Brixton mentally composed the cover story he would use when calling the lobbyist Eric Morrison. He decided on the straightforward approach. He wouldn’t mention Will Sayers as the source of his information, would simply say that he was a private investigator looking into the rumor that Senator Ronald Gillespie had fathered a child out of wedlock in Georgia. Better to rattle Morrison’s cage at the outset than try to sweet-talk him into providing information. The direct approach had always worked better for Brixton when he was plying his trade as a detective in Savannah. Make ’em sweat!
“Will Mr. Morrison know what this is in reference to?” the receptionist asked, a question she was accustomed to posing.
“Tell him that I’m a private investigator looking into Senator Gillespie’s extracurricular activities in Georgia,” Brixton said sternly.
“Please hold.”
She returned a minute later. “Mr. Brixton? I’m afraid that Mr. Morrison is tied up at the moment.”
Sounds kinky Brixton thought but didn’t say. “When won’t he be tied up?” he asked.
“If you’ll give me your number I’ll pass it on to Mr. Morrison.”
“Sure,” Brixton said, rattling it off for her. “You might also tell Mr. Morrison that I’ll be talking with his friend, Howie Ebhart.” Brixton had researched Ebhart, who billed himself as a political consultant.
“All right,” she said. “Thank you for calling Morrison Associates.”
Brixton grinned as he sat back in his swivel desk chair. He’d been told that Ebhart was the one who had put Morrison in touch with the abortionist. If true—and he had no reason to doubt it—he could envision Morrison placing a fast call to Ebhart to get their stories straight.
He hadn’t felt this charged up in too long a time. He knew a man, now deceased, who’d been in and out of prison multiple times for burglaries and grand theft. The last time he’d been released he was sixty-seven years old and should have enjoyed freedom in his dotage. But within two weeks of his release he’d been arrested again for masterminding a break-in of a manufacturing company’s offices in search of payroll cash. Brixton had visited him in prison and asked why he’d done it.
“I missed the action,” was the reply.
Brixton understood. Action was good. It was healthy—provided you didn’t end up in jail or take a bullet.
* * *
Brixton’s vision of Morrison calling Howie Ebhart was prescient.
“Howie, it’s Eric.”
“My man,” Ebhart said pleasantly. “How are things?”
“Things are not good.”
He told him about Brixton’s call.
“That’s a problem,” Ebhart said.
“A big one. Why the hell is he calling me?”
“I don’t know, Eric. Somebody in Georgia must have tipped him about you.”
“Tipped him about me? What the hell did I do? I didn’t do anything illegal in setting up the abortion. It was your contact.”
“You laid out the money, Eric.”
“That’s—what does that have to do with anything?”
“Just stating the obvious.”
“That’s not important,” Morrison said, despite knowing that it was. If this investigator can implicate Gillespie, the senator’s in trouble was his unstated follow-up.
Ebhart laughed, which annoyed Morrison.
“You’re involved in this, too, Howie,” the lobbyist said.
“Me? All I did was introduce you to somebody. What you and that person decided to do isn’t my problem.”
Morrison thought of another introduction Ebhart had made, George Alard.
“Look, Howie, this investigator, Robert Brixton, says that he intends to call you, too.”
“Let him. I have nothing to hide.”
“Really? You set me up with that abortionist and with Alard.”
Another annoying laugh from Ebhart. “I do get around, don’t I? And what’s Alard got to do with it?” He cut off Morrison’s next comment. “Look, Eric, there’s nothing to be upset about. It’ll pass. Believe me, it’ll pass.”
“When he calls, stonewall him, Howie. You say that it’ll pass. I say that we’ve got a potential mess on our hands.”
“We’ve got a problem?”
“Let me know if he calls you,” Morrison said, and ended the conversation.
He summoned a young lobbyist he’d recently hired into his office. “I need you to do something and do it fast,” he told him. “Find out what you can about a private investigator here in D.C. named Robert Brixton.”
“What’s this about, Eric?”
“Just do it, okay? Get back to me by the end of the day. And while you’re at it check out a guy named Eugene Waksit. I need it before I leave for dinner.”
Calm down, he told himself when his assistant had left. The fact that some private investigator was looking into Senator Gillespie’s love life wasn’t necessarily the end of the world. But it could be troublesome—for him. If Gillespie were to lose his seat in Congress, that would mean having to cultivate a new champion in the Senate, someone on the right committees and with the clout that came with that. Too, having Gillespie in his pocket helped ensure that PAA didn’t decide to seek another lobbying organization to advance its agenda. No elected official had a greater influence on legislation that benefited the pharmaceutical industry than Senator Ronald Gillespie.
