Margaret Truman's Deadly Medicine

by Margaret Truman

  She seemed flustered, didn’t know whether to return the greeting and invite him in, or slam the door in his face. She finally said, “Come on in.”

  Her apartment mirrored her personal disarray. Clothing was strewn on a sofa and chairs. Two watercolors of bucolic scenes hung crookedly on a wall. A bottle of whiskey sat on a coffee table along with a pile of newspapers and magazines. Brixton noticed two large suitcases near a door leading to the bedroom.

  Paula walked on unsteady legs to the kitchen. She returned with a plate on which she’d piled crackers, some of them broken into small pieces.

  “Sit down,” she slurred, pointing to the couch that was covered with her clothing.

  “Are we going out?” Brixton asked.

  “Out? Oh, for a drink and dinner. Have a drink here.” She picked up the almost empty bottle of bourbon from the coffee table and handed it to Brixton. She stumbled into him and he kept her from falling.

  “Look,” he said, “maybe we should do this another time, get together when you’re—when you’re feeling better.”

  “I feel fine,” she said, and pressed her lips to his.

  He gently disengaged.

  “We’re writing a book together,” she said as though talking to an unseen person. “That’ll serve him right, the bastard.”

  “Morrison?”

  “You bet your ass,” she said. “We’ll make a fortune. How about that?”

  She took the bottle from him and tried to pour what was left into a glass that already contained bourbon, but she missed and the whiskey went on the carpet. She giggled and fell into the clothes on the couch. “What are you standing there for?” she said. “Come here.”

  Brixton faced a dilemma.

  On the one hand he wanted to escape, to leave the apartment and the drunken former B-movie actress. But he wondered if leaving her in this condition was responsible. In her present state she was capable of hurting herself. Maybe she’ll pass out, he thought, fall asleep and wake up in the morning with a world-class hangover. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen drunks end up that way. At the same time he didn’t want to hang out long enough to see it happen.

  She stretched her arms out and again invited him to join her on the pile of clothing.

  “I have to go,” he said.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” she said. “We’re writing a book together. Come on, let’s get started.” She tried to stand but her legs wouldn’t cooperate.

  Brixton went to her and took her hand. “How about you go to bed, Paula? We’ll get together another time.”

  Her expression hardened. She struggled to get up, finally made it with help from him, and staggered in the direction of the kitchen. Brixton saw her start to topple and made a move to grab her, but he was too late. She crashed to the floor, her head making solid contact with the door jamb. Brixton looked down and saw blood seep from a long gash on the side of her head.

  “Paula,” he said. “Wake up.”

  She was out cold.

  Now, there wasn’t a decision to be made. He called 911 on his cell and told the dispatcher of the situation.

  “Somebody will be there shortly,” the woman said.

  Ten minutes later two EMTs and a uniformed police officer arrived. While the EMTs positioned her on a gurney, the office took a statement from Brixton, and it quickly became obvious to him that the cop suspected foul play.

  “She’s drunk, fell, and hit her head on the door jamb,” Brixton said.

  The officer inspected the door jamb. There was no sign of blood.

  “You don’t always start bleeding right away,” Brixton said.

  “You’ll have to come with me,” the officer said.

  “Why? I didn’t do anything.”

  The cop’s hard look told Brixton that there wasn’t any sense in arguing with him.

  “I didn’t say you did, sir, but the hospital will need information from you about your wife.”

  “My wife? She’s not my wife. She’s a friend, a former movie actress.”

  The cop’s sober expression perked up. “She was in the movies?”

  “Yeah.”

  The EMTs rolled the gurney out the door.

  “Let’s go, sir,” the officer said.

  Brixton sighed. “Mind if I make a call first?”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  He called Flo at the shop.

  “I’m in a situation here with Paula Silver and—”

  “A situation? What sort of situation?”

  Brixton tried to explain but did a poor job of it.

  “You’re at her apartment? She’s drunk? You’re going to the hospital with her?”

  “That’s about it,” he said. “I’ll be more specific when I see you.”

  “Jayla King’s coming to the shop for dinner.”

