Dead Drop (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 9)

by Jack Patterson

  “I know you’re upset, Becs, but try to hold it together. If for anything, do it for Mason. Don’t let him see you like this. Be strong.”

  “Is it wrong that I want him to know what a jerk his father is?”

  Elizabeth patted her on the hand. “He’s not a jerk of a father, just a husband, right?”

  Rebecca rolled her eyes and sighed. “If you insist on keeping me from being pissed off, I just might kick you out.”

  “I’m not saying you can’t be upset, but just keep it under control. You don’t want to do anything you’ll regret.”

  “Already too late for that,” Rebecca said as she took another gulp of her wine. “I married Sid.” She teared up but waved her hands in front of her eyes.

  “It’s okay to cry.”

  “No. I’m not going to shed one tear for him. He’s a bastard, serving me divorce papers right in front of Mason, papers that accused me of infidelity. He needs to get off his self-righteous high horse.” Rebecca grabbed the tabloid at the end of the bar and held it up. “Here he is running around the city with all these beautiful women and just shrugs like it’s no big deal—and he acts like nothing is going on.” She slammed the paper on the bar. “He’s full of it. I know for a fact he’s had at least two affairs since we’ve been married.”

  “Two affairs? Are you sure? Why are you still with him?”

  “I never caught him, but I suspected him at least twice. He was acting strange, and when I confronted him about it, he denied it all. But I’m no idiot.”

  “Did he ever cheat on you while you were dating?”

  She shook her head. “He was the perfect gentleman. But that’s how they reel you in. They act like you’re a queen and then they dump you for the next hot woman that comes along. Men are scum, I tell you. All of ’em. And if I—”

  Rebecca stopped mid-sentence when she saw Elizabeth making a strange face. She then heard the door slam shut and watched Mason shuffle toward her.

  “Mum? Is everything okay?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes. Everything is fine. Why do you ask?”

  “There’s a policeman in our front yard.”

  Rebecca got up and peered out the window. “That’s strange. Why don’t you go clean up for supper?”

  Mason bent over and picked up a handful of the papers strewn about the floor. “What’s this?”

  She snatched it out of his hands. “Oh, it’s nothing, Son. Go get cleaned up like I said.”

  He scampered upstairs and was out of earshot when an officer rapped on the front door.

  “What do you think that’s all about?” Elizabeth asked.

  Rebecca shrugged and walked toward the door to open it. “My day can’t get any worse, no matter what it is.”

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  A pair of officers stood at her door. The officer closest to the door looked down, holding his hat in his hand. “May I come in, Mrs. Westin?”

  “What’s this all about? You’re starting to scare me.”

  “It’s about your husband.”

  She gestured for both officers to come inside. “What about him?”

  The officer stepped inside and swallowed hard. “You might want to sit down for this.”

  “No, tell me what you came here to say about my husband right now. Is he in jail or the hospital?”

  “No, ma’am. Your husband was shot today during a bank robbery, and he passed away before any medical help arrived. I’m really sorry, Mrs. Westin.”

  Rebecca staggered toward the couch. She couldn’t believe the swirling emotions inside her. A few minutes ago, she would’ve killed him herself if she had the chance. But now?

  She started to sob. Elizabeth sat down next to Rebecca, placing her arm around her grieving friend.

  “Thank you, officer,” Elizabeth said.

  He handed her his card. “I’m sure you’ll have more questions later. Tell her she’s free to call me whenever she feels up to it to discuss all the details and what funeral home she wants us to deliver his body to.” He paused. “I’ll show myself out. Again, I’m really sorry, Mrs. Westin.”

  Rebecca didn’t look up at him, continuing to sob.

  “What is it, Mum?” Mason said as he descended the stairs.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Mum, what’s wrong?”

  ***

  THREE HOURS LATER, Rebecca was starting her second bottle of wine and had no intention of stopping. She slumped into a chair in the living room and wiped away another set of streaking teardrops.

  Elizabeth came down the stairs and settled onto the couch.

  “Is he asleep?” Rebecca asked.

  “It took him a while, but he finally stopped crying and fell asleep.”

  “Thank you for staying with me.”

  “Do you want me to stay here tonight? I can call Bill and ask him to drop over some clothes.”

  Rebecca shook her head. “No, you go home and kiss your husband. You don’t need to wallow with me in my misery all night.”

  “Just promise me you’ll stop drinking, Becs, okay? That’s not going to help you tonight.”

  “It’ll help me sleep.”

  Elizabeth picked up her coat and sighed. “I’m not your mother, but please consider what I’ve asked, all right?”

  “Fine,” Rebecca said as she put her glass down on the coffee table in front of her. “I’ll take your advice.”

  “I’ll call you in the morning. I’ll clear my schedule and help you do whatever you need help with.”

  Rebecca got up and hugged her friend again. “You’re the best.”

  Her phone started buzzing on the coffee table.

  “Don’t answer that unless you want to,” Elizabeth said. “And don’t be afraid to tell people that you just need some time.”

  “I won’t. Don’t worry.”

  Elizabeth gave her another quick hug before exiting.

  Rebecca locked the door behind her and walked back into the living room where her phone was still buzzing.

