The Milk Wagon Page 3

  Yes, she became one of the most buzzed about FBI agents from her class, having been promoted from Agent Trainee to Senior Special Agent in record time. Yes, she had flown to DC twice to meet with the Deputy Director in person. And yes, she was in line to make her next rank – Supervisory Special Agent – faster than any female field agent in FBI history. But she still hadn’t been able to close out one of the highest profile homegrown FBI cases since the days of the Capones and Gambinos. Not yet, at least.

  Kathryn slid a Hall & Oates CD into her stereo and turned on the shower. As she butchered the lyrics to “Out of Touch,” she let the hot water rinse the shampoo out of her hair. She liked the way it felt running down her face and between her breasts, and as the steam collected to the point that the walls started dropping out, her mind turned to Tom Chrestman – the witness who would, that very morning, give a statement that would finally blow the case wide open.

  Lord knows she needed it. A few missteps in every investigation are allowed, but some of Kathryn’s choices of late had brought her dangerously close to what some would consider unacceptable, if not incompetent. She was painfully aware of her predicament, and had taken extra efforts to avoid another derailment, to include arranging the meeting so it would just be her and Tom – plus his lawyer, of course. She also purposefully selected the time – early in the day, outside the scope and purview of the press and other prying eyes. She wanted to make it as easy on Mr. Chrestman as possible, and the more secure and private he felt about it all, the better the odds were of Kathryn getting what she wanted.

  Of course, that was the plan prior to him giving up the goods. After she had his sworn affidavit in the can, it would be a different scene, and she had made special arrangements for that as well. She gave a local reporter the heads up that she would be providing her own statement on behalf of the Agency that afternoon, and to prepare for the inevitable cameras, interviews and upcoming atta girl meetings with the higher-ups, she spent the weekend getting a makeover. Kathryn got her hair cut and colored, treated herself to a manicure, and even bought a new outfit. It was more than she could afford, but it would be offset after two months at her new pay grade, and as she slid into it, she confirmed once again how good it made her thighs and butt look if she turned just the right way. She leaned into the mirror and put on her lipstick, touched up her mascara, and stepped back to inspect her work.

  “Wow.” She couldn’t recall a time when she looked this put together. Confident even. She grabbed her purse and the file folders and locked the door behind her. As she walked to the car, a feeling she hadn’t experienced in some time came over her. She didn’t know if it was her new look, her new clothes, or the heady thoughts about what would happen if she did close the case, but there was a confidence in her stride that hadn’t been there before. In just a matter of hours, the world would finally see Kathryn the way she wanted to be seen.

  It was something she had wished for all of her life.

  Chapter 5

  Project Pestle was the code name given to the prolific money-laundering scheme that had been growing by leaps and bounds from the day Kathryn was assigned to the case. She was fortunate to get on board early, and through a combination of luck, skill, and immersive working of the files, she eventually became the lead agent over the Southeast region, where the bulk of the operation had been taking place.

  The primary perpetrators were a collusive network of compounding pharmacies and doctors working together to defraud Uncle Sam out of millions of dollars. Through a combination of bogus prescriptions from the doctor end, and false reimbursement requests from the pharmacists, a pseudo-cartel had been formed, and it remained reasonably under the radar until the players started getting careless. When the FBI got involved, Kathryn picked out the project’s code name herself and thought it quite clever considering the subject matter. But lately, she felt like she had been on the receiving end of the grinding, and was looking forward to some relief.

  She spent the first two years behind the scenes, going through boxes and boxes of records, cross-referencing bank deposits and withdrawals with receipts and checks. It was mind-numbing and labor intensive, but she was a detail person, and the meticulous spreadsheets she generated led to multiple rounds of arrests, convictions and confessions. With each doctor or pharmacist she put away, a layer of the onion peeled off, and Kathryn could feel herself closing in on the main target. The problem was, she hadn’t quite been able to get there.

  Her first real chance came after she collared Joe Birdsall, a manager of several pharmacies near Jackson. Kathryn had hard evidence proving that he was the primary launderer on the compounding side and that he played a leadership role on the recruiting front. When Kathryn approached him trying to cut a deal prior to sentencing, he made it clear he wasn’t interested in talking. Kathryn wasn’t deterred. She had seen his type before. Through his façade of arrogance and faux-bravado, she could tell he was scared, and instead of spinning her wheels trying to broker an early plea in exchange for information, she made the call to wait him out. She was sure a more comprehensive confession would be forthcoming once his inevitable date with the warden grew closer, and was willing to wait.

  That was her first big blunder. She misread him, and he put a bullet through his head within days after her walkout, spinning her into a spiral of depression and self-doubt reminiscent of those months after her father died. She soon realized, however, that no one blamed her directly for the failed outcome, even though she was the one who set the chain of events in motion by her own arrogance and need to show everyone how tough she was. After all, a suicide is a suicide, she was told, and there was not a lot she could do about it. When people discussed it on those terms, Kathryn took no effort to dissuade them – partly because she didn’t know how she would handle the criticism, and partly because she had a backup plan of sorts.

