by David Perry
“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.
CHAPTER 40
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.
Examining the DVD for the second time, Jason wondered again what—if anything—was so important that Pettigrew would include it in his collection of evidence. Every other item was a piece in the puzzle creating a picture of fraud. The video did not fit, and seemed to serve no purpose. But Jason, understanding the anal nature of his former teacher, knew it was in there for a reason. He just had to find it. What was he missing? Thirty minutes into fast-forwarding through the twelve hours of recording, he stopped the playback and moved to the kitchen table.
Jason’s thoughts drifted back to the meeting with the detective. Waterhouse had thrown them under the bus, as far as Jason was concerned. Sure, their case was weak, but Waterhouse could have sided with Jason. Jason had blasted Waterhouse as they walked to their cars. Peter had moved between the two men, afraid that it would come to blows.
He was jarred out of his reverie when the telephone rang. Jason answered. He didn’t recognize the voice. The caller spoke again and he realized it was Jasmine.
“Let’s have lunch today. Do you like Italian?” she asked.
“I won’t have time,” he responded. Jasmine persisted, but Jason held firm.
“Well then, perhaps I’ll stop by the pharmacy,” she said. “Or better yet—your place.”
“We’ll talk very soon, Jasmine. I promise you. But the time’s not right.”
“Someone’s grumpy,” she teased.
“I’ve got to go,” he snapped.
After he ended the call, he walked to the small black box sitting on the kitchen table. He stood there for a moment shaking his head. She’s still after something, he thought. Whatever it was, Jason was determined not to give it to her. He desperately wanted to confront her about the phony prescriptions. But Lily had cautioned him to keep Jasmine in the dark about their knowledge of the phony prescriptions. Jason would bide his time. When the moment was right she, would have her comeuppance.
Jason picked up the handheld device Waterhouse had found in Pettigrew’s collection and turned it over in his hand. A GPS. The private eye said Thomas had followed Fairing to the Lions Bridge. Flipping on the power, he saw this was not one of those everyday GPS devices sold for use in the family car. This was designed to track vehicles remotely. Businesses used them, police forces, anyone who wanted to know where a vehicle was or had been.
A menu listed the different vehicles tracked. There was only one entry: “Fairing Lexus.” Jason clicked on it, and the menu showed trips tracked for that car. There was only a single entry. He had only used the device once, on September 15.
The same night Pettigrew died. The same night he recorded the video Jason was now watching. The tracking on the GPS was time-stamped. It began around nine fifteen and ended just before ten that same evening.
He didn’t know why, but it suddenly occurred to Jason that Thomas had probably watched the action in the Colonial’s pharmacy department live while he was recording it. Maybe he saw something that disturbed him and raced from his home office to follow Sam Fairing the night he died. Sometime before that night, he’d planted a tracking beacon on Fairing’s Lexus.
Jason pressed enter, and the small computer thought for a minute, then switched to a map of Newport News. Jason zoomed in several magnifications, bringing the street names into view. A thin red line snaked southward along Jefferson Avenue, turned right at J. Clyde Morris Boulevard, and hit Warwick. The line turned left and headed south. Before reaching the Hilton Village area, it turned right again on Cedar Lane. A half-mile later, the path indicator bore right where Cedar Lane ended and merged with Museum Drive. The line followed Museum Drive and crossed over Lake Maury at the Lions Bridge, where Fairing had evidently stopped for several minutes, as indicated by the timer on the screen. The line circled back across the bridge, returned up Museum Drive, and backtracked down Cedar to a point farther south.
An urge struck him. Jason grabbed his rental car keys and the crumpled prescription bag, and headed out the door.
CHAPTER 41
As soon as he opened the front door, Doug Winstead knew his house had been violated again. They’d been inside. As usual, there was no damage. Nothing had been disturbed. No doors had been kicked in, no windows broken. Whoever they were, they were real professionals. They’d snuck in, left their calling card, and left as quickly and silently as they had entered.
The old, worn bills were bound with a thick rubber band. Five stacks, lined neatly in a row, sat on the kitchen table under the glare of the overhead lamp. A photograph and a handwritten note lay next to them.
He always left the house dark. Never waste anything, including electricity. The first time he’d come home and seen the lamp burning, he’d freaked. Now, the infrequent, but lucrative, visits were a disturbing reminder of what was at stake.