  She glanced at the name on the caller ID. It was normally something that would make her smile, but not tonight.

  “My god, Becs, are you okay? I heard it on the news.”

  “I’ll be fine, just more relieved than anything that it’s over. The bastard served me divorce papers this afternoon after he disappeared and went to the bank.”

  “Well, you won’t have to worry about him any more.”

  Rebecca picked up her glass of wine and took another sip. “Is it a good idea for you to be calling me right now?”

  “Nobody is going to catch us. I’ve been good about covering my tracks. Besides, there’s nothing odd about me calling you tonight. It’d be expected, in fact.”

  “I hope you’re right. I’ve got enough things to worry about right now.”

  “Well, at least you won’t have to go through a nasty public divorce now, will you?”

  She forced a smile. She wanted it to be more authentic than it was, though she still wasn’t sure she should be exhibiting any signs of happiness at the moment. If anyone were watching her, she wouldn’t want them to get the wrong idea—or the right one.

  CHAPTER 5

  CAL SCROLLED THROUGH his Twitter feed and resisted the urge to write back to at least a half dozen classless responses to his post about Sid Westin’s death. Cal felt his blood pressure rising as he kept reading. He was breaking one of his hard and fast rules: never read the comments. But he also had another rule that required him to: always keep a pulse on your readers.

  In half an hour, the Seattle Football Club—or Seattle FC as they were more commonly known—would commence a press conference detailing anything they’d learned from police about Westin’s death and how they planned to honor him. If it had been any other player, Cal suspected they would’ve waited for another day or two before commenting publicly. But Sid Westin wasn’t just any other player.

  Cal interviewed Westin for a feature story less than two years ago and spent an
entire day with him. He got to know Westin’s son and nanny when he hung out at his house. He met everyone in the family except Rebecca, who was out of town playing at a charity golf tournament. The profile article was well received and helped Cal curry favor with Westin. Not that Cal was trying to do that, but he generally liked Westin after following him around and meeting his family—and that came across in the piece Cal wrote. Cal smiled as he remembered how Westin had locked his keys in his car that day and caused him to be late for practice by fifteen minutes.Westin just shrugged it off. “See, Cal, I’m a normal guy,” he said while they waited on his nanny to bring him his extra set of keys.

  But based on law enforcement’s initial reading of the situation around Westin’s heroic attempt, he wasn’t so normal. Cal knew the normal guys who were in the bank were still alive today.

  Cal continued to swipe up on his phone and review the comments until he saw one that gave him reason to pause and re-read it: “He had it coming to him.”

  Who would say such a thing about a guy who was beloved by all? Cal realized apparently not everyone was fond of Westin as he—and most of Seattle—was. If Cal was going to write an authentic memorial piece on Westin, he had to mention his detractors. And Westin had his fair share of people who disliked him. Some fans didn’t like the fact that Seattle FC was getting English leftovers, and a player who’d been plagued with injuries on top of that. There were also others who hadn’t forgiven him for missing a penalty kick against the L.A. Galaxy that would’ve sent Seattle FC through to the MLS Cup final two years ago. But this nasty response to Westin seemed rude and insensitive and likely nothing more.

  But that jogged Cal’s memory about his most recent conversation with Westin. He’d been at the Seattle FC training facility a few days earlier and saw Westin walking toward his car.

  “Did you remember your keys this time?” Cal asked.

  Westin chuckled and unlocked the car. “I keep an extra set in my locker just in case I don’t. There might be some time when my nanny isn’t available to help me.”

  “Always be prepared, right?” Cal said with a smile.

  “Except when a reporter is following you around for a day to document your life.”

  “So, how are you?”

  “I’m doing okay, but things have been strange lately.”

  Cal cocked his head. “Strange? How?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t shake this feeling that I’m being watched, like somebody is after me.”

  “Is there a reason someone would be after you?”

  “None that I know of. I try not to make enemies, though sometimes you just can’t help it.”

  “Have you received any threats or strange communications?”

  Westin shook his head. “I can’t recall any, though I’ve had about a half-dozen calls in the past week where no one answers once I pick up. It’s kind of unsettling.”

  “A stalker perhaps?”

  “I guess anything is possible. It’s just got me a little edgy.”

  Cal didn’t think much of the conversation at the time, but now it seemed pertinent given the circumstances. Maybe the shooting was premeditated.

  Five minutes later, he was in his boss’s office, sharing his hunch with him.

  “Cal, I know you don’t want to get burned again because of what happened on that Enrique Gonzalez story—I get that. But concocting something that isn’t there isn’t how to go about atoning for that. Just go write a good story and properly honor Westin.”

  “I have no plans to concoct anything. I just want to ask a few questions, see if anything seems off.”

  Buckman drummed his fingers on his desk and looked down pensively before looking up at Cal. “Look, you know what happens in cases like these. You start inquiring about something that makes his teammates or other people in the front office nervous or worse—they start seeing something that was never really there. Or you just might happen to talk to the one guy on the team that wouldn’t mind seeing Westin’s reputation tarnished. Then what? It’s just not the way you should approach this story; I don’t care how many awards you’ve won.”