  Enter Tom Chrestman.

  He was a minor fish, she was led to believe; friendly and more than willing to talk the first time she interviewed him. It wasn’t until later that she found out he had been playing her all along. That’s when she contacted Tom’s lawyer and told him, quite curtly, that they now had evidence to put Tom away for years, if not decades, and if he had aspirations of cutting any type of deal, then it was his last chance to come clean. Of course, she was bluffing and didn’t have all the evidence, but she baited the hook anyway to see if she would get a bite. She was surprised to learn not only that Tom was willing to meet, but that he insisted the sooner the better. Kathryn wasn’t quite sure what triggered his change of heart, but she had a hunch, and if she was right, Tom would come busting through the doors with bells on, ready to sing.

  That is, if he showed up at all.

  Chapter 6

  Tom Chrestman wasn’t sure why, but the Mercedes was the one new purchase they let him keep. The feds took his 911, his Range Rover, and even the old Bronco he was going to have restored. He was hoping they would take the 560SL, too. At one time he considered the car – a convertible with a low profile built for speed – his prized possession, but now it seemed like yet one more display of excess, and it stood out as a sore reminder of who he once was.

  He had suffered through having to air his dirty laundry publicly, humiliating his wife, Jessica, in the process. He felt the sting of friends peeling off one by one as he faded from principal to pariah over a period of time measured by headlines documenting the drama as it unfolded. Now, according to his lawyer, Tom was a few days away from an indictment, and the severity of charges to be levied against him – along with potential prison time – would be dictated largely by how cooperative he was with the special agent waiting to interview him at the FBI office downtown. He had been released on bond a few days after his initial arrest because he was not considered a threat to flee, and every day of freedom since then had felt like a breath of fresh air.

  But now the noose had begun to tighten. A plea agreement had been put on the tabl
e, and as Tom adjusted the knot on his tie, he weighed just how much he should – or could – say. He didn’t want to go back to jail, but at the same time, he shuddered at the thought of what might happen if word got around that he snitched his way to a deal. On the way out the door he kissed his wife on the cheek and pulled the covers up on Julia, his three-year-old, careful not to wake either. Jessica had no idea he was going in for a second round. The less she knew, the better.

  He took the long way to the federal building. He was in no hurry to get to the confessional, and he figured more time would clear his head and better prepare him for the inevitable. As he drove, he cursed the day he left his job at K&B Drugs to open his own compounding pharmacy business. Yes, working at K&B had been mind-numbingly boring. Counting pills day after day, week after week, answering the same questions time and time again – often from the same customers – wore thin quickly, but it was stable, paid well, and was only a few minutes from his home. Hindsight was 20/20, and suddenly, a repetitive and mundane life sounded good. Comforting, even. Much better than convicted felon, that’s for sure.

  The back roads led him to Archibald Park, a stretch of land donated by the descendants of a prominent turn-of-the-century sailing captain who made his fortune exporting timber. It stretched over several hundred acres, split primarily between a nature preserve on one end and a sportsplex on the other. Tom pulled into the parking lot where the two public spaces converged at a large playground. He parked on the side closest to the woods and smiled as he thought of Julia tiptoeing down the nature walk to try to see a bluebird or a redheaded woodpecker. He loved that she showed little interest in the slide or the swings and always made a beeline for the trees. He looked around; there were no cars, but he saw a red, white, and blue Schwinn Sting-Ray with a silver banana seat leaning against the wood sign at the trailhead.

  “Dang, Marty, you’re here early,” Tom muttered, killing the ignition.

  Marty Deen was the son of Grant Deen, the long-serving city councilman of Tom’s district. Growing up, Marty – just a few years younger than Tom – was referred to as retarded. Of course, you couldn’t say that anymore, so now Marty was either “mentally challenged” or “slow,” depending on who was doing the speaking. Neither sounded good to Tom.

  Marty was well known among the Gulfport locals. He worked part time for the city’s department of leisure services, mowing grass around the park and striping the ball fields. When he got off work in the afternoons, Marty would ride his bike over to the park, loaded up with the remains of his lunch, a sketchpad, and a pair of binoculars. Even though he suffered from some developmental and cognitive deficiencies, Marty was not without talent. God had given him the ability to draw, and his obsession was birds, which he would sketch from memory using colored pencils or pastels. He was enough of a prodigy that the Holden Gallery in downtown Gulfport slated a New Year’s Eve exhibit for Marty that was already starting to get some buzz. At one time in a prior life, Tom had hoped to go and pick up an original to hang in Julia’s bedroom. Fat chance of that happening now.

