“Can I help you?” she said in a raspy voice as she squinted at the bright sunshine.
“Yes, I’m Cal Murphy with The Chronicle and I’m trying to track down Ted. He does still live here, doesn’t he?”
“He told me you might come around looking for him.”
“He isn’t here?”
“Do I look like Ted’s keeper?”
“Frankly, I don’t know who you are, but I need to find Ted soon.”
“Well, I’m his landlady. He lives in my basement. And he’s not here.”
“Was he here earlier today?”
“He said you would come looking for him.”
“Look, I don’t want to take up any more of your time, but I need to know where he went. He might be in danger.”
“Here. Take this.” The woman handed Cal a key. “It’s for a locker at a bowling alley off Van Ness Avenue. His exact words were: 'Don’t stall or you might miss it.'”
No. 345. Cal clutched the key and wondered what information might be inside.
“Thanks,” Cal said.
Then Cal heard an unfamiliar voice behind him. He also felt a stiff poke in the back. “I’ll take that.”
Cal relinquished the key and then turned to see a large man wearing a ski mask brooding over him and the landlady.
“If you know what’s best for you, you’ll keep quiet about this.”
Then he fired a shot at the woman and then another at Cal. They both crumpled to the floor.
CHAPTER 8
CHARLES ROBINSON HUFFED AS he straightened the paperclip holder on his mahogany desk. Someone moved the holder. He started to mull who the culprit could have been.
There was a certain order to how he lived, a certain order for how things must be done. Making waves in his pool was not acceptable. And right now, a reporter was doing cannon balls. Robinson needed to calm the waters.
He dialed a number on his phone. A voice on the other end answered the call, but there was no need for introductions.
“Who’s that hot shot reporter you hired last year?” Robinson asked.
“Cal Murphy?” the other voice asked.
“Yeah, that’s him. Send him down here on assignment to do a big feature on me and our team’s rise to prominence. We need some good press.”
Robinson hung up. He cared deeply about publicity, but he cared even more about making sure the publicity was good. The notion that all publicity is good publicity was ridiculous at best. Maybe for a rapper or music artist, but not for a businessman trying to build the kind of credibility necessary to create an empire. Robinson wanted to be king of the NFL, but he also wanted to be the king of Forbes 500. He wanted to make Bill Gates look like a pauper in comparison. And Robinson’s lust for good publicity was the only reason why he sank any money into the leaky journalism industry. Robinson’s narrative would be flawless.
* * *
Miles Kennedy sipped his coffee and stared at the budget for the next day’s paper. He cracked his knuckles as he attempted to figure out the new puzzle in front of him. His baseball beat writer just learned that the recent Cy Young Award winning pitcher would be signing with San Francisco the next morning. The front page now needed to undergo a shift. Kennedy surveyed the changing landscape and began thinking how he might navigate it, particularly with all the writers’ egos that needed to be assuaged. Each writer held the firm belief that their beat trumped all others—and Kennedy would almost prefer to gouge his eyes out than tell a prima donna reporter that his or her masterpiece would now appear on page three of the sports section instead of the front.
His phone rang. Kennedy grabbed it without moving his eyes from the budget on his desk.
“This is Kennedy.”
“I’m so glad I caught you,” said the voice on the other end.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Kelly Mendoza, from the AP photo bureau in L.A.”
“Oh, great. Did we screw up a caption for you?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. I’m trying to find Cal Murphy. Have you heard from him this evening? He isn’t answering his cell. It’s going straight to voicemail.”
“Early this afternoon he told me he was working on a few leads for a story he had, but I haven’t heard from him since.”
“Do you have any idea where he might be?”
“Sorry, Kelly. I have no idea. But if you find him, please let him know he needs to call me. I’ve got a new assignment for him.”
“OK, thanks.”
Kennedy hung up. He dumped his coffee in the trash and began rummaging in his desk drawer for a bottle. Bourbon or Tums—whichever found his hand first would find his stomach next. A new front page was required and now his star reporter was missing.
CHAPTER 9
CAL SQUINTED AT THE LIGHT. His face was flush with the hardwood floor. He didn’t immediately remember where he was or what had happened.
“Cal? Are you OK?”
The voice snapped Cal fully awake as he recalled his last few moments of consciousness. A masked man. A key. A gun.
Cal sat up and looked at the woman. It was Ted’s landlady. She looked concerned—and afraid.
“I thought we were dead. Who were those guys? What did they want?” she asked.
Still stunned, Cal waited to speak until he pulled the tranquilizer dart out of his neck.
“I have no idea who they were, but they obviously wanted that key,” Cal said, turning his pockets inside out and looking around the spot where he had fallen. “It’s gone.”
Cal then took a quick inventory of all his belongings. Nothing else was missing. He had his keys, his cell phone, his shoes. He didn’t possess anything of value other than what was in his pocket and what was on his feet. Obviously, he undervalued the key.
“Have you ever seen Ted hang out with any shady-looking characters?” Cal asked.
“No. I’ve never seen him hang out with anyone. Nobody ever comes home with him.”
“So, he’s got no friends?”
