The Cyclops Conspiracy (14 page)

“Are you shittin’ me?” Parks responded.

“No sir, Billy. When can you start?”
Business is business
, he thought.

“I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“See you then.”

He leaned back in Lily’s chair and glanced at his watch. He was supposed to meet the anonymous caller in less than two hours. He had slept little. He rubbed his eyes, fighting the headache that was rapidly approaching. “T. P.” could only refer to one person. Thomas Pettigrew.

His mentor’s death still bothered him. It all stunk to high heaven. He had no proof of anything, mind you. The call last night—or this morning, rather—had rubbed the raw flesh of his curiosity.
Don’t let your imagination run wild
, he told himself.
Could be a crackpot. Be very skeptical.

Rachel, the cashier, appeared in the doorway, announcing a phone call from Dr. Kader. Jason thought for a moment. “Tell her I’m in a meeting, and I’ll call her back.”

Jason checked his watch and reflected on the lunacy of waiting on a park bench for a covert meeting with a total stranger because he doubted the published facts about Thomas’s demise. Jason had always challenged inconsistencies, regardless of their apparent insignificance. It was who he was. That trait had irritated his brother, Peter, from the time Jason was old enough to beginning analyzing his surroundings and the people in them. He’d abandoned it when he was forced to resign from the Colonial. The facts surrounding his departure were troubling. It was the only time in his life when he’d not followed his conscience and he still regretted it. Determined peskiness was a quality that made Jason a very good pharmacist. The most miniscule drug interaction or inconsistency in a patient’s drug therapy spurred him to call physicians constantly, to the consternation of the office nursing staff.

In fact, that same quality had saved his father from serious injury when Jason was fifteen years old. Edward Rodgers, a robust, barrel-chested man, had been cutting down the massive, dying oak in the backyard with his aging chain saw. Jason knew the hum and whine of
the blades, having heard them often as his father cleared their densely wooded lot. But that day, the sound of the spinning chain was different, strained and warbling. Edward, who was deaf in one ear, failed to hear the change. Jason raced to his father’s side, begging him to shut off the machine. When they inspected it, they found the damaged links were ready to fly off in all directions. Jason had saved his father from serious injury.

Bustling foot traffic circled the City Center’s enormous reflecting pond. He was lost deep in thought when the gravelly voice came over his left shoulder, interrupting his reverie. “Don’t look over.”

Jason turned.

“I said don’t look over here!”

Ponytail, the tobacco-reeking, cheap-perfume-smelling Willie Nelson look-alike, sat on the opposite end of the bench, looking straight ahead.

“You’re late,” said Jason.

“No, I’m not. I’ve been here since you arrived.”

“I’ve been here for fifteen minutes. You weren’t here.”

“I was checking to see if you were followed.”

“Are you kidding me? Do you have a message that will self-destruct in five seconds, too?”

“Just pretend you don’t know me.”

“What’s with the spy routine? First the phone call. Now this.”

Ponytail coughed and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Who are you?” asked Jason.

More silence. Jason did not smell cigarettes or perfume today; either Ponytail was sitting downwind, or he’d showered recently. “My name is Walter, Walter Waterhouse. I was a friend of Thomas Pettigrew’s.”

“How do you know me?”

“I earn my living knowing things about people,” said Waterhouse.

“You guess people’s names for a living?”

“Are you going to be a wise-ass the whole fucking time? I’m a private investigator.” He had a faint, nasal, New England twang.

Jason shifted, allowing some blood flow in his backside. “What do you want with me? And how did you know Thomas?”

“Thomas was an acquaintance of mine. He thought he was being pursued. His death may not have been an accident.”

“Thomas was murdered?”

“I’m saying that Thomas was onto something. He told me as much. The part about murder is a guess.”

“Do you have proof?”

“Yes and no.”

“Is it ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”

“Do you want to hear what I have to say, or should I just kick that scrawny pill-pushing ass of yours right now?”

Jason arched an eyebrow. One side of his mouth curled into a snarl. He thought,
I’d like to see you try.
But he bit his tongue. “This better be worth my time,” he said, as he calculated how much Zanns was paying him per minute.

“Thomas passed the message on to me before he died.”

