What Others Are Saying
About Jack Patterson
“Jack’s storytelling feels as natural as James Patterson’s, and the short-chapter setup is the literary answer to Lay’s potato chips: you just want one more and before you know it, you’ve gone through the whole thing.
- David Bashore, The Times-News, Twin Falls, ID
“Jack Patterson does a fantastic job at keeping you engaged and interested. I look forward to more from this talented author.”
- Aaron Patterson, bestselling author of SWEET DREAMS
“Patterson has a mean streak about a mile wide and puts his two main characters through quite a horrible ride, which makes for good reading.”
- Richard D., reader
“Like a John Grisham novel, from the very start I was pulled right into the story and couldn’t put the book down. It was as if I personally knew and cared about what happened to each of the main characters. Every chapter ended with so much excitement and suspense I had to continue to read until I learned how it ended, even though it kept me up until 3:00 A.M.
- Ray F., reader
DEAD SHOT
“Small town life in southern Idaho might seem quaint and idyllic to some. But when local newspaper reporter Cal Murphy begins to uncover a series of strange deaths that are linked to a sticky spider web of deception, the lid on the peaceful town is blown wide open. Told with all the energy and bravado of an old pro, first-timer Jack Patterson hits one out of the park his first time at bat with Dead Shot. It’s that good.”
- Vincent Zandri, bestselling author of THE REMAINS
“You can tell Jack knows what it’s like to live in the newspaper world, but with Dead Shot, he’s proven that he also can write one heck of a murder mystery. With a clever plot and characters you badly want to succeed, he is on his way to becoming a new era James Patterson.”
- Josh Katzowitz,
NFL writer for CBSSports.com
& author of Sid Gillman: Father of the Passing Game
DEAD LINE
“This book kept me on the edge of my seat the whole time. I didn’t really want to put it down. Jack Patterson has hooked me. I’ll be back for more.”
- Bob Behler
3-time Idaho broadcaster of the year
and play-by-play voice for Boise State football
Other titles by Jack Patterson
Cal Murphy Thriller series
Dead Shot
Dead Line
Better off Dead
Dead in the Water
James Flynn Thriller series
The Warren Omissions
For Gerald Guy, a real newspaper man
BETTER OFF DEAD
A Cal Murphy Thriller
JACK PATTERSON
CHAPTER 1
AARON BANKS KNELT DOWN and looked into little Ethan’s eyes. The joy plastered over Ethan’s face reminded Aaron that his day off was his favorite day of the week. Not Sundays with thousands of fans worshipping him with each touchdown. Not the light practice days or the weekly Thursday afternoon hot tub soak with his teammates on the offensive line. Not even the days he went clubbing where gorgeous women threw themselves at him. Nope. The day that had nothing to do with football; yet it had everything to do with it. It was his day off, the day he visited the children’s cancer ward of St. Mark’s Hospital.
“You coming back to see me next week?” Ethan McCollister asked.
Aaron placed his palm on the top of the nine-year-old boy’s bald head. He rubbed the top of Ethan’s scalp and made a squeaky noise with his mouth. It always led to Ethan giggling.
“Sure thing, little buddy,” Aaron said. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
Aaron stood his strapping 6-foot-3, 240-pound frame upright and announced his intention to exit the room as he waved good-bye. Suddenly, a group of about ten kids rushed Aaron, waving and telling him they couldn’t wait to see him next week. Aaron gently loosened the grip of Grace Blackwell, who viewed his leg as a mode of transportation more for her than him. Every week he considered how much easier it would be to slip out without a word, but he even enjoyed it when the kids swarmed him as he left. Aaron managed to create enough space between him and the kids with his best stiff arm as he walked backward to the door. He winked at Cindy Lassiter, his favorite pediatric nurse, and flashed her his multi-million dollar endorsement smile. He finally made it out of the room and secured the door behind him.
Aaron always noted how his problems disappeared during the two hours each week when he visited the hospital. But the moment he walked through the hospital’s automatic doors and back into the warm L.A. sun, those problems hit him harder than a lead pipe to the head. He often lamented the loss of simpler times, those periods where football, friends, and family filled his life. Friends who he enjoyed. Family who cherished him simply because they were family. Football that was fun. But those days were a distant memory. Now life consisted of determining if his so-called friends cared about him or his money, and family who only came around when they wanted a handout. Football was about playing just well enough to stay on a roster and avoid getting overtaken by the latest new rookie star. His dream of playing pro football devolved into an inescapable nightmare.
Aaron dug into his pocket and fished out the twelfth picture Ethan had drawn of him scoring a touchdown. After Ethan heard Aaron donated $10,000 to the hospital for every touchdown he scored, the young cancer patient struck a deal with his favorite player: A hand-drawn picture of every touchdown he scored. Aaron smiled at the way Ethan had depicted him leaping into the end zone. Everything looked accurate, except the addition of a cape. Ethan always added a special touch. The art would hang in Aaron’s defacto hallway art gallery, a daily reminder of what really made his life count.
