Dead Drop (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 9)

by Jack Patterson

  “But not Cal Murphy,” she quipped.

  “Exactly. Something is a little hinky about it all.”

  “Hinky? Since when did you start using the word hinky?”

  “My word choice is bothering you now? First I’m giving Maddie a hard time; now my vocabulary isn’t to your liking. Man, I can’t win for losing today.”

  She chuckled. “Just think what it would be like if I was actually there.”

  He scanned the room, which more closely resembled a volcanic closet that had erupted and spewed clothes down the mountainside. It wouldn’t send the natives running for cover, but it would send him running for his life if Kelly saw the sudden onset of a pigsty. “It’d be better than living the bachelor life—that’s for sure.” He couldn’t see her, but he knew she was smiling.

  “So, what seems so hinky about this story?”

  “I don’t know, but he certainly wasn’t beloved by all his teammates.”

  “Horror of horrors,” she said in a mocking tone. “Somebody didn’t like Sid Westin.”

  “Stop it. You’re the one who asked.”

  She turned more serious. “Well, it doesn’t sound like much at the moment beyond what we know happened.”

  “When you put it that way, it does sound like I’m about to lose my mind. But the truth of the matter is he wasn’t universally loved.” He paused. “Just don’t tell Maddie. She’ll be crushed that not everyone worships Sid Westin like she does.”

  “I’d let you not tell her yourself, but she’s out having too much fun on the playground.”

  “Don’t interrupt her then, but I’d love to talk with her at some point later today. Just have fun and be good with your mom, okay?”

  “Always.”

  Cal laughed to himself before bidding her goodbye and hanging up. “Always. I know better.”

  The conversation energized him enough to get up and begin his day. He still had a few rocks he wanted to turn over and inspect before resigning himself to the fact that the obvious answer was indeed the actual one.

  ***

  AFTER CAL HAD SHOWERED and finished his first cup of coffee, his phone rang again. This time, it was a number he didn’t recognize.

  “This is Cal Murphy.”

  “Mr. Murphy?”

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Alicia Westin, Sid Westin’s younger sister.”

  Cal knew exactly who she was. Someone in The Times’ features department wrote a story about her and how she’d left everything in England to start over and follow her brother’s soccer career in Seattle. She was devoted to her brother, if anything. “Oh, yes, Alicia, I know who you are. Hi. I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, kind sir. I appreciate the gesture. But I’m afraid that there might be more to his death than we realize, and it’s something I want to see resolved before I can truly lay him to rest, mentally speaking.”

  “I understand. Go on.”

  “After knowing what I know about Sid’s history with some of the other players on the team, it’s completely plausible that this was a deliberate attempt on his life.”

  “I’m not saying I disagree with you, but what kind of information do you have that’s making you suppose such a thing happened?”

  “A few days ago, I remarked about how cute Matt Norfolk was. It’s not the first time I tried to worm my way into getting a date with a professional soccer player.”

  “And what does this have to do with your suspicions of foul play?”

  “Sid told me to stay the hell away from Matt Norfolk and threatened me if I dared to go against him.”

  “So, your brother thought Matt Norfolk was a sketchy individual?”

  “Yes, and he told me other things about him too.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as Matt confronted Sid once after practice and told him he was going to take his job and then his livelihood for how he was treated. Sid obviously never lost his job. But guess who’s starting now?”

  “Perhaps it’s Matt Norfolk.”

  “I’d like to string that little punk up for what he did to my brother.”

  “Now, Alicia, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in investigating a story like this, it’s important not to rush to judgment—from any side. Don’t even form a serious hypothesis until you’ve heard all the facts.”

  “I’ve heard enough—like Matt told Sid to go back to England.”

  “While that’s interesting, it’s hardly proof that he attempted something so malevolent as murder.”

  “Don’t ever underestimate a spurned soccer player.”

  Cal chuckled to himself. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for the call.”

  Once he hung up, Cal smiled. He wasn’t taking his own advice. He’d created a theory before he heard both sides of the story, and her claim was starting to fit neatly into it. It wasn’t solid journalism—yet. But it was an interesting theory to explore.

  And that’s exactly what he intended to do.

  CHAPTER 9

  MEL KITTRELL FELT THE WEIGHT of catching the brazen bank robbers crushing him each day as the case dragged on. The media had dubbed the group of thieves “The Seattle Swipers” as they sought to link them to another recent unsolved bank robbery. While the Seattle Police Department denied a connection, the idea that the heists were connected made for a sexier story. And the general public bought it without giving it a second thought.

  Kittrell drove toward the Seattle FC practice complex and made the mistake of turning on a Friday afternoon talk radio program. One local talk show host launched into a lengthy diatribe excoriating Seattle law enforcement for not catching the thieves after their first hit. Now one of the city’s most beloved athletes was dead—and a talk show host was blaming the police.

  What are these guys doing? Driving to Portland every day to pick up boxes of Voodoo Doughnuts? How come they can’t catch these guys? This is getting beyond absurd.

