“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.”
“Depends on what it’s about.”
Cal took a deep breath. “Someone sent us some documents today regarding your relationship with your late husband.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. They were divorce papers dated the day of Sid’s death. And according to the person who sent them to our office, they were served to you on that same day. Can you verify that for me?”
“First, Cal Murphy. Now, you. Geez, you people are relentless. What does this even have to do with anything?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“Isn’t that the job of the police?”
“They investigate their way, and I investigate mine.” Cal paused. “Don’t you want to know who’s behind all of this?”
“I trust the police over some muckraking journalist.”
“Look, Rebecca, I’m on your side.”
“Are you?”
“Yes, I am. I’m just trying to figure out who has a motive for doing this to you.”
“Probably Sid trying to torture me from the grave.”
“Why would he want to torture you? Did he catch you having an affair?”
Rebecca glared at him. “Okay, you’ve gone too far this time. I’m done with you.”
“So, he did catch you having an affair?”
She pointed to the door. “Out. Now!”
Cal gathered his things and shuffled toward the door.
“I did not have an affair. You can print that?”
He stopped and turned around, cocking his head to one side. “Are you sure you want me to print that? Or should I print these?” He held up his phone with the images that had been sent to him of a scantily-clad Rebecca engaged in what appeared to be some rather sensuous activity with a man who wasn’t her husband.
“Where did you get those? Those are fake!”
“I’m sure they are. The truth, Rebecca?”
“Get out!”
Cal slipped out the back door and hopped the fence without looking back once. He’d obviously rattled the hive, and he had no doubt the queen bee would be after him soon.
***
EDDIE RAMSEY PULLED into the Seattle FC parking lot when his phone rang. It was his editor, Buckman.
“Boss, I don’t have much time. What do you need?” he said as he answered.
“I swear, Ramsey, I’m gonna string you up when you get back to the office.”
“Wha-what did I do?”
“I just got a call from Sid Westin’s widow. I can’t believe you’d threaten her like that.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow your roll, boss. I don’t know what—”
“Save it. I can’t believe you went to her house without talking to me first about it.”
“But I—”
“I’m putting Cal back on the story. Get back to the office right now.”
Ramsey ended the call and slammed his fist on the steering wheel. He seethed for a few minutes as he stared vacantly at the practice field in front of him.
Josh Moore tapped the window, snapping him out of his stupor. He motioned for Ramsey to roll down the window. Ramsey obliged.
“You gonna sit there all day or come inside and get to work?”
Ramsey sighed. “I swear if I see Cal Murphy again—”
“What’d Cal do to you this time?”
“I’m not sure, but it got me taken off this story.”
Moore chuckled. “Well, he is a resourceful guy.”
“You might find this funny, but I don’t.”
“Humor is always subjective.”
“I’m gonna go give Cal a piece of my mind. Do you know where I might find him?”
Moore glanced at his watch. “It’s almost noon, so you’ll probably find him at King’s Hardware off Ballard. It’s his favorite lunchtime spot.”
Ramsey didn’t crack his door open, instead firing up the engine and zooming out of the parking lot.
***
CAL LEANED BACK as the bartender at King’s slid a plate in front of him. The After School Special burger lay open faced while steam arose off the pile of fries. He oscillated between King’s pulled pork sandwich and this giant mass of artery-blocking pub grub. Despite his intense love for barbecue, he once deviated at King’s after one of the patrons offered to pay for his meal if he ordered the After School Special burger but didn’t like it. Cal crinkled his nose at the thought of bacon and peanut butter on a burger—that is, until he tried it.
He placed the bun on top and mashed it down, forcing juice to drip down the sides. After taking hold of the monstrous burger, he glanced at it once more and smiled before raising it toward his mouth.
But the burger never made it there.
Cal jolted forward and nearly dropped his food as he suffered a shove from behind. Carefully setting down the burger, he spun around in his seat in time to catch the brunt of a right cross to his chin. He fell off his seat and staggered toward the ground. He put his hand down and caught himself in time to look up and see another punch headed his way.
Cal jumped upright and stepped back. He put both his hands out in an attempt to calm down his assailant.
“Eddie? What’s gotten into you? I’m sure this is all just a big misunderstanding,” he said as he stared at his seething colleague.
“Misunderstanding? Is that what you call impersonating me?”
“Hey, now. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Cut the bullshit, Cal. I figured out what you did. You weren’t man enough to stand up to Buckman, so you sabotaged me to get back on the story.”
“I’m afraid you’ve got it all wrong.”
