The Cyclops Conspiracy (19 page)

“I’m an accountant. How’s that going to help you?”

“Lily and Fairing keep records. We’re dealing with fraud.”

He surveyed her, silently imploring her. Her eyes shrank to narrow slits. Emotions pulsed through her in spurts. Hurt, frustration,
anger, confusion. She hit him, slamming her closed fist into the side of Jason’s head. “You sorry son of a bitch,” she seethed.

“Damn it!” he exclaimed, reaching for his face.

“I want to know why you left!”

The sting of a hundred yellow jackets set in. “I promise I’ll tell you,” he said. “Not here, not now.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

Christine flaunted her new bargaining chip. “If you want my blessing to continue this little investigation, you better tell me something.”

Jason sighed. “I’ll tell you. I promise. I’ve always wanted you to know what happened. But I couldn’t—wouldn’t—for your father’s benefit—and yours. But not here. Not now, not like this.”

“You keep finding excuses not to tell me!”

“Today’s Saturday. Tomorrow night, after I drop Michael off at his mother’s, I’ll buy you dinner and I’ll tell you the whole damn thing.”

Christine eyed him. “You’re trying to get out of it. I want assurances.”

“Christine, I’m not trying to get out of it.”

“Give me your wallet.”

“What?”

“Give me your wallet!”

He hesitated, frowning. “Why? The answer’s not in my wallet.”

“Do you want my help or not?”

Jason shook his head. “Okay, fine,” he said, fishing his wallet out and handing it to her. “You realize that my whole life is in there.”

Christine removed the cash, three twenties and three ones, along with his driver’s license, and handed them to Jason. “You’ll get the rest back when I see you tomorrow night.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“Your track record ain’t that good, honey. I live by an old proverb: love all, trust few. Right now, you don’t fit into either category.”

Jason frowned. “Can we go back inside now?”

* * *

Inside, Christine and Jason returned to the meeting room. Christine had dabbed her eyes dry. But they were still red, and faint streaks of mascara were visible. Without hesitation, she made an announcement. “I want to go on record. I’m against anyone meddling in this matter. But I’ll go along for now. If anyone discovers any information which further impugns my father and goes public with it—or allows it to go public—I will personally cut his testicles off.”

The men’s eyebrows jumped. Peter smiled and saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”

Jason waited until her anger subsided, then asked, “What do you remember about the night your father died?”

Christine glanced at the wall, but did not focus on it. She was in another place and time. “I’d bought my new car that afternoon, the 300. I called him to ask if he wanted to have a look. We hadn’t talked a lot in the last six months. He seemed distracted and didn’t say much. Then suddenly,”—she snapped her fingers—“he hung up. He wasn’t mad. It was almost as if he’d thought of something and had to take care of it right away.

“I didn’t think much of it at the time. He’d been doing that more and more lately. I tried to call back, but he didn’t answer. Later, I drove to his house. He was gone, and the house was a mess. I couldn’t find him, so I called the police. Nothing was missing. The next day I found out that he was dead…” Her eyes became moist again.

“Was there anything else?” It was more a demand than an inquiry. “Anything, no matter how insignificant it may seem.”

Christine shook her head, then stopped and said, “I didn’t think much of it at the time. But that night, I got a voice mail at home from Daddy’s cell. There were no words, only static and some sort of scratching noise. I just figured he accidentally called me and didn’t know it. You know, like he butt-dialed his cell phone.”

Waterhouse asked, “What time was that?”

“A little after midnight,” Christine replied. “I don’t erase my messages, so we can check the time.”

“Is it possible he’d already gotten in the car accident and was trying to phone for help, but couldn’t speak?” asked Waterhouse.

“Maybe,” Christine replied, stricken by the thought.

Jason interlaced his fingers in front of his face. “I need you to find that message.”

Jason scanned the parking lot under a clear night sky. The men following him, whether they were Secret Service or conspirators associated with the fraud, were probably gone by now. But he was taking no chances. Confident it was clear, Jason gently depressed the accelerator, and the two-vehicle convoy slid into the far end of the Colonial Pharmacy’s parking lot. The first vehicle was Jason’s rented Ford, the second Waterhouse’s red Blazer, on which an extension ladder was tied down with bungee cords. Four car doors opened silently. Jason’s Mustang was parked where he’d left it, three rows from the front door to the pharmacy.

