The Cyclops Conspiracy (22 page)

Jason, instead, studied Christine. She was hearing the final sounds her father had made hours before he died. The noise that had held no meaning for her that first night was now eerie. She looked pained, forlorn.

The aging pharmacist seemed to be tapping—no, scratching—the mouthpiece of the phone. Intermittent bursts of varying duration, some shorter, some longer. In the longer noises, it became apparent he was using a fingernail.

Peter elbowed Waterhouse lightly. Waterhouse nodded. Both former military men recognized the patterns. They asked Christine for a pen and paper.

Christine returned with the items and handed them to Peter. “What’s this for?” she asked.

“Can you please replay the message?”

She punched a button and the message began again. Peter marked the paper with dashes and dots. After the third replay, the message was complete.

After the scratching ended, rustling and garbled words followed. The word “you” came through loud and clear in Pettigrew’s husky voice. He sounded disgusted, shocked; he’d recognized the person
he addressed. Finally, a metallic clank and the sloshing of liquid. Then the line went dead.

“That’s when the cell phone ended up in the bucket,” said Jason.

The two other men nodded in agreement.

Waterhouse and Peter hunched over the paper. “Mine’s a little rusty,” said Waterhouse. Peter had jotted a string of letters under the dashes and dots.

threemengunssos

The significance of the letters became apparent as Peter rewrote the string with the correct spacing inserted.

Three men. Guns. SOS.

“Mr. Jason,” Lily Zanns lectured, “I was counting on your youth and energy to allow you to keep up with the demands of the work. Have I not made my expectations clear? Or was I faulty in my judgment?” She sat behind her desk, a chief executive handling an underachieving underling. “Please tell me why I shouldn’t fire you immediately.” More than her words, the expression on her normally stoic face told him he was on the brink of being out of a job again, this time involuntarily.

Jason gazed at Zanns, trying with every sinew in his body to hide his contempt. The millionaire entrepreneur had been scolding him for ten minutes, her words uncomfortable and self-righteous.
I’m going to put up with it to get some answers
, he told himself as he half listened.

The current objective overrode all else. At the same time, Jason wanted to retain his position. Not because he desired the salary or the prestige, but because finding the truth and restoring Thomas’s reputation were paramount. A small part of him even hoped that Christine might be a term in that equation.

“No, Lily,” he replied, leaving out the “Ms.” on purpose. “You made yourself quite clear.”

Did Lily know about what Fairing was up to? He was her employee. Zanns was cordial but firm with her pharmacist, not like her convivial relationship with Jasmine Kader. Fairing seemed to have a healthy respect for Zanns. Yet Jason sensed a deeper connection between them. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Would that connection cause her to protect Fairing? Or would she condemn him for the scoundrel he was?

Jasmine Kader’s involvement also worried Jason. Zanns and Kader had spent a lot of time together at the gala for Thomas, whispering and smiling. Jason didn’t want to jump to conclusions and make Zanns guilty by association. But then again, everyone around her was up to their eyeballs in corruption.

He hadn’t seen nor spoken to Jasmine since his drunken episode at the Southern Belle on Friday. He’d drunk too much before, especially in college, and as much as he hated to admit it, he recognized he’d had a blackout. It had never happened before.

But he needed to see her again. There were unanswered questions. Had Jasmine sutured Thomas’s wounds? Had Jasmine been a party to Thomas’s death? He was going to look her in the eye one more time to see if the truth was there.

“Then where are the pharmacy locations we talked about last week? Have you contacted the commercial real estate agent? Have you even set up a meeting with them?”

“I haven’t had time.”

Zanns bit her lower lip. “Excusez-moi? You haven’t had time?”

* * *

Zanns bored into Jason Rodgers with her unrelenting gaze. She’d been keeping him on the defensive, but he was a cool cucumber and did not easily give up. Cooper’s assessment of his tenacity was spot
on. Rodgers was driven by the need to know what had happened to his mentor. It was obvious he would not give up until he had answers. He’d been digging around in the pharmacy files. That much she knew. The night security guard had called and informed her that he had found the pharmacy unlocked the other night. He said that a man named Rodgers had shown up because the alarm had been triggered. But the guard was suspicious that the man hadn’t wanted to report it to the police.

