Margaret Truman's Deadly Medicine Read online

  After arriving at Renewal Pharmaceuticals she slipped a white lab coat over her dress and entered the lab where two male scientists were already busy. They’d worked as a team for more than a year in search of a more effective, less expensive painkiller without the addictive qualities of such current popular prescription drugs as oxymorphone, oxycodone, hydromorphone, and morphine.

  “Anything new?” she asked as she settled at her station.

  “No. Those tests we ran while you were away came up a cropper. The blends of the synthetic compounds never produced anything useful.”

  “Does Walt know?” she asked.

  One of the men laughed. “No. We figured we’d let you deliver the bad news.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “Because he likes you,” was the response. “He’s got a thing for you.”

  “Oh, stop it,” she said. “He does not.”

  “Hey, I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer but I can see when a guy has the hots for a woman.”

  “He’s a happily married man,” she said.

  “Which doesn’t mean he doesn’t have an eye for an attractive woman. Hell, I’m happily married, too, but I still look.”

  She ignored them and started perusing the written results of their failed test.

  “What’s this I hear about your father?” one of them asked. He received a stern look from his colleague. “I mean about the research he was into. Word around here has it that he was after the same thing we’re after, a better mousetrap, aka a better pain med.”

  “That’s right,” she said, not looking up from her reading.

  “Using what, medicinal plants?”

  “Uh, huh,” she said.

  “How far did he get before—?”

  “He was making progress,” Jayla said. “He used what he’d developed on his patients at the clinic he ran. It seemed to be working.”

  “So why don’t we pick up on what he was doing? Do you have his lab results?”

  “No. I mean, I know some of what he’d accomplished but not enough to carry on with it.”

  “That’s a shame. Make you a fortune.”

  “My father was never after making a fortune, and neither am I.”

  The phone rang.

  “It’s Walt Milkin’s office,” the tech who’d answered said. “He wants to see you, Jayla.”

  “See what I mean?” the other lab worker said, chuckling.

  She smiled and went to the executive floor where the company’s president and CEO, Walter Milkin, had his office. Milkin possessed both a PhD in cell biology from Johns Hopkins, and a law degree from George Washington. He’d founded Renewal Pharmaceuticals fifteen years ago, and had guided it to some minor successes, enough to sustain its constant quest into the development of the next “wonder drug” that would vault it into the sphere of Big Pharma. He was a charming man, nicknamed the “the Silver Fox” thanks to his thick head of snow-white hair that was always meticulously groomed. He was a popular guest at pharmaceutical company gatherings, and had testified before numerous congressional committees and the FDA. He’d just returned from a conference in Geneva. But beneath his hail-fellow-well-met exterior was a steel trap of a mind and a commitment to succeed no matter what the cost.

  His secretary ushered Jayla into his handsomely furnished office where he got up from behind his desk.

  “Glad to see you,” he said as he grasped her hand in both of his and indicated a chair. “Sit down, Jayla,” he said. “Coffee, tea? Midge whips up a decent cup of coffee.”

  “Nothing, thank you, Dr. Milkin.”

  “I’m coffee’d out myself this morning,” he said, taking a chair across from her. “So, you’ve been through the mill lately with what happened to your father.”

  “Yes.”

  “Murdered! We never think that something that terrible can happen to us and our families. Any word on—well, on who did it?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “And how are you holding up?”

  “Pretty well. The horror of it is never far from me, but I’m managing. It’s what my father would have wanted. He didn’t have a lot of patience for people who cave in to sorrow. He was a very philosophical man—and a wonderful one.”

  “I’m sure he was that, and more. His work had piqued some interest in the industry.”

  Jayla’s face reflected her surprise. “I wasn’t aware of that,” she said.

  “He’d been mentioned at a few conferences I’ve attended.” He laughed. “Not that anyone knew precisely what he was up to in his lab. He was sort of a loner.”

  Jayla wasn’t sure that “loner” was an apt description of her father. He’d been deeply involved in the health issues of patients in his clinic, and was known as a pleasant, sometimes gregarious neighbor. But she said nothing.

  “Of course you, more than anyone, would know what successes he had in his experiments.”

  She thought once more of the long letter he’d left her, along with the packets of selected seeds. And then the bloody photos of the crime scene came and went.

  “I’m afraid I’m more immersed in the experiments we’re conducting here at Renewal than in dwelling on my father’s work. His research notes were stolen at the time he was murdered.”

  “Adding insult to injury.”

  “Just another piece of the puzzle,” she said.

  “Lucky for us that you’re immersed in your work here.”

  Should she use that moment to break the news that the latest round of lab work hadn’t paid off? She decided not to. He’d find out soon enough. Besides, that particular failure only meant that they would go on to another attempt. That’s the way pharmaceutical research went. Win some, lose many.

  Milkin continued, “I suppose what I’m saying is that I’d like to know more about your father’s work. After all, breakthroughs sometimes come from unexpected sources. Who was it that said all the advances of society are carried on the backs of its neurotics?”

  “Are you saying that my father was—?”