“Christine and I’ll go into the pharmacy through the front door. You two sneak around back and wait by the rear entrance,” Jason said to Waterhouse and Peter. “I’ve already called the security company and explained we’re having a plumbing emergency, so they don’t call Lily and alert her.”

“Why can’t we all just go in the front door?” Peter asked irritably.

“Will you stop thinking like a marine for once,” Jason shot back. “I don’t want to attract attention. The pharmacy closed two hours ago.
The last thing we need is for someone to call the police. I know it’s hard for you, but subtlety is required.”

“Just hurry up, will ya?” Peter shot back.

Waterhouse and Peter circled the building on foot. A minute later, Jason slipped his key in the lock, and they entered. He punched in his access code and deactivated the alarm. Leaving the lights off and using the light provided by the emergency beacon, they made their way to the pharmacy. Jason unlocked the folding steel gate of the pharmacy itself. They ducked under it and into the back room. Jason unlocked the back door, letting Peter and Waterhouse in.

“Here it is, over here,” said Jason, leading the private investigator to the wall. They stood single file in the box-filled, cramped hallway. Jason slid containers out of the way, revealing the video equipment and the wires. Jason pointed to the thicker cable. “That goes through the ceiling tile up through the roof. These other cables come from the tiny cameras in the ceiling.”

“And you say there’re no monitors in the store?” asked Waterhouse.

“None. If it’s a closed-circuit television system, where are the monitors? I don’t even think Lily knows it’s here.”

“Daddy probably had it installed or did it himself. That would be just like him,” Christine murmured. “He spent his money on crap like this all the time.”

“I’ve seen everything I need,” said Waterhouse. He turned to Peter. “Let’s get the ladder. We’ll bring the truck around back.”

“While you’re doing that, Christine and I can look for the missing prescription,” said Jason. “And I have some reports to run.”

The ex-marine and former cop propped the back door with a box of prescription vials, while Jason led Christine into the pharmacy department. He pointed at the drawers holding hundreds of bundles of prescriptions. “We need to find that seventh prescription.”

* * *

The Cadillac pulled up perpendicular to the driveway of Jason Rodgers’s Yorktown home. Two silhouetted figures circled around back, carrying two black bags as the car slipped off. They checked windows and doors for an alarm system. Finding none, they moved to the back door. The house had been unoccupied all day. The pharmacist had never come home after leaving for work this morning. They had monitored the pharmacy from across Jefferson Avenue from several restaurant parking lots. They changed positions every hour. It wasn’t until 9:00 p.m., when Sam Fairing locked up the pharmacy alone, that they knew they’d been duped. After the pharmacy was dark, they’d returned to Rodgers’s vehicle and planted a GPS tracking beacon in the wheel well.

While McCall kept watch, Boreas picked the deadbolt. It clicked open. Pausing a second to make sure no sirens sounded, they slipped inside. A light on one of the end tables was lit. Boreas turned it off and produced a small flashlight.

They moved with the speed and precision of veteran spies. In twenty-five minutes, they had placed the tiny cameras and listening devices in strategic locations in every major room. McCall jotted down the location and type in a small notebook for quick retrieval. The phones were already monitored by other means.

With the devices expertly placed, they slipped away into the night.

* * *

“I don’t see any prescription,” Christine said in frustration.

The missing prescription was another link in the chain of evidence Jason was constructing. He was sure that chain would be significantly longer before they were done. Together, they would pull each and every instance of fraud out of the sea of papers and seal the fates of Jasmine Kader, Sam Fairing, and the patient named Winstead—perhaps even of Lily Zanns.

Little had changed in the Colonial since Zanns had purchased the business. It was a place Christine had literally grown up in.
And though she wasn’t a pharmacist or a technician, she knew the pharmacy better than anyone.

