“Doesn’t look like our typical armed robber, but let’s bring him in,” Kittrell said.
***
KITTRELL WAS GRATEFUL apprehending Geller wasn’t a messy ordeal. He and Quinn both hated chasing down suspects. The suspects never got away, but they almost always tried—the great misfortune of having two detectives who’d medaled in the state high school track and field 100-meter dash come for them. Geller, who worked at a body shop just outside of downtown, insisted it was all a big mistake, and to prove it he’d be more than willing to talk with them at the precinct. Kittrell decided against sticking handcuffs on a man who was so compliant, despite Quinn’s protests.
To Kittrell, Geller didn’t quite look the part of an armed robber. He was clean cut, polite, and well spoken. All of his responses to Kittrell’s questions didn’t seem rehearsed but authentic and calmly answered. After a half hour, Kittrell announced that they needed to take a break and they’d resume in a few minutes. Quinn followed him out of the interview room.
“Is this our guy?” Roman asked as he wandered up on the detectives.
Quinn shook his head.
“Kittrell?” Roman said, turning to look at him.
“I-I don’t know. It doesn’t look like it.”
“But his prints were found on the van?”
“Yes, on the gas cap, which he said came from when he did work on the van and filled it up as a courtesy for the customer.”
“What about his alibi?”
“He claims he was at work that morning.”
Morton walked up and handed a folder to Kittrell. He couldn’t help but notice again how she ignored Quinn. “K-Man, you might wanna take a look at these before you start buying everything this Geller guy says.”
“What’s this?” Kittrell said as he opened the folder.
“Cell phone records for Geller,” Morton said. “And I was able to triangulate his location during the time of the robbery based off a text he sent.”
“And?”
“He was there, no doubt about it,” she said. She turned and started to walk away down the hall. “Thank me later with a drink, K-Man.”
Roman smiled. “Go nail him, guys. Make me forget about Arnold Grayson.”
Kittrell waited until Roman was out of earshot before he moved. “I could forget about Arnold Grayson if Chief would stop reminding me.”
“Ditto that.”
The detectives re-entered the room with Geller. Kittrell sat down across from his suspect while Quinn remained standing in the corner.
“So, Mr. Geller, some new evidence has come to light about your whereabouts during the time of the robbery. It appears as though you weren’t at your garage working as you claim but indeed were at the Puget Sound Bank downtown branch where the robbery occurred.”
Geller didn’t flinch. “I think I’ll speak with my lawyer now.”
***
KITTRELL AND QUINN RETURNED from lunch to find Geller in the interview room with his lawyer. During their break, the detectives spoke with the district attorney about offering Geller a plea deal. Based on video evidence, they were able to identify Geller and determine that he wasn’t the one who shot and killed Westin and the security guard. And that was the suspect Chief Roman wanted more than anyone.
“So, Mr. Geller, let’s pick up where we left off. We know you were at the robbery, but what we’d rather know is who was with you.”
Geller’s lawyer put his hand on Geller’s chest. “You don’t have to answer that.”
Kittrell studied Geller closely and watched sweat bead up on his forehead. “Of course you don’t have to answer it. But, if you don’t, the consequences could be dire.”
“Wha-what are you talking about?”
“Dire, Mr. Geller,” Quinn said as he stepped forward and leaned on the table. “As in serious time in lock up.” He paused and walked back into the corner of the room before he turned around again. “Like, you might miss your five-year-old daughter’s graduation from high school kind of dire. Getting a conviction for armed robbery and accomplice to murder ought to be easy enough.”
“They’re just trying to intimidate you,” Geller’s lawyer said. “You don’t have to say anything.”
Kittrell and Quinn remained quiet, choosing to let Geller squirm until he acquiesced.
Wait for it. Wait for it.
“What kind of deal are we talking about?” Geller said.
Kittrell slid a folder to Geller’s lawyer. “One I think you’ll be pleased with.”
The lawyer scanned the terms of the agreement and nodded approvingly.
“There is one catch: You’re gonna have to cooperate,” Quinn said.
Geller looked at his lawyer again. “If you did it,” the lawyer said, “sign it. You’re not going to get a better deal than this.”
Geller hesitated. “He’ll kill me, you know.”
“So you feel like your choices are either to rot in prison or die a free man?” Kittrell said. “I know which one I’d pick—because if this guy is as dangerous as you think, he can get to you in prison as well.”
Geller picked up the pen and scribbled his name on the bottom line.
Kittrell reached across the table and dragged the document back toward him. “Thank you, Mr. Geller. We’ll get started in the morning.” Kittrell looked at the lawyer. “Say, nine o’clock?”
The lawyer nodded.
“Very well. Nine o’clock it is,” Kittrell said. He stood up and looked at Geller. “You made a bad decision a few days ago, but today you made a good decision. It’s how you get on track to putting your life back together. You won’t regret this.”
The detectives entered the hallway and were greeted by Chief Roman, who wore an exuberant expression. “Did he agree to work with us?”
Quinn nodded.
“Outstanding! This will make my meeting with city council so much more enjoyable this afternoon,” Roman said before hustling off down the hall.
