Margaret Truman's Deadly Medicine Read online

  Brixton said nothing for a few seconds. Then, he said, “I have, sort of. I figure that she’d want me to keep living my life the best way I know how.”

  Fowler sat silently, suppressing a smile. It was what he’d told Brixton in an earlier session, and what he wanted to hear from him.

  They talked about other aspects of Brixton’s life, including his relationship with Flo.

  “We talked last night about maybe getting married,” Brixton said.

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Did you come to a decision?”

  “No. Flo’s gun-shy when it comes to making that commitment with me. I can be a jerk sometimes, you know, a pain in the ass. I don’t bend easy.”

  “Bringing her flowers on the spur of the moment says something about your ability to, well, to bend.”

  “It felt good.”

  “Which is all that matters. Afraid our time is up, Robert.”

  “It goes fast.”

  “That’s a good sign. See you again, or do you feel we’ve accomplished all that we can?”

  “I wouldn’t mind coming again,” Brixton said.

  “Good. Make an appointment with my receptionist. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  CHAPTER

  29

  If anyone needed a shrink that morning it was the lobbyist Eric Morrison, preferably a psychiatrist who could administer some sort of potent calming fluid.

  He’d made an appointment to see George Alard, head of Alard Associates, at three that afternoon. That was reason enough for his general feeling of dread as he climbed out of bed and made a cup of coffee into which he added a shot of bourbon, followed by two breath mints.

  “Busy day?” his wife, Peggy Sue, asked as she padded into the kitchen.

  “Huh?” Morrison said, not turning from the window through which he gazed out over their large property.

  “I asked if you have a busy day in store,” she said.

  He faced her. “Yeah, a busy day, a very busy day.”

  * * *

  It had also been a busy night in bed for him. No matter how hard he’d tried he was unable to get the phone call from Robert Brixton out of his thoughts. The private investigator was there with him no matter which side he lay on. He tried what mind tricks he knew, including counting sheep, which he’d abandoned after only a dozen of the furry creatures had cleared the fence.

  He hoped his constant twisting and turning wouldn’t wake Peggy Sue, and considered giving up and spending the rest of the night in his office chair. But sleep eventually overtook his heightened anxiety and he quickly got out of bed at the sound of the alarm clock and headed for the kitchen.

  Once away from his wife, he verbalized some of his thoughts, speaking in hushed tones to the coffeemaker, or to the birds happily gorging themselves at a large feeder on the deck. “Son of a bitch” was said frequently, along with “Who the hell do you think you are?” and “I’ll bury you.”

  But then another target of his anger replaced Brixton, Senator Ronald Gillespie, whose face filled his mental screen. “Damned old fool,” he mumbled. “If you’d kept your zipper up none of this would be happening.”

  But Gillespie hadn’t kept his zipper up, and here he, Eric Morrison, was once again in the position of bailing out the esteemed senator from Georgia by using the services of George Alard, who would undoubtedly do anything for a buck—like himself quickly crossed his mind and was summarily dismissed.

  Brixton had mentioned during his phone call the burning of Dr. King’s acreage on Papua New Guinea, and had even insinuated that whoever Alard had commissioned to do the deed might also have killed the PNG physician. As much as Morrison wanted to dismiss Brixton as a money-grubbing troublemaker without teeth, the investigator obviously knew quite a bit about Gillespie’s extracurricular sexual activities. Too, Brixton was aware of Morrison’s involvement with the King fiasco. In other words, he couldn’t blithely dismiss the investigator’s message. Both involved him, Eric Morrison, powerful, upstanding Washington, D.C., lobbyist with a family to feed and a lifestyle to support.

  * * *

  “Die!” he’d muttered to the imaginary Brixton just before Peggy Sue had arrived in the kitchen. “Have a heart attack and die!”

  “Who are you talking to?”

  “Oh, no one, I’m just—I was talking to myself.”

  She laughed. “I hope you’re not going insane, Eric.”