  “That’s nice. I’ll see you there.”

  The ER at the hospital was busy, but Paula was seen quickly. By this time she’d awakened and babbled incoherently. Brixton explained to the physician what had occurred.

  “That’s a nasty gash on her head,” the doctor said.

  “Yeah, well, she fell pretty hard against the door jamb.”

  Brixton wasn’t sure whether the physician believed it or not, but at this juncture he didn’t care.

  “Will you be our contact?” Brixton was asked.

  “She doesn’t have anybody here in D.C. that I know of,” he said. “I suppose you can call me.” He gave his contact information and was told by the cop that he could go. As he was leaving the ER a young man intercepted him. “Aren’t you Robert Brixton?” he said.

  “Who are you?” Brixton asked.

  “Joel Gibbons, Washington Post. You brought that lady in.”

  “That’s right. You see—”

  “Who is she?”

  She’s—she’s a very nice lady who’s had some hard knocks in her life. I’m sure she’ll be glad to talk to you. Have a nice night.”

  The reporter threw a few questions at him but Brixton ignored them and walked away. That’s all I need, he thought, to be in the paper again.

  He hailed a taxi to take him to where he’d parked his car near Paula’s apartment. Once there he called Flo. “I just left the hospital,” he said. “They’ve admitted her. I gave the hospital my number as her contact.”

  “And you’re all right?” Flo asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Jayla is here. We’re ordering in Chinese. Do you want me to order something for you?”

  “I’ll nibble on whatever you two order.”

  Flo ignored the comment. Brixton was big on nibbling other people’s food. She’d order what she knew he liked, ribs and shrimp fried rice.

  As he drove to Flo’s Fashions he came to the realization that the incident with Paula Silver had shaken him. He pulled up in front of a restaurant that he and Flo often frequented, went inside, sat at the bar, and ordered a martini. Flo had Jayla to keep her company and would probably, hopefully, be busy with customers. She wouldn’t miss him for the half hour it took to enjoy a quiet drink.

  * * *

  Waksit had seen Jayla park in an outdoor lot a block away from Flo’s Fashions, walk to the shop, and go in. He circled the block once before finding a metered space across from the store where he sat, his attention focused on the door in which an OPEN sign hung. He reasoned that she was shopping and would soon emerge. A meter maid approached. Waksit got out and fed his meter. She passed, and he debated what to do. He felt exposed standing by his car—he didn’t want Jayla to see him—and got back behind the wheel.

  A half hour passed. Waksit was tense; he opened the briefcase on the passenger seat and confirmed, for the fourth time, that it contained Dr. King’s research findings. Another ten minutes passed. During the time he’d been there only two people had entered the shop, a man and woman. They didn’t stay long and came out empty-handed.

  What was Jayla doing in there? When would she exit the store?

  A c
ar pulled up in front of the shop. The driver, a young Asian man, activated the emergency lights on the vehicle, got out, and disappeared inside the store carrying two brown bags. He emerged seconds later, hopped in his car, and drove away.

  Waksit waited for Jayla to reappear until he could no longer sit idly by. He got out of his car, briefcase in hand, and crossed the street, standing to the side of Flo’s Fashions’ front window. He leaned forward to look inside and saw no one.

  Where was Jayla? Where was the store’s owner?

  Waksit couldn’t see where Jayla and Flo sat at a small table in the rear of the shop. Flo had laid out disposable plates, utensils, and paper napkins.

  “Are you sure I can’t pay my share for dinner?” Jayla asked.

  “Absolutely not,” Flo replied, opening the white food containers and inserting serving spoons in them. “Eat up and enjoy before another customer comes in. I love it when the shop is busy, but I also appreciate when it’s quiet. After we eat I’ll show you the new arrivals. You’ll love them.”

  Flo had told Jayla of Robert’s call and the situation he’d found himself in. She couldn’t help but laugh. “Leave it to Robert to find himself in another mess. He seems drawn to trouble like a moth to a summer candle. I could kill him sometimes but—”

  Her thought was interrupted by the chime announcing that a customer had come through the door. “Excuse me,” she said, getting up from the table and skirting the portable room divider that separated the front of the shop from the back rooms.