Ramsey lunged at Cal and acted as if he was going to take a swing at him before deciding otherwise. “Do I, Cal? Please tell me what I’ve got wrong.”
“I wasn’t trying to sabotage you, Ramsey. I just knew she would’ve never talked to me if I would’ve told her who I really was.”
“I hope it was worth it.”
Cal shrugged. “Perhaps. Time will tell.”
Ramsey’s eyes narrowed. “I oughta—”
“Oughta what, Ramsey? Admit to Buckman that you were the one who trashed him online last month on TheSportsR
eporters.com website? Tell him that it was you who called him a ‘misogynistic drunk?’”
Mouth agape, Ramsey stared at Cal.
“What? You don’t think the entire staff knows who the ‘Emerald City King’ is?”
“This is low, Cal—even for you.”
“I never intended to get you in trouble.”
“So what are you gonna do about it now?”
“I’m gonna get to the bottom of this—and apologize to Buckman later.”
“How about just tell Buckman the truth now?”
Cal sighed. “I will, if you will—a joint meeting with Buckman. I’ll tell him that I impersonated you, if you tell him that it was you who trashed him online. I know that’s one mystery he’s been dying to solve.”
Ramsey’s shoulders slumped as he looked downward. “Forget it. But you better watch yourself.”
Cal nodded and slipped back onto his seat at the bar. “Let me buy you lunch, Ramsey. And I promise to clear this all up after I finish covering this story.”
Ramsey sat down next to him. “Forget lunch. I’ll just take a drink.”
Cal motioned for the bartender to come over and asked him to put Ramsey’s drinks on his bill.
“So what’d you learn from Sid Westin’s widow?” Ramsey asked after he started nursing his scotch on the rocks.
“I don’t know what she was up to, but she definitely wasn’t an angel.”
“Sounds like someone else I know.”
“Sounds like everyone I know.”
Ramsey took another long pull on his glass. “Are you always this cynical?”
“I’m not cynical—just real. People rarely surprise me any more. And least of all, grieving widows who were just served divorce papers.”
Ramsey put down his drink hard on the bar. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. And that’s not all. Whatever she was into, it wasn’t any good. And I suspect Sid found out about it.”
“You think he threatened to rat her out and she had him killed?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me, but there are more yarns in this story to pull on first.”
CHAPTER 19
KITTRELL WHISTLED AS HE ENTERED the precinct. He felt fresh and strode into the office with a sense of purpose. After enduring weeks of ridicule—both in the press and in the office—he was ready to put it in the past by catching the gang that robbed the Puget Sound Bank. No longer would he and Quinn watch a room fall silent when they walked into it and suffer disappointing looks. They were going to be respected again and retain their position as the city’s best detective duo.
“My, aren’t we chipper this morning?” mumbled Charlotte Lawton as Kittrell walked by the reception desk. Lawton didn’t look up as she pecked away on her keyboard. Standing as the first wave of defense against any person walking into the precinct, she had developed an uncanny ability to identify every personnel in the department—sometimes without even a glance—and deliver a snarky comment on demand. Behind her back, she was simply known as “The Watchman.”
“It’s Friday, Charlotte. Shouldn’t we all be chipper?”
“Not if your suspect hung himself in custody last night,” she muttered as she continued to type.
“Wha-what on earth are you talking about?” Kittrell said as he dashed over to her desk. He leaned forward, trying to draw her full attention. “Please tell me that you’re playing a cruel joke on me.”
She finally took her fingers off the keyboard and looked up at him. “I wish I were, honey.”
He glanced behind her toward the endless rows of desks and cubicles. He locked eyes with Quinn from across the room. Quinn saw him and shook his head.
Kittrell let out a string of expletives as he stormed back toward Quinn.
“What happened last night?” Kittrell demanded.
Quinn broke into a coughing fit before he spoke. “Apparently, our good buddy Wayne Geller hung himself in his cell with his bed sheet.” He handed Kittrell a report.
Kittrell opened the report and started to peruse it. “Why wasn’t he placed on suicide watch?”
“Did you think he was a threat to kill himself after speaking with him yesterday?”
Kittrell shook his head.
“Neither did I.”
“Has anyone told Chief yet?”
Quinn forced a smile. “I thought I’d save that honor for you.” He started coughing again.
“Aren’t you a gem?” Kittrell snarled. Then he paused. “You okay?”
Quinn pounded his chest a couple of times. “I’m fine. Just the start of something.”
“Pneumonia?”
“Let’s hope not.”
In silence, the two detectives walked down the hall toward Chief Roman’s office. Kittrell tried to rehearse in his head the best way to break the news to the chief. He debated for a moment before deciding on a direct delivery.
