by David Perry
“I wonder why Pettigrew didn’t check the claims and reversals himself. You’d think they’d be in this box,” said Peter.
“Did the insurance carrier pay the Colonial for the prescriptions?” asked Waterhouse.
“Another good question,” Jason replied. “I’ll find the remittance statements from Winstead’s insurance company. They’re probably in a file somewhere in the pharmacy. They send a statement along with a check to reimburse the pharmacy for payment of the prescriptions for all filed claims each month. I’ll dig up each statement corresponding to each one of these prescriptions.”
“Again, why didn’t Pettigrew do that?” asked Peter.
“Maybe he didn’t have access to those documents. Lily Zanns wouldn’t let him have free run of the place once she bought the pharmacy. Or maybe he died before he could get to it.” He pulled out two more items from the pile of paper. “There’s more,” said Jason. One was a wax-paper prescription bag with a Colonial receipt fastened to it. The bag and receipt were crumpled, and specks of claylike dirt granules were inside. The second was a white piece of paper with a drawing and a word scribbled on it. “This”—he held up the crumpled bag—“is the prescription bag from the last prescription fill. Why would Thomas keep it?”
Waterhouse and Peter shot each other confused looks.
“Then there’s this drawing. There’s a word under it. It says, ‘Simoon.’”
Peter grabbed the sketch from his brother. Blood drained from the ex-marine’s face.
“What’s wrong?” asked Jason. “Have you seen this before?”
“Nothing. Never mind,” Peter muttered tersely. “Let’s just take it to the cops.”
“No, not yet,” Jason answered, eyeing his brother. The drawing had evoked a reaction in his brother, but he knew better than to press the matter.
“Why not?” asked Peter.
“Because if we do that, we may never find out what happened to Thomas.”
“What are you saying? That he was murdered?” Peter seemed irritated.
“I’m saying we need to look into that possibility.”
“Sheesh, bro. You’ve been watching too much late night TV. How are we going to look into something like that?”
Waterhouse held up a finger. “If he died in a car accident, it’s considered an unattended death. Since there was alcohol involved, they probably did an autopsy. I might be able to get a copy of it.”
“Do that,” Jason commanded. “There’s also this.” He pulled the now-dead cell phone from his jacket pocket. It was in a ziplock bag. “I found this in the Colonial. Can we find out who it belonged to?” Small droplets of brown water clung to the inside of the plastic bag.
“Where’d you find it? In the shitter?” asked Peter.
“It was in a bucket of dirty water in the Colonial. Why would someone drop a cell phone in a bucket and leave it there?”
“I can find out who it belongs to. Leave it with me,” said Waterhouse. “Thomas had a phone just like that.”
“Where do we go from here?” asked Peter.
“I’ll follow up on the cell phone and the autopsy,” Waterhouse said.
“We know three people who’re involved,” said Jason. “We can start with them.”
“Three?” asked Peter.
“The patient, the doctor, and the pharmacist,” Jason replied.
“The patient is Winstead, the doctor is Kader. Who’s the pharmacist?” Waterhouse asked.
Jason smiled tightly at the private investigator. “Sam Fairing.”
CHAPTER 27
Walter Waterhouse stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray sitting on his crowded nightstand. It sat in a valley between prescription containers. The large vial of generic Vicodin was as wide and round as a mortar shell and was half filled with the horse pills. A muscle relaxant, cyclobenzaprine, stood next to two containers of high-blood-pressure pills, a vial of antidepressants, and those damned capsules to keep him from having to take a piss every hour during the night.
A box of tissues hung precariously over the edge of the nightstand. Discarded tissues lay piled on the floor beside the bed, crumpled and stained with a brown substance that had come from deep inside the private investigator’s respiratory tract.
Waterhouse sensed that the brothers Rodgers did not trust him. He could see it in their exchanged glances when they were asking about his investigation of Thomas’s wife’s death. He couldn’t give two shits. It was his time to cash in. He’d spent the better part of his life taking down scumbags and murderers while in Boston. And all he had to show for it was a painful leg wound that flared up when clouds rolled in.
Waterhouse had seen enough violence and death in the last twenty-odd years. It’d begun in the army during his two tours in Vietnam. As a lowly grunt, he’d volunteered for every patrol he could, walking point under the hot sun by day and in the stiflingly humid nights. Remarkably, he received not even a scratch in country over twenty-four months. Two acts of bravery had earned him a Bronze Star with oak leaf clusters and a promotion to lieutenant.
There’d been one close call. In the jungles of Ia Drang valley, a mortar round landed nearby, leaving him unharmed but totally disoriented. Had it not been for Clint Jones dragging his ass to safety, the next round, which hit ten seconds later, would have ripped him apart.
Though physically intact, the experiences had left him emotionally shattered. Withdrawal and panic attacks never affected his police work. They only haunted him after the sun went down as he lay in bed. The recurring nightmare of a black-clad, yellow-skinned warrior about to plunge a bayonet into his chest visited him nightly for the next ten years. Sometimes, he wished he had been wounded in battle. He heard that those guys actually had an easier time making the transition back to normalcy.
The war had cost him his marriage and any meaningful relationship with his three daughters. They’d had enough of the long, unpredictable hours followed by the silence and the booze at home. They took a permanent tour of duty to California. His daughters, whom he hadn’t seen in almost seven years, had made their own lives. And he was not a part of them.
Vietnam left him with other, invisible scars. He was a first-rate racist when it came to anybody whose eyes weren’t round. Having grown up in the lily-white neighborhoods of eastern Massachusetts, he’d have hated blacks also, if it hadn’t been for his army buddy, Clint Jones. Jones had saved an entire race from Waterhouse’s internal wrath. A massive former defensive lineman who’d flunked out of Purdue, Jones had been as dark as midnight with pearly whites that could light a small city. Waterhouse had often ordered Jones not to smile on patrol at night, so the enemy wouldn’t get a make on their position. They’d become good friends in the four weeks after Jones had saved his skinny white ass. When an NVA ambush occurred in broad daylight and Jones was bayoneted by a gook regular, Waterhouse’s hatred toward Asians multiplied. The attack on 9/11 had immediately and effectively transferred that hatred to Arabs and Middle Easterners as well.
The physical injuries that he’d avoided in Southeast Asia managed to catch up with him back home. After being discharged and spat upon, Waterhouse became a cop walking a beat in the small town of Medford a few miles north of Boston. Muscle strains and sprains were common. Five years later, he was promoted to detective, investigating small-time break-ins and minor drug trafficking. A buddy got him an interview with the Boston Police Department in narcotics. He took the job, and his life intensified. Two years later, Cathy left him, taking their girls with her. Fifteen years after that, a whacked-out drug dealer accused of murder put a round in his right leg. Three months and two surgeries followed. Waterhouse walked out of Mass General, sold everything he owned, which wasn’t much, and moved to southeastern Virginia. He’d given more than his share for his country, and he’d paid dearly for it. No two-bit, legal pill pusher would shame him into a guilt trip.
As he sat on his bed and hawked into a tissue, Waterhouse heard a high-pitched, short squeak from the rear of t
he house. Waterhouse knew instantly someone had opened the screen door. He was suddenly glad he hadn’t gotten around to lubricating it. His senses on high alert, he rolled silently out of bed and crept to the kitchen entryway.
Waterhouse peered around the hallway doorjamb into the kitchen. The doorknob jingled softly as the intruder manipulated it. The kitchen was dark. The figure, dressed in black, was silhouetted against the soft glow of a neighbor’s porch light.
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.
CHAPTER 28
Saturday, September 30
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.”
CHAPTER 29
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 roo
m, 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.”