Waterhouse pulled a crumpled pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket. He shook one loose and produced a lighter. Three puffs later, he said, “How did you so conveniently come to be employed by the Colonial?” The exhaled fumes evaporated in the breeze.

“Not that it’s any of your damned business, but I interviewed. It’s called free market capitalism.”

“Pretty convenient, that job opening up for you, wouldn’t you say? I was at Thomas’s house after the funeral, remember. We made eye contact. I saw you with Christine, his daughter. There’s a history there.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Just making an observation.” Waterhouse took a drag. “I did some checking. You worked for Thomas a few years back, and left under less-than-ideal circumstances. You haven’t kept in touch with Thomas—or his daughter. Then all of a sudden Thomas dies, and you get his job. Pretty damned convenient.”

Jason glanced over and saw Waterhouse’s crooked, yellowing teeth appearing and disappearing behind his thin, quick-moving lips.
How much does this guy know?
Jason wondered. Thomas wouldn’t have
revealed the incident to anyone, would he? The last thing the old man would have wanted was for the details of Jason’s departure to become public. Pettigrew’s career and reputation would have suffered as much as Jason’s. Jason sat stone-faced, giving nothing away.

“See, as I said, I was an acquaintance of Thomas’s. I met him six years back. He never mentioned you. Thomas left reason for me to believe things aren’t what they seem over at the Colonial. Since you benefited from his death, I’m thinking you might know something about what’s going on. Or maybe you’re involved somehow?”

“Screw you! You want my help, don’t give me the third friggin’ degree! Why the hell did you ignore me at the Colonial, anyway?”

“Timing wasn’t right. By the way, do you know where the term ‘the third degree’ comes from?”

“What?” Jason’s irritation spilled over into his voice.

Waterhouse ignored Jason’s tone. “It’s a Freemason thing.”

“What?”

“Thomas told me about it,” said the investigator, like a teacher explaining a lesson. “The term ‘third degree’ comes from the Masons. There are thirty-three degrees. The first three are actual degrees, the next twenty-nine are administered at the Scottish Rite level—”

The words were like a foreign language to Jason. “Now I have to sit through this?”

Waterhouse huffed and stared straight ahead. Jason could feel the man’s frustration. Waterhouse continued. “The third degree is that of a master Mason. The candidate is subjected to intense questioning and physical challenges. Hence the meaning of the term.”

Jason narrowed his eyes, his cheeks bulging with air. “You say you knew Thomas, but how do I even know if that’s true?”

“You want proof? I thought you might.” Waterhouse reached into his leather jacket and handed him a photo. In the photograph, younger versions of Thomas Pettigrew and Waterhouse stood with their arms around each other’s shoulders, smiling in a yard somewhere. Waterhouse held a Michelob in his hand, Pettigrew a Diet
Coke. People were in the background, talking in groups at some kind of backyard gathering.

“I knew him,” Waterhouse continued, “and I owe him. And I pretended not to know you, because there are problems at the Colonial. There’s a fly in the ointment, to use a pharmacy metaphor.” The edge in his voice had melted.

“What kind of problems?”

“Before I tell you anything, I need to know I can trust you. The information must be handled prudently.”

“So why call me? Talk to Lily Zanns.”

“Everyone at the Colonial is suspect. You’re the only person that’s new. So I figure you’re probably not involved. But I checked you out anyway. You’ve been a pharmacist at Keller’s for eight years. Before that you worked at Rite-Aid, and before that, the Colonial. You own a house, have a kid, and no criminal record. I have a pretty good idea you’re okay, but you can’t be too sure. I needed to look you in the eye.”

“Is this Let’s-Dig-Up-Shit-on-Jason-Rodgers Month, or what?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Never mind.”

Waterhouse leaned closer, his voice conspiratorial. “How did you come to get the job at the Colonial? The second time, I mean?”

“Getting the job wasn’t planned. It just kind of happened. I saw the article in the paper about Pettigrew’s death. I went to the funeral—”

“And you met up with your old flame?”

Jason shrugged. “I met Christine at the Colonial so we could catch up. She was picking up her father’s things from the store. The next thing I knew, I had an interview. I had no plans to take the job, but the offer blew my socks off.”