  Kittrell clicked the radio off, deciding it was better to ride in silence. And while he objected to the brash nature of the talk show hosts’ characterization of the Seattle police, he agreed they should’ve nabbed the punks before now. Each day that passed made it that much more difficult to locate and apprehend these men. And it made Kittrell’s stomach turn. The last thing he wanted was another failure on a grand stage. He didn’t know if his career could survive it, let alone his mental well-being.

  Kittrell pulled into the practice complex and parked in the visitor’s lot. He ambled toward the field, ignoring the security guard who had his back turned.

  “Sir, I’m sorry, but this is a closed practice,” the guard said as he jogged after Kittrell.

  Kittrell didn’t even turn around. He fished his badge out of his pocket, flashed it behind him and kept walking. “Detective Mel Kittrell, Seattle PD.”

  The players were huddled, listening to their coach until he dismissed them. They scattered, most of them heading toward the clubhouse. A few others lingered on the field, taking advantage of the opportunity to get in a few extra drills before joining their teammates.

  Kittrell stopped short of midfield and scanned the field for his target.

  “What are you doing out here?” came a man’s voice from across the other side of the field.

  Kittrell hardly paid attention to the man, who was now sprinting toward him, waving his hands in the air and squawking about how he wasn’t allowed to be there.

  “He’s quite a character,” said a man, who’d slipped up next to Kittrell unnoticed.

  Startled, Kittrell turned to his right to see a reporter standing next to him.

  “Cal Murphy,” the man said, offering his hand to Kittrell.

  Kittrell shook Cal’s hand and then gestured toward the guy still running toward them. “Is he always this animated?”

  “Only when you violate his rules.”

  “Rules?”

  Cal chuckled. “Yeah, like the one that says no media is allowed on the field.”

&nbs
p; “So, he’s running after you, not me?”

  “It’s hard to tell. He doesn’t really like anyone.”

  Kittrell furrowed his brow. “That’s strange for someone whose job is to coddle the media just to get positive stories written about the team, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know if I’d use the word coddle,” Cal began. “But he certainly has a reputation for being the anti-media relations director.”

  “Well, you guys can be cruel at times.”

  Cal shook his head and smiled. “I will admit that there are plenty of colleagues of mine who are more interested in the click than they are the truth. Ever heard the saying, ‘If it bleeds, it leads?’”

  Kittrell nodded. “Unfortunately, it’s a saying we repeat far too often in my line of work when a case we’re working on becomes the evening’s lead story.”

  “Well, the new mantra is more along the lines of, ‘If it clicks, it sticks.’”

  “At least you’re being honest about what you’re doing.”

  Cal shook his head. “That’s not the kind of journalism I signed up for.”

  “We all sign up for something far more adventurous or exciting. But that’s never what we get. You’ve been around long enough to know that, haven’t you?”

  “It doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  Seattle FC media relations director Paul Holloway finally reached midfield before bending over and putting his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. “What … are you two … doing here?”

  Kittrell held up his badge for Holloway to see. “I’m doing my job, just like you are, apparently.”

  “So am I,” Cal chimed in.

  “No media,” Holloway said, still struggling to catch his breath. “You know … better than that, Cal … You are free to come back on Monday.”

  Cal shrugged and glanced at Kittrell. Kittrell gave him a sympathetic nod as he watched Cal turned and walk away.

  Once Cal walked about thirty meters and was beyond earshot, Holloway stood upright and glanced at Kittrell. “That guy is nothing but trouble, always poking his nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  Kittrell fixed his gaze on the drill taking place right in front of him, almost defiantly refusing to turn and look at Holloway in the eyes. “Cut him some slack, will ya? He’s just doing his job, just like you are.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “It doesn’t sound like you want to cut him any slack.”

  Holloway sighed. “Fine. You win.” He paused a beat before turning to business. “What is it that you want?”

  “I want to talk with a few of your players.” He cut his eyes at Holloway. “Nothing to be alarmed about. Just a few routine interviews.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  Kittrell nodded but didn’t even glance at Holloway.

  “Who do you want to talk to?”

  ***

  KITTRELL COMPLETED A FEW INTERVIEWS and lumbered back toward his car where Cal Murphy met him just outside the gate.

  “You again?”

  Cal laughed. “You nor Holloway will ever get rid of me that easily,” he said. “You can count on that.”

  “Well, tell me what it is that you want. Maybe I can help—maybe not.”

  “Are you on the Seattle Swipers case?”

  Kittrell rolled his eyes and took a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry, Detective Kittrell. I’m a print journalist. The exaggerated eye roll and snarky look doesn’t translate well into words. Perhaps you could say something.”

  “Say something, like yes or no?”

  “It’d be a start.”

  “Fine,” Kittrell said as he put his hands on his hips. “I’m on the case. There. You happy now?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I’m very happy because I have a few ideas I want to run by you.”

  “Oh, God, another gumshoe.”

  “No, no, no. I’m far more than that, but please just hear me out.”

  Kittrell sighed and threw his head back, rolling it around several times. After a moment of silence, he glanced at Cal. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

  “I think this was a premeditated strike.”

  “Interesting theory, but right now I’m just trying to solve a robbery, not a murder.”

  “Who said anything about murder?”

