The Cyclops Conspiracy (26 page)

Waterhouse reholstered the Glock while Jason emptied rounds, scattering them and the gun on the coffee table. Waterhouse sat on a threadbare, cushioned chair across from Winstead. Jason took the only other chair in the room, a spindly wooden contraption.

“You guys aren’t cops,” Winstead hissed.

“You’re right about that, Douggie.”

“I ain’t telling you guys nothing.”

“You know the penalty for insurance fraud?” asked Jason.

Winstead hiked an eyebrow.

“How about murder?” Jason added.

The man flinched and his jaw sagged. “I ain’t killed nobody.”

“A man was killed because of what’s going on at the Colonial,” said Waterhouse, “because of the prescriptions you’re bringing over
there. We know you’re doing it. You drop off the prescriptions and never pick them up. Isn’t that right?”

Winstead’s eyes seesawed back and forth. “Who got wasted? That pharmacist?”

Waterhouse leaned back again. “Yeah,
that
pharmacist.
That
pharmacist was a friend of mine, asshole.”

“I didn’t off him. Never even met the man.”

“You going to tell us who’s running the show,” Jason ordered. “Or do we have to get the police involved?”

Winstead sucked in a deep breath and dropped his gaze to the floor. His cheeks began to quiver. Jason sensed the man was about to lose it.

“The first admission is always the hardest, Mr. Winstead,” Jason persisted. “Start from the beginning.”

Winstead leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. He rocked slowly back and forth. Jason saw Waterhouse open his mouth to speak, but held up a hand to stop him.

“Go on, Doug,” Jason said calmly.

“I can’t. They’ll kill her if I talk.”

“Who?”

“Charlie, my daughter.” His voice was soft, almost a whisper.

“Doug, we don’t really care about you. We need to know who’s behind this,” Jason replied. He still had his hand in the air, keeping Waterhouse from involving himself in the conversation. “Who are they?”

Winstead looked up at Jason. “Did you hear me? They’ll kill her.”

Waterhouse jumped in, his voice hard. “You leave us no choice. We’ll have to go to the police. Then they’ll know you talked.”

Winstead’s face flashed red with anger. He grunted, leapt across the table, and was on Waterhouse before he could react, toppling over the chair. Winstead was on top of Waterhouse, reaching and clutching at the Glock. Waterhouse was moving his arm back and forth, trying
to keep the man from getting hold of it.

Jason pounced on the two men. Winstead had wrestled the gun from Waterhouse’s hand. Jason, in turn, ripped it from Winstead’s a split second before he could turn it on either of them. It slipped from Jason’s fingers and dropped to the floor.

Winstead was not deterred. He forgot the firearm and slammed a fist into Waterhouse’s jaw, ramming his head into the dark, hardwood floor. Winstead cocked for a second blow. Jason placed both hands under Winstead’s arms and flung him off the private investigator.

Winstead rolled to the wall under a window and staggered to his knees.

Jason collected the pistol and leveled it at the kneeling Winstead. “That’s enough!” Winstead looked like a feral animal, trapped and contemplating his next attack. He flexed his right hand repeatedly, balling it into a fist for a beat, then relaxing it. His cheeks puffed with every breath.

Waterhouse wiped a streak of crimson from his mouth with the back of his hand. His tongue moved inside his mouth, massaging another swollen area on his face. “I’m getting too old for this shit,” he muttered.

Winstead stood up to his full height. “I need you both to leave. Now!”

A dull thump sounded from beyond the window. The glass shattered, exploding tiny shards into the room. The front of Winstead’s head came off as if an explosive had detonated inside it. Red chunks of matter rained tissue, bone, and blood over Jason and Waterhouse.

Several seconds elapsed as they processed what they’d just witnessed. In the moments that followed the disintegration of Winstead’s skull, Jason, covered in splattered blood and chunks of gray matter, dropped to the floor. He collected himself, then slid along the floor, raised himself up beside the shattered window, and checked the narrow space between the houses. It was clear. Whoever had killed Winstead was gone.

Sucking in a deep breath, he summoned a grit he’d never known he possessed, going into damage control like a seasoned pro. “Don’t touch anything,” Jason commanded, as the pool of blood from the mangled head expanded in every direction.

