Margaret Truman's Deadly Medicine Read online

  “Yes, I think I do.”

  She dragged a green leather photo album from where it shared space with books on a bookcase and flipped the pages until reaching what she was looking for. “Here he is,” she said, handing the book to Brixton.

  The photo was of Waksit posing with Jayla’s father. Waksit had his arm around the physician and a big smile on his face.

  “Looks like they got along pretty good,” Brixton commented.

  “Eugene could be charming,” she said. “I don’t think that my father ever looked beyond that charm.”

  “Good-looking dude,” Brixton said. “Mind if I take this?”

  Jayla carefully removed the picture and handed it to Brixton.

  “I’ll swing by this Nikki Dorence’s place on my way back to the office and see if Mr. Waksit is sitting in front sunning himself. Probably not, but sometimes you get lucky.”

  “I appreciate you doing this, Robert.”

  “Hey, what’s a friend for? Besides, Mac Smith wants this resolved. Whatever Mackensie wants, Mackensie gets.”

  She laughed. “You sound like that song about Lola from Damn Yankees.”

  “Yeah, I guess it did come out that way. You know, because the police back in PNG want to talk to Waksit again, I might be able to get the local PD to lend a hand in finding him. I still have friends there.”

  “Whatever you think is best.”

  On his way out he asked about Nate Cousins. During Brixton’s visit and the locksmith’s arrival Jayla had pushed aside thoughts of having given Cousins her father’s research results.

  “He’s fine,” she said, her face creased.

  “Nice guy. Say hello for me.”

  * * *

  Eric Morrison’s three o’clock meeting with George Alard of Alard Associates had not gone smoothly.

  “How can I again be of service to you?” Alard asked after Morrison had been seated in the sparsely furnished office.

  “I don’t know where to begin,” Morrison replied.

  “Try starting at the beginning,” Alard said through a slit of a smile, which annoyed the lobbyist, whose pique level was already high.

  “There’s a man, a private investigator here in Washington, who is threatening me.”

  Alard raised his eyebrows.

  “His name’s Brixton, Robert Brixton. He’s a lowlife, been in lots of trouble.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “He had his PI license pulled, shot a senator’s son, a whole lot of things.”

  “And you say he’s threatening you?”

  “Yes. He’s a loose cannon. Oh, and there’s a woman, Paula Silver, a former B-movie actress—actress? Ha!—try bitch. She says she’s writing a book about me and her—we had a short affair—and a situation I got involved with concerning a leading U.S. senator—oh, and the project you handled for me in Papua New Guinea—she wants money from me and—”

  “Is there anyone else threatening you?” Alard asked.

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  Alard shrugged his small shoulders and examined the fingernails on his right hand. He looked up at Morrison and said, “Is this Brixton fellow threatening you physically?”

  “No, but you never know about scum like this. I wouldn’t put anything past him. He knows a few things about me that are better left secret.” Thinking his statement might be misconstrued, he quickly added, “Not that I’ve done anything wrong but I know things about other people, important people, that are better kept—well, kept a secret.”

  Alard prefaced his next comment with an editorial sigh. “I’m sorry to hear about your troubles, Mr. Morrison, but I don’t see how I can be of help.”

  “You don’t? Listen, I know that you can do damn near anything you want if the price is right. What I want you to do is get these losers off my back. Chances are they’re just looking for a payoff. I know that Paula is. She’ll probably get lost for ten grand. Brixton, he won’t come that cheap, maybe twice that.”

  “I don’t understand, Mr. Morrison,” Alard said. “If all it will take is money why don’t you simply pay them yourself? My second bit of advice is that once you pay someone off, as you put it, it won’t be the end of them. They’ll come back for more.”

  Morrison felt his anxiety, coupled with rage, rise.

  “Look,” he said, “I have a reputation here in D.C., which I’m sure you know. Pay them off myself? Getting my hands dirty by meeting with these two and handing over cash won’t do that reputation any good. I want it to come from a third party.”

