Dead Drop (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 9)

by Jack Patterson

“So, how’d you do it?”

  “How’d I do what?”

  “How did you go from perennial practice squad member to starter?”

  “Lots of hard work over the past year,” Lynch said. “I wasn’t sure if I’d ever make it, to be honest. I was always just a little bit shy of being where I needed to be to compete and succeed at the highest level. But I changed up my training regimen—and it started to pay big dividends for me.”

  “What kind of things did you change?”

  “Well, I stayed later than anyone else, for example. I got in the habit of hanging around so long that I became good friends with the facilities guys. They’d stick around until I left if I bought them a drink once or twice a week.”

  “How satisfying is it for you to finally break through here in your home town?”

  “It means a lot to me,” Lynch said. “It’s a privilege to get to play a game that I love so much and play it in front of thousands of people each game, but I don’t take it for granted, either, that I get to do it in front of the family and friends who have supported me on this journey to reach this point. Without all those people, I don’t know if I ever would’ve made it here.”

  “I also heard that you just landed your first advertising gig with a local car dealership. When can we expect to see those ads start running?”

  Lynch laughed. “I don’t know why anyone would trust what I have to say about cars, but the dealership told me that wasn’t important. What was important is that I was a home-grown celebrity.”

  “Are you a car person?”

  “I’m a soccer person, and that’s all I care about. I want to help this team win the MLS Cup and bring more pride to the Emerald City just like the Seahawks did. Having grown up here, I know what it’s like to be a long-suffering fan of any pro-sports team around here, but now I have a chance to actually have a hand in changing that. I want kids to be proud to wear Seattle FC jerseys to school.”

  “How would you say Sid Westin’s death has affected you personally?”

  “Sid was an inspiration to everyone on this team. And even though he wasn’t from here, I still had great respect for him. I’m sad that he’s gone, but this team is going to stick together.”

  “Are you worried people will look at you as a beneficiary of his death?”

  Lynch’s eyes narrowed, and he withdrew from Cal. “Beneficiary? What are you talking about?”

  “I mean, there’s a big gap in the lineup now, and you’re the person who will be filling it.”

  “Last night wasn’t the first time I’ve started. What are you implying?”

  Cal put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not implying anything. I just noticed that you hadn’t started much until John Akers got injured and you started filling in for him. He came back last night—and you likely wouldn’t have started if Sid Westin was still around.”

  Lynch stood up. “Enough of you. Get outta here. What kind of jerk asks questions like that? I bet Paul Holloway didn’t even authorize this interview. How dare you imply that I don’t deserve to be starting?”

  Cal stood up as well. “I’m afraid you’re misinterpreting my question. That’s not what I meant at all.”

  “Sure sounded like it,” Lynch said as he sneered at Cal. “Now get lost. We’re done here.”

  Lynch stepped back and watched Cal collect his effects and hustle away. When he was about forty yards away, Lynch dropped a ball down on the ground and kicked it in Cal’s direction. After a few seconds, it smacked Cal in the head, causing him to stumble but not fall down.

  Cal glanced over his shoulder at Lynch but kept walking.

  “Sorry about that,” Lynch said, waving at the reporter. Then he muttered under his breath. “Jerk!”

  CHAPTER 13

  KITTRELL RETURNED FROM LUNCH with Quinn with a new sense of urgency. Roman sent both of them a text explaining that he was convening with city council members in a closed-door meeting on Thursday afternoon about the pair of armed bank robberies in Seattle over the past few weeks. Apparently, some of the council members were concerned that the Seattle PD was failing to protect the banks, and the longer these cases went unsolved, the more it was likely to embolden thieves. In forty-eight hours, he needed some answers.

  “Don’t you wish you could just snap your fingers and solve cases?” Quinn asked.

  “It’d make our jobs so much easier,” Kittrell said as he snapped his fingers in a mocking gesture. “I swear these people must think criminals volunteer to be caught.”