***
PEYTON TUCKER KISSED HIS ROSARY and glanced down the hallway once more. He said a quick prayer and lumbered toward his target. With each step, he descended deeper into the depths of regret. He knew he could turn around at any moment and save himself. His soul could still be saved. He reached down and kissed his rosary again.
Not that it mattered. Any display of faith he made was about to be obliterated by his actions. He wondered how he ended up here, in the King County Jail on this night. How did someone know his darkest secrets, his moments of grave indiscretion? It was like he was targeted. But it did no good to ponder such things now. He’d manage the guilt somehow. It’d be far easier than dealing with the consequences of losing those closest to him or the shame he might endure. It was just one simple task.
Tucker slowed his gait and glanced over his shoulder once more. He needed to make sure there would never be any record of what he was about to do. The security cameras panned toward him, and he took a small step backward to avoid being captured. He waited until the oscillating mechanism moved away again, then he dashed toward the nearest cell, the one that contained Wayne Geller.
Geller slept peacefully on his cot. He didn’t stir when Tucker opened the cell door. He didn’t flinch when Tucker slipped a pair of handcuffs on each wrist either, tethering him to the metal bed frame.
Tucker looked skyward once more and muttered a prayer. Father, forgive me for what I’m about to do.
He knew it went against the teachings of the Catholic church. Forgiveness was bestowed after you did something, often over a sin committed in a moment of weakness. But the mistakes Tucker had made long ago—and had never been absolved for—was why he was standing over the sleeping body of Wayne Geller. Tucker’s past had caught up with him in the most unlikely way, but absolution would only come through commission of another sinful act—one of the worst acts of all.
Tucker grabbed the pillow from the empty top bunk and took a deep breath. If he was going to get away with this, he needed everything to be executed to
perfection.
He gripped the pillow on each end and slipped it on top of Geller. Tucker then placed his knee on Geller’s chest, forcing his entire weight on his victim.
For a moment, nothing. Then Geller began to move. He tried to thrash violently but couldn’t. He couldn’t move, smothered by Tucker’s six-foot-three, 300-pound frame. Only the slight clinking of the handcuff chains on the bed frame interrupted the silence in the dark. It didn’t take too long for Geller to lose consciousness.
Tucker then worked quickly to wrap Geller’s bed sheet around his neck and hoist him up, hanging him from the ceiling. Given what had happened to Geller earlier in the day, Tucker doubted anyone would look into his death any further. By this time tomorrow, Geller’s life would be nothing more than the story of a sad and frightened criminal who saw no other way out.
He double-checked his knots and gathered his cuffs. Careful not to make any noise or get caught on camera, Tucker eased open the cell door and waited until the camera swept past him and focused on the opposite direction. He shut the cell door behind him and slipped into the hallway and out of the back door.
Five minutes after he returned to his post, his shift ended. He said good night to several other officers and got into his truck to head home. After buckling up, he hung his rosary beads over his rearview mirror and turned the ignition.
Despite his best efforts to compartmentalize what he’d just done, Tucker couldn’t. The image of a squirming Geller was burned into the recesses of his mind. He was so consumed with his guilt that he never saw the dump truck hurtling toward him as he eased onto the gas pedal.
CHAPTER 18
CAL DIALED KELLY’S NUMBER on his cell phone as he sipped his morning coffee. He usually spent his Friday mornings at home, preparing for a late night of sports coverage. Seattle always seemed to have some marquee event scheduled for Friday nights, a fact that more often than not disappointed his wife, Kelly. She preferred to have Cal all to herself on the eve of the weekend, yet no matter how many times he explained that working on Friday nights and weekends was the life of a sports writer, she still complained about it. But tonight his schedule was free, along with the rest of his day.
“What are you covering tonight, hon?” Kelly asked.
“I’ve actually got the night off.”
“What? And you let me go out of town? Cal Murphy, I swear if you—”
“It wasn’t by choice.”
Kelly stopped her rant and turned sympathetic. “What happened?”
“Buckman pulled me off the Sid Westin story.”
“Why would he do that?”
“This story is getting a little crazy right now. But long story short, Buckman is catching heat for a story he asked me to write so he’s got to look tough. Paul Holloway, the media relations guy for Seattle FC, didn’t appreciate how I conducted some of my interviews and called the paper to complain about me. So, Buckman’s using Holloway’s complaint as the reason why he’s handed the story over to someone else—but I know better.”
“Buckman’s trying to save his own skin.”
“I don’t blame him. He made a show of everything in front of the staff yesterday, but I don’t think that’s how he really feels. He’s just trying to do what management wants him to do.”
“So what are you gonna do?”
“Probably cover that Red Bull boat race on Sunday.”
“Well, who’s handling the Sid Westin story?”
“Take a wild guess.”
“It better not be Eddie Ramsey.”
Cal dropped into his sarcastic voice. “I know he’s your favorite, so try to contain your joy.”
“Any time a guy pukes on you at an office Christmas party, he’s forever deemed a loser—and I’ll never forgive him.”
“At least he didn’t get any on your shoes.”