  Alard started to say something, but Morrison interrupted. “That’s what you do, isn’t it, do what other people don’t want to do? I mean, paying somebody off isn’t beneath you, right?” He forced a laugh to soften what he said. “Look, let’s face it, you didn’t hesitate to burn the doctor’s plot of land in Papua New Guinea or arrange to steal his research. I never asked how the doc died. I have my own theory about that but what you did is your business.”

  Alard grunted. Had he spoken what he was thinking his words would not have pleased Morrison.

  “So all I want from you, or the people who work for you, is to buy off these two clowns and make sure they understand that if they make any more trouble they’ll have to—well, you know what I mean. Scare ’em off. Don’t get me wrong. No rough stuff, maybe just some harsh words that’ll get their attention and make them think twice about threatening me again. How much do you want for your service?”

  “I’ll have to give this some thought, Mr. Morrison.”

  “You want to think about it? What’s to think about? If it’s money there’s no problem. Just tell me your fee and you’ll get it.”

  “I don’t rush into things, Mr. Morrison,” Alard said. “I’m sure that you can appreciate that.”

  “Yeah, sure, I’m cautious, too, only I don’t want to see this situation drag on. There’s no telling what this Brixton might do, go to the press with his claims, who knows? There’s a lot at stake, Alard, including the reputation of a leading U.S. senator.”

  Morrison calling Alard by his last name nettled him but he didn’t say it. Instead, he said, “I might be able to help, Mr. Morrison. I take it that it is this Mr. Brixton who you are most concerned about.”

  “That’s right. Paula Silver, she’s a drunk with a big mouth. Writing a book? That’ll be the day. A few bucks and she’ll leave town. But Brixton’s a different story. I don’t care what you have to do to shut him up, get him the hell out of my hair. By the way, you’ll also be doing the country a favor, a big favor. Brixton is out to take down this senator, which would be a tragedy.”

  A tragedy for you? Alard mused.

  “Here’s what I suggest, Mr. Morrison.” Alard picked up a slip of paper, wrote on it, and handed it to Morrison.

  “What’s this?”

  “A secure number for you to call to inform me when and where you and Brixton will be meeting.”

  “Why. Whose number is it?”

  “Do you have a problem with this, Mr. Morrison?”

  “No, no problem, it’s just that—”

  “I suggest that you arrange to meet with this Brixton fellow as soon as possible, perhaps tomorrow night, say at eleven o’clock.”

  “Meet with him? I want nothing to do with him.”

  “Be that as it may, Mr. Morrison, it is the way I wish to proceed, assuming of course that you still want my services.”

  “I—I just want Brixton to go away.”

  “Which is the outcome I’m offering.”

  “Okay. So you want me to get ahold of Brixton and arrange to meet him tomorrow. Where?”

  Alard wrote on a second sheet of paper and handed it to Morrison. “It’s a secluded area along the river in southwest D.C., Gravelly Point, a few miles north of Reagan Airport. It runs parallel to the George Washington Memorial Parkway on the Mount Vernon Trail.”

  “Why there?”

  “Because it is sufficiently secluded, Mr. Morrison, unless you would prefer
to meet Mr. Brixton on the stage at the Kennedy Center.”

  “I don’t need your sarcasm, Alard.”

  “Then you will meet him there and perhaps find out more about what he knows about you and this senator and anything else you’re concerned about.”

  “That’s it? We just talk?”

  “Talk, and offer him the twenty thousand dollars you will have with you.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Morrison. “Where do you come in?”

  “I will arrange for someone to be there in the event Mr. Brixton balks, makes trouble for you. Hopefully, the money will smoothly change hands and your troubles with this gentleman will be over, assuming, of course, that you are correct in judging him as someone who can easily be bought off.”

  “I’m guessing but—”

  “Hopefully your guess is a good one. Should Mr. Brixton take the money but not agree to let up on his threats to you, my colleague who will be there—discreetly I assure you—will step in and make Mr. Brixton see the wisdom of getting out of your life and—and out of the life of this unnamed senator.”