  “No, no, no,” he quickly said, reaching and patting her hand. “What I mean is that those of us in the business of discovering and developing new medicines sometimes overlook the fact that it doesn’t necessarily take a fancy laboratory and dozens of smart people to succeed in that goal. Your father worked alone, far from where we’re sitting, and from what I’ve heard he might have latched on to something important.”

  “I know how pleased he would be to know that,” she said, eager to leave. His kind words to her about her job at Renewal were welcome, but the shift of focus to her father’s work was unsettling.

  “Was anyone else involved in his research?” Milkin asked.

  “No. Well, he had an assistant, Eugene Waksit, but I don’t know to what extent he was directly involved.”

  “Interesting name,” Milkin said.

  “Not an uncommon name in PNG.”

  “PNG?”

  “Papua New Guinea.”

  “Yes, of course. Are you in touch with this fellow?”

  “No. I saw him when I returned home following my father’s death, but I haven’t heard from him since.”

  “He’s from PNG?”

  “Originally. I suspect that he’s gone to Australia.”

  “I’d enjoy meeting this fellow.”

  “If he ever decides to visit me here in Washington I’ll make a point of introducing you. I really should get back to the lab.”

  “I understand. Thanks for spending time with me, Jayla. As I said, we’re extremely pleased to have you working here at Renewal.”

  He stood and offered his hand, and she left the office. Rather than return directly to the lab she stopped at an employee kitchen where she made herself a cup of tea and sat at a window reflecting on the meeting.

  That her father’s work was known to others really wasn’t a surprise, although she seldom thought of him as someone who would be talked about in larger medical circles. She knew that he’d maintained c
ontact with some of his physician colleagues during trips back home to Australia, and it was likely, even expected that he would discuss his work with them. But Milkin’s interest in her father was off-putting for reasons she couldn’t identify. Interesting, she thought, that Milkin asked whether anyone else had shared in her father’s research. That question had resurrected Eugene Waksit to her thinking, and she wondered whether he was still in Port Moresby or had moved on. Would he ever show up in Washington as he said he might? Despite her mixed feelings about him, she would be glad to see him again, glad to see anyone with a direct connection to her father.

  * * *

  Psychologist John Bradford Fowler glanced at the wall clock above Robert Brixton’s head. The session was almost over, ten minutes to go. Brixton had taken note when first meeting the shrink that he wasn’t anything like Brixton had imagined he would be. Fowler was a big, rawboned man with a ruddy complexion and steel gray hair. If he didn’t know that he was a psychologist Brixton would have pegged him as a retired drill sergeant.

  They’d spent most of the appointment talking about the loss of Brixton’s daughter. It hadn’t been an easy conversation. Fowler had initially asked how Brixton preferred to be addressed, Mr. Brixton, or Robert.

  “Your choice,” Brixton replied. “Just don’t call me Bobby.”

  Fowler had laughed, said, “Fair enough, provided you don’t call me Johnny.”

  “Dr. Fowler?”

  “Whatever you wish.”

  Fowler was not out of the Freudian psychoanalytical school of therapy, sitting passively while the patient talks. He engaged Brixton numerous times, asking questions to clarify statements Brixton had made. Toward the end Brixton said, “I really don’t know why I’m here.”

  “You’re here I assume because Ms. Combes asked for my assistance in helping you put the tragic death of your daughter in perspective. She encouraged you to see me, and here you are.”

  “Flo means well,” Brixton said.

  “That’s a left-handed compliment, Robert. She obviously loves you and wants you to feel better about yourself.”

  At that moment Brixton feared that he might tear up and gave himself a harsh, silent reminder to not allow that to happen.

  “What does she think, that I’ll go out and jump off some building?”

  “Have you thought of doing that?”

  Brixton laughed. “Here in D.C.? They have height limits for buildings. The worst that would happen if I jumped off one is a broken leg.”

  Fowler smiled. Brixton’s MO seemed to be to make a joke out of something he didn’t wish to confront in a serious manner.

  “I’m afraid our time is up,” Fowler said. “I’ve really enjoyed our conversation.”

  Although Brixton didn’t admit it, he’d enjoyed it, too.

  “Will I see you again?” Fowler asked.

  Brixton gave him his best Robert De Niro shrug. “Yeah, okay,” he said.

  “I’ll look forward to it,” Fowler said. “Make an appointment with my receptionist on your way out.”

  Brixton made the appointment for three days later, stepped out onto the street, and drew a deep breath. He’d dreaded walking into the shrink’s office, but now that what he’d anticipated would be a waste of time and money was over, he felt lighter in spirit than when he’d arrived.

  Of course, the forty-five minutes spent with Dr. John Bradford Fowler had had nothing to do with it. While he told himself that, he looked forward to seeing the shrink again.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Later that afternoon Nate Cousins left his public relations agency and drove to Renewal Pharmaceuticals in Bethesda where he met with the firm’s president and CEO, Walter Milkin. He’d sensed urgency in Milkin’s tone when the CEO called to request the meeting, and wondered what was on the man’s mind. He found out soon after settling in Milkin’s office.

