The Cyclops Conspiracy (18 page)

His heart kicked into overdrive when he saw the hood covering the face. Waterhouse snuck back to the bedroom, reached under the nightstand, and pressed the panic alarm. Run-down though his house was, he’d spared no expense in outfitting it with a monitored security
system. Forty grand in cash hidden in various places known only to him and God made one very careful—and very suspicious. The police would arrive quickly. Poquoson was a small town.

He pulled the Sphinx AT 2000 Police Special from under the bed, released the safety, and headed back to the kitchen. As he left the bedroom, he was slammed in the face. The blow connected with the bridge of his nose. His head snapped, and white bolts of light filled his vision. The fist slammed him again. Waterhouse slumped to the floor, releasing the gun.

When he awoke, he had no idea how much time had passed. It couldn’t have been long. He heard no sirens. The enormous hooded man towered over him. A gun pressed against Waterhouse’s temple. His hands and feet were bound with some kind of cord. Waterhouse could see the man’s tan skin and dark eyes through the wide eyeholes.

“Where are the files?”

The deep, raspy voice confirmed the man was from the deserts of the Middle East.
He’s a freakin’ oversized camel jockey
, Waterhouse thought. He scowled and spat on the man’s boots. “Puta!”

The gun struck him on the right cheek, crashing down like an ironsmith’s hammer.
Where the hell are the cops?

“Where are Pettigrew’s files?” the man boomed.

“Fuck you, Ahmed!” He tasted blood on his lower lip.

Another blow snapped his head to the side. His right eye began to swell. Waterhouse glared defiantly at the figure. He only needed to hold out a few minutes longer.
How does this guy know about the files?

“The files!”

After the third blow landed, Waterhouse’s head began to swim. The man wrestled with the fingers of Waterhouse’s right hand. He produced a pair of needle-nosed pliers and grasped the fingernail of the index finger between the blades. Waterhouse shook it loose. A firm foot pressed against Waterhouse’s belly and the pliers were reapplied to the nail.

“I’m not going to ask again.”

The wail of approaching sirens shattered the sleepy night. The eyes under the hood widened.

Waterhouse smiled and told the man what he could do to himself.

The warbling grew louder. The hooded face turned to listen. He cursed in a guttural dialect. Suddenly, he removed the pliers.

“Hey, Mustaffah! Hang around and meet some of my friends!” Waterhouse spat.

He backhanded the private investigator again and departed through the back door.

Waterhouse was trying to wriggle free when the first Poquoson police officer knocked on the front door.

The diminutive pharmacist appeared to Jason in a new, sinister light this morning. He studied Sam Fairing from the shadows of the rear hallway. The dark-skinned man worked the counter with Kevin Bryant, the technician, in a calm, efficient manner, dispatching each prescription carefully and precisely with minimal discussion. It was the weekend, so business was slower than normal. Despite the desire to grab Fairing by the neck and squeeze a confession from him, Jason grudgingly admired his orderly approach to his craft. Regardless of the man’s proficiency, Fairing was involved in a nefarious—or at least criminal—plot, and was now tainted. The luster of Jason’s new job had begun to fade.

Lily was probably at her mansion, doing whatever multimillion-aires do to unwind. Thankfully, he didn’t have to deal with her for two full days. Jason relished the opportunity to snoop in relative privacy. And hopefully have the whole picture by Monday.

Seven prescriptions, all run through the Colonial’s prescription dispensing software. Three people—two of them professionals—Fairing,
Kader, and some guy named Winstead, the supposed “patient.” In addition to the lingering headache from his lunch with Jasmine Kader, another question refused to go away.

Was Lily Zanns involved?

If it was fraud, then why? The Colonial was thriving, and had been for years. At two thousand prescriptions a week, the prescription count was robust. They weren’t overstaffed. There was enough help; in fact, they could probably use another technician. Inventory was under control at about at six hundred and fifty thousand dollars, a mere six weeks of sales on hand.

Why fill seven phony prescriptions in a fourteen-month period? It translated to a total of just over thirty-two thousand dollars in gross revenue over a fourteen-month period. A pittance for a business that did $6.1 million in sales annually. Why risk defrauding an insurance company for such a small amount of money? What purpose would it serve? Were they billing other medications falsely? Jason made a mental note to check the financial statements. Maybe Christine could help in that area. In any case, it was time to let her know what they’d found.