  “Who is he?” Morrison asked.

  “A trusted aide. It isn’t necessary to know his name. Mr. Smith, or Mr. Jones, whatever you’re comfortable with.”

  “What will he say to Brixton? Do to him?”

  Alard shook his head and waved a hand in frustration. “Mr. Morrison,” he said, “I do not have time to take you by the hand and lead you through this. You’re free to simply meet with Brixton without my operative, give him the money, and hope that he sees the wisdom of bowing out. If he doesn’t—well, that’s your problem.”

  “But this operative of yours. What can he possibly do to make that point?”

  Alard smiled in response. “Mr. Morrison,” he said, “you may be a successful lobbyist here in Washington, D.C., but you are also a very naïve man.”

  “What about your fee?”

  Alard cracked a rare smile. “Mr. Morrison, you and I have done business before. You’ve proved that you’re an honorable man who pays his debts. My fee will be ten thousand. You can pay me after we’ve concluded our business with Mr. Brixton.”

  “Glad you see it that way. Look, Alard, I don’t want any funny business, okay? Frankly, I wasn’t happy the way the last project worked out. You never got the doctor’s research results but insisted I had to pay the entire fee. Don’t get me wrong, I know that you and your people work in the shadows and don’t mind getting your hands dirty. But I think that you owe me. As far as I know you also—well, took care of the doctor—which, I remind you, I specifically forbid. Whatever you and your so-called operative did to the doctor is our little secret. Right? Just so we understand each other.”

  Morrison had been tempted to thank Alard for his not wanting his fee up front but decided not to bother. He intensely disliked the man and wasn’t in the mood to thank him for anything.

  “I still don’t like having to call this bozo and arrange a meeting with him. I’d rather stay out of it, completely out of it.”

  “Do you expect me to call him?” Alard said. “He won’t respond to me. When you place the call say that you wish to cooperate with him. Tell him that you wish to give him a sizable gratuity. Offer to share with him the information he is seeking about this senator. Tell him anything that will entice him to meet with you.”

  Morrison pouted, his mouth moving silently as though chewing on what to say next. Finally he said, “All right, Alard. I’ll call and see if he’ll meet with me.”

  “And if he does agree, call the number I’ve given you and inform us. You know where the meeting will take place.”

  “Gravelly Point,” Morrison muttered. “Yeah, I’ll find it.”

  “Eleven o’clock.” Alard checked his watch. “I have another appointment,” he said. “Are we going forward with what I have suggested or—?”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay, Alard. You’re calling the shots. I just hope it works out better than the last time we got together.”

  After Morrison had left, Alard called someone in MPD’s firearms registration section who’d been of help to Alard in the past.

  “I need to know about a concealed weapon permit issued to a private detective, Robert Brixton,” Alard said.

  His MPD contact checked his computer files and came back on the line within minutes. “I’ve got it here,” he said. “Robert Brixton. He carries a Swiss-made Sig Sauer P226 pistol, nine millimeter, with a heavy double-action trigger. You need the serial number?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” Alard said. “Thank you. Payment will be sent the usual way.”

  * * *

  While Morrison met with Alard, Brixton drove to where Nikki Dorence lived, parked across the street, and casually eyed the entrance to her apartment building. He didn’t expect to see anything or anyone of interest, certainly not Eugene Waksit, but the act of being there gave him a certain satisfaction.

  Waksit sat inside the apartment, unaware that a private investigator was outside. The photos of Dr. King dead on the floor of his lab were lined up on a coffee table. Waksit had looked at them whenever he was alone, fixated on the doctor’s face and the pool of blood in which he lay. Nikki was at work and wouldn’t be home until later in the evening, something about a dinner and meeting to attend. His agitation level was elevated, and he moved the heel of his left and right foot up and down in rapid succession. He was befuddled, couldn’t decide what his next move was.