A call to the monitoring service told her that Rodgers had used his access code to disarm the alarm system. They’d notated that Jason Rodgers had deactivated the alarm, saying there was a plumbing emergency. She’d had Sam do a quick search, but he found nothing out of the ordinary. Zanns had checked her files and found insurance remittance statements missing. Statements corresponding to the months in which the bogus prescriptions had been delivered to the pharmacy. Rodgers had been searching her office. He probably suspected her of complicity in the crime. It was time to flush Rodgers out and trick him into letting on what he knew. If she played it correctly, she could keep him as an ally for just a little longer and stall his probing. She needed him around. Her bluff would be risky, but she suspected Rodgers would take the bait.

“You haven’t had time?” she repeated. She shook her head slowly, like a disapproving parent. “Jason, I made a gross error in judgment by hiring you. I want you to turn in your keys. It is time for you to end your employment with us.”

* * *

Shit!

Jason couldn’t believe what he was hearing. In all his years of work, in high school, college, and as a pharmacist, he’d always prided himself on his work ethic and quality. Not once in his professional life had he ever been close to being fired. And if she canned him, he would
never figure out what happened to Thomas; he needed to stick around if he was to continue his investigations.

Jason leaned forward and sat on the edge of the metal chair. He had been wrestling with confronting her with what he knew. Though he had no direct knowledge of her involvement in the fraud, it was a strong possibility. It was also possible she was unaware of any fraud. She didn’t actually fill prescriptions or get her hands dirty with the day-to-day operations. There was still a chance she might be above it all.

He made a snap decision sitting in her office to reveal to her some of what he knew about the fraud. Lily had in effect just fired him. If she was innocent, he’d save his job—and if not, then maybe her reaction would reveal her involvement.

“Ms. Lily,” he began. Despite wishing he could tell her to pound sand up her petite backside, Jason kept his voice calm and serious, as if the world’s existence rested on what he was about to say. “Listen to me very carefully. There’s something I need to talk to you about. Some…activity at the Colonial I’ve been tracking. It’s taking more time than anticipated. That’s why I haven’t completed my assigned tasks.” His hands gripped the armrests of the chair, causing his knuckles to blanch.

Zanns’s left eyebrow jumped. “What kind of activity?”

Jason paused, placed a closed fist in front of his mouth, and cleared his throat. “Over the last fourteen months, there have been…prescriptions fraudulently billed to a patient’s insurance company.”

“Did you say fraudulently?”

He nodded.

“Go on,” she said, mashing a cigarette in the ashtray.

He fired the facts in fast, confidential whispers. “Seven prescriptions to be exact. For Prucept, a cancer medication. All for the same patient, written by the same doctor. The medication was never ordered. None of the prescriptions have been signed for. Only one conclusion can be drawn.”

She pursed her lips. “Show me!”

Jason picked up the folder sitting at his feet and dropped it on the desk. “It’s all here. The last one was billed September fourteenth.”

He’d prepared copies of the prescriptions, invoices, drug reports, and the blank electronic signature logs. The originals were in the front seat of his rental, destined for a detective’s eyes. A third copy was stashed safely in his home office.

As she turned pages, Jason observed her carefully, looking for an indignant or surprised reaction. Thomas Pettigrew’s involvement and death would be omitted from the discussion for now. Neither the dead pharmacist’s notes nor the crumpled, dirt-encrusted prescription bag were in the file.

Reviewing the papers, she made periodic guttural noises. Jason glanced around the small office, checking to ensure everything was where it was supposed to be.

“How did you come across this information?”

He’d anticipated this question and was ready with a lie. “I ran a check on signature capture efficiency and saw several prescriptions that weren’t signed for. They were all Prucept prescriptions. I did a little probing and came up with what you have in front of you. I think it’s important for you to know what’s going on.”