  He laughed. “Insane? Me? No. I just have a lot on my mind, that’s all. I’d better get a move on.”

  She stopped him as he was leaving. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “You’ve been really uptight lately, wound tighter than—what’s wound tight?”

  “A spring,” he said.

  “A spring.”

  “No, I’m fine, sweetheart, just overloaded with work. Time for us to get on a ship someplace and enjoy a few weeks away together.”

  “I’d love that.”

  “Then start planning. You’re good at that. See ya.”

  As she watched him go up the stairs to the bedroom level of their spacious home her creased face mirrored her concern. He had been acting strangely lately, walking around as though tethered to a weighty rock that threatened to drag him into some abyss. She was aware that he was busy, that he worked hard at the lobbying firm he’d launched after working in government, but knew virtually nothing of his day-to-day activities. It was time for them to get away on a vacation, and she pulled out their phone book, found the number for their travel agent, and left it open to that page as she, too, started her day under hot water of a different sort.

  Morrison was dressed in his usual business attire by the time Peggy Sue emerged from her bathroom and had dressed in gardening clothes. They kissed in the driveway before Morrison climbed into his Jaguar and headed for his office on K Street, where D.C. lobbying groups of any worth were located. He gave a curt hello to others as he passed through the outer offices and settled in his corner space whose floor-to-ceiling windows afforded him a splendid view of the city. His secretary brought him coffee and the day’s paper, along with a list of phone messages to be returned. He’d managed to calm his jangled nerves during the drive from home, but the sight of one name on the list brought back his angst.

  Paula Silver.

  What the hell did she want?

  Why was she calling him?

  They’d broken off their fling more than a year ago. As far as Morrison was concerned he’d treated her decently, showed her a good time on his dime, and even gave her cash the night he’d ended the affair. He’d enjoyed their tryst. Paula was good-looking in a crude, sexy sort of way, and was hot in bed. But he considered her a mental lightweight and had soon grown tired of their inane conversations, made worse by her drinking.

  He ignored the call until ten minutes later when she called again.

  “Tell her you’re not here?” his secretary asked, sensing his discomfort.

  “No, I’ll take it,” he growled.

  “Paula?”

  “That’s right, it’s me.”

  “How’ve you been?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “Oh? Sorry to hear that.”

  “You can make it better,” she said, slowly, as though unsure whether the words would come out as intended.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m writing a book,” she said.

  “You’re writing a—what kind of book?”

  “About us.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” he said, pushing back in his red leather executive chair and rubbing his eyes with his free hand.

  “Did you hear me?”

  Morrison came forward and glanced at his door to be sure that no one was about to interrupt.

  “Yeah, I heard you, Paula. A book about us? That’s ridiculous.”

  “No it isn’t. It’ll be about you and me, and how you used me the way you use everybody, especially politicians like Senato
r Gillespie, and others, too. I know how you pay off congressmen and senators to get them to vote the way you want them to vote. I know everything, Eric, everything, and I’m going to tell it in my book.”

  He drew a breath before saying in measured tones, “Look, Paula, listen to me. You may think you want to write a book, but believe me when I say that it’ll never happen. What do you plan to do, tell the world that we slept together? Big deal.” It occurred to him that the conversation might be taped and was sorry he’d acknowledged their intimacy. “And if you think you can get away with telling tales out of school about Ron—about Senator Gillespie, you’ll be laughed out of town. He’s a popular U.S. senator, for Christ’s sake. Have you lost your mind?”

  He heard her take a sip of something and was sure it wasn’t iced tea.

  Her laugh was pointed, harsh. “You think you’re such a big shot with your fancy offices and credit cards and hobnobbing with the rich and famous. Well, Mr. Big Shot, I have friends, too, who know all about you and your dirty deals.”

  He started to say something but a knock on his door diverted his attention. His secretary poked her head in but he waved her away.

