“You ready?” Cal asked as Kittrell climbed out of his car.
“Let’s nail this bastard.”
They entered the elevator and stood quietly before Kittrell broke the silence.
“Cal, don’t you write a word of this—not until you run this by me. You understand? I can’t have Chief looking bad.”
Cal nodded. “Got it.”
The front desk in the spacious decadent office was unoccupied.
“He should really spend more on hiring dedicated employees,” Kittrell said, sarcasm dripping in his tone. “What kind of agent doesn't have a secretary working on Saturday afternoon during March Madness? This is a disgrace.”
They both continued to scan the office before Umbert stumbled out of a pair of glass doubles and into the lobby.
“Welcome, you two,” Umbert said as he spread his hands wide. “I appreciate you making your way down here to talk about this little issue.”
“Little issue?” Kittrell bellowed. “We’re talking about an investigation into what quite possibly was murder, Mr. Umbert. And for one of your clients, no less. Show some respect.”
Umbert offered his hand toward the detective. “Detective Mel Kittrell, I presume?”
Reluctantly, Kittrell took Umbert's hand and shook it without a word.
“I apologize for not being more respectful of the dead, but I can assure you that I have nothing but respect for Sid Westin. He was one of my first clients when I relocated to the Northwest—and one of my best clients, too.”
Kittrell stared at Umbert as their eyes locked. Cal, who stood to Kittrell’s right, understood Umbert’s tone even more so than his words. It was clear that Umbert was laying the groundwork for what would be his defense: Sid Westin was far more valuable to him alive than dead. Kittrell didn't appear to be fazed by the first haymaker landed in what was shaping up to be a tense meeting.
“Gentlemen, let’s proceed inside and get this interview over with,” Cal said. He wasn't used to playing peacemaker but realized it was suddenly a necessary role.
“Shall we?” Umbert said, pivoting and gesturing toward the glass doors behind him.
The three men entered the office. Umbert, who brought up the rear, voiced directions that led them to the conference room located at one corner of the building. The room yielded a spectacular view of the city, which started to twinkle as dusk slowly gave way to night.
“I like to come up here and think," Umbert said. “Nothing like a glorious vista to spark the imagination.”
“Or hatch a murder plot,” Kittrell said as he spun around and glared at Umbert.
“Detective, I can assure you that I have nothing to hide because I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Kittrell pulled out the chair at the head of the conference room table and sat down. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
CHAPTER 30
MATT NORFOLK LACED UP HIS CLEATS as he glanced around the Seattle FC locker room. Most of the players were getting ready by going through their pre-game rituals, consisting of everything from reading the Bible to jamming to heavy metal through a pair of ear buds to playing a ukulele. There was a little bit of something for everyone. But today was different. Norfolk couldn’t help but feel a twinge of loss since Sid Westin wasn’t next to him. They’d always been put next to each other in the locker room for as long as he’d been on the squad. Instead, Tim Peterson occupied the small space next to him.
Norfolk stared at Peterson, whose pregame ritual included eating an apple and reading a copy of GQ magazine. Yet Peterson had his head buried in his hands.
“Cheer up, mate,” Norfolk said. “Just because you’re in the dead man’s locker doesn’t mean you’re next.”
Eyes narrowing, Peterson turned slowly toward Norfolk. “I’m not in the mood, Peterson.”
“How about you get your mind on the game because it’s clearly elsewhere.”
Shawn Lynch walked by their locker and overheard the conversation. He tapped Norfolk on the shoulder. “Go easy on him, Norfolk. He just found out he’s been suspended for using PEDs.”
Norfolk leaned back, mouth agape. “Wow, Peterson. If you’re using PEDs, you ought to at least look like you take them.”
