“I’ll chew on it,” she said angrily. “Nate, I’d like to have my father’s materials back.”
“Sure. Give me another day to digest what’s there and I’ll deliver it to you.” His eyes went across the room to his briefcase but he said nothing about it.
When the night commenced it was assumed by both Jayla and Nate that it would end with them in bed making love. But while there wasn’t an overt sense of tension, it was present nonetheless, wafting in the air. He helped clear the table, rinsed dishes as she handed them to him, and wadded up the containers the meal had come in and deposited them in the trash.
“I suppose I’d better go,” he said.
He picked up his briefcase and left.
* * *
Eugene Waksit sat in a rented car across the street from Jayla’s building and saw Cousins leave the building, get in his car, and drive away. Waksit fell in behind and followed Cousins to where he pulled into the underground garage at his apartment building.
He returned to Jayla’s building, drew a deep breath, removed his cell phone from his pocket, and pressed the key activating a stored number.
“Jayla?” he said when she answered. “It’s me, Eugene, a blast from the past.”
CHAPTER
37
Brixton and Flo spent a quiet night at home, although it hadn’t started out as domestic bliss.
He’d been sitting in front of the TV watching a newscast when she walked through the door after a day at Flo’s Fashions. He got up from his chair and kissed her.
“I found that guy Waksit,” Brixton said.
“Who?”
“Eugene Waksit, the guy who used to work with Jayla King’s father in Papua New Guinea, the one she’s afraid of.”
“How did you manage that?”
He explained how he’d sat outside the apartment building where Waksit’s former girlfriend from PNG lived and spotted him leaving. “He took a cab to Silver Spring,” he elaborated. “I followed him. He’s staying at a Days Inn there. I called Mac Smith and told him. He said he’d let Jayla know.”
“You’re incorrigible,” she said, smiling and shaking her head.
“Difficult but adorable,” he said.
* * *
When Brixton had arrived home late that afternoon he’d returned a few calls including three from Will Sayers.
“How are you?” Sayers asked in his usual direct way.
“Couldn’t be better. How are you?”
“Couldn’t be better. Nice of you to return my calls.”
“I just got out of the hospital. Remember? I’ve been recuperating.”
“You sound all right.”
“Why have you been calling, Will?”
“To tell you that I filed a story this afternoon with my esteemed newspaper back in Savannah.”
“Good for you.” The pulsating headache that had plagued Brixton on and off all day was on again.
“It’s the Gillespie abortion story,” Sayers said, “including Morrison’s role in it.”
“That’s pretty gutsy, isn’t it?”
“Not really. I’ve managed to obtain some hard information from a friendly source in Georgia that adds weight to the story. Besides, Morrison is dead. Dead men can’t sue.”
“What about Morrison’s wife?”
“The piece doesn’t defame her, unless you want to consider her an idiot for marrying the likes of Eric Morrison.”
“And the senator?”
“Oh. Gillespie will huff and puff and claim media bias, but I have the goods. Yes indeed, I do have the goods on him. I contacted his office to let them know that the article will be running, and in search of a comment from the senator. His press aide, whose name escapes me for good reason, declined.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you. I humbly accept your offer of a celebratory drink.”
“I didn’t make an offer.”
“I’m patient. Speaking of Morrison, what do you hear from your friend, the blond former movie actress, Ms. Silver?”
“Nothing.”
“I take it that Lady Flo is within earshot.”
“I have to go. I have a headache.”
“Don’t let me get in the way of your recovery. By the way, I will want to do a feature on your involvement in Morrison’s murder. You were, after all, a treasured member of Savannah’s law enforcement agency.”
“And maybe I’ll sue for defamation. I’m not dead yet. I’ll buy you that drink when I’m feeling up to it.”
* * *
Will Sayers’s call to the Senate offices of Ronald Gillespie had its intended effect. The press aide who’d taken the call immediately called his boss out of a meeting to deliver the bad news.
“What’s the damn article say?” Gillespie demanded.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Why didn’t you get ahold of it?”
“I asked to see it but the guy refused, laughed off my request. All he said was that he had evidence that you had—”
“I had what?”
“Well, sir, the journalist said that he had evidence that you had gotten a young lady pregnant back in Georgia and that the lobbyist, Eric Morrison, had paid for an abortion on your behalf, sir.”
“You get back to this whore who calls himself a journalist and tell him that I’ll sue him and the rag he writes for. I’ll bury the bastards. You hear me? Give him that message.”
“Ah, sir, maybe it would carry more weight if you made that call. I have the number and—”
With that, Gillespie, his face crimson, stormed from the conference room, went to his office, and slammed the door with a bang. The meeting he’d been called from was with a lobbying group in competition with Morrison Associates that was pushing hard to land the Pharmaceutical Association of America account. Gillespie had promised them that he would personally lend his weight with PAA to see that the Morrison agency was dropped and the new group hired.