The arrangement he’d made with the abortionist to end the young woman’s pregnancy was decidedly sub rosa, money paid under the table, no strings attached. Politicians were forever on the receiving end of scurrilous rumors and politically motivated smears. Gillespie had plenty of political enemies back in Georgia.
Had some political foe come across the nasty episode with the teenage girl and was now trying to use it to smear Gillespie’s reputation and reelection chances? Had that same person hired a sleazy private investigator to build a case against Gillespie? What had politics become? he mused. Ronald Gillespie was a respected member of the United States Senate. To have some down-and-out gumshoe—that’s what private investigators were called in trash fiction, weren’t they?—poking his nose into something that was none of his business was intolerable to Morrison. The sob sister talking heads on cable TV denounce the role of lobbyist money in the political system. What do they know? Gillespie needs the money provided by lobbyists like me, Morrison often told himself, to retain his pivotal role in the Senate and stand up for pharmaceutical companies that create the medicines that keep people alive. Lobbying is honorable. Lobbying is American. Lobbying is crucial to keeping the nation going forward.
That was his mantra when questioned by those with a jaundiced view of money and its pervasive role in politics.
Privately, he didn’t believe a word of it. He was well aware that politics had become a business in which money talked and the only goal was to retain power. That was okay with him. He was in the business of buying politicians, and it had provided him and his family an upscale lifestyle. Nothing else mattered. End of internal debate.
* * *
Jayla and Nate Cousins were seated at the same table they’d occupied the last time they were at Bistro Du Coin. Cousins was pleased that Jayla had agreed to be picked up at her apartment. It felt more like a real date than meeting up separately. He thought that she looked especially beautiful that evening, and was aware of the admiring male glances as the maître d’ showed them to the table. The lavender dress she wore provided a lovely scrim for her dusky complexion.
“I’m glad that you called and suggested dinner,” he said.
“I don’t usually initiate a dinner date,” she said.
“Why the change?”
“Because I have something to discuss with you.”
“So you said when you called. A problem?”
“Probably not, but I need some good advice.”
“I’m flattered,” he said.
She unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap.
“Is this about what I said the last time we were here?”
She looked at him quizzically.
“When I said that I’d fallen in love with you?”
“Oh. No, it has nothing to do with that.”
He masked his disappointment. He would have liked to continue that conversation.
“What is it then?”
“Let’s order first,” she suggested.
They shared a bottle of Cabernet.
“Nate,” she said, “I want to talk with you about my father’s research.”
While he would have preferred to expand on the more personal topic, he was also quietly pleased that the subject of her father’s research had come up. He’d not had a chance to pursue what his boss, Walt Milkin, had requested of him. Maybe Jayla was about to hand him the information without his having to work for it.
They clicked the rims of their wineglasses and sipped.
“Frankly, Nate, I’m in a quandary,” she said.
“Tell me.”
“I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”
“Oh? How so?”
“I also haven’t been honest with Walt Milkin. I know that you’ve been interested in my dad’s research. So has Mr. Milkin. He asks me about it every time I see him.”
Cousins shrugged. “I can understand that,” he said. “As for me, my interest in it is because it involves you. As his daughter, his work must have special meaning.”
“Of course. I take tremendous pride in what he accomplished. You thought that a placebo effect might be responsible for any anecdotal success he had with his clinic patients. That isn’t true. My dad left me a package that our housekeeper, Tabitha, gave me when I was home. According to what he left me—a long letter detailing the work he did, and packets of seeds for plants that he used to compound his pain medication—he conducted his own personal clinical studies with patients.” Her smile was reflective. “It bothered him that some of his patients received a placebo. He wanted every one of them to benefit. And don’t misunderstand. I know that his small, personal clinical trial won’t mean anything to an American pharmaceutical firm because it involved only a few patients. But the results were impressive. Those who received the real thing had a dramatic lessening of their pain, while those receiving the placebo reported only minor relief, if any.” She leaned closer to him, her hand on his arm. “Nate,” she said, “the medication worked. It really worked.”
“I don’t doubt it for a minute, Jayla.”