  “It’d make our job a lot easier, too,” said Darrell Barrow, one of the members of the forensics teams.

  “I hope you found something,” Kittrell said to Barrow.

  “Follow me.”

  Kittrell and Quinn fell in step behind Barrow as he led them down to the forensics lab. Barrow led them toward a bank of monitors, manned by Misty Morton.

  “Misty, show them what you’ve got,” Barrow said.

  Morton sighed and punched a button. A snowy image appeared on the main screen. Kittrell squinted at the screen, trying to make out the figures moving around.

  “Is that our perp?” Kittrell said as he leaned in and pointed at the screen.

  “Supposedly,” Morton said, “but he’s difficult to see here.”

  “Can you enhance it?” Quinn asked.

  “Only if you’ve got a time machine,” Morton quipped.

  Kittrell furrowed his brow and stared at her. “Come again.”

  “These guys were pros. They had some type of jamming device with them that makes it nearly impossible to see what exactly was going on.” She leaned forward in her seat and pointed at the screen. “Now, we can tell what’s going on by piecing together the eye-witness reports with the timeline you guys concocted, but I’m afraid it’s never going to get much clearer than that.”

  “In other words, we have evidence that wouldn’t be admissible in court anyway.”

  Morton pointed at him. “Exactly. Besides, it’s not likely that you’ll be able to determine anything else that happened here without a clear picture. From what it looks like, these guys stormed a bank and robbed it, shooting two men on the way out—just like we already knew. Not a single new piece of evidence was introduced here.”

  Kittrell rubbed his face with both hands. “There’s got to be something.”

  “Sorry, K-man, but this is all you’re gonna get,” Morton said.

  Kittrell eyed her closely. “K-man? Really? That’s your nickname for me?”

  “Beats Kitty, doesn’t it?”

  He growled and headed for the exit with Quinn right behind.

  “I need some good news this afternoon—any good news,” Kittrell said aloud.

  “Then I guess you don’t want to see this then?” said Pat Logan, another member of the forensics team.

  Kittrell took the paper from Logan. “What’s this?”

  “Our report on an abandoned van found last night by a couple of officers on foot patrol,” Logan said.

  “And?”

  “And as you can see, they pretty much wiped the van clean. We had a couple of partial prints inside the van, but they didn’t match anything we had on file.” Logan pointed at the page. “However, you can see that the van they found matches the description—and the license plate—of the van fleeing the scene of the bank robbery.”

  “So, you found the van but didn’t call us?”

  Logan stepped backward. “It was late. Nobody wanted to wake you for something that we weren’t sure was actually what you were looking for.”

  Kittrell slapped Logan in the chest with the papers. “Wake me up any time for anything you find on this case. I don’t care what time it is, day or night.”

  Logan pushed the file back toward Kittrell. “That wasn’t all we found.”

  He returned his gaze to the report. “Did you find any bullet casings in the van?”

  “Actually, we did,” Logan said. He took the report from Kittrell’s hands and flipped throu
gh several pages before stopping. He pointed at the bottom. “Right there.”

  Kittrell scanned the page, holding it up so Quinn could see as well.

  “They came from a gun that was reported stolen in a simple B and E a few months ago.”

  Kittrell sighed. “So, someone breaks into a home, steals this gun, and uses it in a robbery? No pawn shop stop in between.”

  “Nope,” Logan said. “It appears that it was stolen with the expressed intent of using it in a crime. Nothing too out of the ordinary.”

  “Yeah,” Quinn said, “except these guys are good at covering their tracks. Whoever they were, they went out of their way to keep us from looking in their direction.”

  “Which is why this didn’t make much sense,” Logan said, taking the report from Kittrell’s hands and flipping a few pages. He pointed at a section of the report that showed who the van was registered to.

  Kittrell whistled as he shook his head. “Now that’ll blow your mind.”

  Quinn leaned over his shoulder again and glanced at the report. “Looks like I know who we’re going to see tomorrow morning.”

