“You really think he’d kill Sid over this? They were best friends on the team.”
“Which is why he had to hire someone to kill him—one of his best friends growing up. Now, Robert Fisher used to be known as Ty Pullman, Javier Martinez’s next-door neighbor. The two boys apparently spent a lot of time together down at the docks as well as away from them, getting into mischief mostly. They were both arrested for some minor things like breaking and entering and vandalism, but nothing violent.”
“But I know Martinez respected Sid. What would drive him to have him murdered?”
Kittrell held his finger up. “That’s the one area we’re still trying to figure out. But once we do, this case will be a slam dunk.”
“As long as you can use that conversation with Sid.”
“Exactly. But that’s easier said than done.”
Cal stood up and exhaled a long breath. “I think I’ve got an idea how we can solve both those problems in one fell swoop.”
CHAPTER 43
CAL SAT IN THE SMALL SET of aluminum bleachers at midfield of the Seattle FC practice complex. He checked his watch. Javier Martinez was two minutes late, and he was never late for an appointment. Cal began to get nervous, fiddling with his shirt.
He looked at his watch again. Now Martinez was three minutes late.
Cal started to wonder if his brilliant idea was a bust.
Two minutes later, Martinez roared into the parking lot in his Ferrari FF. He coolly grabbed his bag out of the back and started the trek from the parking lot to the bleachers where Cal sat alone.
A strong breeze held the U.S. flag and the team flag almost stiff in the wind. Cal glanced at his watch again.
What’s taking him so long to walk over here?
Once Martinez arrived, he slid onto the bench next to Cal.
“Where’s Shawn?” Martinez asked.
Cal looked at his watch again. “He should be here any minute.” He glanced at Martinez’s bag. “You going to get in some extra reps after this?”
“I might as well since I’m out here. You can never be too prepared.”
Cal cleared his throat and shifted his weight from side to side on the bench. He could feel his palms beginning to exude sweat. He took a deep breath. “Before Shawn gets here, I want us to listen to that recording you gave me.”
“Is that necessary?” Martinez asked.
“It is if we want to be prepared. The best way to catch him is in his own words.”
Martinez nodded reluctantly. “Go ahead then.”
Cal held out the burner phone Martinez had given him and called up the actual recording Molly Morton had discovered. Then he pressed play.
Eyeing Martinez carefully, Cal watched Martinez’s eyes widen once he realized it was his voice with Sid’s instead of the one he put onto the phone.
“Where did you get this?” Martinez said as he picked it up after the recording ended. “This has to be faked. That’s not my voice.”
“I’m afraid it is, but you already knew that, Javy.”
“Look, I don’t know what kind of stunt you’re trying to pull here, but this isn’t cool. I’ve done nothing but help you try to solve this case—if there even is one—and now you’ve concocted some story that places the blame on me.”
Cal began to clap slowly. “I always knew soccer players were good actors, rolling around on the ground like someone shot their knee cap when there isn’t even any contact. But you? You, Javier Martinez, should be nominated for an Oscar with that performance right there. It’s so believable.”
“That’s because it is believable, Cal.”
“Don’t try to play me for the fool. I’ve been around long enough to know a rat when I see one. Heck, I don’t even have to see them; I can just smell them. And you’re a rat.”
“You’ve gotta believe me, Cal. Sid was my best friend. Someone planted that evidence on me.”
Cal cocked his head to one side and pointed at Martinez. “I’d almost believe you if I didn’t know better, like, say, that Robert Fisher’s real name is Ty Pullman and he lived next door to you growing up. And if I didn’t know that both your fathers worked for William Lynch—and both undoubtedly hated him, though Fisher went and landed a job with Lynch doing his dirty work.”
“You’re crazy.”
Cal shrugged. “Perhaps, but I think the better possibility here is the fact that you pulled off a brilliant plot and almost got away with it.” He stood up and started to pace in front of the bleachers, steepling his hands as he looked down and continued speaking. “You even had some guys rough me up on Saturday morning, but not before you sent a couple of old guys in to sit next to me and pretend to get my attention and fill my head with stories about the evil Mr. Lynch and what he used to do to people on the docks—which I actually believe were true. But then you had to push your luck in an effort to cast aspersions on Shawn Lynch by faking a recording that made it seem like Sid found out about Shawn using a PED. With everything we’d already published in the paper about the FBI’s case with Rebecca Westin and HGH, you assumed that it’d be easy to lump Shawn Lynch into that story and make it all believable. And it almost was, except for a few key elements.”