  “You listening, Mr. Big Shot?” Paula said. He didn’t respond. “I’m working with a researcher who has the goods on you and how you paid for Gillespie’s abortion for that young girl, and how you and your precious buddy Howie pay everybody off.”

  “A researcher?” Morrison said.

  “That’s right, a researcher, and he knows plenty.”

  “Who is this researcher?”

  “You don’t know him, Eric, but you will plenty soon.”

  “There’s no researcher working with you on your stupid book,” Morrison said.

  She snorted. “No? You’re wrong. If you must know, his name is Brixton, Robert Brixton, and we’ve already started working together.”

  Morrison swallowed hard, which was heard on Paula’s end.

  “What do you want, Paula?”

  “I want money so I can get out of this town. I figure that since you’re used to paying off people to get your way, people like Senator Gillespie, you’ll come up with something for me, you know, for old times’ sake.”

  “That’s a threat, Paula?”

  This time her laugh was smug. “Call it whatever you want. You have my number and know the dump I work in. Get back to me in a couple of days, Eric. Bye-bye.” She delivered her final words in a syrupy southern accent.

  Morrison slammed down the phone. “Bitch!” he muttered, and said it twice more. He checked his watch. A few minutes past eleven. His meeting with Alard was at three. He was aware that his hands shook and he clasped them together. It was like what they called a “perfect storm” hitting him, and it all centered on this private investigator Brixton. How did he hook up with Paula Silver and convince her to talk about Gillespie and his teenage lover? When Brixton had called he’d also referred to the Dr. Preston King episode on Papua New Guinea. How was he involved in that? And there was the obnoxious guy from PNG, Eugene Waksit, who worked as King’s assistant and was trying to peddle the doctor’s research, if there was anything to peddle in the first place. He’d brushed Waksit off, but maybe King’s assistant knew something that he hadn’t shared with Morrison. Was Brixton also involved in some way with Waksit? If so, the guy sure got around.

  It all added up to problems on myriad fronts, and each one involved Robert Brixton. The question for Morrison as he sat at his desk and chewed on a thumbnail was what to do about it. As much as he didn’t want to deal with the services offered by George Alard, his three o’clock meeting with him was suddenly appealing.

  CHAPTER

  30

  After Brixton left the psychologist’s office he took a call on his cell phone from Will Sayers.

  “What’s up?” Brixton asked.

  “Lots,” Sayers said. “Thought you might be interested in getting together this morning.”

  “Sounds okay, only I was going to spend some time digging into Alard Associates. I’ve learned that one of its people—an operative I guess he’s called—was found hanging in his cell in Papua New Guinea. Seems he’d been in Port Moresby the night Dr. King was killed. This is the same guy who not only got rid of the doctor’s plot of land, he also killed the doc’s native helper.”

  “Sounds like a sterling fellow,” Sayers said. “Good timing that you called, Robert. I was going to bring you up to date on some snooping of my own that I’ve done into Alard Associates.”

  “It’s a deal. You show me yours, I’ll show you mine. By the way, have you figured out yet how to use that new coffeemaker? If you’re still pouring instant coffee I’m suddenly unavailable.”

  “Only the best for you, Bobby.”

  Brixton growled into the phone.

  “Sorry, Robert, I lost my head. See you within the hour.”

  Sayers was watching TV when Brixton arrived. The president was in the midst of a news conference at which he’d responded to a question about a private security firm working under contract in Afghanistan to protect embassy workers. Two members of that firm had been accused of gunning down an Afghanistan family of six, and the Afghan government was calling for their indictment.

  “I have instructed the Justice Department to look into this allegation,” the president said, “and I expect their findings to be available within three months.”

  “Three months!” Sayers blurted, angrily turning off the TV. “Hell, take three years while you’re at it. Just another inquiry that’ll go nowhere. These private security firms get away with murder every day. There’s no oversight, no military rules of engagement for them. They’re a bunch of macho cowboys who can’t make it in a normal job and head overseas where they can shoot off their mouths and guns and get away with it no matter how many innocent people they kill.”