  “What about right now?” Kittrell said.

  “We’ve got almost two days. Besides, I’ve got a date with Misty Morton tonight.”

  Kittrell shook his head and snickered. “The gal in forensics?”

  Quinn nodded.

  “Whatever, man. Enjoy yourself tonight because we’re going to hit it hard tomorrow.”

  Kittrell watched Quinn stride down the hallway. Holding the paper up again, he re-read the name. He was tempted to go without Quinn but decided against it.

  Kittrell was already looking forward to the interview—and dreading it at the same time. No matter what, it was guaranteed to be interesting.

  CHAPTER 14

  MATT NORFOLK SAT BEHIND the glass in the Seattle FC production studio, re-reading his lines for the promotional spot set to air during the game. He loathed the endless favors the marketing department requested from him. It seemed like every campaign required his assistance. If he was honest with himself, he shouldn’t have been surprised. As one of the team’s emerging stars—and youngest players, too—he was definitely being positioned as the face of the franchise. Less than a week ago, it had been Sid Westin. But even before he passed away, Norfolk could tell he was being groomed to take over. Now that Sid was gone, it was obvious what the team’s plan was all along.

  “From the top,” Joey Allman said from the other side of the glass. “We just need a little more expression from you this time. Think you can handle it?”

  Norfolk nodded and read his lines again, this time drawing praise from Allman.

  “Perfect! You nailed it!” Allman said. “Get on outta here so you’re not late for practice.”

  Norfolk tossed the script in the air and hustled out of the studio and down the hall toward the locker room.

  He was greeted by high fives from the team’s starters, who were almost ready to hit the field. Still wearing his sweat pants and sweat shirt, Norfolk quickly changed into his practice gear. He tugged his laces tight before tying a double knot.

  “Don’t tie them too tight,” Javier Martinez quipped as he stopped by Norfolk’s locker. “We don’t need those two golden feet of yours being amputated due to lack of circulation.”

  Norfolk looked up at Martinez and winked. “These golden feet are going to dance right past you today out there. You better be ready.”

  “I’m counting on it,” Martinez said before exiting the locker room and entering the field.

  Norfolk took a deep breath and tried to enjoy the moment. This is what he’d worked hard for his whole life. Well, almost.

  When he was younger, he wanted to play for Manchester United in the English Premier League, but that was a pipe dream even among the world’s most elite soccer players. Though Manchester United was no longer the top tier team in England, it was still a team most players aspired to play for at some point in their careers. Norfolk made peace years ago that it wasn’t likely to happen. It was what helped him enjoy the moment—his moment—the one that had him leading Seattle FC to the top of the league standings in Major League Soccer.

  He’d worked hard to reach this point in his career where he’d emerged as the team’s top goal scorer and face of the franchise. He was done taking lip from anyone. This was his team now, and he was ready to lead them to a title.

  Norfolk glanced at himself in the mirror one more time before running onto the field. However, he didn’t make it out of the tunnel before Tim Peterson slid in front of him.

  “What are you doing?” Norfolk asked. “Get outta my way.”

  “We need to talk,” Peterson said.

  “About what?”

  “Everybody on this team is getting pretty sick and tired of you acting like your stuff doesn’t stink,” Peterson began. “We’re all out here working our tails off to make this team better—not just you. And the guys would appreciate it if you’d be a little more gracious in your postgame interviews.”

  “You’re crazy, man.” Norfolk tried to walk past Peterson, but Norfolk blocked his way.

  “No, I’m not. The team sent me to talk to you today. We’re all sick of it. This isn’t your team. This is our team. And we’d appreciate the common courtesy of extending some recognition to us.”

  “I never hog the limelight.”

  “That’s not what it sounded like on Monday. To the uninitiated, it sounded like you’re the sole reason this team is in first place—and like Sid’s death didn’t mean much of anything.”

  “That’s a horrible interpretation of what I said.”

  Peterson shrugged. “Maybe, but that’s how it came across. And we want it to stop.”