Cal stopped and held up his index finger. “First, you didn’t know that Rebecca Westin already gave the authorities a full list of every athlete she sold drugs to—and Shawn Lynch’s name wasn’t on the list. Secondly, and your most critical mistake, was that you gave us Sid’s original burner phone, which had the original conversation that gave you—and you alone—motive. You killed three men at that warehouse, including your friend Ty. And you even managed to pay someone to kill the other robber in prison. But what angers me the most is that you came into my house and tried to threaten me.”
Martinez unzipped his bag and fished around in it for a second, pulling out an object that he hid behind his back from Cal. “Perhaps you should’ve been a detective instead of a journalist. Too bad no one will ever read this story.”
Realizing what was happening, Cal spun and started sprinting toward his car. He heard Martinez’s footsteps getting closer and closer with each passing second. Glancing over his shoulder to see what Martinez had in his hand, he was somewhat relieved to know it was a knife instead of a gun, but that didn’t change the fact that Cal was in grave danger.
Cal pumped his fists and could almost hear Martinez breathing down his neck. Then a swipe, nicking Cal’s right arm and sending blood everywhere. Then another swipe at his left arm. And then a thud.
Cal didn’t stop running, but he looked behind him to see what happened. Martinez had tumbled to the ground, and a ball bounced a few meters away. Then another ball came flying in Martinez’s direction. Cal had turned his attention straight ahead but heard the ball hit hard off Martinez’s back.
As Cal neared the fence exiting the practice field, he spied a slew of agents racing toward him.
“Took you long enough,” Cal said to one of the men, who grabbed him and pulled him over to the side. “He could’ve killed me.”
“But he didn’t,” the officer said, devoid of emotion.
Cal watched as the squad sprinted onto the field toward Martinez and hemmed him in. Less than thirty seconds later, Martinez was lying face down on the turf with one officer securing his hands behind his back with handcuffs. Cal remained in his position until they brought Martinez by.
Cal held up his hand, motioning for the officers to stop. They turned Martinez so he was facing Cal.
“Why’d you do it, Javy? I know you and Sid were friends. How could you?”
“Her blood is on your hands now,” Martinez hissed. “It’s on your hands.”
“Whose blood?”
“My mother’s. Now’s she’s going die because of you. William Lynch owned that house we lived in, and it was built using materials nobody should have to live around. Asbestos, lead in the pipes and paint; it was a death trap. And it all caught up with my mother.”
“Javy, there are lawyers
who could’ve helped you.”
“They did help. She won a settlement out of court to pay her medical fees. But when the cancer returned, she couldn’t sue them again. A doctor on Lynch’s payroll declared her cancer free, which meant any return would be on her dime now. The only way I could make enough money to help get her the treatment she needs to survive is expensive—and I can’t even afford it. Her insurance won’t pay for it, so she’s left to fend for herself. And I wasn’t about to let my mother die like that.” He choked back a few tears. “Cal, have you ever seen someone die of cancer?”
Cal nodded.
“So you know. It’s brutal. And now my mother will endure all that pain—and all because of that greedy bastard William Lynch.”
Cal looked sympathetically at Martinez. “I’ll take care of your mother; don’t you worry about that.” Cal sighed. “But you had someone murdered. And that I can’t help you with.”
He nodded at the guards, who resumed marching Martinez toward several squad cars.
“Great work, Detective,” came a voice behind Cal. He turned around to see Quinn standing next to Kittrell. “Don’t think this is going to be a permanent thing for you.”
Cal laughed and pointed at Quinn. “I hope you’re feeling better because this is a job I don’t want.” Cal turned and looked at Kittrell. “And how long were you going to wait before you came to give me a hand? I could’ve gotten killed out there.”
Kittrell reached up Cal’s shirt and snatched the wire off his chest.
“Ouch! A little warning would’ve been nice,” Cal said.
Kittrell snickered. “But, Cal, it’s the element of surprise that made your little operation work.”
“Little? I was able to save evidence that would’ve otherwise been thrown out for the prosecution and unearthed Martinez’s motive. I’d say that was huge.”
“Either way, good work. I’m glad you agreed to consult with us. You’d make a great detective.”
Cal smiled. “Thanks—and you just might make a good writer, too.”
CHAPTER 44
CAL NEVER IMAGINED his determination to prove that Sid Westin’s death would unravel the city like it did. In his article detailing the plot, he also revealed another scoop Kittrell gave him: The seven businessmen who were supposedly killed by Arnold Grayson were believed to have been killed by Robert Fisher, the alias for Ty Pullman. He made sure to give Kittrell full credit for solving the crime and coerced the editor to pen an apology on the opinion page for chastising Kittrell and Quinn in the past as the “Keystone Cops.” But that wasn’t all.
