The Cyclops Conspiracy (25 page)

Zanns wanted to spit in the face of the American weasel sitting beside her. She suspected Cooper, an alias no doubt, would fold when the pressure intensified. She’d seen it before in so many other weak-kneed Americans. He was nothing more than a pontificating sycophant who dissected others’ decisions in hindsight, but didn’t have the mettle to step forward and think for himself.

Cooper switched back to the pharmacist. “If we deem that Rodgers knows too much, Hammon has authorized me to have him neutralized. Tonight will tell us more,” he said.

Zanns turned, acid in her tone. “
Cul!
” Ass. “If Rodgers dies before Saturday, we will not carry out the killings. Is that clear?”

“Rodgers had better remain contained.”

“What about the courier?” asked Zanns.

“Mr. Winstead will be making his last delivery to the Colonial today. And I do mean
last
.”

“Have you taken delivery of Cyclops?”

Cooper nodded. “Tomorrow. It’s been tested four times in the last two months with excellent results.”

“Very well,” said Zanns.

“There’s one small matter that has yet to be resolved, Lily.”

“And
what
is that?”

“Delivery of the device will only be completed upon receipt of payment.”

“Payment? What payment? That was not part of the original agreement.”

“Most true. However, I have decided that
I
need some insurance.”

So
, Zanns thought,
the man has some balls after all
. The snake was going to hold Zanns and their plan hostage in order to cash in. Bile rose in her throat. There was no one to whom she could appeal this blackmail. Steven Cooper was her only contact to Hammon and the rebel faction financing her operation. If given enough time, Zanns could unearth it. But there were only a few days left until D-day.

“I see you waited until we were beyond the point of no return before blackmailing us, Steven. For once, I’m impressed. How much?”

“Five million is fair,” Cooper said flatly. He handed her a slip of paper with an account number scribbled on it. “Transfer the funds by midnight tonight, or I’ll develop car trouble on my trip to take delivery of Cyclops.”

“But the deposit has already been spent. I do not have that kind of money, and—”

Cooper raised a hand, stopping her. “I know who your benefactor was, and his history. He raped and pillaged his homeland. You have
access to much more. Consider yourself lucky that I’m only asking for five. Without Cyclops, the mission is guaranteed to fail!”

Lily wrung her gloved hands as she glared at Cooper. Her Amo had been dead for almost three years, hung like a common criminal. Now, his memory was being thrown back in her face. “Bastard! Are
you
prepared to incur Hammon’s wrath?”

“You let me worry about that. Make sure the money is in the account tonight. If the attacks fail because Cyclops is not in place, Hammon will think you reneged. In fact, I’ll make sure he knows you did. You’ll become hunted, forever on the run. No corner of the planet will be safe.”

* * *

Every nerve in Douglas Winstead’s body was frayed. His eyes darted about. He despised this place more with every visit. When this whole thing was over, he promised himself, he’d never set foot within three miles of the pharmacy. He shifted his weight from one foot to another as he waited in the four-person queue. A damned blue hair was talking up the fat pharmacist about her godforsaken bowel movements. In between questions, she had to tell him about her family and grandchildren and how they never visited anymore. The woman was in her own little time warp, the pharmacist her own personal consultant.

Hurry up!

Winstead had never seen the pudgy pharmacist before. A grand-fatherly type, his bald pate was ringed by a furry, horseshoe-shaped patch of hair, like monks Winstead had seen in history books. The name plate on the high counter read “William T. Parks, RPh.”

The short, dark-skinned raghead had always been on duty when he delivered the prescription. Was he supposed to turn it in only to him? The last thing he wanted to do was screw this thing up now. Winstead drummed his palm faster against his thigh. A trickle of sweat made its way down his back.

Get the prescription to the pharmacy. That was his only task. Did it really matter who took it from him? Like all the other times, the unmarked envelope holding the prescription had been left in the front seat of his truck during the night. He’d given up long ago trying to learn who was delivering it. They knew every move he made.

The line inched forward as Blue Hair shuffled off to wait for her medication. Ten agonizing minutes later, Winstead bellied up to the counter. The young cashier snapped her gum as she took the prescription and asked if he wanted to wait for it.