Kittrell knocked lightly on the door that was slightly cracked.
“Come in,” Roman said.
Kittrell gently pushed it open.
Roman wore a wide grin on his face and took a sip of his coffee. He set it down on his desk and looked at the two detectives. “What happened to you two? You both look like your dog just died.”
“Close enough. Our suspect, Wayne Geller, hung himself in his cell last night,” Kittrell said as he tossed the file folder on Roman’s desk.
“How come this is the first I’m hearing of this?” he said as he started to flip through the report.
“Probably because nobody wanted to ruin your Friday,” Quinn quipped.
“It’s sufficiently ruined now,” Roman growled. “So what are we gonna do about this mess now? Our one link to the robbery is now dead.”
Kittrell shrugged. “I guess we’ll circle back with forensics and see if they’ve got anything else that could help us identify some of the other members of this crew.”
Roman slammed his fists down on the desk and started cursing. “And just after I assured the city council members that we had this all under control. Why is this world always trying to screw me over?” He looked up at the detectives. “Are we sure Geller wasn’t helped, if you know what I mean?”
“We’ll look at the report and talk to the officers who discovered him and let you know what we find.”
“Check the surveillance footage,” Roman said. “This just seems strange to me.”
“Us too, Chief,” Quinn said.
Kittrell put his knuckles down on Roman’s desk and leaned forward. “Don’t worry, Chief. This isn’t going to turn into another Arnold Grayson situation. We’ll find these guys.”
Roman took another sip of his coffee. “You better. My patience is running thin.”
CHAPTER 20
CAL LOOKED AT HIS PHONE and saw Kelly’s name pop up on the screen. He’d have to be honest with her about what had happened—and he braced for her reaction.
“You did what?!” she said. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Buckman pulled me off the case. What was I supposed to do?” he protested.
“Figure out another way—a way that didn’t involve sabotaging another reporter’s livelihood.”
“I’ll tell Buckman just as soon as I’m done covering the story.”
“And how’d you get Ramsey to go along with that?”
“Maybe I have something on him.”
“Cal! Come on now. You’re better than this. You need to fight your battles the right way.”
“I know something’s going on here, Kelly. And I know that Ramsey would never figure it out. He’s lazy.”
“What about the Seattle PD?”
“I don’t have much confidence that they’ll figure this out, either. Look, I know it seems like I’m crossing the line with some of the things I’m doing, but it’s all to find out why Sid Westin was murdered.”
“And what if he wasn’t? What if it was all just part of a robbery gone bad? What then?”
Cal sighed. “If it was only that easy. When you know, you kno
w.”
“I’m disappointed in you, Cal. I thought you were better than this.”
“If I’m bending the rules, it’s only so the person who took Westin’s life suffers just consequences.”
“But confronting his widow and pretending to be someone else?”
“Okay, look, I’m sure I could’ve gone about it another way. But as each day goes by and his killers walk free, it makes it that much more difficult to track him down. I can’t let that happen.”
“You just better be glad I’m not there to straighten you out.”
“You’re doing just fine from where you are.”
“About that, Cal. I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention to the national news lately, but there’s a huge late winter storm sweeping through the Southeast this week, and I doubt we’ll be able to make it back by Sunday.”
“Really? A big late winter snowstorm is going to hit the Southeast? I think the last one predicted to hit there when we lived back east generated a whopping half inch of snow.”
“They’re projecting eight to ten inches for Saturday night,” she said. “And as you know, that’s going to cripple this entire state, not to mention city and airport.”
“So, how much longer do you think you’ll be there?”
“I don’t know—a few more days. Not that Maddie minds. She’s being spoiled rotten by my mother.”
“Okay. Stay warm and keep me updated.”
“I will—and you better cut out the shenanigans, Cal. I’ll be home soon enough.”
Cal hung up and opened his laptop. While he had been pulled off the Sid Westin story and banished from the Seattle FC practice grounds for the time being, he still had one more story to write on the team—and it was due tomorrow.
Buckman still wanted the piece on Seattle’s new young star, Shawn Lynch. And Cal was going to give it to him.
He spent the rest of his morning pounding out the feature story on Lynch, but he felt it was missing something. There were a few quotes from Lynch, but most of them were from other people, including his father. Cal needed one or two more solid comments to solidify his lead paragraph.
I know just the guy.
He dialed Javier Martinez’s number and prayed he would answer so he could spend the rest of his day doing something he’d been warned by both his editor and wife against doing.
Dead Drop (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 9) Page 10