Waterhouse nodded. “Thomas said Lily Zanns was a piece of work. Don’t trust her. Things aren’t right.”

“I know what you mean, Walter,” Jason agreed. “And I, too, think something’s rotten in Denmark. But it has nothing to do with the Colonial. What bothers me is the way Thomas died.”

“The alcohol?”

“Exactly.”

Waterhouse turned toward Jason. “Thomas always tried to get me to stop drinking when we got together. Even as a late as a week before he died.”

“I knew it. He couldn’t have died the way he did,” said Jason.

“Thomas wanted me to tell you something,” said Waterhouse.

“You said he never mentioned me to you.”

“He didn’t.”

Jason turned his palms skyward in a what-the-hell-are-you-talking about motion. “You doing the psychic thing?”

Waterhouse smiled. “You’re a wise-ass, kid. You remind me of me a lifetime ago.” He interlaced his fingers and pushed them away from his body, cracking his knuckles. “Thomas wanted me to tell you he was sorry. He also wanted me to tell Christine that he loved her. I haven’t had a chance to pass on that message to her yet, though.”

Walter—Ponytail—whoever this man was, reached into his shirt pocket again and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Jason took the crinkled paper, unfolding it slowly. It was a computer-generated report, listing patient names and prescriptions. It contained seven items. “This is some kind of drug audit,” said Jason. “Pharmacists use this type of report often.”

“Turn it over.”

Jason flipped the paper and saw a messy scrawl that would have made a doctor proud. His gut clenched and he swallowed hard. Thomas was reaching out to him—and Chrissie—from the grave. His mouth became dry; his throat clogged.

Walter:

Keep these files safe and tell no one at the Colonial about them.

Bring this evidence to the authorities. They are after me.

Thomas

P.S. Tell Christine that I love her.

P.P.S. Tell Jason I’m sorry.

“Thomas left a box of files with me,” said Waterhouse, “stuffed with information. He was afraid it would fall into the wrong hands—”

Jason’s stomach somersaulted as he read the handwritten missive. He remembered the indentation in the carpet of Pettigrew’s office closet. “Is the box about twelve by thirty-six inches?”

“I didn’t measure the darned thing. But that sounds about right. I figured you were the Jason he meant, seeing as you’re the only Jason that’s ever worked at the Colonial. That, and the way you and his daughter were talking after the funeral. You two an item?”

“We were,” he replied. “We dated for a year.”

“Why did he want to apologize?”

Jason dodged again. “Didn’t you speak to him when he dropped the box off?”

“I wasn’t home at the time. Thomas had a key to my house.”

“I thought you said you were acquaintances. I don’t give acquaintances keys to my place.”

“Okay, we were friends.”

“If you two were friends, why didn’t Thomas tell you what was going on over there?”

It was Waterhouse’s turn to shrug. “Thomas got burned because of these conspiracies. I guess he wanted to make sure he had all the facts before he told anyone.”

“What do you know about the past? My past?”

“Not much, really. Thomas and I were friends in the present. We never talked about the past. What was so important he was apologizing after thirteen years?”

“I don’t know,” Jason lied.

“I was a cop for twenty years. My bullshit detector is dead-on-balls accurate,” said Waterhouse. “Something happened. Something so big and so awful you left the Colonial. And you never kept in touch with Thomas or Christine. Thomas never spoke about it directly. Now suddenly you’re back. What was it?”

Jason pushed a hand through his hair. “Leave it alone. How did you come to know Thomas?”

“We don’t have time for that right now. I have to be in divorce court in an hour. I have some juicy video on a philandering husband who’s dipping his pen in company ink.”

“What is—was—Thomas hiding with you?”

“Look straight ahead,” Waterhouse commanded. “That’s why I wanted to meet you. To find out what these papers mean. Can you be trusted, Jason Rodgers? Thomas seemed to think you were important enough to mention in a note to me thirteen years after the fact.”

“I’m the second-most trustworthy person I know.”

“Who’s more trustworthy than you?”

Jason was tiring of the questions, so he changed the subject again. “I was also a friend of Thomas’s. He was my instructor a few years back.”