“I haven’t discussed this with anyone because, frankly, I don’t know what to do with the information my father left me. You know that the field where he grew his plants was destroyed at the same time he was murdered.”
Cousins nodded.
And he had an assistant named Eugene, Eugene Waksit.”
“We talked about him the last time.”
“Fortunately, my father left me his long and detailed account of his research, fortunate because his official logs and notes disappeared when he was killed.”
“Presumably taken by this fellow Waksit.”
“I don’t know that for certain. He did inform my father’s attorney that he’d been granted my father’s results before he died.”
“Which you feel is a lie.”
“Yes. It must be.”
“Does he have anything in writing?”
“Not that I’m aware of. It certainly isn’t in his will. I’ve just learned that Eugene is here in the United States.”
Cousins sat up straighter. “He is? How do you know that? Has he contacted you?”
“No. My father’s attorney told me.”
“Where in the States?”
“Los Angeles, as far as the attorney knew.”
“Do you think he’s come to the States to try and sell your dad’s research findings?”
“That’s why I decided to discuss it with you. I—well, I trust you, Nate.”
“I’m glad I’ve earned that trust, Jayla. What would you like me to do?”
She paused before answering. “I’m wondering whether I should take what my father accomplished and have Renewal Pharmaceuticals pick up where he left off.”
Cousins, too, paused before replying. When he did he said, “I know that Walt Milkin would be overjoyed if you did. But I hope you’re not doing it just because I suggested it the last time we were together. This should be your decision and your decision only. Are you serious about it?”
“I’m not sure, but it’s been on my mind a lot lately.”
Their dinner arrived. Jayla asked, “So, what do you think of my sharing the research with Renewal?”
“I think you have to do what you’re comfortable with,” he said. “I mentioned the last time we were together that your father’s assistant, Waksit, is likely to try and sell the research to a pharmaceutical company. He obviously won’t approach Renewal because he knows that you work there. Besides, there are plenty of other pharmas with more money and clout than Renewal. One thing you might consider…”
She waited for him to complete what he was about to say.
“Nothing,” he said.
“What, Nate?”
“No, nothing. Let’s eat.”
They said little during dinner. Cousins was in the grip of a conflict of interest. He owed it to Milkin and Renewal to encourage Jayla to turn over her father’s research and allow the Renewal labs to work at refining it. His best interests dictated that he do that.
But his emotional side led him to sincerely want to do the right thing by her. She trusted him, and that meant something. He allowed his emotional side to prevail.
“When you joined Renewal,” he said, “you signed an employment contract, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Doesn’t everyone?”
“As far as I know. I just mention it because your contract might have a clause under which everything you develop at Renewal becomes its intellectual property. It’s a boilerplate clause in most contracts.”
“I haven’t looked at that contract since the day I signed it. Frankly, I never read it closely. I was just so thrilled to have been hired.”
“It probably means nothing,” he said offhandedly, “but I just thought I’d mention it before you make your decision.”
She frowned. “I can’t imagine that it would apply in this case,” she said. “I didn’t develop the research while working at Renewal. My father did in Papua New Guinea.”
“You’re probably right, Jayla. More wine?”
* * *
The conversation at Bobby Van’s Steakhouse also centered on Dr. Preston King’s research.
Eric Morrison and Eugene Waksit sat at a table for two. An observer would sense that both men were ill at ease. Waksit had arrived after Morrison, who had already finished half his drink when Waksit approached the table carrying his ever-present briefcase.
“I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice,” Waksit said as he took the chair opposite the lobbyist.
“Yeah, well, I figured I should at least hear you out. As I said, I have nothing to do with the actual work that my clients do, you know, developing medicines and things like that. I’m their lobbyist. I work with Congress to make sure that their work doesn’t get bogged down by governmental nonsense.”
“It must be interesting work,” Waksit said shakily.
“Yeah, it is. You say that this Dr. King left you the results of his research?”
“That’s right. He was a marvelous man. It was tragic the way somebody murdered him. Do you know much about him?”
Morrison shook his head. “He was some sort of maverick doctor in New Guinea, right?”
“In Papua New Guinea,” Waksit said, hoping that correcting Morrison wouldn’t offend him. “PNG for short.”
“Right. PNG. What kind of research did he do?”
“He developed a pain medication using plants and herbs grown in PNG.”
Morrison’s laugh was forced. “Doesn’t sound very scientific to me,” he said.
Waksit resented the comment but didn’t have a ready response.
