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 Senator 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.