“No,” he replied. His throat was dry and felt like it might close up.
Who gives a shit? Take three weeks to fill the goddamned thing!

Winstead turned to leave. Entering one of the aisles, he almost bumped into the short Arabic-looking pharmacist. The pharmacist’s eyes widened, recognizing him. Winstead nodded and kept walking. Fairing stepped behind the counter and up the steps, looking for the slip of paper Winstead had just dropped off.

Winstead could hear him say, “Billy, I’ll take care of this prescription.” Winstead breathed easier and felt a few ounces lighter as he stepped into the morning sun.

* * *

“Where’s Lily?” asked Jason of anyone who would answer. He waited with hands on hips for a response. He had no desire to be dressed down again for neglecting his duties.

“She called earlier and said she was going out of town on a meeting. She said she’d be back in the afternoon,” Parks replied. “Something about meeting with the lawyers.”

She’s meeting with her lawyers
, Jason thought.
Good!
At least he wouldn’t have to listen to her rant about why he hadn’t found any locations. He had no intention of completing that task until the Pettigrew matter was resolved, one way or another. He would not, could not, focus on anything else. In fact, he decided that when he’d
gotten to the bottom of this whole mess, he was going to resign. The fact that the Colonial was engaged in fraud would lead to years of investigation and litigation.

“Fine,” he said in response to no one in particular.

The visit from the Secret Service agents had shaken him. Jason had refused to let them into his house, stepping out and confronting them. They demanded to know why he’d been on Riverdale Road yesterday. Jason told them the truth. He was looking for an address, a fact he guessed they already knew. Jason tried to look unfazed by their aggression, but wasn’t sure he succeeded. Their warnings this morning were more virulent than at the shipyard. They leaned into him, invading his personal space. Jason stood firm, refusing to back away. The leader jabbed his finger at Jason’s chest and said, “We better not see you near the shipyard again, or your ass will be cooling it in a federal lock up!”

After they’d gone, Jason did an Internet search and found Jasmine’s address. He didn’t want to wait any longer to confront her about the fake prescriptions she was writing. She’d drugged him, pumped him for information. It was all too clear now: she wanted to know what he knew.

Jason felt violated. He’d decided he could wait no longer. To hell with Lily and keeping quiet, he thought. He needed answers. Before coming to work, he drove to her house and rang the bell several times over five minutes. But there was no answer. He drove to her office. The receptionist said she was not in, and was taking the rest of the week off. Something about vacationing in Hilton Head. Frustrated and confused about her sudden vacation, Jason drove to the Colonial.

He approached a computer terminal away from the main filling area. He accessed the drug audit function and queried the databases for the drug Prucept. The last time a prescription for the medication had been put into the system was September 14. He entered the search parameters to include September 15 through today. Jason had
run the same report yesterday and it showed no data. No prescriptions for Prucept had been entered since the last one on the fourteenth.

He hit enter. The hourglass popped onto the screen. Then he heard the hum of the printer as a single sheet flowed into the output tray. His heart fell into his stomach. Repressing the urge to run, he walked over to the printer and casually removed the page. Folding it in two, he walked back to Lily’s office, leaned against her door, and read the document.

One prescription was listed, dated today. Prucept. It had been put into the computer at 10:53 a.m.
It’s happening right now.
Winstead had dropped off the prescription forty minutes ago. He opened his cell phone and dialed Waterhouse. Then he closed it. He walked into the pharmacy department and went to the will-call bin. Prescriptions were held in the plastic trays until patients picked them up. Pretending to be looking for something, he looked in the W tray. There it was. A flat pharmacy bag with the bag receipt stapled to it. The name in big, bold, black letters. Winstead, Douglas. It contained no prescription vial and no medication. A quick scan of the sales floor revealed no one waiting. As expected, the man named Winstead was long gone. Sam was standing at another terminal, engrossed in entering prescriptions. Jason repressed the growing urge to confront him then and there, to wrap his fingers around Fairing’s throat and squeeze the truth from him. But he needed to act. Now!

He walked back into the office area and, this time, completed his call to Waterhouse. “Winstead dropped off another prescription for Prucept.”

