by David Perry
“I see you refused,” said Peter.
“I have a silent alarm in the bedroom. Luckily the police showed before he could do any more damage.”
“Were you followed here?” asked Jason.
“No,” Waterhouse replied. “I was worried about that, too. I doubled back several times along the way.”
“Let me have those.” Peter motioned for Waterhouse to slide the box to him. Waterhouse did so. “We can keep them here,” said Peter. “I have an empty gun safe. It would take a forklift to move it and a carton of C-4 to blow it open.”
Peter left the room with the box in his arms. He returned a few minutes later empty-handed. “They won’t be disturbed now,” the ex-marine said.
“Let’s get down to business,” Jason demanded.
Jason relayed details of their conference in Waterhouse’s command center to Christine.
“I called the wholesaler this morning,” he continued. “They’re open Saturday. They confirmed that the Colonial has not purchased any Prucept—ever. And yet, these prescriptions have been billed to this patient’s, Douglas Winstead’s, insurance company. It’s fraud, plain and simple.”
Jason slid each document toward Christine as he outlined each point. She studied each one. The three men watched her try to assimilate the information. Her eyebrows furrowed then relaxed several times.
Finally, she pushed the papers to the center of the table. “My father is dead and buried. None of it matters anymore. What good can come from pursuing this?” she hissed.
Jason gathered up the papers and gently rapped them into a neat pile. “Your father may have been obsessed with conspiracies, but the evidence we have here is pretty solid. He discovered that the Colonial was into something underhanded. He was trying to bring it to light.”
“So?”
“Christine, these documents are proof of a crime.”
She was unconvinced and shook her head emphatically. “And when it gets out that this was going on, Daddy will be guilty by association. His reputation will be further damaged. Even though he sold the pharmacy, everyone associates it with him. He was the Colonial.”
“Your father never would have stood for any of this,” said Jason. “And it’s serious enough that Walter was attacked last night, and I’m being followed,” he added.
“Followed? By whom?” Christine asked.
“I don’t know. A car’s been following me.” He’d first noticed them last night driving home from Waterhouse’s. Jason suspected it was the Secret Service, still keeping tabs on him because of his photography at the shipyard. But after hearing of the attack on Waterhouse last night, Jason was having doubts. He hadn’t told anyone about the tail until now. Not even his brother. “Maybe it’s the same folks that beat up Walter here.”
“That mean they’re outside now?” Peter was immediately concerned.
“No, I rented a car and parked it in the alley behind the store. I left the Mustang parked out front at the Colonial, and snuck out the back door. They’re probably still in the parking lot waiting for me to leave.” Jason had spotted them again following him to work. Either they were bad at it, or they wanted him to know he was being tailed. If it was the latter, Jason was sure it would be the Secret Service. He didn’t like the idea of anyone following him—including the feds. He’d arranged for Rachel, the cashier, to meet him behind the Colonial with her car. She had driven him to the car rental business two miles up the road. Jason had then driven straight to the gun shop in the rental, a Ford Fusion, and then rendezvoused with Peter for their early-morning workout.
Christine had been half-listening. Jason could see her mind was somewhere else entirely, probably focused on the ramifications of more negative publicity. Suddenly, her face softened as a thought struck her. “Are you suggesting that this insurance fraud had something to do with Daddy’s death?”
Jason leafed through the pages in his hand and pulled out the report with Pettigrew’s handwriting on the back. He turned it facedown and slid it toward Christine. “Read that. This note was left with Walter by your father.”
She slid it over. Christine wrinkled her forehead as she read the words. Her lip quivered. She buried her head in her hands and began to sob.
Tell Christine that I love her.
CHAPTER 30
Christine had run from the building. Jason caught up with her in the parking lot near his rented Fusion. Tears were streaming down her face.
“Get away from me!” Christine shrieked through watery mascara. A man walked past them toting a gun case and headed toward the shop, trying not to stare. Jason stepped toward her, extending some tissues. She snapped them from his hands.
“Your father worked his whole life to build the Colonial into what it is. If someone is breaking the law there, they’re tarnishing that image. Isn’t that your father’s legacy, too? It seems he was trying to find out what was going on. We need to finish his mission.” He leaned closer and whispered the next few words. “We need you to tell us what you remember about the night your father died. We need your professional expertise, too.”
“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.”
CHAPTER 31
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 t
hrown 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.