  Tom got out and stretched his legs to see if he could see Marty across the way. Anything to burn a few more minutes. He strained his eyes and even waved but got no response. The scent of the pines hung heavily in the air, and he thought about how the ground would soon turn slippery with straw once the cooler weather kicked in. He had spent many a fall raking it into piles and wondered if this year he would be relegated to watching the seasons change through a prison window. Off in the distance he thought he heard the hum of a mower cranking up near the soccer fields. He leaned on the hood of his car and checked his watch. Tom was scheduled to meet with his lawyer at eight before his appointment with the feds at nine. He started running the facts through his head again and again, and no matter how the different scenarios played out, he always ended up hitting a wall. He knew he bought some time with the first interview a few months ago, but he hadn’t been exactly forthcoming with everything. The agent who interviewed him had apparently come to the same realization, and when Tom thought of facing her again –

  Tom nearly ripped his shirt collar trying to loosen the button and forced himself to breathe through his nose. He fumbled in his pocket for a Xanax and washed four tablets down with a Mountain Dew. He wiped his face with the cuff of his sleeve, then stooped over, hands on his knees, to collect himself. After a few seconds, he took a deep breath, then picked up a rock and zinged it toward a garbage can where it banged off the side. Yes, Tom thought, this time would be different for sure.

  This time would be a reckoning.

  Chapter 7

  It had been a bit of a crapshoot lately as to exactly how the Xanax would impact Tom’s mood, and the outcome was not always as expected. Sometimes it was euphoria, infrequently it was paranoia, and on most days the medicine just took the edge off, which was usually enough for him. A lot of it had to do with how he felt when he swallowed the pills, his mood impacting the pharmacologic effects of the chemicals as they metabolized and flooded his central nervous system. This time he was hoping for a pleasant escape or at least a tamping down of the anxiety raging inside of him, but instead, he was greeted with a melancholic introspection that caused his thoughts to turn, yet again, to the events that led him to his sorry state of affairs.

  It all began with a too-good-to-be-true offer just a few years back from his pharmacy school running buddy Joe Birdsall. Tom ran into “Birdy” at the annual Southeastern Pharmacists convention in Birmingham. It was Birdy who told Tom over drinks that he had opened a compounding pharmacy just north of Jackson, and it was Birdy who suggested Tom join him and open one in Gulfport.

  According to Birdy, the world was changing. Big box pharmacies had grown too corporate, and patients and physicians were seeking a more personalized approached for their prescription needs. Compounding – the old-time practice of preparing custom medications – was enjoying a revival, and the benefits on both sides of the coin were numerous. Customers weren’t forced to take a stock medication that might or might not be exactly right for whatever afflicted them, and pharmacists could actually exercise some creativity and utilize their learned skillset for a change. This second fact alone had great appeal to Tom. He would no longer have to bide his time counting out capsules and filling bottles, and he could finally feel like he was making a difference. Plus, it had the potential for profit. Real profit. Six figures and more per year with the sky being the limit if you worked hard enough.

  Tom didn’t need to be told twice. He worked out an arrangement with Birdy, quit his job at K&B, and after a short stint shadowing Birdy up in Jackson, opened Cat Island Compounding – not too far from Gulfport Memorial Hospital, and just a short drive down Highway 90 from the Seabee base. Birdy told him the location was ideal because it allowed Tom to serve the most profitable subset of patients – retirees serviced by Medicare and servicemen covered by Tricare.

  Tom enjoyed the work and was proud to finally be in control of his life. He did his best to drum up business; he read everything he could get his hands on and tried to make himself available to patients and providers 24/7. But as the first quarter stretched into a year, his receivables could not keep up with his overhead, and he was soon deep in the red. He had poured all his money into the store and could not get any more loans. He even moved his family into a small apartment to save money, but it didn’t help. He woke up each morning with his stomach in his throat and a throbbing headache from grinding his teeth at night. He quit eating from worry and lost twenty pounds. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he called his old boss at K&B to set up a meeting, but when Jessica found out, she encouraged him to reach out to Birdy one more time. Jessica didn’t exactly trust Birdy, but at this point she didn’t care. Birdy was doing something right, and she quietly wondered if Tom could use some additional guidance on the management front. Plus, she had lived through the K&B years and did not want to do it again.

  Birdy showed up the next d
ay in a convertible Porsche with a big-breasted blonde named Charlotte riding shotgun. He introduced her as his “number one sales rep.” Tom remembered them both coming into his office, their eyes excited with the prospect of – something. Tom sat them down and started to walk through his story. He was a bit taken aback and embarrassed when Birdy asked to see his financials, but Tom showed them to him anyway. Birdy read over them for less than five minutes before nodding to Charlotte. When she got the signal, she put her purse on the table and pulled out five stacks of $100 bills – $10,000 total – and lined them up across the front of his desk, right next to his framed picture of Jessica and Julia.

  “What is this?” Tom asked, standing up. “Look, I didn’t ask you to come down here for a loan.”

  “Not a loan,” Birdy said, “far from it.” He looked over at Charlotte and she smiled. “That’s one week of sales. Net.”

  Tom’s mouth opened slightly. “One week?” He tried to do the math in his head but could not figure out any reasonable sales activity that would generate this kind of income.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to call,” Birdy said, leaning back and cracking his knuckles. “I told you there was money to be made in this business.”

  Tom whistled slowly. “And you made this compounding?”

  “Indeed I did.”

  He looked at him and then over at Charlotte, wondering what she did for Tom, other than the obvious.

  “Legally?”