  Cal nodded but he wasn’t in agreement.

  ***

  CAL WATCHED INTENTLY AS Fred Jameson placed both hands on the podium and looked down at his notes for a few moments. The Seattle FC president and CEO slid some papers around and then took a deep breath before finally looking up at the media members packed tightly in the press conference room. Usually, he spoke to no more than a handful of writers and television and radio reporters. But today, every media outlet seemed to send multiple people.

  “We all know why we’re here today,” Jameson began. “Our entire organization wishes it was under different circumstances. Losing one of our own isn’t just an event in the news cycle. For us, it’s deeply personal. On some level or another, we all spent time with Sid Westin. Like any workplace, there were those of us who knew him better than others. But we’re all really hurting right now. While I intend to share more stories at the funeral about the great man Sid was, I can tell you now that he touched all of our lives in various ways. He was a star not just on the field but off the field as well, especially in the way he treated others.”

  Jameson expounded on Sid’s greatness for a few more minutes before yielding the podium to Paul Holloway, the media relations director for Seattle FC.

  “Thank you for your patience during this time,” Holloway said. “It’s been difficult for us all. Now, I know that many of you have questions, some of which we can’t answer and others of which should be answered by our local law enforcement. But at this time, we want you to respect the people within this organization and the players. We’re all grieving. Therefore, we won’t be making any players available over the next week. We also want to announce that we’ve canceled Saturday’s game against Dallas and will reschedule it for later in the season.”

  Jameson continued, but Cal wasn’t interested in sticking around to hear any more of it. He slipped out the back and eyed a couple of players kicking the ball around on a practice field.

  One of the players, Javier Martinez, jogged over in Cal’s direction. Martinez wasn’t the biggest star on the team, but he was a crowd favorite. Born in Seattle to immigrant parents, Martinez had remained in Seattle for almost every season of his playing career. With the exception of a one-year stop at a California junior college to get his grades up, Martinez starred at the University of Washington and led the school to a pair of conference championships. Seattle FC signed him as a free agent once he graduated, and he was easily the best feel-good story on the team. The only complaint anyone ever had against him was his spotty play since turning pro. Some games he played like an all-star; other games he played like his mind was in another place. And while it maddened fans, most who knew Martinez’s story were forgiving. His father, who worked in the shipping yard at the docks, had been arrested one too many times and was deported six months after Javier signed with Seattle FC. It seemed to weigh heavily on the younger Martinez. And while soccer wasn’t Cal’s beat, it was one of the most well-known stories among the city’s sports fans due to The Times’ coverage.

  Apparently, he didn’t get the memo that he’s not supposed to speak to me.

  Cal flashed a brief smile and offered his hand to Martinez. “Good to see you, Javy, though I wish it was under different circumstances.”

  “I know what you mean. Everyone is torn up about it. We were great friends, you know.”

  “Well, I’m sorry for your loss. I liked Sid too and had a decent rapport with him.” Cal glanced at his notes. “So, what are you gonna miss the most about him?”

  Martinez’s head dropped as he glanced down at the field and thought for a moment. “I’m gonna miss his kindness and compassion. He was our team leader in every way. I loved the guy.”

  “Did he ever talk to you about having any enemies?”

  “He often complained that his biggest enemy was time and how she’d been so cruel to him, allowing
him to build his dreams only to have them torn down over time.”

  “But no personal enemies?”

  Martinez cocked his head to one side and furrowed his brow. “You mean like people who didn’t like him?”

  Cal nodded.

  “Is there something you know that you’re not telling me? It was a straight bank robbery with an unfortunate ending, right?”

  “Is that the story all my media brethren are pumping out?”

  “It’s the story you wrote, too.”

  “Perhaps I was wrong. Consider for a moment that it wasn’t so random. Who were some of the teammates who had it out for Sid?”

  Martinez rubbed his eyes and sighed. “To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t surprised to hear that he was dead. I half expected it—just not like that.”

  “So, is there one person in particular that has perhaps harbored enough ill will toward Sid to conceive and execute such a plan?”

  Martinez shrugged. “Go talk to Matt Norfolk. His locker was right next to Sid’s. Plus, they had some issues.”

  Cal nodded and walked across the field toward Norfolk, who was kicking the ball toward an open net from about fifty feet away. As he headed toward his next interview subject, Cal recalled the rumors he’d heard about the Westin-Norfolk feud that had escalated over the last year. When the story was first related to him, Cal assumed the conflict was about jealousy. Sid took over Norfolk’s slot in the starting lineup and never relinquished it. Instead of taking the issue up with his coach, Norfolk decided to take it up directly with Sid. According to witnesses of Norfolk’s confrontation with Sid, the situation tense. But Cal never knew if there was something deeper to their rift than playing time.

  Just as Cal was about to ask Norfolk directly, Holloway exited the press conference and shouted excitedly at Cal as he crossed the field.

  “I thought I said no interviews,” Holloway said. “How much clearer do I need to make it for you, Cal?”

  Cal sighed and shook his head before pulling out his notebook and scribbling down a few thoughts onto paper.

  Did Matt Norfolk hate Sid Westin enough to fake a robbery and use that as an excuse to murder him?