Morrison’s death had not been viewed with sadness by the senior senator from Georgia. Morrison had turned out to be a magnet for trouble, something Gillespie had seen coming and had grappled with ever since the private investigator Robert Brixton had entered the picture. As far as Gillespie was concerned Morrison was weak, someone who would fold under pressure. What was he doing meeting Brixton in the middle of the night and carrying $20,000? What had he told Brixton before he was shot? And who shot him? Why? What had he left behind that would link him to the abortion? He’d put too much faith in Morrison to handle things. Brixton was the one who should have died. He was still out there digging into what was none of his business. And what about this reporter, Sayers? He was friends with Brixton; they’d worked together to put together the newspaper article that was due to run.
While all these questions and ruminations dominated his thoughts, a different problem that had nothing to do with Morrison or Brixton loomed large.
Rebecca!
He knew that he could ride out any political fallout from whatever this journalist had written about an unfortunate situation that happened years ago. The public shared his negative view of the media. Whatever was alleged in the article could be turned back on his political opponents in Georgia. He, United States Senator Ronald Gillespie, had been a champion of his home state, had been responsible for millions of federal dollars funneled to state projects. He was beloved back home, a tried-and-true son of the Old South who shared the electorate’s distrust of big government and weak-kneed liberal values.
Rebecca!
Their May-September marriage was shaky to begin with. She’d recently expressed her doubts about having married a senior citizen who seemed more interested in his political fortunes than in her. He wasn’t sure how to deal with this once the article appeared and the media wolves started harassing her for comment. Maybe it was time to get away. The new lobbying group assured him that they were willing and able to satisfy him in whatever way they could. Let them pick up the tab for a week in the Italy, or Par
is. Rebecca had a love affair with gay ol’ Paree even though she’d never been there. That was the answer. Get out of town.
The people he’d been meeting with had returned to their offices on K Street. He reached for his phone and dialed the number there. They wanted his help in landing the PAA account?
It was time to start paying.
* * *
While the other players in this distinctly Washington game took care of their business, Jayla King paced her apartment, the phone in her hand.
“Eugene?” she said, incredulous.
“It’s me all right,” he said, forcing gaiety into his voice. “How in the world are you, Jayla?”
“Eugene, I—I’m surprised that you called.”
“Yeah, I know, I’ve been a bad boy being here in Washington and never getting together. The truth is that I’ve been busy day and night, meeting people, getting to know my way around. But hey, enough about me. How is Jayla King?”
She didn’t know how to respond.
“Caught you at a bad time?” he asked, thinking of the young man he’d seen through the window and whom he’d followed. He continued to look through the window at her pacing the living room from his parked car across the street.
“No, not at all. I’m just—well, shocked. I knew you were in Washington and wondered why you hadn’t made contact.”
“Like I said I’ve been crazy busy. Boy, this city is nothing like being in PNG, huh? Everybody’s running around and making deals and doing their thing. How about you? Still with that pharmaceutical company? What’s its name?”
“Renewal Pharmaceuticals.”
“Right. Renewal. Coming up with some super-drug that’ll cure every disease known to man?”
Her mind raced. She was talking with the man who stole her father’s research and who possibly took his life. This was a man who had violated her space by entering her apartment without an invitation. This was the man—”
“I’m serious, Jayla. I think we should get together, maybe have dinner together, some nice place you go to a lot, something fancy to celebrate reconnecting. My treat. I owe you that.”
“Eugene,” she said, “this is all terribly sudden and I’m not sure what I want to do. I know that—well, you took my father’s research papers from his lab.”
“Hey, wait a minute, Jayla. I didn’t take anything that didn’t belong to me. Your father always said that when he died he wanted me to have those papers.”
She started to argue but decided it was pointless, at least at that juncture and considering the circumstances.
“Eugene,” she said, “how about we talk again sometime tomorrow, or the next day? I have a busy schedule at work and you sound busy, too.”
“Why do I get the feeling that you’re putting me off, Jayla?”
“No, I’m not. I’ll call you. What’s your number at the Days Inn in Silver Spring?”
There was silence on the other end.
“I’ll call you at your hotel and—”
“How do you know where I am?” he asked.
“I—that’s where you are, isn’t it?”
His tone changed from upbeat to serious, all business.
“We have to meet, Jayla, about your father’s research. We have an obligation to carry on his work. We can do it together, the way it should be done.”
“I’ll call you,” she said. “What’s your number at Days Inn?”
“I’ll call you,” he said brusquely. “Tomorrow.”
The line went dead in her ear.
Shaken, she went to the door and checked that the new lock was securely fastened. She then went to the window and lowered the blinds.
Waksit cursed that she’d cut off his view and drove away.
Jayla pondered what to do. Finally, she dialed Nate Cousins at home and told him of Waksit’s call. “I’m scared,” she said.
“I’ll be there within the hour.”
