Waksit had pretended to be asleep when Nikki Dorence left the apartment to go to work. Once confident that she wouldn’t return, he got up and went to the kitchen where she had written him a note: “Orange juice and milk in the fridge. Cereal in cabinet above sink. Instant coffee on counter. Back about six.” She had also left a copy of that morning’s newspaper on the table, which he scanned while the tea kettle heated. He poured the boiling water into a cup with instant coffee, helped himself to orange juice, and went to the window and looked out over the street where men and women hurried to work. It was a sunny morning, which contributed to his feeling of well-being. He’d slept well; the pullout bed was comfortable.
His eyes might have been closed while hearing Nikki get ready to leave but his mind was wide awake.
He was now in Washington, D.C., where the Pharmaceutical Association of America was headquartered, and where its chief lobbyist, Eric Morrison, was also based. He’d spent much of the flight from Los Angeles mentally preparing a script he would use when contacting the lobbyist. He’d decided that he needed to put together a clear-cut narrative of how Preston King’s pain medication worked, and why just the right mixture of herbs and plants was crucial, something that only he knew.
He wasn’t oblivious to the roadblocks he might encounter. The Port Moresby attorney, Elgin Taylor, had asked whether he had any documentation backing up his claim that King had bequeathed his research results to him, which, of course, he didn’t. But who was to refute that claim? The doctor was dead. He’d worked at King’s side for years, and had become so trusted that he was allowed to see patients in the clinic, enabling him to have hands-on experience with the drug. On top of that King had left him $5,000 in his will. Surely that bequest was an indication of the high regard King held him in.
He’d also decided that the nature of the pain medication, and the natural ingredients used to formulate it, helped his cause. It wasn’t as though he was stealing a patented synthetic formula from another pharmaceutical company. He would be bringing to Morrison and the companies he represents a revolutionary pain medication made from indigenous plants grown in Papua New Guinea, a medication that is cheap to produce and produces no known side effects. What a story! Who could possibly turn down what he had to offer?
But while his grandiose visions of pharmaceutical companies falling over each other to buy the rights from him ruled his thinking, he also knew that there was one person who stood in his way—Jayla King, Dr. Preston King’s daughter, who happened to work in medical research and who could challenge his claim to have been heir to the medicinal formula. He didn’t know how to deal with that potential complication, aside from making it clear to Morrison and whoever else was involved that it was never to be offered to Renewal Pharmaceuticals, Jayla’s employer.
He helped himself to a bowl of cereal with milk and sugar before taking a shower and dressing. He brought the briefcase from where he’d secluded it behind the pullout couch to the kitchen and opened it on the table. He removed King’s research notes and the packets of seeds and took out another envelope. In it was $9,000 in cash, his American Express credit card, and an Italian stiletto switchblade knife he’d purchased in a specialty shop at Dulles Airport. It reminded him of one that an uncle had given him on his sixteenth birthday and that he’d reluctantly left behind in Port Moresby, knowing that it would be confiscated at the airport.
* * *
While Waksit prepared for his first day in Washington, Will Sayers was getting ready to launch his day, too, although their plans differed.
The journalist had been buoyed by what Paula Silver had confided in Brixton during their dinner. He was well aware that without tangible irrefutable proof that Senator Gillespie had gotten a young Georgia woman pregnant and arranged for her abortion, he couldn’t run with the story. But Paula’s comment that Eric Morrison had bragged about “owning” the senator said to Sayers that the rumor was true. Maybe it was time to ratchet up his inquiry into Morrison’s relationship with the silver-haired politician, and that meant making direct contact.
He packed the juicer away in a kitchen cabinet—how anyone could start a day with the vile concoction was inconceivable to him—and stopped in his favorite luncheonette where he consumed a double order of pancakes, link sausages, and orange juice. Back in his apartment he formulated his next move. He’d left for breakfast having decided to call Morrison himself, but thought better of that once relieved of his hunger pangs. He called Brixton at home and caught him as he was leaving for the office.
“Just wanted to say how much I appreciated the information you squeezed out of Paula Silver,” he said.
Brixton glanced to see whether Flo was in earshot. She wasn’t; he heard the shower running. “It was my pleasure,” he said. “How often does a former cop like me get to wine and dine a Hollywood star on your dollar?”
“If you say so. Look, Robert, here’s why I’m calling. I think it’s time to put some pressure on the lobbyist, Morrison.”
“Based on what, a woman scorned?”
“She’s not the only source of the story,” Sayers said.
“Then do it.”
“I was wondering whether it would be better, more effective, for you to do it.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Because you’re so good at getting people to talk.”
“It’s not my fight, Will. Besides, I’ve got a few potential clients on the string, clients who pay real money.”
“A thousand bucks isn’t ‘real money’?”
“Not when I’m paying for expensive drinks and dinners.”
“I’ll reimburse you,” Sayers said.
“Good. How do you suggest I put the pressure on Morrison?”
“Call him. Make up a story about who you are and why you’re calling.”
“You’re asking me to lie?”
“Oh, sorry to have offended you, Robert.”
“No offense taken,” Brixton said. He’d lied plenty of times as a cop in Washington and Savannah, as well as in his more recent incarnation as a private investigator. His “courtship” of Paula Silver was but the latest example.
“I’ll think about it,” he said.
“Fair enough,” said Sayers.
“Anything else?” Brixton asked.
“Just that I’m going out and buying a coffeemaker today, one of those fancy ones with little cups filled with coffee.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.”
“I want you to be happy when you visit.”