  He’d been close to picking up the phone and calling Eric Morrison again in the hope of convincing him that the research he possessed would be extremely valuable to one of Morrison’s pharmaceutical clients. But each time he reached for the phone he pulled back. He wasn’t sure that he could deal with another harsh rejection.

  He also pondered calling Jayla King. But what would he say? That he had her father’s research results and was willing to partner with her in seeking a company to further develop it? He tried to conjure what her view of him might be at that moment, and the picture he painted wasn’t positive.

  And there was the message he’d read on Jayla’s computer about the authorities in Papua New Guinea wanting to question him again about Dr. King’s murder. That posed another decision to be made. Should he contact the PNG police and submit to their stupid questions? No, he couldn’t do that. Chances were they’d make him a scapegoat in order to boast at having solved the crime. He also considered contacting the PNG attorney with whom he’d spoken about having been verbally deeded the results of King’s research. He ruled that out, too. The attorney, whom he’d met on occasion when he’d visited King, was a pompous ass who was probably in cahoots with the local police.

  Finally, after giving himself a pep talk, he pulled himself together to a degree and called the office of Eric Morrison.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman who answered said, “but Mr. Morrison isn’t available at the moment. I’ll be happy to take a message for him.”

  “No, that’s okay. No, tell him that Eugene Waksit called again. I have something new and exciting to talk to him about.”

  He couldn’t see the amused expression on the woman’s face as she jotted the message on a pink pad. “Is there anything else?” she asked.

  “No, I’ll—”

  “Do you have a number where he can reach you?”

  “No. I’ll call again.”

  The woman was truthful when she’d said that Morrison wasn’t available.

  He’d returned from his meeting with George Alard and secluded himself in his office with orders not to be disturbed. The moment he’d left Alard he’d been swamped with second thoughts about the plan to buy off Brixton. What was most upsetting was having to personally take part in the meeting. He couldn’t understand why Alard, or one of his so-called operatives, couldn’t just meet with Brixton and hand him the money, paired, of course, with the sternest of warnings to get off Morrison’s case and never bother him again.

  He justified having agreed to Alard’s plan based upon wha
t he considered necessity. Someone like George Alard operated in the shadows; Morrison certainly did not want the sun to shine on what he intended to do about Robert Brixton. Alard did business in a netherworld, a world that Morrison wished he’d never entered. But now that he had, he wanted it over and done with.

  He knew one thing for certain. Once Brixton was out of the picture he’d see to it that Senator Ronald Gillespie was made fully aware of the sacrifice he’d made on his behalf. Gillespie owed him big-time and he intended to cash in on that debt.

  He drew a deep breath and called Brixton’s cell number. Brixton still sat in front of Nikki Dorence’s building hoping that Waksit would make an appearance, and was about to leave when the phone sounded.

  “Mr. Brixton?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Eric Morrison. We’ve spoken before.”

  “Morrison. Sure. Good hearing from you.”

  “Is this a good time to talk?”

  “I can’t think of a better one. What’s on your mind?”

  “I would like to meet with you,” Morrison said, working to keep his voice calm.

  “Yeah?”

  What was this all about? Brixton mused. Why would he want to meet?

  “Why?” Brixton asked.

  Morrison had decided to not mention the $20,000 payoff he was prepared to offer in return for Brixton dropping queries into his life. When Brixton had called earlier he’d asked about Senator Gillespie and the abortion, as well as about Dr. King’s research and plot of land on PNG. He’d wanted information about those events. Offering it stood the best chance of wooing Brixton to a meeting.

  “I have information,” Morrison said, “about Senator Gillespie.”

  “I’m listening,” Brixton said.

  “I don’t want to talk on the phone,” Morrison said.

  Where’s this going? Brixton wondered.

  “All right,” Brixton said. “Lunch? Dinner? My treat—provided the information you have is worth anything.”

  Morrison hoped that the laugh he forced sounded dismissive and wise. “Oh, no,” he said, “It can’t be a public place. I’m really sticking my neck out. I’m sure you understand that.”

  It made sense, Brixton decided.