With the rest of Aaron’s life seeming more burdensome, he knew he could simply quit, walk away from the millions and disappear from public life. But then he wouldn’t have the game he loved—or those two inspirational hours every week. In the previous season, Aaron missed four games with complications from an ankle injury. Instead of being annoyed at having to sit out, he used that extra time to visit St. Mark’s every day for a month. It was heaven. But he knew after he left football, the next group of kids in the cancer ward would have no idea who he was and wonder why he came to visit them. So he would tolerate the other 166 hours of his week for these two. No cost was too high for two hours of such delight, for two hours of meaningful living.
Aaron sank into the leather driver’s seat of his black McLaren F1. He turned the ignition as the engine roared to life. The F1 was his one guilty pleasure in an otherwise modest lifestyle. He stomached the city’s glorified celebrity culture, but he didn’t embrace it like some of his other teammates. Starved for a pro football team for far too long, L.A. begged, bribed and cajoled the NFL to expand and add the L.A. Stars to the league. The expansion draft resulted in a team comprised of rookies and former superstars. L.A. sports fans cared about winning, but more people just cared about having a new subset of celebrities to adore. Aaron liked to think of himself as one of the younger stars on the team, but at age 30, who was he kidding? He was a long-toothed veteran. He knew his prime years were likely behind him. Another year or two worth of incredible off days and then it would end. It was an end that should have arrived already. He wanted to fight it, but not the way they made him do it. It was on their terms. He had no choice.
He glanced at the Sports Illustrated Sportsman of the Year edition behind him in one of the car’s two passenger seats. He was on the cover two years ago. He kept the magazine with him to remind him of who he was, who he wanted to be—not who he had become.
Winning the league’s rushing crown made him a hot commodity in charity circles a few years ago. Everyone wanted him to lend his name to their cause. So he did. It made him feel good to do something more than just regularly visit a hospital. His good looks and winning smile made his face synonymous with a cause, any cause. But being a do-gooder wore him out. He wanted to help, but it cluttered his life and made his weekly visits to St. Mark’s feel like just another appointment in his busy schedule. So like a desperate addict trying to break free, he quit cold turkey. No more lending his name to charities or his picture. He just wanted to work with kids and have fun, not become an icon for raising money for starving children in Africa. He caught himself staring at L.A.’s smoggy skyline, wondering to himself, “If those kids ever found out who I really am …”
His phone rang, snapping him back to the present. It was his agent, Bobby Franklin.
“What’s up, big man?” Aaron answered.
“Just ready to destroy some ribs at Jackson’s and talk some business,” Bobby said.
Aaron recognized the tactic right away—use his favorite barbecue restaurant to soften the blow of some difficult news. “Business? What kind of business?”
“Oh, you know. The kind that you don’t want to talk about.”
Aaron grew agitated at Bobby’s shroud of secrecy. “Out with it, Bobby. What is it?”
“Oh, it’s nothing we can’t fix.”
“Just say it, Bobby. You know I hate it when you do this.”
“OK, I got a call from your general manager and he gave me a heads up that you aren’t going to fit in the Stars’ plans next year. They’re going to release you at the end of the season.”
“What? Why? I’ve got two years left on my contract. They can’t do that.”
“Yes, they can, Aaron. And they’re going to. Before you get mad, you should appreciate the courtesy they gave us with this heads up. It will help us get you positioned for the best situation with another team next season.”
“I don’t want to play anywhere but here next season!”
“Look, I know you’re upset about this. But just calm down and let’s talk about it, OK?”
Aaron’s phone buzzed with another call.
“Fine. I’ve got another call coming in that I need to take. I’ll meet you at Jackson’s in half an hour.”
Aaron switched over to the other line.
“Hey. Are we meeting at the usual spot?”
“Yeah,” came the voice on the other end. “See you there in ten minutes.”
Aaron hung up and peeled out of the St. Mark’s parking lot. His greatest pain followed his greatest joy each week—picking up his performance enhancing drugs: PEDs. He laughed at the grandiose promise of the name. Performance enhancing. Ha! You still have to do all the work. What a joke!
Aaron loathed putting anything in his body that wasn’t natural with the exception of lip-smacking smoked ribs slathered in barbecue sauce. That made his decision to go along with the Stars’ request to use PEDs that much more difficult. It wasn’t really a request, more like an ultimatum, the kind some grimy guy delivers who isn’t on the team’s official payroll. He even set up a clandestine rendezvous point in a warehouse parking lot to get his monthly supply.
That’s where Aaron was headed as he veered north onto the 5 and shifted the car into a higher gear and mashed the gas. With each upward shift, Aaron jammed the stick with more force. How could they do this to me after all I’ve done for them? I don’t fit in their plans? I’ll show them!
When Aaron finally arrived in the warehouse parking lot, he skidded to a stop and climbed out of his car. He stormed toward his supplier, kicking up dust and small rocks in his wake. He grabbed the handle on the driver’s door and yanked it open.
“Get out now!” Aaron screamed.
The supplier put his hands up in surrender. “Relax, Aaron. No need to be so aggressive.”
“Oh, really. Do you know what’s going on?”
“So, you’re upset that the team is moving on without you. I get that. But it’s no reason to go crazy.” The man began to slowly get out of his car.