The story that sent shockwaves throughout the city was the revelation of William Lynch’s underground gambling ring. Whatever friends Lynch had in Seattle law enforcement who were protecting him from getting exposed couldn’t any longer. Lynch couldn’t escape the weight of justice and landed in prison with a twenty-year sentence.
Meanwhile, Dr. Bill Lancaster wound up getting his day in court with the feds and lost. He was sentenced to a ten-year term.
The flurry of periphery stories that cropped up around the case kept Cal busy for a week, including the revelation that Tim Peterson did indeed flunk a drug test. When the last one was finally written, he was about to invite Buckman and Ramsey to join him for a beer at King’s Hardware when Alicia Westin called.
“Mr. Murphy?” she said after he answered.
“Please, call me Cal.”
“Okay, Cal. I wanted to thank you for everything you did in uncovering my brother’s killer. It wasn’t who we thought it was, but we thought someone was behind it all.”
“And you were right.”
“I know this simple phone call isn’t enough to truly thank you for what you did, but my entire family is grateful.”
“I’m just doing my job.”
“Well, thank you—and I mean that from the bottom of my heart.”
Cal hung up and took a deep breath. It was those moments that made what he did worth it.
He scanned the newsroom again and spotted the targets of his impending invite to King’s Hardware.
A half-hour later, Cal bought Buckman and Ramsey a round of beers and swallowed hard before starting to speak, “I brought you two here today to say thank you and sorry. Thank you for believing in me, Buckman. I know this story was a crazy one, and I had to sound like a fool as I insisted it appeared to be murder, but you still believed in me.” Cal turned to Ramsey. “And, Ramsey, I was the biggest jackass this side of the Mississippi, and I want to tell you that I’m sorry. I should’ve never treated you that way, and you did an admirable job under the circumstances of picking up my pieces and writing a couple of solid stories. Even though I was upset about the story you broke on Umbert being a suspect in the murder-for-hire plot to kill Westin—and even though you were wrong,” Cal said with a wink, “it was good reporting. And I promise that I’ll do my best in the future not to treat you like that again.”
Ramsey held up his mug and clinked it with Cal’s and then Buckman’s. “All is forgiven.”
In the middle of throwing down the rest of his beer, Cal froze when the bar fell silent. He slowly put his glass down and realized everyone was staring at the television.
In a developing story, we’ve just learned that Mike Black, the starting strong safety for the Seahawks is in critical condition after being shot earlier this evening.
Cal slapped a ten-dollar bill on the table and put on his coat. “Well, guys, it looks like it’s back to work.”
THE END
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AS A FIVE-YEAR-OLD BOY living in England I never had a chance not to play soccer, the world's beautiful game. And I became hooked. Even after my family moved back to the United States, I withstood plenty of ridicule and scorn for my love for soccer. Watching soccer develop in the U.S. has been fascinating — and it truly has reached a fever pitch level in the cities where there are professional teams.
I’d like to thank Margo Yoder, who helped shape this story into something better through her keen eye for detail, as well as Krystal Wade, whose editing skills helped take this wrinkled shirt of a story and press it smooth. And Dan Pitts did another wonderful job in capturing the look and feel of Cuba for the cover.
And to you the reader—thanks for reading!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JACK PATTERSON is an award-winning writer living in southeastern Idaho. He first began his illustrious writing career as a sports journalist, recording his exploits on the soccer fields in England as a young boy. Then when his father told him that people would pay him to watch sports if he would write about what he saw, he went all in. He landed his first writing job at age 15 as a sports writer for a daily newspaper in Orangeburg, S.C. He later attended earned a degree in newspaper journalism from the University of Georgia, where he took a job covering high school sports for the award-winning Athens Banner-Herald and Daily News.
He later became the sports editor of The Valdosta Daily Times before working in the magazine world as an editor and freelance journalist. He has won numerous writing awards, including a national award for his investigative reporting on a sordid tale surrounding an NCAA investigation over the University of Georgia football program.
Jack enjoys the great outdoors of the Northwest while living there with his wife and three children. He still follows sports closely.
He also loves connecting with readers and would love to hear from you. To stay updated about future projects, connect with him over Facebook or on the interwebs at www.IamJackPatterson.com and sign up here for his newsletter to get deals and updates.
DEAD DROP
© Copyright 2016 Jack Patterson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information
storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
eBook ISBN: 978-1-938848-74-2
First eBook Edition 2016
Cover Design by Dan Pitts
Published in the United States of America
Green E-Books
PO Box 140654
Boise, ID 83714
Dead Drop (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 9) Page 20