CHAPTER
38
At seven o’clock the following morning two plainclothes detectives and a uniformed police officer from the Washington PD drove to Silver Spring and pulled up in front of the Days Inn on Thirteenth Street. Zeke Borgeldt had called the commander of the Silver Spring Third District station to alert him that some of his officers would be entering that department’s domain in order to locate and detain a material witness in a murder that had taken place in Papua New Guinea. Borgeldt was given the go-ahead with the commander’s added comment, “Papua New Guinea? That’s on the other side of the world. Good luck.”
The officers had been briefed by Borgeldt before heading for Silver Spring. Eugene Waksit wasn’t a suspect in the murder investigation, but the authorities there wanted to further question him as part of their ongoing investigation. The officers were to inform Waksit of that interest and “suggest” that he accompany them to headquarters where a Skype setup could be arranged for long-distance questioning. The officers found their assignment to be unusual but didn’t question it. One of the detectives had a favorite restaurant in Silver Spring where he claimed the pancakes were the best in the area. They could stop in there for breakfast if Waksit declined to accompany them back to headquarters.
The uniformed cop waited in the marked patrol car while the detectives entered the hotel, went to the front desk, and presented their identification.
“We’re here to speak with a guest of the hotel,” he said.
The desk clerk, a fresh-faced young man, immediately got off the stool on which he was sitting and said, “Yes, sir. Who is the guest?”
“His name is Eugene Waksit. He checked in yesterday. He’s from Papua New Guinea.”
“Where is that?”
“It doesn’t matter. What room is he in?”
“I’ll look it up for you right now, sir.”
It took only a few seconds for the clerk to have an answer for them. “He checked out last night,” he said apologetically.
“A quick stay, huh?” one of the detectives said. “He only checked in yesterday.”
“I wasn’t here when he left,” the clerk said. “I work days. Maybe he had a family emergency. One of the night clerks left a note that he’d complained about having to pay for only a few hours here, but the policy is—”
“Was he alone?”
“Ah, I believe so. I mean, the record indicates that he checked in alone. But sometimes…” His smile was boyish.
“Do you know where he went after checking out?”
The clerk shook his head. “No, sir.”
“He didn’t make a reservation at another Days Inn in the area?”
He checked his computer screen. “No, sir. If he did we have no record of it.”
They thanked him, and twenty minutes later enjoyed banana pancakes and bacon.
* * *
Cops from the District weren’t the only ones interested in Eugene Waksit that morning.
Jayla and Nate Cousins sat at her breakfast table after a sleepless night.
“You should call the police,” he insisted, something he’d been urging since arriving.
“And tell them what, that an old friend from home who worked for my father wants to get together while he’s here in Washington?”
“It’s harassment, Jayla. He’s stalking you.”
She shook her head to clear it.
“Look,” Cousins pressed, “he stole your father’s research and must be here in D.C. trying to sell it. I’ve told you how interested Walt Milkin is in seeing what your father developed. Others will be interested, too. But more than that, Jayla, chances are he killed your father, murdered him for God’s sake.”
“He wants us to have dinner to discuss working together to find an outlet for dad’s work.”
Cousins slapped his hand on the table, causing their cups to rattle in their saucers. “Wake up, Jayla!” he said. “Waksit is a bad guy who’s already killed once and won’t hesitate to kill again. Go to dinner with him? You’ll be lucky to come away from it alive.”
“I think I should call Mac Smith,” she said. She wanted to defuse Cousins’s frustration but her suggestion only fueled it.
“What can he do?” Cousins asked, struggling to moderate his tone. “He’s a lawyer, not a cop.”
“He works with Robert Brixton.”
“So what? Brixton’s not a cop.”
“He was. He’s also been a friend. He’s the one who found where Eugene is staying. When Mac called he said that he’d told his friend at the police department, a chief of detectives, where they could find Eugene. Maybe they’ll go and question him.”
“That’s great, but in the meantime he’s made contact with you, knows where you live, even had the nerve to enter your apartment without your permission. He’s dangerous, Jayla. You have to accept that.”
She dialed Mac Smith’s number at the Watergate.
“Mac, it’s Jayla King. Hope I’m not calling too early.”
“We’ve been up for an hour. How are you?”
“Not good, Mac. I’m at my apartment with Nate Cousins. Eugene Waksit called me last night.”
“Oh?”
“It came out of the blue. He—he wants to get together with me.”
“Why?”
“To talk about my father’s research. He seems to think that we can work together to find a pharmaceutical company that would be interested in it.”
Mac hesitated before saying, “Jayla, I certainly don’t want to be telling you what to do, but it’s my sense that you’re better off staying away from Mr. Waksit. There’s something that I’ve neglected to mention to you. I had the opportunity to go through Eric Morrison’s appointment book. He’s the lobbyist who was recently killed. It seems that Morrison met with Waksit before his death.”
Mac said, “I think it’s best that you avoid Waksit. There’s no telling how he might fit into the Morrison murder.”
What he said made sense to her. At the same time she knew that she couldn’t simply turn off her thoughts about Waksit and what she was desperate to know about the role he might have played in her father’s death.
“I know you’re right, Mac, and I appreciate the advice.”
“You say that Cousins is with you.”
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