of contacting Jayla and suggesting that they join forces in taking her father’s research to a new level evaporated from his mental list of possibilities as quickly as it surfaced.

  His relationship with Jayla had always been cordial—his few romantic overtures to her had been deftly sidestepped—and there had never been any overt hostility. But he’d always sensed her disdain for him, nothing overt, just an unstated attitude that said that she was superior to him, that she was her father’s daughter and he was just a hired hand. He often imagined her criticizing him to her father, taking advantage of being connected by blood and urging King to get rid of him. He’d once been accused by a college professor of being paranoid, and had researched paranoia, coming to the conclusion that his suspicions about people were valid. A friend had once quipped that being paranoid doesn’t necessarily mean that people aren’t following you, or trashing you behind your back.

  He had the driver let him off across the street from Jayla’s building. He stood there in the dark, his eyes focused on the entrance, which was visible between parked cars. The lobby was brightly lighted; the doorman sat at his appointed position, behind a podium. Waksit looked left and right before crossing the wide street, drew a breath, and entered the lobby.

  “Can I help you, sir?” the doorman asked.

  “I was just wondering if Ms. King was in,” Waksit said.

  “No,” the doorman said. “I saw her leave earlier in the evening.”

  “I guess I missed her,” Waksit said, shaking his head at his misfortune. “Thank you.”

  He walked to the end of the block before crossing to where he’d originally stood, shrouded in darkness, his view of the lobby unimpeded. When the doorman disappeared from the podium, Waksit crossed the street again, stopping behind one of the parked vehicles, a small panel truck a car length removed from the front entrance but still allowing Waksit to see the doorman when he returned. After a few minutes, a silver SUV pulled up and double-parked in front of the building. Waksit stepped behind the panel truck and watched as the doorman came from the building and greeted the SUV’s occupants, obviously tenants in the building. The man driving the SUV came around to the back and activated the tailgate, which slowly opened. The woman, presumably the man’s wife, also exited the vehicle and joined her husband and the doorman. The SUV was filled with packages. The doorman and the husband each removed two large, heavy cartons and followed the woman into the building. Waksit moved enough to have a wider view of the lobby. The two men and the wife got in the elevator and the doors closed.

  Waksit’s fear of what he was about to do paralyzed
him, but only for a moment. He quickly entered the building, located the stairwell, opened the door and stepped through it. He looked back through its small meshed window and saw no one. He knew that Jayla’s apartment was on the second floor, and he slowly, quietly ascended the stairs. He cracked opened the stairwell door on the second level and surveyed the hallway. He was alone. He checked numbers on doors until reaching her unit, took another look around, and inserted the key in the lock. The door opened and he tiptoed inside, gently closing the door to avoid making noise.

  He stood in the small foyer and took in his surroundings. Jayla had left two lamps burning, one on a table in the living room, the second on a pass-through from the kitchen to a small dining area. She’d left a radio on; strains of classical music came from it. He went to the window and looked out at the street. He didn’t know where she had gone, or what time she’d be home, and that realization stabbed his gut. The last thing he wanted was to be discovered there when she returned.

  Her desk was near the window, and he sat at it. Her computer was off. He located the on-off switch and turned it on. When the prompt came asking for her password, he froze. Seconds later her homepage filled the screen, a colorful scene from the Papua New Guinea jungle. The fool; she didn’t use a password at home. He moved the mouse to guide the cursor to her e-mail icon, activated it, and was rewarded with a list of e-mail messages in her Inbox.

  There were only three new messages received that day. The first was from someone named Cousins. Waksit read it. Cousins, whoever he was, had written that he enjoyed the last time they were together, and hoped that they could do it again soon. He also wrote that he was also willing to have another discussion with Jayla about her father’s research, and what she might want to do with it.

  “Do with it?” Waksit said aloud. “I have the research.”

  The second e-mail was from a dress shop in Georgetown informing Jayla that new models from the California designer had arrived: “I know some of them would be perfect for you,” she concluded.

  It was the third e-mail that startled him. It was a copy sent to Jayla of an e-mail Preston King’s attorney in PNG, Elgin Taylor, had sent to someone named Mackensie Smith. It was only an hour old. He read it slowly, and then a second time.