“Mon Dieu!” she said slowly. “It is important. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. You have shown me why I was correct in choosing you for this job.” Closing the folder, she leaned forward. “We, you and I, will need to come up with a strategy on how to tackle this problem.”

“So I get to keep my job?” he said with just a hint of sarcasm.

Zanns smiled. “You get to keep your job, monsieur. For now!”

Jason sat back in the chair again and exhaled. “We should call the police.”

Zanns recoiled and held up her hands. “Let’s slow down for just a moment.”

“We need to do something before it happens again.”

“Rest assured this matter will be looked into. Does anyone else know about this?”

“No,” he lied. “Did you happen to notice which pharmacist entered all these prescriptions?”

Zanns made a half-hearted motion to look at the documents again. “Yes, I did see. It was Sam. And I see that Dr. Kader is the one writing the prescriptions,” she said a little too quickly.

“This could land the Colonial in a lot of trouble.”

“You are quite right. First, tell no one about this. I do not want to tip off Sam or Dr. Kader. I appreciate your diligence in investigating this matter. I will consult my attorney.”

* * *

Jason ignored Zanns’s directive to avoid telling anyone about the problems at the Colonial.

The four men sat around the large conference table inside a flag-draped meeting room in the Newport News police administration building. One wall was floor-to-ceiling glass with a view of a highly polished corridor. Detective John Palmer sat on one side of the table in front of three large flags: the Newport News city banner, the state flag of Virginia, and the Stars and Stripes. He was faced by the Jason, Peter, and the private investigator, Waterhouse.

“He was murdered,” Jason declared. “Thomas Pettigrew was murdered. There’s no other conclusion to be made.”

Palmer tucked his chin to his chest and looked down his nose at the pharmacist. “Murdered?”

Palmer was six two with a long face and black hair streaked with white, a testament to his twenty-three years of police work. Fine wrinkles fanned out from the corner of his hazel-green eyes. A toothpick protruded from the corner of his mouth.

“He
was
murdered,” Jason repeated.

“Just a minute!” Palmer held a finger up, halting the pharmacist. He turned to Waterhouse. “Walt, I read that report before I gave it to you. It didn’t say anything about murder. The injuries were consistent with a car
accident. The cause of death was blunt-force trauma. The guy was drunk. More than two times the legal limit.”

“Can we start from the beginning, John? We’re putting the cart before the horse. We want you to see everything we have,” said Waterhouse.

“Fine.” Palmer leaned back and steepled his hands in front of his face. “Go ahead.”

Waterhouse turned to Jason. “Start from the beginning and tell Detective Palmer what we’ve found. Don’t leave anything out.”

It had been decided that Jason would do the talking. Jason had thought Waterhouse was deferring to him, but after seeing Palmer’s reaction, he suspected Waterhouse didn’t want to sound like a fool in front of his police comrade. Nevertheless, over the next forty minutes, Jason recounted everything in excruciating detail, laying before the cop every piece of evidence. Jason had perfected his presentation with each telling. Palmer listened and did not interrupt. But he was having great difficulty masking his skepticism.

When he was finished, the detective asked one question. “What would you like me to do?” Palmer scanned the documents on the table and readjusted the black pistol in its leather holster.

“We’d like you to investigate,” Jason replied. “That’s why we’re here. What about the gunshot wound in his shoulder?”

Palmer met each pair of eyes as if he were about to scold his children. “It says the wound was sutured and in no way contributed to his death. The wound is certainly strange, but there were no reports from any of the local hospitals or doctor’s offices. The coroner said it didn’t contribute to his death.” Palmer turned to his friend. “Seems to me like you’ve got a case for insurance fraud, but I gotta tell you, there’s no murder here. Leave me these documents, and I’ll forward them to our economic crimes unit. Don’t hold your breath; they’re totally backlogged. And, Walt, you should have told these guys the evidence is slim for murder.”

“I did,” Waterhouse said.

The black-and-white images were frozen on the television screen. Sam Fairing was in midstride from one of the pharmacy bays to a computer terminal. Kevin Mitchell, the technician, hunched over the pharmacy counter, head down, spatula in midswipe over a green counting tray.