“Stop him and hold him there until I can get over there!”

“He’s gone. It happened forty-five minutes ago. It’s time we talked to him. Can you find out where he is?”

“Get me his cell phone number. It’ll take about an hour.”

“I don’t want to wait that long.” Jason scanned the drug audit. The phone number listed on the form looked like a landline. “Hold on a second.”

He returned to the terminal, pulled up Winstead’s address, and found what looked like a cell phone number. Returning to the hallway, he recited the number to Waterhouse.

Jason issued an order like a battlefield general. “Trace Winstead’s whereabouts immediately. Then meet me in the alley behind the Colonial. We’re taking your car. Fifteen minutes.”

Having spent the last hour hunkered down in the front seat of Waterhouse’s Blazer, nervously watching the greasy spoon on the southern stretch of Warwick Boulevard for signs of the fraudster Winstead, Jason spied the scruffy-looking man as he exited the eatery and climbed into his black Ram 1500. They’d found the pickup using information given to Waterhouse from a buddy at the DMV. Three hang-up phone calls later, they’d triangulated his location to within three square blocks and eyeballed the vehicle in the parking lot.

“Here we go,” said Jason.

Winstead wore faded, holey jeans and a denim jacket over a black Harley T-shirt. His dirty-blond goatee and curly hair completed the grunge look. Waterhouse handed the field glasses to Jason and started the Blazer.

Jason peered through the glasses, trying to catch a better glimpse of the man. “He’s not what I expected.”

They followed the pickup to Winstead’s house. Like most in this part of town, it was past its prime, built just after World War Two.
Long and narrow, it was crammed onto a skinny lot. The paint peeled like a bad case of psoriasis. Holes left by missing shingles dotted the roof. The house fit its occupant—or vice versa.

“Mr. Winstead is home,” Waterhouse announced. “Let’s go ask him a few questions.”

* * *

Jason ran up the painted concrete steps, leading the older, out-of-shape Waterhouse. The floorboards creaked under their combined weight. He tried the doorbell and rapped three times, but heard no sound inside. They stared at the dark, stained curtain behind the window in the door.

The drape in the picture window to their left shifted. A few seconds later, the curtain on the door was pulled back. The blonde goatee, the scruffy hair, and a pair of sky-blue eyes appeared behind the dirt-encrusted glass.

“What do y’all want?” The voice was high-pitched and muffled from behind the door. It sounded like a teenage boy’s in the throes of a voice change.

“Douglas Winstead?” Waterhouse asked.

“Who wants to know?”

Waterhouse, standing beside Jason, reached behind his back and produced a leather case, letting it fall open. The gold badge glinted. “I’m Waterhouse. This is Rodgers, my partner. We have a few questions for you.”

The curtain fell back. Another minute passed. Finally, the dead bolt slid and the lock clicked. Winstead opened the door partially, leaving his right side concealed.

“Can we come in?” asked Waterhouse.

“You’re fine right there.”

“Whatever.” Waterhouse hesitated, pulling out a notebook. “You’re Douglas Winstead, correct?”

Winstead nodded.

“You brought a prescription to the Colonial pharmacy two hours ago,” said Jason. It was not a question.

“Yeah, so?”

Jason saw anxiety flash in the man’s eyes.

Waterhouse coughed, bending over as he did. When he stood, he extended his right arm. The sideways-tilted Glock was trained at Winstead’s forehead. “Don’t move there, Douggie.” Jason twitched at the sight of the gun.

Waterhouse spoke calmly. “I know you have a piece behind that door. So you’re going to slowly take two steps to your left so we can see that hog leg you’re holding.” Waterhouse flicked the Glock twice.

Winstead hesitated, then slid from behind the door. In his right hand, he held a four-inch 357 magnum revolver.

“Thank you very much,” said Waterhouse, as if he were talking to a waitress who’d just poured him coffee. “Now, bend slowly at the knee. Keep your eyes on me and place that gun on the floor…Good…Now back away.”

The private investigator picked up the gun and handed it to Jason. “Take the rounds out.” He turned back to Winstead. “Now we can have a nice, polite sit-down,” he said, motioning to a beat-up sofa.