“I’m touched, Will, truly touched. I’ll get back to you.”
* * *
Jayla King already had a Keurig and used it that morning to brew a cup. She awoke with a headache and finicky stomach, thanks to having had a third glass of wine the previous night, and considered taking the day off. But she began to feel better after coffee and a bowl of yogurt with blueberries.
She’d gone out to dinner the night before with Nate Cousins, who’d introduced her to a charming French restaurant, Bistro Du Coin, on Connecticut Avenue, which he claimed had the best steamed mussels in town. While experiencing his favorite restaurants—an obvious perk of being in the public relations business—represented part of the enjoyment of going out with him, she’d also found herself becoming increasingly interested in Cousins on a more personal level.
Her dating history, if you could call it that, was not extensive, nor had it resulted in her becoming enamored of the men she’d seen. That thought was on her mind as she exercised on the treadmill in her bedroom.
Another female student in her college had accused her of being stuck-up, feeling superior to other women, a charge that Jayla considered patently untrue. Yes, she would admit—but only to herself—that she had a certain disdain for the young men who asked her out, considering them intellectually shallow and immature. She was a dedicated student who always seemed to be studying while other coeds immersed themselves in an active social life that involved multiple dates with an array of young men, their quest for a suitable lifelong mate seemingly as important as obtaining a degree. Jayla’s stunning beauty probably played a role in their reaction to her, although an inborn, honest modesty precluded her from thinking that.
As she ratcheted up the treadmill’s speed a familiar question occupied her. She knew that her mixed parentage—her father a white Australian, her mother, Lanisha, a dark-skinned Melanesian—played some role in her view of romantic possibilities. She’d dated both white and black young men and could never shake the feeling that she didn’t belong to either race. Was Nate Cousins’s mixed parentage why she felt comfortable with him, confident that he would understand her confusion about who she was and where she belonged? If so, that was all right. All she knew was that her feelings for him had grown stronger each time they were together.
* * *
Their date the previous night had started out with casual conversation over wine and appetizers, world affairs, the arts (he was a voracious reader, partial to biographies and history; she read historical novels but also enjoyed romance novels, which she didn’t mention), and other nonprofessional topics. It was during dinner that he brought up her father’s research.
“I know you don’t like to talk about it,” he said, “and I certainly understand, considering what happened to him, but I can’t help but wonder how successful he was. If anyone would know, it’s you.”
“He claimed to have had success with patients in his clinic,” she said, “but that’s only anecdotal.” The letter her father had left her contained a series of stories involving clinic patients who’d received the painkiller he’d created and who reported significant relief from their pain.
“Mind a suggestion?” he said.
“Of course not.”
“Since you and your lab colleagues have been trying to accomplish the same thing that your father was seeking, maybe you should apply what you know about his work to developing it further at Renewal.”
“I’ve thought about that,” she said, “but I’m not ready to do anything with his efforts in the lab.”
“Sure, and I understand. It was just a suggestion. Maybe the reason I brought it up was the fellow you’ve mentioned who worked as your dad’s assistant.”
“Eugene.”
“Right, Eugene. Waksit is it?”
She nodded.
“Have you heard anything from him?”
“No. The last time I spoke with him was in Port Moresby when I went home following my father’s death.”
Cousins’s face became grim. “You know, Jayla, it’s possible that he’ll try to use your father’s work for his own benefit.”
“I know,” she said. “He claims that my father willed him—verbally—the rights to his research.”
“Is that possible?”
“Not to me it isn’t.”
“Your dad left everything to you, right?”
“Yes, but Eugene called the attorney handling dad’s estate and made his claim.”
“Did he follow up? Estates have to be settled through a legal process.”
“He promised to call the attorney again but never did. I assumed that he was still in Port Moresby—he has an apartment there—but he’s gone. The attorney tried his number, and so did I.”
“Where is he?”
“I have no idea.”
“I don’t like the sound of this,” Cousins said.
“Neither do I, although I keep trying to ignore the possibilities. To think that Eugene would do something underhanded is—”
“Maybe you didn’t know him well enough.”
Which was true. Most of Jayla’s knowledge of Eugene Waksit came through her father, and even he had never said much about his assistant. Her innate distrust of the young man hadn’t been based upon anything tangible. But claiming that he was heir to her father’s research? That told a different story.
“You said that your father’s research notes were missing from his lab.”
“Yes.”
“It had to be Waksit.”
She drew a deep breath and sat back. “I hate to admit it but it does seem logical, doesn’t it?”
“It’s also logical that—”
“That Eugene killed my father? I pray that’s not true.”
“You don’t know where he’s gone?”
She shook her head.
“There’s ways to find out, Jayla.”
“I’m not sure I even want to know,” she said.
“I’ll do it.”
“You’ll do it? What do you mean?”
“I’ll hire someone. There are people who specialize in such things.”
“Please don’t.”
“Why?”
She reached across the table and placed her hand on his. “Nate,” she said, “I appreciate how much you care about this—about me—but I really don’t want to become involved. I don’t think that Eugene will ever follow through on his claim. He’s probably gone back to Australia and will find a new job and forget about my father and his research.” A smile crossed her face. “Dad left him five thousand dollars in his will. He’ll return to collect that money and that will be the end of it.”
“If you say so,” Cousins said, smiling. “I just want to be helpful, Jayla. To be candid, I’d like to be a bigger part of your life.”
She cocked her head and looked at him quizzically.
“This may sound corny, but I think I’m falling in love with Jayla King.”