  “Glad you could make it,” Milkin said as he poured himself two ounces of single-malt scotch from a small bar he maintained in one of the closets. Cousins declined a drink.

  “It sounded important,” Cousins said.

  “I don’t know whether it is or not,” Milkin said, “but it could be. What I need to know is whether it will be.”

  “Another government intrusion?” Cousins asked.

  “No, nothing like that. You know Jayla King?”

  “Sure I know her,” Cousins said, adding, “As a matter of fact we had dinner together last night.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that.”

  Cousins laughed. “Word gets around fast, doesn’t it?”

  Milkin joined in the laughter. “If we had a water cooler I’d say that’s where the rumors take life, Nate. Pleasant evening?”

  “Very. She’s charming as well as beautiful.”

  “And damn smart. Did you and she talk about her father and his work?”

  “A little.”

  “I met with her this morning. I asked about her father’s work. She seems—well, she seems reluctant to discuss it.”

  “Understandable considering how recently he died.”

  “Yes, of course, but I’d like to know more about the work he was doing using natural ingredients.”

  “I got the feeling in talking with her that she wasn’t especially involved in his work.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense, does it?”

  “In what way?”

  Milkin shrugged. “Well, here she is a PhD working in medical research. It seems to me that father and daughter would have a lot to discuss. At least she’d be aware of what he’d discovered.”

  Cousins wasn’t eager to further the debate and simply said, “You’re probably right.”

  Milkin picked up a piece of paper on which he’d written “Eugene Waksit” and handed it to Cousins. “She ever mention this name?”

  “Waksit? No, I don’t think so. I think I’d remember a name like that. Who is he?”

  “According to Jayla he worked as her father’s lab assistant.”

  “Doesn’t ring any bells for me.”

  “I’d like to know more about this Waksit fellow,” Milkin said.

  “Shouldn’t be hard to trace.”

  “I thought maybe that you could do it for me.”

  “I can certainly try but—”

  “Now that you’re seeing Jayla socially it might make the task easier, you know, find out from her about him, make a few casual inquiries while you’re enjoying dinner and a glass of wine together.” He was about to add “pillow talk” but thought better of it.

  “All right,” Cousins said, not sure he was comfortable with the request.

  “I think that ‘casual’ is the operative word here, Nate. I wouldn’t want Jayla to know that I’m going around her. Understood?”

  “I believe so,” Cousins said.

  “And while you’re using your sizable charm to find out from the talented Dr. King what you can, you might also use your considerable network of friends to add to your knowledge of this Eugene Waksit. Waksit! Shouldn’t be too many people in the world with that name. I’ll see what I can scout up, too. By the way, Nate, the PR work you’re doing for Renewal is splendid, much appreciated.”

  “Thank you, Walt. Is there anything else?”

  “Not at the moment. You have my private and home numbers. Stay in touch.”

  Cousins took a detour on his way out of the building to stop by the lab in which Jayla and her two colleagues were at work. She spotted him through the door’s window and joined him in the hallway.

  “Here for a meeting?” she asked.

  “Just wrapped up,” he said. “I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed last night.”

  “I did, too. Thank you.”

  “We have to do it again soon.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Tonight? I—”

  “I’m in the mood for steak,” he said. “I have a house account at Morton’s and especially like the one in G
eorgetown. Game?”

  “A rain check? I need a night alone with a good book.”

  “Sure.” He looked at his watch. “Almost quitting time. How about a quick drink after work? I promise to get you home for that good book in an hour.”

  She smiled. “All right,” she said. “But just an hour.”

  “It’s a deal. It’s a little after four. How about I pick you up at five?”

  “I have my car.”

  “Okay, then meet me at five thirty at the 1905 roof bar. It’s on top of 1905 Bistro & Bar, on Ninth Street, in the Shaw District between U and Florida Avenue. Not as noisy as most after-hours watering holes. If you change your mind about dinner we can pop downstairs to the restaurant.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” Jayla said, her emotions mixed.

  Cousins was at the bar when she arrived. He’d commandeered two stools. A perfect Manhattan sat in front of him, along with a platter of truffled deviled eggs.

  “Hope you like deviled eggs,” he said. “I could live on them.”

  “I like them, too,” she said. She looked out over the city at the Washington Monument in the distance. “Lovely view,” she said.

  “That’s what’s nice about height restrictions on buildings here in D.C.,” he said. “Roof bars are a thriving industry.”

  Her white wine arrived and Cousins touched the rim of his glass to hers. “Here’s to you,” he said, then laughed and added, “I sound like Bogart in Casablanca. Here’s to you, kid.”

  “Are you a movie buff?” she asked.

  “Love the oldies. What about you, Jayla? What’s your taste in movies and books?”

  They spent the next fifteen minutes in easy conversation about their preferences in literature and films. As they talked Jayla realized how impressed she was with the handsome man seated next to her. There was a gentleness to him that was appealing, and his focus never left her and what she was saying.

  The conversation shifted when he asked, “What about your father, Jayla? Did he work alone or with a team?”

  “He worked pretty much alone. Actually his work in the lab was limited because of the clinic. He was in the lab mostly at night and on Sundays.”