  “Welcome,” Flo said to Waksit, who stood just inside the door. She flashed a smile. “Can I help you with something, or just browsing?” She noticed the briefcase he carried; probably on his way home from work. She also took note that he appeared to be nervous, his eyes darting left and right.

  “I’m here to see Jayla,” he said.

  Flo hadn’t expected that reply.

  “Oh, you’re a friend of Jayla’s,” she said. “She’s—”

  Waksit locked the door behind him.

  “Excuse me,” Flo said, but—”

  Waksit also turned the OPEN sign around so that CLOSED appeared in the door.

  “What are you doing?” Flo demanded, taking steps toward him.

  “I want to see Jayla,” Waksit said.

  Jayla had heard the exchange and appeared from behind the room divider.

  “Eugene!” she said.

  Not immediately connecting the name to Jayla’s father’s assistant, Flo went to push past him to reverse the sign and unlock the door, but Waksit stopped her. He withdrew the switchblade from his pocket and pushed the button, causing the blade to snap open, the stainless steel glittering in the shop’s lighting. Flo gasped and stepped back, but Waksit was too quick. Dropping the briefcase to the floor, he grabbed her arm, turned her so that her back was to him, and held the tip of the knife to her neck.

  Waksit pressed the knife under Flo’s chin and pushed her toward the rear of the shop; Jayla moved with them. Flo could feel Waksit’s hot breath on her neck.

  “Sit down at the computer,” he instructed Jayla. “Bring up the Word menu.”

  When she had, he began dictating: “I, Jayla King, daughter of Dr. Preston King, do hereby swear that whatever research my father did to find a more effective painkiller is now the property of his loyal assistant, Mr. Eugene Waksit, and I have no claim on it whatsoever and forever.” Jayla thought he was finished, but he added: “Dr. King left all his research results to me, Eugene Waksit, his loyal assistant.”

  “Print it!” he commanded.

  Suddenly, he turned his attention to a noise from in front of the shop; a car had stopped suddenly and screeched to a halt.

  The letter came out of the printer. Jayla removed it from the tray, signed it, and handed it to Waksit. “You have what you want, Eugene,” she said. “Please go and leave us alone. There’s nothing further to be gained by staying here.”

  “Oh, I’m going to leave all right—after I’m sure you won’t go to the police.”

  After paying his tab, Brixton had driven to Georgetown where he found a metered spot two cars removed from where Waksit had parked. After feeding the meter he crossed the street and turned the handle on the door. It was locked. Then he saw the CLOSED sign. It was too early for Flo to have closed the shop and gone home. Besides, she wouldn’t have done that without having called him. He peered through the glass in the door. He saw no one, but the lights were all on. His antenna went up. Something was wrong. He was poised to knock but an instinct told him that it was the wrong thing to do.

  Checking that his handgun was under his belt, he circled around behind the building and stood in the alley outside the rear door. He tried the lock. It, too, was locked. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number for the shop. He heard it ring inside, but no one picked up. He placed his ear to the door and heard the drone of a male voice, the words muffled.

  As Brixton pondered the situation, Nate Cousins, whose dinner with the prospective client had ended early, walked up to the shop’s front door and tried it. Locked. Jayla had said that Flo closed at nine. It was just a few minutes past eight. He knocked, loudly.

  Inside, Flo and Jayla heard the banging on the door. So did Waksit. His eyes widened and he swung the switchblade back and forth as though to cut away the intrusion.

  Brixton also heard the loud knocking. He ran from the alley to the front of the store where he confronted Nate Cousins. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Jayla said she’d be here,” said Cousins. “What’s going on?”

  “Whatever it is it’s not good,” Brixton said. “Look. You keep banging on the door while I go around back again.”

  “What do I do if—?”

  “Just keep knocking.”

  The incessant rapping on the door further unnerved Waksit. He was gripped with indecision. He thrust the knife at Flo and Jayla as a warning not to do anything foolish, left the office area, and stood amid the multiple racks of women’s clothing. He saw a man through the door’s glass panes. While he stood frozen, Flo did what Brixton had hoped she would. She ran to the rear door, followed by Jayla, unbolted it, and flung it open.