Winstead put the photo under his nose, smelling it. He didn’t know why he did it. Somehow it made him feel closer to his daughter. The memory of the first night he was abducted and given instructions unfolded in his mind, as it did every time he saw the cluster of green-backs. He put the photo down and picked up the note.
Last one, Douglas. Another installment upon completion.
Winstead breathed a nervous sigh of relief. Was it almost over? Like a disease finally cured, would this ordeal finally be coming to an end? Would it ever really end? Would he ever stop looking over his shoulder?
He cradled the five stacks of bills with both hands and carried them to the living room. He shoved a chair aside, knelt, and peeled back one corner of the area rug. He pushed down on two slats of the hardwood flooring, revealing a hole. Most of the cash was stashed here. To date, he’d earned seventy thousand. He spent some on a few luxuries, including the new Harley in the garage, leaving him with fifty-five thousand. Tonight’s payment made it sixty-five, with another ten after he delivered the last prescription. He would end up with seventy-five grand. Not bad, he thought. Not bad at all.
He’d give it all back in a flash, though, to know Charlie was safe. As soon as it was over, he told himself, he was getting the hell out of here. He would find Charlie and keep her close. Very close.
* * *
Why had Pettigrew followed Fairing here?
Jason watched the activity in and around the area from his position on the hill just above the Lions Bridge. Joggers and walkers completed their treks around the Noland Trail, and automobiles moved up and down the shoreline of the James River along Museum Drive. The bridge sat atop a berm, a short roadway over an earthen dam, bottling up waters flowing into the James River and creating Lake Maury. Its signature feature was four eight-foot stone lions perched regally on each parapet, globes resting between their paws.
He stood on the knoll beside a mammoth sculpture, Conquering the Wild. A man grasped the rope bridle of a rearing steed, straining to contain the beast on a fifteen-foot pedestal guarded by four naked men sitting in the style of Rodin’s Thinker. He and Jenny had taken Michael for walks in his three-wheeled stroller around the Noland Trail, years before the divorce. Jason came here often to relax, and was intimately familiar with the area.
The northern entrance of the trail disappeared around a bend, past a granite marker engraved with the trail’s name. He walked the thirty yards to it. Beyond the marker, a small clearing opened to the right. A break in the thickly wooded forest led to the edge of Lake Maury. He descended the path. A large, fallen tree lay to one side. He rotated 360 degrees, looking for a clue, a sign of what had happened here the night Pettigrew died.
He noticed a s
mall depression had been dug out in the claylike earth under the dead tree. Jason remembered the dirty, crumpled prescription bag among Thomas’s files. He pulled it from his pocket and unfolded it. Some dirt had managed to trickle inside the bag. Kneeling, Jason dumped the specks of red earth from the bag into his hand. He compared it to the dirt under the rotting log. The two samples consisted of identical red clay. The earth here always clung to the bottom of his shoes. It wasn’t a scientific analysis, but it was good enough for Jason. This bag had been here, or somewhere close by, the night Pettigrew was murdered.
Thomas had followed Fairing here. Had Fairing been meeting with someone, the “patient” Winstead? Or was he delivering something, a payment perhaps?
Searching the entire trail for clues would be a gross exercise in futility. It was five miles long and cut through dense forest; a team of a hundred men combing the area for days stood little chance of finding anything. Worse yet, he didn’t even know what he was looking for.
Jason dialed the number to the Colonial. Kevin Mitchell, the technician, answered. “Kevin, this is Jason. Can I speak with Sam, please?”
“Sam left about two hours ago. Billy’s here.”
Perfect, he thought. He didn’t want to speak with him anyway. “Really? I’ll speak with Billy, then. Is he keeping up?” asked Jason.
“He’s a real pro,” Kevin replied. “We don’t have to worry about him. Hold on, he’s on the line with a patient.”
“Okay. While I’m waiting, would you please get me Sam’s home phone number.”
Bryant placed him on hold, then recited the number. Jason memorized it.
“Billy’s done now. Here he is.”
Parks came on the line a moment later. “How’s your day going?” Jason asked his new pharmacist.
“Smoother than a baby’s ass,” Parks responded.