She examined the numbered California folders where the prescriptions were filed. The folders were bound with rubber bands in lots of one hundred, and numbered sequentially for easy retrieval. The Colonial had been in business so long that it used a seven-digit number code for each prescription. Millions. Many of the boxes Jason had been collating in the back were filled with these old prescription bundles. The last two digits ranged from double zero through ninety-nine. It was system that had been used by every pharmacy for prescription filing and retrieval for more than thirty years. When done accurately, retrieving a prescription from such a huge haystack could be accomplished in under thirty seconds. Even this method was becoming obsolete; the large chains were now scanning prescription images and storing them electronically.

Christine had been filing prescriptions since she was a schoolgirl. The missing prescription was not in its folder, which simply meant that Pettigrew had probably removed it. She had opened all the drawers as well as the two filing cabinets. The drawers themselves had been pulled out, and the space behind them checked, along with the floor. Christine even checked behind computer screens, under computers, and in every crack and crevice. The task was made more difficult by the darkness. The faint bluish glow of the computer terminal Jason was using provided the only light.

“It’s been weeks since Daddy collected this information,” she said to Jason. “This prescription could be anywhere. It could have been thrown away. Sam or Lily could have found it. Hell, it could be somewhere in his house.”

* * *

Jason didn’t hear Christine’s words. He was completely engrossed by the data on the glowing screen. The printer hummed, spitting a
report of all drugs costing more than five hundred dollars per bottle. Jason spoke out loud, as if he were explaining his rationale to Christine. “If someone were going to defraud an insurance company, they wouldn’t waste their time on inexpensive medications. They’d fill phony prescriptions for expensive ones.”

“Whatever you say,” Christine answered.

Jason pulled the page from the tray and scanned it. The report outlined more than fifty expensive prescriptions filled in the last six months. Tomorrow, he would spend his time rummaging through the files looking for the prescriptions and signatures. He folded the page and placed it in his jacket pocket.

“Did you find it?” he asked absently, still staring at the screen.

“Didn’t you just hear what I said?”

“Sorry. What?”

“Never mind. It’s not here,” she sighed.

“I’ve got what I need for now,” said Jason. “Let’s go see what they found.” He shut down the terminal and walked to the rear with Christine in tow. Peter and Waterhouse were still on the roof. Jason walked down the crowded hall, peering at Zanns’s office door. He tried the knob. It was locked.

He brushed past Christine and exited through the propped back door. Peter was coming down the ladder. Waterhouse was lighting a cigarette in the alleyway.

“What did you find?” asked Jason.

Waterhouse took a long pull on the cigarette. “Close up, and I’ll tell you when you get back here.”

“No, there’s one other thing I want to see. Come inside for a minute.”

All four filed into the cramped hallway once more.

“I want to get into Lily’s office.”

“What are you looking for?” Waterhouse asked.

“I’ll know if and when I see it.”

Waterhouse tried the knob. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

He returned with a leather case containing small, awkwardly bent instruments. “Just what every private eye needs,” he said.

Waterhouse manipulated his lockpick tools, trying several times to engage it. He thought out loud. “How much do you guys figure she’s worth?”

“Who?” Jason whispered.

“This Zanns lady,” Waterhouse replied, “you think she’s got any cash in here?”

The door opened with a soft click.

Jason rolled his eyes. “Walter, you take anything, and I’ll break every one of your fingers.”

Jason flipped on the overhead fluorescent lamp to the window-less office. He saw the hurt expression on the ex-cop’s face. But he didn’t give a shit.

“Where do we start?” asked Christine.

“Try the computer,” he commanded. He moved to the desk beside her and yanked drawers open. Christine took a seat and switched on the computer.

“I’m sure she’s changed Daddy’s password.”

Peter motioned for Waterhouse to follow him outside. “You got any smokes?” Peter smiled. “Look’s like they’re gonna be awhile.”

His brother was right. “You two head on home,” said Jason. “No sense all of us losing sleep.” Jason motioned for them to come into the hallway.

“You sure?” asked Peter.

“We’ll be fine,” Christine chimed in. “We’ll be outta here in a couple of hours.”