Kelly groaned. “You’re too much. That’s one memory I’d love to purge from my mind. If I try hard enough to recall that evening, I can still smell his puke.”
“Well, the story is in capable hands now,” Cal said again.
“Your sarcasm is rich here.”
“What? I mean just because Ramsey botched up his interview with the mayor’s wife about her initiative to increase tennis in the inner city. that doesn’t mean he’ll make similar mistakes here. It’s not like once you call the mayor’s wife “sir” multiple times even after she’s corrected you—and continues correcting you—you can just shrug it off as a bad day. Forget the fact that the mayor’s wife wrote in her memoir before Ramsey interviewed her that she was mocked as a child for having a boy face. There was no need for her to be so sensitive about it. I’m sure it was all just a big misunderstanding.”
“Nothing left for you to do but enjoy your day off.”
Cal sighed. “I suppose, but I was having too much fun looking into the story.”
“You are one twisted man.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He paused. “Speaking of having fun, how are you and Maddie doing?”
“We’re having a wonderful time. It’s simply beautiful here.”
“What about things with your mom.”
She took a deep breath. “It’s simply beautiful here.”
“Okay. I get it. Have fun and kiss Maddie for me.”
“Oh, you know us,” she said.
Cal’s phone buzzed with a message. “Yeah, yeah,” he said before trying to open the message from a number he didn’t recognize.
“Cal, are you still listening?”
“Sorry, Kelly. I just got a text message.”
“Which is obviously more important than anything I have to say.”
“It’s not that. It’s just that . . . .” Cal trailed off as he began to look more closely at the message he’d just received and the attachment that came along with it.
Kelly waited for a few moments before trying to get his attention. “Cal? Cal? Are you still there?”
“Yes, honey, I’m still here.”
“No, I mean are you still present in this conversation?”
“Uh, huh.”
“What is it, Cal? I know you’re not paying attention any more.”
Cal scanned the images attached in the text message, which happened to be pictures of a document. He took too long to answer her.
“That’s fine, Kelly.”
“Cal? You’re answering questions I didn’t ask. What are you doing?”
He came out of his fog and caught the tail end of her question. “What was that again?”
“I know you’re not paying attention to me. All I said was—”
Cal took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I just got an interesting text message.”
“Which you had to read immediately, of course.”
“Of course.”
She sighed. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense any longer. What did it say?”
“It was a copy of the divorce papers Sid Westin served to his wife the day he was killed.”
“Some people just don’t know how to handle a break up, do they?”
“You joke, but this is serious.”
“Cal, do you honestly think this could possibly be related to his death? Sounds like a click-bait tweet on Twitter as opposed to a piece of the puzzle surrounding his death—if there even if a puzzle.”
“You might be right, but I need to check this out.”
“And how are you gonna do that now that Buckman has pulled you off the story—and most likely Rebecca Westin thinks you’re a low life for writing that story about her?”
“I have my ways.”
Cal hung up, and his phone buzzed again with another message. This time, it was a series of photos.
***
AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER, Cal stood at the backdoor entrance of Rebecca Westin’s house. He’d hopped the fence surrounding her backyard and hoped that she’d find him harmless enough to let in. Cal was banking on the fact that while she may have hated a “Cal Murphy” who wrote for The Times, she wouldn�
��t recognize him if he walked through her front door—or back door.
He waited patiently for someone to come to the door. When she peered through the blinds at him, he pushed his faux glasses up on his nose and waved at her. His Eddie Ramsey impersonation at office parties had become legendary—and now it was time to put it to use for a good cause.
Rebecca cracked the door open. “May I help you?”
“Mrs. Rebecca Westin?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Eddie Ramsey from The Times, and I wanted to talk with you for a few moments if you wouldn’t mind. It’s about your late husband.”
She hesitated for a moment and then swung the door open. “As long as your name isn’t Cal Murphy, I guess I’m okay with it. I need to get my side of the story out.”
Cal laughed and even included the classic Ramsey snort. “Oh, Cal’s not such a bad guy. He was just doing what he was told.”
“Writing an article about me like that just days after my husband was killed in a bank robbery is about the least tasteful thing anyone could’ve done to me. I can hardly believe any editor would assign such a story—never mind the fact that it isn’t true.”
“Well, we only write what our editor tells us to write, Mrs. Westin.”
“So, you’re a bunch of mindless robots?” She raised her eyebrows before walking slowly toward the living room.
“I wouldn’t say that’s a fair characterization. Perhaps of Cal Murphy, but not anyone else.”
She turned around. “I knew I’d like you.” She gestured toward the couch. “Please, have a seat.”
Cal sat down and pulled out his notebook. “Thank you, Mrs. Westin.”
“Please, call me Rebecca.”
“Okay, Rebecca. I hope you don’t find my line of questioning insensitive either, but there’s something I wanted to ask you about, and I don’t want to make a public spectacle of it.”
“Is that why you came to the back door?”
He nodded. “The news crews can be cruel at times in the way they capture your every move.”
“Not to mention overbearing.”
“That, too. And it’s why I wanted to ask you these questions discreetly. I hope you don’t find them as too invasive either.”
Dead Drop Page 9