Aaron grabbed a fistful of the man’s shirt and flung him against his car.
“Crazy?! Crazy?! I’m not crazy—I’m angry! I’ve been used by this organization. I’m done with this.” He released the man’s shirt. “It’s over for me, but it’s just starting for them.”
Aaron turned and stormed toward his car. He grabbed the handgun he kept in his glove compartment. In his other hand, he clutched the pills. He got out of his car and stood near the driver’s side.
Bam!
The running back slumped to the ground, dead before he hit it. PED pills scattered around his body on the ground along with the empty bottle.
CHAPTER 2
CAL STARED BLANKLY at his computer terminal. It stared back at him, also blank. There was writer’s block—and then there was story block. The former was reserved for novelists or other writers who were in love with each word they banged out on a keyboard. The latter was reserved for journalists. No matter how well you wrote, it mattered little if there were no good stories to tell.
“Hey, Cal. Have I got a story for you,” bellowed a voice across the newsroom.
Cal rolled his eyes and sighed. He spun around to see Stan Hardman walking toward him with a sheet of paper in one hand and a goofy grin on his face. Cal considered that being drawn and quartered might be less painful than facing Hardman’s mockery to start his Monday morning.
“What is it, Hardman?” Cal mumbled.
“I just got a fax from the Bay Area Chess Club that Harold Weinholtz is retiring. He had been in that position 35 years. Now, I’m not nearly as good of an investigative reporter as you are, but I bet there’s more to the story. I’m sure readers will want to know if he retired on his own or was forced out? And if he was forced out, why? This could be another award winner for you.”
Cal glared at Hardman. “I’m not in the mood.”
“I’m just trying to help, Cal. I know it’s been a while since you had a big story that landed you on the front page. Heck, it’s been a while since you landed a story in the paper anywhere. So, don’t be too quick to dismiss this.”
Cal caught the smile creeping up at the corners of Hardman’s mouth. It was a mouth he wanted to punch. He snatched the fax from Hardman and jammed it into his trashcan.
“Was that too quick?” Cal snarled.
“Suit yourself,” Hardman said before turning around and walking back toward his cubicle.
As much as Cal loathed Hardman and his incessant mocking, the San Francisco Chronicle’s top sports columnist was right: it had been far too long since Cal wrote anything noteworthy.
After winning several national writing awards in a period of three years, Cal felt lost. Deep down, he knew he had stumbled onto his award-winning pieces, but who wouldn’t parlay such luck into a big payday at a prestigious newspaper? He reported on athletes who did it every day. One good season right before you became a free agent and suddenly every general manager forgot how horrible you were and overpaid you to get you on his roster. Then when you go back to being mediocre, everyone hates you—the fans, the reporters, the sports talk radio guys. You were lucky to have your mom still like you. That’s all that Cal did. Two great stories and editors began fighting for him. The Chronicle won. Cal should have expected a backlash like this. He certainly never minded dishing out such criticism to athletes who did the same thing. But it didn’t feel fair now that he was the one on the receiving end of the vitriol. It felt far more personal than he imagined, like he was a fraud.
Once The Chronicle hired Cal, he was tasked with writing enterprise and investigative pieces. They were lengthy articles, written in long form style. They told compelling stories about a person or a program. Maybe a cautionary tale of a fallen star athlete. Or a portrait of a long-time athletic director at an inner city school. Or a historical piece on the University of San Francisco’s back-to-back national
championships in basketball during the 1950s. They showcased Cal’s writing prowess, but not the real reason he was hired. Anyone on The Chronicle’s talented sports staff could have written those articles as well as Cal. Those assignments were supposed to fill the time until he broke a story that rocked the sports world. Instead, that was all he was writing. He wasn’t breaking anything but The Chronicle’s cash-strapped budget. Rumors were already swirling about another round of newsroom layoffs coming within the next six months. Cal knew if he didn’t produce something of value, he would be gone.
Cal checked his watch then grabbed his computer bag. He had a meeting in fifteen minutes with a guy who said he had something big. The man told Cal it would blow the lid on one of the best-kept secrets in sports. Most of the time these so-called tips turned out to be a joke, more suited for those who wore fitted tin-foil hats. But Cal oozed desperation like a 45-year-old single woman at a college town bar. He couldn’t let any prospect get away, no matter how ridiculous it sounded.
He breezed past Hardman’s desk, but not so fast that the columnist didn’t notice.
“In a hurry, Cal?” Hardman asked. “Got another tip from a little old lady about how the 49ers threw that game to the Raiders?”
“Shove it, Hardman.” Cal didn’t look back. No use giving Hardman’s giant ego the pleasure of knowing the barbs were getting to him.
Cal opted for the stairwell over the elevators. He galloped down the stairs and walked through the lobby into the busy San Francisco business district. He was still a block away from the coffee shop on Fifth and Market when his phone buzzed.
He looked at the caller ID and smiled.
“Kelly,” he answered. “How are you?”
“Fantastic, Cal. And yourself?”
“Oh, I’ve had better days.”
“Well, I hope we can have a few good ones over Thanksgiving this weekend. You’re still planning on coming, right?”
Better Off Dead (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 3) Page 1