Billy Parks entered the store and walked toward Jason. “Everything going okay, Billy?” Jason asked with more cheer than he felt. Since Billy was new, he knew this man was untarnished by the Colonial’s sins.

“Just fine there, young fella,” Parks responded. A rotund man with a protruding belly, Park’s gold tie rested on the white fabric of his shirt and was two buttons short of his waist. “Anxious to get started.”

* * *

“He suspects something unusual about Pettigrew’s death. But he knows nothing of our plan.” Jasmine crossed her long legs in the spacious backseat of Zanns’s blue stretch Mercedes. “He met with the same man who was at Pettigrew’s house after the funeral. The one with the ponytail.”

Lily placed the thin Turkish cigarette to her lips. “His name is Walter Waterhouse. Cooper’s men photographed him. Oliver tried to search his house last night, but the police showed up.”

“Has Oliver found the files?”

“No, I have tasked him to keep searching. Right now, he’s out of leads. If Waterhouse had the files, they most certainly have been moved by now.”

“What about Rodgers?” asked Jasmine.

“Rodgers knows nothing important. The operation is less than a week away. He will not have time to do us any damage.”

“Did you place the evidence in his house?”

“I did. The notes about Torpedo and Thunderbolt were left in the pages of a book. Not easy to find unless you’re looking for them. A competent search of his house will uncover it. Once the deed has been done, they will look to him for answers. I have also taken his gun and the wine glass with his fingerprints on it. They will be useful later.”

“Excellent. The evidence will confuse the authorities for a little while, at least,” said Zanns. “The gun and the wine glasses we will hold in reserve. Continue to engage him. If he learns anything, I want to know it immediately.”

“Mother, your plan to frame him is ingenious.”

“Thank you, my dear. Find out more about this Waterhouse. I do not trust Cooper or Hammon. We must divert focus away from us until we have time to make our escape. Jason Rodgers will be that diversion.”

Jason and Peter exited Peter’s Hummer and walked to the entrance of Peter’s Gun Shop. Not a creative name, but effective. They were clad in their sparring outfits and drenched in sweat after an hour-long workout and sparring session at Charles Kim’s Tae Kwon Do dojang. They each wore the black-striped ha’i pants and T-shirts, and had donned sneakers. Their belts were still cinched around their waists, Peter’s black, Jason’s brown.

Inside, they sat at a table in a small conference room, and analyzed their gruff new friend.

“What’s up with Waterhouse?” asked Peter.

“I don’t know if I trust him,” Jason replied. “He took almost forty grand of Thomas’s hard-earned cash. And he’s obsessed with money.” Several times in casual conversation, Waterhouse had broached the subject of money in front of Jason. The private investigator had questioned Jason intently about how insurance companies pay their claims and how pharmacies billed them. He’d asked Jason a lot of questions about how insurance companies deter fraud. Jason had explained that they send in
auditors periodically to look at high-dollar claims. As Jason watched the man listening, he could see the gears grinding behind the pale blue eyes.

“He gives me the heebie-jeebies,” Peter replied. “You think he’s on the up-and-up?”

“He’s an ex-cop. And Thomas left the files with him, so the old man must have trusted him.”

“He may be an ex-cop, but that doesn’t mean he’s trustworthy.”

“True,” said Jason. “We just need to keep an eye on him. Let’s not give him too much rope. We need to run this thing. Not him.”

“You mean you, little brother. I’m following your lead.”

There was a knock at the door. Christine and Walter Waterhouse stepped into the conference room.

“Morning, gents,” said Waterhouse. The pasty skin on the right side of his face was swollen, pushing his eyelid closed. He cradled Pettigrew’s files in his arms.

“What happened to you?” asked Jason.

“It seems we’re not the only people interested in these,” said Waterhouse, dropping the box onto the conference table. “I was visited last night by someone looking for these. He asked me to part with them, in a not-so-friendly manner.”

“I see you refused,” said Peter.

“I have a silent alarm in the bedroom. Luckily the police showed before he could do any more damage.”