Peterson didn’t say a word, instead choosing to let his fists do the talking. He took a wild swing at Norfolk that landed on his chin. Caught off guard, Norfolk crashed to the floor. He felt his face for blood before getting to his knees. But instead of standing up, Norfolk lunged at Peterson’s knees. Despite giving up forty pounds to Norfolk, Peterson quickly escaped Norfolk’s grasp and took the more advantageous position. He’d often bragged about his three state championship titles in wrestling while he was in high school, but the rest of the team mocked his claim since he was from Montana, and they joked that he only had to beat one other wrestler to win it. But nobody was laughing now.
Peterson wrapped his arms around Norfolk’s head and started to apply pressure.
“I bet you’re the one who did this to me,” Peterson said.
“Did what?” Norfolk said as he struggled to escape Peterson’s grasp.
“You took your drug test the same time as me. You switched them.”
“That’s insane. How could I have done that? Besides I’ve never used any PEDs.”
Peterson released him, but it appeared only to be a tactical move.
“I watched you buy a Screwball from the ice cream truck at the Shawnmon Bay Park every week. You think I don’t know what’s going on here? You think I don’t know what’s going on with some of the people on this team?” Peterson glared around the room.
“I swear, Tim-Bo. You gotta believe me. I had nothing to—” Norfolk said before he went limp.
Peterson let go of Norfolk, who’d been put to sleep. He stood up and walked around the room, eyeing each one of his teammates closely. “I know each one of you who is involved in this mess. And you better believe I’m going to make sure you all go down with me.”
Javier Martinez walked over to Peterson and took him by the arm, whispering in his ear. “Calm down, man. It’s okay. I believe you.”
CHAPTER 31
KITTRELL LEANED BACK in his chair and tapped his pen on his notebook. “I have to be honest with you, Mr. Umbert, this doesn’t look good for you. We have a mountain of evidence pointing in your direction.”
Umbert shifted in his seat before he began to make his plea. “Why on earth would I possibly kill off one of my biggest cash cows? Sid Westin was hooking me up with a substantial amount of money each year off his contract. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Where were you on Thursday?” Kittrell asked.
“I was in London, checking out a prospective client. I already told you that.”
“Can anyone corroborate your story?”
“Just look on social media. You’ll see pictures of me in London during that time. There’s no way I could’ve faked that.”
Kittrell stared out the window at the dark sky and took a deep breath before continuing, “Since you have so much money, Mr. Umbert, perhaps you hired someone to take care of some business for you while you were away.”
“This is absurd.”
“It’s not as absurd as you wish,” Kittrell said as he opened a folder in front of him. “Are you aware that the FBI is investigating Rebecca Westin in an alleged doping scheme with a—” Kittrell glanced at his notes—“Dr. Bill Lancaster?”
“I read the paper.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“What does this have to do with Sid Westin’s death and that bank robbery?”
“I was hoping you could tell us.”
“Seriously, I have no idea what you’re talking about. A client of mine is dead, gunned down senselessly in an armed robbery, and his wife is being investigated by the FBI in a doping scheme—yet you question me, as if I had anything to do with all this.”
“Speaking of connections, Mr. Umbert, I believe your connection to the Westin family is far greater—and far more complic
ated—than you’re letting on.”
“Please, Detective. Just spit it out.”
Kittrell grabbed a half-dozen sheets and slid them across the table to Umbert. “Any of these look familiar?”
Umbert remained stoic, unflappable in the presentation of the proof he demanded to see. “So maybe Rebecca and I had a fling. It proves nothing.”
Kittrell shook his head. “Except, it proves everything, creating a definitive link and establishing a potential motive.”
“A link to what?”
Kittrell motioned to Cal. “Show him what you found.”
Cal slid a piece of paper to Umbert. It was the link he established and had been so excited to tell Kittrell about. This evidence would be damning in court. “Every name given to us by the FBI just so happens to be a client of yours. Coincidence? I think not.”
Umbert clenched his fists so hard that they started to turn white. “This doesn’t prove anything. I represent over half of the pro athletes in the city. And almost all of them are the marquee players.”