“Hey, dipshit, I’ve been handling murder scenes since your mama was wiping snot from your nose,” retorted Waterhouse.

“We need to search the house,” Jason urged.

“We need to call the police!” said Waterhouse.

“Not yet,” Jason countered. “Let’s see if there’s anything here that might give us any clues.”

Waterhouse picked up Winstead’s weapon and wiped Jason’s fingerprints from it. “Let the police investigate it.”

“Walter! We don’t have time to discuss this. I’ll go upstairs and search the bedrooms. You stay down here and look around. Don’t leave any fingerprints. Remember, this is for Thomas.”

Waterhouse mumbled something Jason couldn’t hear. Jason knew it was not complimentary. “Before we look around, follow me,” said Waterhouse, stuffing his pistol into his waistband.

They jogged back to the Blazer. Walter replaced the gun in the glove box and found a box of latex gloves in the bed. They returned to the house, donning the gloves as they re-entered.

* * *

Jason raced upstairs, searching as if for a ticking bomb, finding nothing. He checked the final room and returned back downstairs.

Jason saw Waterhouse kneeling over a hole in the floor holding a crumpled, paper grocery bag.

“It’s the freakin’ mother lode,” said Waterhouse with some excitement.

“How did you find this?” asked Jason, frowning.

“When the chair toppled over, one of the legs must have knocked some of the floorboards out of place. The carpet was sticking up, so I looked under it.”

Jason peered into the bag. “Holy shit.” Bundles of twenty-dollar bills bound with thick rubber bands filled the bag.

“We can’t let the police see this,” said Waterhouse. “I have an idea.” He grabbed the bag from Jason and ran out the door.

They jogged to the Blazer one more time. Jason didn’t want to let the private investigator out of his sight while he was holding the cash. Waterhouse removed the spare tire from the rack under the rear end. He rolled it quickly to the back door and into the house, while Jason carried the bag. Waterhouse punctured the black sidewall with
a folding knife, and forced the bag of cash into the tire. He then replaced the tire under the chassis, ensuring the slice was against the underside of the truck. He returned to the house and dialed 911. He hung up and made another call.

“Jack, it’s Walter Waterhouse. I’m at a crime scene. I need your help.” Waterhouse gave the address.

“Who’d you call?”

“John Palmer.”

“The detective?”

Waterhouse nodded. “Believe me, we’re going to need a friend inside the department.”

As they waited, they went over their stories three times.

Two hours after Winstead’s murder, Jason stood close by as a reluctant Waterhouse retrieved the money from the spare tire. “You mind backing up a little,” Waterhouse chirped.

Jason complied with a very small retreat, staying within arm’s length. Two minutes later, Waterhouse pulled the bag from the mangled tire. When the bag was free, Jason ripped it from the private investigator’s hand. “I’ll hold this,” he said as he marched inside.

“What the fuck?” Waterhouse spat. Muttering virulent curses under his breath, he followed Jason inside. Christine and Peter were waiting for them.

“Did you two have fun today playing cops and robbers?” Peter kidded them upon seeing their clothing. Jason and Waterhouse had both surrendered their clothing as evidence and were wearing blue police jumpsuits.

Jason filled them in on the details.

It hadn’t taken long for the police to figure out Jason and Waterhouse were innocent, as the splatter pattern indicated they’d been standing in
front of Winstead when the shot tore his head open. Their statements had been taken by different detectives and must have sufficiently jived because they were allowed to go with warnings that more questioning would follow. Jason spotted Detective John Palmer at the scene and confronted him, saying Winstead’s murder was a direct result of the activities at the Colonial. Palmer admitted something very strange was afoot, but the evidence in Winstead’s death still didn’t support murder.

Jason held up the bag and told Christine and Peter how they’d discovered the money.

“
How
much did you say it was?” asked Christine.

“Sixty-five thousand. And that’s just what’s left. We have no idea how much he may have spent,” Waterhouse replied.

“They were paying Winstead to deliver the prescriptions,” Jason said.

“You two do realize that you’ve stolen evidence in a criminal investigation, right? If the police find out, I’m sure it’s a felony,” Peter added. “Why didn’t you just leave it?”

“Winstead ain’t gonna be needing it,” said Waterhouse. “This hunt we’re on ain’t paying none of my bills.”

Peter stared at the skinny man.