  “What the hell is going on?” Brixton asked, his Sig Sauer in his hand.

  “It’s Waksit,” Jayla said. “He has a knife.”

  Brixton entered the shop and paused. Cousins continued to beat on the front door. Brixton moved from the rear section of the store to its main sales area where Waksit stood, the knife in his hand, confused by the pounding on the door.

  “Hey, Waksit,” Brixton said.

  Waksit spun around.

  “Drop the knife,” Brixton said, his pistol aimed at him.

  “Who are you?” Waksit said, dropping the knife to the floor.

  “Robert Brixton.”

  Jayla and Flo reentered the shop.

  “Call nine-one-one and get some cops here,” Brixton said. “And open the door. All that banging is driving me nuts.”

  CHAPTER

  43

  THREE MONTHS LATER

  “Welcome back!”

  Mac and Annabel stood at the door to their apartment in the Watergate, hands outstretched to Jayla King and Nate Cousins, who’d just returned from Papua New Guinea.

  “It’s good to be back,” Jayla said.

  She and Cousins had traveled together to Port Moresby where Jayla took care of legal matters with her attorney, Elgin Taylor. Her father’s house had been sold; the buyer intended to turn the laboratory into a small apartment for an aging relative. Jayla had wanted to pay one last visit to the Sepik River region where her father had planted and cultivated the native plants used in his quest for a better painkiller. The trip had provided Jayla with closure; she’d taken her father’s ashes with them and sprinkled them over the plot of land that had meant so much to him. For Cousins, the Sepik River and its lush, forbidding jungle and primitive natives was an eye-opening experience into a culture that existed for him only in movies
and National Geographic.

  Shortly after they’d arrived at the Watergate, Brixton and Flo showed up. The occasion was a brunch that the Smiths had put together for the returning couple.

  “Congratulations,” Flo said when she and Brixton joined the others on the balcony, referring to the news that Cousins had proposed marriage and that Jayla had accepted.

  “Have you set a date?” Mac asked.

  “We haven’t had time to even think about dates,” Cousins said.

  “We have another bit of news to share with you,” Jayla said.

  All eyes went to her.

  “I’m leaving Renewal Pharmaceuticals.”

  “When did you decide that?” Annabel asked.

  “I’d been thinking about it ever since my father died. Walt Milkin—he’s CEO of Renewal—made up my mind for me. He’s a very intelligent man, no question about that. But when he threatened to cancel the contract with Nate’s PR agency unless Nate delivered my father’s work to him, I decided that he’s not a very nice man.” She turned to Brixton. “But you are a very nice man,” she said, coming to where he sat and kissing his cheek.

  “Robert doesn’t handle compliments well,” Flo quipped.

  “That’s because I’m not used to getting them from one unnamed lady.”

  “Oh, poor baby,” Flo said, planting a kiss where Jayla had. “I agree with Jayla. You are a very nice man—most of the time.”

  “You saved our lives,” Jayla said.

  “Nothing to it,” Brixton said in his best modest voice. “Waksit wasn’t about to kill anybody. He was a pussycat.”

  “Speaking of Mr. Waksit,” Mac said, “I spoke with his attorney today here in Washington, an old friend. I also spoke yesterday with Jayla’s attorney, Elgin Taylor, in Port Moresby. He told me of your visit to him, Jayla, and how impressed he was with your demeanor while dealing with so many unpleasant events.”

  “I spread my father’s ashes, the way he would have wanted me to.”

  “So he said. He also told me that it’s the opinion of the local police investigating your father’s murder that the fellow who torched and bulldozed your dad’s property in Sepik, and who killed your father’s native helper, Mr. Tagobe, also killed your dad. His name was Underwood, Paul Underwood if I have it right. Underwood allegedly hanged himself in his cell where he was being held in the Tagobe murder. The police don’t necessarily buy that he took his own life, but they don’t have solid evidence to the contrary. It’s their belief that he was killed by whoever he was working for to keep him quiet.”