Rain started to pelt the windows.
Kittrell held up his finger. “It doesn’t, except I can easily establish a believable motive. You had the means and a strong motive.”
“What is that? Kill off Sid Westin so I can have Rebecca?” Umbert looked away from Kittrell. “I already have her. Why would I need to kill her husband? Granted, I’m a slow learner, but after my second wife depleted me of most of my assets, I vowed never to marry again. And that’s one vow I intend to keep.”
“But I suspect Sid found out about what you were doing—both to his wife and with his wife. And he was going to turn you in.”
“You know, Detective, I think we’re done here. If you want to continue this conversation, I prefer to do it with my lawyer present. I tried to do this as a favor for you, but I didn’t realize you were going to try and ambush me with a murder accusation.” Umbert stood up and gestured toward the door.
Kittrell got up slowly as he collected his evidence and re-inserted it into the folder. “Sid Westin found out that his wife was in bed with you both figuratively and literally, and he threatened to turn you in.”
“I appreciate your fervor in solving this case because Sid was not only a client but a friend, and—”
“Friends don’t sleep with their friends’ wives.”
“—and I hope you catch the killer. Sid deserves justice.”
“You’re a brazen hypocrite, Mr. Umbert,” Kittrell fired back, turning toward the exit. “And I’m going to put you where you belong.”
“Good luck with that, Detective.”
“I don’t need luck. Just a little more proof.” He hit Umbert gently with his folder. “No more trips out of the country, you hear? You stick around Seattle until this is all cleared up.”
Umbert flashed a faint smile. “Yeah, I hear extradition can be a bitch sometimes.”
CHAPTER 32
CAL FOLLOWED KITTRELL as he stormed outside the building and let a string of expletives fly. The rain had subsided, but the accompanying wind hadn’t. The stiff breeze caught Cal off guard, and he staggered to his left under the force of it.
Neither man said a word for a few moments as they stewed on their interaction with Umbert. There was little doubt that he was guilty, but proving so would be a difficult matter, and Cal could see Kittrell’s frustration mounting along with the pressure to solve the case.
“What did Umbert mean by his comment about extradition? You think he’s toying with us?”
Kittrell put his hands behind his head and paced around in circles. He sighed before he answered, “I think he’s taunting us, for sure. But if we can’t get some physical evidence that ties him to the robbers, we’re just dealing with circumstantial evidence and hunches. The DA wouldn’t move to prosecute such a weak case, especially against a man who has a lot of connections among the wealthy and powerful.”
“So, tell me what we need.”
“We need to know what Sid Westin knew before he was killed, and if he knew anything at all. That would be a start. And this appears like a classic murder-for-hire plot. So, we’d need to be able to track a large payment from Umbert to somewhere else. And I doubt we’ll ever find that. Umbert isn’t stupid.”
“What you’re saying then is that he pulled off the perfect murder?”
“Perfect in that he’s never going to go to jail a day in his life if we don’t find something.”
Cal put his hands on his hips and watched the flags in the plaza in front of the building thrash violently. It’s how he’d felt the entire time chasing down this story. And coming so close to apprehending the person responsible for Sid’s death without acquiring prosecutable evidence felt painfully empty.
“Do you think there’s anything I could do to help regarding a story in the paper?” Cal asked.
Kittrell sighed. “I don’t think so. We’re probably better off gathering all our hard evidence before making another run at Umbert. I wanted to serve notice to him that we’re onto him. Maybe he’ll make a mistake. But at this point, there’s nothing you can do. I think a story would do more harm than good.”
“Okay, I’ll keep this quiet.”
“Yeah, don’t tell your editor.”
***
ON HIS DRIVE HOME, Cal called his FBI contact and friend, Agent Jarrett Anderson. Cal wanted to see if there was any more to the story about Dr. Lancaster that he leaked—and if maybe there was another story Anderson wanted to give him. Anything to avoid covering boat races on a Sunday.