  Norfolk rolled his eyes and shoulder-checked Peterson, pushing his way past..

  “Not cool, man.”

  “How’s this for not cool?” Norfolk said as he spun around and punched Peterson in the face.

  Peterson staggered around for a moment before crashing to the ground, holding his head just seconds after Norfolk hit him.

  “Now stop being a jerk and tell all your jealous pals to get over it. And if they’ve got a problem, they can come see me directly,” Norfolk barked over Peterson.

  Norfolk turned and jogged out of the tunnel toward the field. He never even saw the reporter from the local radio station standing a few feet away and capturing the entire exchange on his phone.

  CHAPTER 15

  KITTRELL SHOVED A COFFEE CUP into Quinn’s hands before he made it to his desk. “Don’t even sit down. You know where we’re headed.”

  Quinn smiled and thanked Kittrell for the coffee before taking a sip.

  “I take it your date went well last night,” Kittrell said as he pushed open the glass doors and exited the precinct.

  “She was something else. Let me tell you.”

  “I’d rather you not.”

  Kittrell unlocked the car with his fob, and both detectives climbed inside. He waited until Quinn was settled inside before putting the keys in the ignition. “You ready for this?”

  Quinn laughed. “Of course. I was born ready.”

  “This ought to be interesting,” Kittrell said as he turned the key and the engine roared to life.

  Quinn turned on the radio and started to scan the AM band for stations.

  “Really? Talk radio?” Kittrell said.

  “Beats listening to techno pop with vapid lyrics.”

  Kittrell nodded. “You’ve got a point there.”

  Quinn went through a half-dozen stations until he landed on KJR’s Mitch in the Morning. Mitch Levy and his crew were dissecting the recent posting of a video between a pair of Seattle FC players getting into it.

  “I love to see this kind of passion from players,” Mitch said. “And Norfolk is right. These guys need to quit getting their panties in a bunch and stop being so sensitive. Norfolk is leading this team, and he was doing it before, God rest his soul, Sid Westin was killed. But let�
��s get to today’s really juicy news and talk about—”

  Kittrell turned the radio off. “I’d rather listen to silence than that.”

  “You know we’re going to catch these guys, whoever they are,” Quinn said.

  “I know. I just—”

  “Hey, this isn’t going to be the Arnold Grayson case all over again. You gotta believe that.”

  Kittrell nodded. “I hope you’re right. But it’s about to get real interesting.”

  He slowed as he turned onto a usually quiet street that today was teeming with news vans and reporters.

  “What’s all this?” Quinn asked.

  “Journalism in the twenty-first century.”

  A photographer rushed over toward the detectives’ car and snapped a picture of Quinn, who shielded his face with his hands. Kittrell served notice to the reporters to clear a path by revving his engines. A few straggling reporters darted out of the way once they turned around, apparently pleased to see a pair of detectives pulling into the driveway of the house they’d staked out.

  “Whether anything happens today or not, at least these poor, miserable souls have a story for tomorrow,” Kittrell said.

  Quinn snickered and threw a piece of gum in his mouth. He held out the pack to Kittrell. “Wanna piece?”

  Kittrell shook his head. “But I’d like to give them a piece of my mind.”

  “Don’t make this any more difficult than it’s already going to be.”

  Moments later, the two detectives were standing in front of the door to the Westins’ house.

  “Does Rebecca know we’re coming?” Quinn asked.

  “I didn’t tell her, if that’s what you mean.”

  “On purpose?”

  “You ought to know me by now. I prefer to surprise people. I get far better reactions, reactions that tell the truth about what a person is thinking or feeling, not a well-measured response.”

  Kittrell rang the doorbell.

  A few seconds later, the airy voice of a woman drifted from the other side of the door. “Please go away. We’re not interested in talking.”

  “Mrs. Westin, my name is Mel Kittrell, and I’m a detective with the Seattle PD. We’re following up with you for a few questions regarding your husband’s death.”