Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [23]
This day, it was the scene of what Rick Marshalk hoped would be the final, definitive meeting with representatives of Betzcon Pharmaceuticals. Six months ago, the drug company had fired its D.C. lobbying firm and made it known that it was shopping for a new one. Although considerably smaller than Merck, Lilly, or Pfizer, Betzcon had aggressively carved out a larger and larger niche in the intensely competitive pharmaceutical industry. Its commitment to, and funding of, research was well acknowledged, and had paid off recently in a breakthrough drug for the treatment of high blood pressure that was already changing the medical landscape. Once the FDA had approved it, Betzcon launched a multimillion-dollar campaign to win over physicians. A TV and print advertising blitz had patients pressing their physicians to prescribe the drug for them. The campaign succeeded. The drug, Aorstat, was rapidly becoming the prescription of choice for cardiologists, turning Betzcon from a midsize upstart to a company with bulging profits and a bright future.
But while Betzcon’s bottom line was fattening, trouble loomed in the halls of Congress.
“I know it’s an understatement to say how shocked everyone is at the murder of Senator Simmons’s wife,” Rick Marshalk told those gathered in the town house’s velvet-draped living room. With him were two other senior lobbyists from the Marshalk Group; Marshalk’s administrative assistant, a stunning blonde who sat with long legs crossed and a notepad on her lap; and the group’s vice president for security, Jack Parish. Representing Betzcon Pharmaceuticals were its governmental affairs VP and four of his staff. The only intrusions came from the house’s elaborate kitchen, where three of Emma Churchill’s catering staff ran Screwdrivers, coffee, and sandwiches to the living room. Emma had been there earlier but left to oversee another luncheon. Churchill Catering catered all of the Marshalk Group’s business and social affairs, although as far as the IRS was concerned, there were no such things as personal and social gatherings. It was all business, all the time.
Marshalk continued: “We’ve arranged for a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to her killer. As you know, her son, Neil, our president, won’t be with us today for obvious reasons. Neil and his dad, Senator Simmons, are devastated by this horrendous loss, and the Marshalk Group stands ready to help in any way we can.”
A few questions were asked about the crime and its investigation, and Marshalk turned to Jack Parish for the answers. “Jack is a former MPD detective,” he told the Betzcon people, “and has maintained links to that agency. He’s the one with the answers.”
Nondescript was the appropriate description of Parish, average and medium in all ways except for a mouth that wasn’t exactly straight-and-level. It started low on the left and slanted up to the right, giving him a look of perpetual skepticism. “There’s not much to report,” he said. “It’s too early. But I have been told that they have a few suspects they’re looking into.”
“I hope whoever did it fries,” a Betzcon executive said.
“Not here in D.C.,” Parish said. “We don’t have the death penalty.”
“You should have,” the exec snarled.
Marshalk had been sitting. He now stood and commanded the room. He was a large carton of a man in his early forties, his bulk mitigated by the cut of his custom-made British double-breasted suits. He was of mixed heritage; a swarthy complexion and coal-black hair honored his deceased Cuban mother. His father, a Caucasian American, had been a successful liability lawyer in Miami until dropping dead one sunny afternoon on a golf course at the age of fifty-six.
Their only child, Rick, graduated from Cal State with a degree in general studies, and went on to study screenwriting at UCLA. He found minimal success in Hollywood. Two of his scripts sold for