“I don’t have anything else new I can release at this point,” Anderson said. “However, I can tell you that we’re close to creating a case against Rebecca Westin. One of our undercover agents captured video of her giving packages directly to a few players we’ve identified straight out of a van.”
“A white van?”
“Yeah—it was fronting as an ice cream truck. Pretty slick operation, if you ask me. I mean, other than the obvious question of ‘Why is a professional athlete’s wife driving an ice cream truck?’”
“It is a rather odd side job, isn’t it?”
“But what gets me is why Sid would’ve purchased a van in the first place. It’s an even stranger choice for an extra vehicle.”
Cal came to a stop at a traffic light. “I did some digging into that myself because I was asking the same question.”
Anderson’s voice quickened, “And what’d you find?”
“Sid liked to volunteer at an inner city program that often needed help moving families. He bought a work van because it was more versatile than a truck, according to the guy he bought it from. And my guess is that Rebecca saw a creative opportunity and took it.”
“Did she admit she knew about the van?”
“No. She claims she didn’t even know it existed. But I happen to know now that her partial prints were all over it, based off a forensics report I peeked at.”
“I thought those didn’t come up with any matches.”
“Not in our database. But they came up when we did a cross agency search and found them in a European database.”
“Thanks for the info. We’re very close to busting her. It won’t be good publicity for the bureau to do it right now after her husband was killed, but we won’t wait long to act. We still have a few more details to take care of in the meantime. When we charge someone, we almost always get a conviction.”
Cal eased onto the gas as the light turned green. “You’ll keep me in the loop when you do, right?”
“Of course, Cal. Your help has been invaluable in getting us what we need to secure a conviction. Your story forced her to have some interesting conversations with Jonathan Umbert. Good thing we had a wiretap beforehand, or we might have missed some of their conversations.”
“Thanks, Anderson. I appreciate it.”
“Not sure I’ll ever be able to repay you for helping us rescue Noah Larson’s son, but I’ll keep trying.”
“If that’s what you’re try
ing to do, that’s your own self-imposed debt, not mine. We’re good as far as I’m concerned. But I do appreciate the tips.”
“Any time, Cal.”
Cal hung up and pulled into his driveway. He waited for the garage door to open when he received an incoming call from his wife.
“Please tell me you’re coming home soon,” Cal began. “I miss you guys terribly.”
Kelly laughed. “Running out of clean underwear, are we?”
“The dishes are piled high in the sink, if you must know.” Cal chuckled. “I’m kidding. No, I only miss you and Maddie.”
“Well, I’m here to tell you that your wish is my command. The Charlotte airport is running at full strength tomorrow, and we’ve got tickets for a flight back to Seattle.”
“Outstanding. When are you getting in?”
“Late. I’ll text you the times.” She paused. “Have you been staying out of trouble?”
Cal carefully considered his response before speaking. He wanted to be honest without causing alarm. “For the most part.”
“Cal!”
“Just a minor incident. I got roughed up in an alleyway.”
“You got beat up?”
“Beat up is such a strong way of describing what happened.”
“Assaulted?”
“Even stronger.”
“Well, what happened?”
“Nothing too major. Just got kicked in the ribs a few times.”
“By who?”
Cal sighed. “I’m not sure. The guy wore a mask and was gone before I could get a good look at him, but I think he works for William Lynch.”
“The Cars, Cars, Cars guy?”
“The one and only.”
“Why would he do that to you?”
“Apparently, he didn’t like how I insinuated that his son, Shawn, who plays for Seattle FC, was possibly using PEDs in my article.”
“People are so touchy these days.”
Cal broke into laughter. Kelly’s deadpan humor often caught him off guard, though it shouldn’t have after being married to her for a few years. “Well, I’m all right, and I doubt he’ll mess with me again unless I write a nasty article about Shawn. And if Buckman holds his ground with me, it certainly won’t happen any time soon.”
Dead Drop Page 15