  When Kittrell looked up at Cal, he could see the reporter grinning from ear to ear.

  “Are you recording this conversation?”

  “Should I be?” Cal asked.

  “No, you shouldn’t. But I think you need to bury those conspiracy ideas.”

  “Yet, here you are, investigating in a strange environment.”

  “It was a robbery gone bad,” Kittrell said, parroting the mantra his boss encouraged him to repeat.

  “So, again, what are you doing out here?”

  “Due diligence,” Kittrell shot back.

  Cal handed Kittrell a business card. “If anything comes up and you want to share it with me, here’s my card. I know what it’s like to work for an overbearing boss.”

  “But I never said anything about—”

  “You didn’t have to,” Cal said as he strode toward his car. He stopped and turned toward Kittrell. “It was written all over your face.”

  Kittrell crammed the card into his shirt pocket and watched Cal drive away.

  He knew exactly what it was like to work for an overbearing boss, and he hated every minute of it. Even more, he hated giving Quinn the slip just to interview a few Seattle FC players. But maybe he needed a new partner, one who could help draw out the thieves—and killers.

  CHAPTER 10

  CAL TRUDGED TOWARD his desk, bracing for the inevitable tongue lashing Buckman was going to give him. It wasn’t as if Cal wasn’t trying to do right by his editor, but he couldn’t shake his hunch that Sid Westin’s death wasn’t merely the result of a wrong place, wrong time shooting. Yet Cal didn’t have a single shred of proof, a fact he couldn’t deny or excuse. Staying on this path much longer without any evidence destined him for, at best, office ridicule, or, at worst, career purgatory.

  “Cal! Get in here!” Buckman bellowed.

  “How does he do that?” Cal mumbled to himself. “I didn’t even walk near his office.”

  “Buckman’s got a special radar,” Josh Moore offered as he looked up from his desk adjacent to Cal’s. “Or he injects us all with a tracking beacon.”

  Cal forced a smile. He would’ve laughed aloud on most other days at his former college buddy’s witty comment. But he knew what was coming, and he wasn’t looking forward to it.

  “I don’t know which is more frightening.”

  After scanning the room, Moore looked up at Cal. “I have a special cloaking device. But it’s gonna cost ya.”

  “I suppose you have a watch to sell me as well,” Cal shot back as he gathered his papers and prepared to head toward Buckman’s office.

  “The watch is the cloaking device,” Moore deadpanned. “Once you put it on your wrist, Buckman will never be able to locate you again. Of course, you’ll be covering high school lacrosse games for the rest of your time here, but you won’t be noticed by Buckman.”

  “There are certain assignments that just aren’t worth it, no matter what,” Cal said. “I can’t think of anything worse than lacrosse parents.”

  Moore furrowed his brow. “Really? I suppose you’ve never dealt with Little League baseball parents then, have you?”

  Cal shook his head. “I prefer not to ever find out firsthand, but I hear they are a vengeful bunch.”

  “We had an intern here a few years ago named Sheldon who misspelled three kids’ names on one team. Buckman sent him out to cover the state tournament, and the parents from that team ate him alive. I never even saw him again. So, I’m guessing when people said he was eaten alive, they meant it in the literal sense. It’s not hard to imagine those parents gnawing on Sheldon’s carcass.”

  Cal threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender. �
�Okay, enough. I get the picture.” He paused. “If I don’t come out of Buckman’s office, please come in after me.”

  Moore flashed a wry grin and pointed at Cal. “You got it.”

  Nodding in appreciation, Cal turned toward Buckman’s office and slowly moved toward it. He knew exactly how Buckman would attack this particular subject.

  “Sit down,” Buckman barked as soon as Cal’s shadow fell across the doorway entrance. “We need to talk.”

  “Sure thing,” Cal said. “What is it?”

  “There are days I wonder why I ever hired you,” Buckman said.

  “Perhaps it was all my writing awards?”

  Buckman chuckled to himself and gazed into the distance over Cal’s shoulder. “If terms of employment here depended upon writing awards, I’d have been fired long ago. This is about something far more important.”

  “And what is that?” Cal said as he leaned forward.

  Buckman leaned in as well and spoke more softly. “It’s about your obsession with the Sid Westin case.”

  “Obsession? Is that what you call it?” Cal asked before taking a deep breath and preparing to stand up. “Do you have any other reason for calling me in here, other than to mock me?”

  “Spoken like a reporter consumed with his story.”

  “I’m not consumed with anything but figuring out the truth behind what happened that day in the bank.”

  “What happened is fairly simple and straight forward, which is why it’s so mind-boggling why you haven’t been writing these stories for The Times.”

  “C’mon, Buckman, you know there’s more to it than what’s already out there. Just tell me with a straight face that you know it was little more than a bank robbery gone bad.”

  Buckman took a deep breath and appeared to look past Cal, refusing to say a word.

  “If there’s any doubt, I have to press on.”

  Buckman shook his head. “If we have a chance to break that story, I know you’ll be all over it. Quite frankly, I’m not interested in transforming our sports section into a foreign tabloid. But in the meantime, I need you to write some local stories that our readers will care about.”