“Look,” said Morrison, “I don’t know anything about this doctor and what you say he developed. If it is as effective as you claim, I’m sure that you’ll find a pharmaceutical company that’ll be willing to hear you out.”
Waksit started to respond but Morrison continued. “You have proof that the research belongs to you?” he asked.
“You mean some sort of document?”
“Right.”
“I worked closely with Dr. King for many years,” Waksit said, unable to keep the pique from his voice. “He told me many times that when he died he wanted me to continue his work.”
“Hey,” Morrison said, raising his hand. “I’m not arguing with you. Let’s have dinner. I have another appointment.”
Morrison mostly listened during dinner as Waksit talked nonstop about King’s research and his role in it. As he did Morrison went over in his mind what his assistant had come up with about the young man sitting across from him.
There hadn’t been much to report. He’d provided his boss with Waksit’s educational background, and had confirmed that he’d worked with Dr. Preston King in Papua New Guinea. He’d also written in his report that Dr. King had a daughter, Jayla King, who was a PhD working as a medical researcher at Renewal Pharmaceuticals. George Alard’s “operative” had reported back that when he arrived at King’s lab the physician was already dead. If that was true—and he tended to believe that it was—Waksit had to be the logical suspect. Here he was claiming that King had verbally willed him the fruits of his research. Had he murdered the physician in order to obtain it? If so, he was breaking bread with a killer.
They skipped dessert and Morrison called for a check.
“Are you interested in what I’m offering?” Waksit asked.
“As I told you, Mr. Waksit, I’m not involved in the workings of my clients.”
“But you could introduce me to the right people at those clients.”
“I’m really not comfortable in doing that,” Morrison said.
“I’m willing to share the money,” Waksit said.
“What about the doctor’s daughter, Mr. Waksit?” Morrison asked.
Waksit stiffened. He hadn’t expected the lobbyist to know about Jayla, and certainly wasn’t prepared to have her brought up in the conversation.
“She has nothing to do with this,” Waksit said defensively.
“Seems to me that her father would have left his research to her,” Morrison said as he added a tip to the bill.
Waksit repeated his offer to share money with Morrison.
“Sorry, Mr. Waksit, but I’ll have to pass on your offer. I wish you all the best.”
Morrison left the table, got in his car, and drove home. Waksit had come off to him like a cheap hustler. On top of that he might be a killer. Get involved with him? Not a chance.
Later that night he sat in his home office and reviewed the second report given him at the end of the day by his assistant, a dossier on the private investigator Robert Brixton:
Brixton, Robert … 53 yrs old … former cop in D.C. (4 yrs) and Savannah, Georgia (retired from there) … Divorced, two daughters, one deceased in terrorist café bombing in D.C.… involved in Savannah case, teen girl killed, traced to First Lady and D.C. social type … involved in other controversies … broke gunrunning plot in D.C. and Hawaii … considered a hothead … office in lawyer Mackensie Smith suite … girlfriend Flo Combes, owns dress shop in Georgetown …
There was more, and the further Morrison read the more concerned he became. The dinner with Eugene Waksit was a distant memory, a waste of time and money. But this investigator Brixton posed a real cause for concern. Brixton had mentioned Howie Ebhart, who’d introduced Morrison to both the abortionist, and to George Alard. Ebhart was a blowhard in Morrison’s estimation, capable of shooting off his mouth.
Morrison didn’t need all these complications. He was supposed to spread money around Congress on behalf of his pharmaceutical clients, not be arranging abortions or contracting with a slimy Frenchman to have a physician’s plot of land bulldozed in some godforsaken place like Papua New Guinea.
He knew one thing for certain. He wasn’t about to let some two-bit private investigator destroy everything he’d worked for. His firm, Morrison Associates, was successful and respected. He’d built it from scratch into one of Washington’s top lobbying forces.
He made two decisions.
He would call Robert Brixton in the morning to find out more about what he knew.
And he would call Senator Gillespie to give him a heads-up.
* * *
Jayla King also did some reading after returning from her dinner with Nate Cousins. She dragged out the employment contract she’d signed when going to work at Renewal Pharmaceuticals and read it carefully. Cousins had been right; it did contain the standard clause that gave the firm intellectual property rights to any breakthrough conceived and developed by her as an employee.
But did her father’s research fall under that clause? She needed legal advice. A call in the morning to Mackensie Smith was very much in order.