“The money stays with me until we figure out what’s going on,” said Jason. He turned to the private eye. “You’re welcome to walk away anytime.”

“Screw you, jack wagon.”

Jason stepped toward the scrawny man. “You want to mix it up, peckerhead? We can step outside anytime. ’Cause I’d hate to get your blood all over my carpet.”

Peter stepped in, blocking his brother. Waterhouse moved away and sank into a chair like a scolded child. Jason glared a moment longer at Waterhouse, then managed to focus on Christine who was asking herself a question.

“How big is this thing Daddy stumbled onto?” She leaned with both hands on the table and appeared as if she might vomit.

Jason placed a hand on her shoulder. “Whatever it is, it’s something much bigger than insurance fraud,” he said.

“What makes you so sure?” Peter opened the fridge. “You got any beer?”

“There’s sixty-five grand here. Hardly seems worth the thirty-two thousand the insurance company paid the Colonial.”

“You all should have let the police handle it,” added Peter.

“Well, we didn’t and it’s a little late for that now, isn’t it?” Jason barked. Waterhouse wanted to keep the cash for obvious reasons. Jason had another. Because it was connected to Pettigrew’s murder, he didn’t want it out of his sight until all the dots were connected.

“How do we know Winstead wasn’t just saving the money?” asked Christine.

“No way,” said Jason. “There’s a note about another payment coming after the final delivery. And…there’s something else.” Jason pulled the folded piece of artwork from his pocket and showed them all. Peter had seen it before at Waterhouse’s place. His reaction was the same as it had been before: Jason saw his brother’s eyes harden.

“What is it?” asked Christine.

“It’s a drawing of a tattoo. Your father had the same design among his files. It was on the attacker’s arm that day at your father’s house. And I saw it on Jasmine’s forearm. In the exact same spot. I think it’s some sort of cult or group.”

Christine rose up and scowled at the mention of Jasmine’s name. Jason glanced away quickly. He handed the paper to Peter. “Don’t you have a friend in DC who can find out about this?” Jason asked.

“Yeah, I do,” said Peter. “He’s an analyst in the counterfeit division of the Secret Service. His name’s Tom Johnson. He was in my squad. Smartest man I know, got a PhD from MIT. He was recruited by the CIA, FBI, and every other alphabet in Washington. The guy’s definitely wired in, but asking him to track down some obscure symbol from a dream seems like a helluva stretch.”

“It wasn’t just from a dream. I’ve seen this before. And by your reaction, so have you,” Jason shot back.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Peter replied.

* * *

Zanns watched Cooper smile and pull a cigarette from his jacket. He took his sweet time lighting up and blowing the smoke in her direction. “The shit pile you find yourself in is getting deeper and smellier than you could ever imagine, Ms. Lily,” he drawled.

The desire to reach out and grab the weasel by the throat welled inside her. She smiled, trying to hide her murderous ire. “Your men eliminated Winstead before he could say anything. It seems to me the problem is resolved.”

“You’re wrong. Rodgers is at his meeting with the three others. You remember, we spoke about it this morning.” Cooper’s tone was patronizing and sarcastic. He continued, “As I mentioned, the house is under electronic surveillance. We’ve been monitoring his phone calls and conversations for several days now.” Cooper smiled.

“Have they mentioned a box of files?” Oliver had yet to find the files. With his flights to North Carolina, he’d been unable to continue his search.

“What kind of files?”

“Never mind, Steven. It’s nothing.”

“Rodgers and his gang are discussing Pettigrew’s death and the fake prescriptions at this very moment. They’ve found Winstead’s cash. They suspect something larger. Hammon is worried.”

I don’t care what Hammon thinks.
“That’s completely unjustified!”

“There’s more,” said Cooper.

Zanns shook her head, marveling at the man’s audacity.

“They have a drawing of the tattoo.”

Cooper had Zanns’s full attention now. Her eyebrows arched. “Go on!”

“Rodgers saw the tattoo on Kader’s arm. He saw it on the intruder’s arm as well, during their struggle. They know the two are connected. Jason Rodgers is slowly connecting the dots, Lily.”

Her goal had been to retrieve the files (and the drawing of the tattoo) before anyone could connect it to their organization. Now the tattoo had been uncovered, all her plans were endangered.