“None that I’m aware of. He’s absorbed with work and his brother.”
“His brother? What’s up with him?”
“He’s sick. Very sick. I think he has cancer or something like that. But all he does is work and visit his brother.”
“Do you know what hospital his brother is at?”
“I have no idea. I barely know his name—Tommy, maybe.”
“Well, thanks for your help. Hopefully, I can find Ted soon and clear up what just happened here.”
The woman nodded but said nothing, still shaken over the intrusion into her home.
“Look. I know you need to call the cops, but please leave me out of this, OK?” Cal pleaded. “I don’t really want to get questioned about all this because I’m trying to keep a low profile in my investigation. If the cops start asking questions, it’s going to get around. Word gets out fast.”
She agreed to omit Cal from any formal statements.
Cal thanked the woman and left. His head was spinning with possibilities over what was going on. He pulled out his phone and noticed he had a dozen missed calls. Kelly!
* * *
Kelly wiped back a few tears streaking down her face. She was starting to get worried. With Cal’s penchant for embracing danger, she knew he might be involved in something far more perilous than she first imagined. Cal wasn’t one to drop a good lead. She knew that’s what made him such a good reporter. It also made a potential future with him seem bleak. But Kelly had her own weakness for a good story, too. Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe she could help.
She brushed a tear away with fingertips and stared at her phone.
“Cal, why do you have to do this to me?” she asked aloud.
Then her phone rang. It was Cal.
“Are you OK?” Kelly asked.
“Yes, Kelly. Thank you! I’m so sorry.”
“What happened? I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all afternoon.”
“How does getting knocked out with a tranqu
ilizer gun sound?”
“What?! Are you serious?”
“Yes. I wish I wasn’t.”
Cal explained what had happened, filling Kelly in on the fine details of the case. He needed a sympathetic ear and a sounding board he could trust. He valued her opinion and wanted to know if his fellow journalist thought the story had any legs.
“This is big, Cal,” she finally said.
“You think so?”
“Oh, yes. This might just save your job.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. Want to me help me save it?”
“Sure. What do you want me to do?”
Kelly took down Cal’s instructions and hung up.
Beneath her breath, Kelly muttered a few curses directed at the imaginary Cal in her car. She wiped away any remnants of tears and then started her car. She had an assignment. They were going to crack this mystery together.
* * *
Cal called Kennedy and and assured him everything was OK, despite Kelly’s worrisome phone call. Then Cal received the news—Kennedy was pulling him off the story. Cal protested, but Kennedy stood firm.
“Just drop it, Cal,” Kennedy said. “It’s a wild goose chase and you know it. Besides, Robinson wants a big feature written on him—and asked you to do it.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he likes you. He’s good at resurrecting things, you know.”
Cal snarled at Kennedy’s insinuation and said nothing.
“Look, just go. I know you were going to L.A. tomorrow evening anyway. Now, we’ll just reimburse you for the cost of the flight and it’s kind of like a free vacation. You can stay down there for a few extra days after the interview. Make it a long Thanksgiving weekend—you know, like most normal people in this country do. Just keep your nose out of that story. Got it?”
Cal mumbled a “yes” and hung up. He didn’t mean it.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Cal pulled into the Fun Time Bowling Alley parking lot. Fun Time had seen its better days. Tufts of grass spurted out of the cracked pavement. The faded gray stucco building looked as though its owners weren’t interested in fighting the tide of new bowling alleys popping up. Paint was peeling off the blue awning that overhung the two double glass doors demarcating the entrance. A few sketchy looking young men took drags of their cigarettes and eyed Cal cautiously as he went inside carrying a small backpack. The interior matched the exterior. Perhaps the purplish carpet appeared fresh and new at some point, but now it had devolved into a grimy maroon that had seen more than its share of foot traffic. The only thing it had going for it was the smell of wood and well-oiled lanes wafting in the air. Though California laws prevented it from being the smoky establishment that it undoubtedly once was, the same characters still likely hung around here. Bikers. Tough guys. Tougher gals. Cocky guys trying to compensate for something with high bowling scores. It was a group of people who wanted to be left alone.
Cal walked up to the desk, staffed by a guy named Bill, according to the name tag sewn onto his shirt. In a matter of moments, Cal spun a story about how his brother’s wife wanted to leave a surprise in his locker for his birthday but couldn’t sneak down there without her husband knowing. Bill began fumbling for his keys and walked Cal to locker No. 345. He opened it up and told Cal to let him know when he was finished.
Cal sifted through the assorted items in the locker. A dingy bowling shirt. A bag containing a bowling ball. A few stray receipts. Then he checked the shirt pocket that contained a small empty envelope.
It wasn’t sealed—and it was empty.
Was this what Ted meant to leave me? Did someone beat me to it?
Cal couldn’t be sure.
* * *
Ted pulled his hood over his head and jammed his hands into his jacket pockets. The motel door slammed shut behind him. He had to disappear and he had to pick a place where he was less likely to attract suspicion. The Sunshine Motel met his criteria. Prostitutes, drug dealers, meth addicts, homeless people who scrounged up enough money to sleep on a bed. It’s where you went if society had forgotten you—or if you wanted to forget society. This was no way to live.