“Were you followed here?” asked Jason.

“No,” Waterhouse replied. “I was worried about that, too. I doubled back several times along the way.”

“Let me have those.” Peter motioned for Waterhouse to slide the box to him. Waterhouse did so. “We can keep them here,” said Peter. “I have an empty gun safe. It would take a forklift to move it and a carton of C-4 to blow it open.”

Peter left the room with the box in his arms. He returned a few minutes later empty-handed. “They won’t be disturbed now,” the ex-marine said.

“Let’s get down to business,” Jason demanded.

Jason relayed details of their conference in Waterhouse’s command center to Christine.

“I called the wholesaler this morning,” he continued. “They’re open Saturday. They confirmed that the Colonial has not purchased any Prucept—
ever.
And yet, these prescriptions have been billed to this patient’s, Douglas Winstead’s, insurance company. It’s fraud, plain and simple.”

Jason slid each document toward Christine as he outlined each point. She studied each one. The three men watched her try to assimilate the information. Her eyebrows furrowed then relaxed several times.

Finally, she pushed the papers to the center of the table. “My father is dead and buried. None of it matters anymore. What good can come from pursuing this?” she hissed.

Jason gathered up the papers and gently rapped them into a neat pile. “Your father may have been obsessed with conspiracies, but the evidence we have here is pretty solid. He discovered that the Colonial was into something underhanded. He was trying to bring it to light.”

“So?”

“Christine, these documents are proof of a crime.”

She was unconvinced and shook her head emphatically. “And when it gets out that this was going on, Daddy will be guilty by association. His reputation will be further damaged. Even though he sold the pharmacy, everyone associates it with him. He
was
the Colonial.”

“Your father never would have stood for any of this,” said Jason. “And it’s serious enough that Walter was attacked last night, and I’m being followed,” he added.

“Followed? By whom?” Christine asked.

“I don’t know. A car’s been following me.” He’d first noticed them last night driving home from Waterhouse’s. Jason suspected it was the Secret Service, still keeping tabs on him because of his photography at the shipyard. But after hearing of the attack on Waterhouse last night, Jason was having doubts. He hadn’t told anyone
about the tail until now. Not even his brother. “Maybe it’s the same folks that beat up Walter here.”

“That mean they’re outside now?” Peter was immediately concerned.

“No, I rented a car and parked it in the alley behind the store. I left the Mustang parked out front at the Colonial, and snuck out the back door. They’re probably still in the parking lot waiting for me to leave.” Jason had spotted them again following him to work. Either they were bad at it, or they wanted him to know he was being tailed. If it was the latter, Jason was sure it would be the Secret Service. He didn’t like the idea of anyone following him—including the feds. He’d arranged for Rachel, the cashier, to meet him behind the Colonial with her car. She had driven him to the car rental business two miles up the road. Jason had then driven straight to the gun shop in the rental, a Ford Fusion, and then rendezvoused with Peter for their early-morning workout.

Christine had been half-listening. Jason could see her mind was somewhere else entirely, probably focused on the ramifications of more negative publicity. Suddenly, her face softened as a thought struck her. “Are you suggesting that this insurance fraud had something to do with Daddy’s death?”

Jason leafed through the pages in his hand and pulled out the report with Pettigrew’s handwriting on the back. He turned it facedown and slid it toward Christine. “Read that. This note was left with Walter by your father.”

She slid it over. Christine wrinkled her forehead as she read the words. Her lip quivered. She buried her head in her hands and began to sob.

Tell Christine that I love her.

Christine had run from the building. Jason caught up with her in the parking lot near his rented Fusion. Tears were streaming down her face.

“Get away from me!” Christine shrieked through watery mascara. A man walked past them toting a gun case and headed toward the shop, trying not to stare. Jason stepped toward her, extending some tissues. She snapped them from his hands.

“Your father worked his whole life to build the Colonial into what it is. If someone is breaking the law there, they’re tarnishing that image. Isn’t that your father’s legacy, too? It seems he was trying to find out what was going on. We need to finish his mission.” He leaned closer and whispered the next few words. “We need you to tell us what you remember about the night your father died. We need your professional expertise, too.”