  When Will Sayers was angry his voice boomed, and his face turned crimson. At such times Brixton feared that the big journalist would have a heart attack and drop dead in front of him.

  “I could use a cup of coffee,” Brixton said.

  Sayers pointed to the kitchen.

  Brixton brewed a cup and brought it to where Sayers had settled behind his desk.

  “Well, here I am,” Brixton said. “What do you have on Alard Associates?”

  Sayers opened a file folder and withdrew some papers. “Let’s see,” he said, adjusting half-glasses on his nose, “it seems that Alard Associates is a specialty outfit that hires out to larger private security firms for work those larger firms don’t want to be bothered with—or linked with.”

  Brixton sipped his coffee, smacked his lips, and said, “Good coffee. I’m proud of you, Will.”

  “Did you come here this morning to talk about coffee, or shall we go further into what I’ve learned about Mr. Alard and his business?”

  “Don’t get your hackles up, Will. By all means let’s stick with the reason I’m here, which was not for a free cup of coffee. Okay, so Alard does jobs the bigger firms turn down. That rings to me of nasty kinds of work, wet jobs, illegal jobs. Am I right?”

  “Yes, you are right. Not that anyone has ever been able to pin anything on them. The group’s namesake, George Alard, is evidently a careful type, doesn’t take on assignments unless he’s confident that nothing can be traced back to him.”

  Brixton pondered what Sayers had said before asking, “Do all these jobs involve overseas assignments?”

  “For the most part but not every one. I have a good source who used to do contract work for Alard. He’s a good ol’ boy from your favorite city, Savannah, who came back from Afghanistan after a couple of tours with Special Forces with a chestful of medals for his sharpshooting skills, and a metal plate in his shaved head. He couldn’t find a job he liked back in the States so he signed up with a big security firm protecting our embassy people in Baghdad. He’s a hothead whose temper got him in trouble, so the firm got rid of him by sending him to Alard. The bigger firm has eight hundred security types in Iraq. Al
ard Associates employs maybe a hundred, mostly discards from the bigger firms. Anyway, my source tells me that he and some of the others have taken on assignments here in the States including—ready for this, Robert?”

  “Shoot.”

  “An apt word to use. My source was hired to assassinate a state politician in Georgia.”

  “Hired through Alard Associates?”

  “Yes, but that was never proved. My friend refused to reveal to the authorities who put him up to it, although he’s been a lot more forthcoming with me.”

  “He killed this politician?”

  “No. Fortunately the plot was thwarted before the trigger was pulled.”

  “What about your source?”

  “He came out of it relatively unscathed. The prosecutor, who rumor has it benefited substantially from an anonymous donor to his reelection campaign, decided to drop the charges for lack of evidence against my source. He walked free.”

  “And I suppose he’s now running for governor.”

  Sayers laughed heartily. “Not that bad, Robert, although he is doing quite well heading up a company that provides ghost tours of Savannah for tourists. It is, as you know, considered America’s most haunted city.”

  “So I remember. After I left the police force and put out my shingle, I hired a receptionist whose husband ran one of those ghost tours.”

  “Did you ever take one?”

  “Me? No. I don’t believe it ghosts. You?”

  “I’m open-minded. Have you had further discussions with Paula Silver about Senator Gillespie and the lobbyist Eric Morrison’s role in not burdening the senator with an illegitimate child?”

  “I plan to call her today, or maybe swing by the restaurant where she works. I’m not sure there’s anything else she can tell me. It’s not like she was directly involved. What she knows comes from pillow talk with Morrison.”

  “Still…”

  “I’ll take another stab at her.”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way around Lady Flo.”

  Brixton stayed another twenty minutes during which Sayers brought him further up to date about his research into Senator Gillespie and the illegitimate child he’d fathered, and the role that Morrison had played in arranging the abortion.