What Ted once thought was a kind gesture devolved into a tool to manipulate him. If PacLabs wanted something from him—anything from him—one quick threat of removing his brother from the experimental treatment that was keeping him alive made Ted cave every time. He knew he had to comply. He had seen what they were capable of and he wanted out.
He thought he had eluded their suspicion by claiming to be sick as his reason for leaving work early. But the call he received in the late afternoon showed that wasn’t the case. They told him to report for work the next day. “You wouldn’t want your brother to get hurt, would you?” came the thinly veiled threat. Reporting meant he was as good as dead. But not reporting meant his brother would likely be also. Who’s to say they both weren’t already as good as dead? He needed some time to think about his next assignment.
CHAPTER 10
CAL’S RESTLESS NIGHT OF SLEEP mercifully ended when his phone began buzzing.
“Hello?” he mumbled.
“Good morning, Cal,” Kelly said cheerily.
“I hope you have a good reason for calling.”
“Well, aren’t we Mr. Sunshine today?”
Cal grunted.
“OK, maybe I’ll call you back after you’ve had some coffee. I’ve only spent all night working on these phone records for you.”
Cal had almost forgotten the assignment he gave Kelly. He wanted to find out who called Aaron Banks the day he died.
“Oh, Kelly, I’m sorry. It’s early and my brain isn’t quite working. What did you find?”
A year ago, Kelly told Cal about Oscar Sanders, a co-worker from the IT department who used to moonlight as a hacker for some London newspapers. He never got caught and quit when the newspapers came under serious public ridicule for hacking into celebrities’ phones. Oscar was fond of Kelly, who took advantage of that to draw him out of his early hacker retirement.
“We didn’t find anything too interesting at first,” Kelly said. “He was a creature of habit and seemed to call the same people at regular intervals for the past year. But then on the day he died, we discovered an incoming call from a burner phone. It was the last one he received.”
“What’s so odd about that?” Cal asked.
“He only started receiving calls from this number nine months ago. And he received only one a month. Not once did he place a call to that number.”
“Can you find out who it was that placed the call?”
“Not even Oscar can trace burner phones. That’s next to impossible. However, he did manage to find out where the call originated from.”
“Oh? Where was that?”
“Near the L.A. Stars’ facility.”
“Kelly, Aaron Banks played for the Stars. What’s so unusual about that?”
“Exactly, Cal. He played for the Stars—and they were using a burner phone. Somebody there didn’t want to get linked back to him.”
“Good point—and great work, Kelly. We’ll see if this is somehow related to PacLabs in any way.”
Cal planned the rest of his Thanksgiving weekend with Kelly. He knew she loved working on these types of cases with him. Usually she served as a sounding board, but she had helped him on a few stories in the past. She might be excited to see him this weekend, but he could tell she was anxious to help more with this intriguing story.
* * *
Even though Kennedy directed Cal to stop working on the drug testing story, Cal convinced his editor to let him write a reflective piece on Aaron Banks. Cal thought it was unsympathetic and cruel to give a grieving mother hope that someone would look into her son’s death and then renege. While Cal wasn’t doing the kind of digging he wanted to, if he unearthed something then he would revisit it with Kennedy.
Cal pulled into Aretha Banks’ driveway at 11 a.m. sharp. The Tuscan style mansion sp
rawled across the secluded lot in San Francisco’s Sea Cliff neighborhood. Pristine landscape fell mostly in the shadows of the three-story structure. To Cal, it was a home that pretended to be from another era but was likely no older than five years based on when Aaron Banks received his new contract with a monster bonus. In his quick research of Aretha Banks, Cal discovered she was a single mother of three kids who worked as a kindergarten teacher. The home was obviously a gift.
Despite the air of pretentiousness the house exuded, it disappeared when Aretha Banks answered the door herself. She invited Cal in.
“Nice place you got here,” Cal said, admiring the artwork in the foyer.
“Thank you,” Aretha said. “Aaron always promised to take care of me.”
“Again, Mrs. Banks. I’m sorry for your loss. All I hear about Aaron is what a wonderful young man he was.”
She struggled to hold back her tears before thanking Cal and directing him to the sitting room just off the foyer.
They talked for a few minutes about Aaron’s career and about his philanthropy. Aretha warmed to Cal quickly. Cal decided it was time to dive in.
“Now you told my editor that you don’t think Aaron committed suicide. Why exactly do you think that?”
Aretha took a deep breath before answering.
“Aaron never once talked about suicide. He was so full of life. I even spoke with him on Sunday night after his game and he was so excited about going to the hospital and visiting those kids. We even made plans for later this week. I was going to fly down to see him on Thanksgiving Day and stay for the game on Sunday.”
“Was he depressed?”
“Maybe a little. He hated living in L.A., but he had fallen in love with the kids at St. Mark’s Hospital. There wasn’t anything he enjoyed more each week than visiting them. He talked more about them than he did his football career.”
“What do you think about all these allegations that he failed a drug test and the NFL was going to suspend him?”
Better Off Dead (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 3) Page 4
