Dead Drop

by Jack Patterson

  “I understand not everyone is a Belieber, but—”

  “Okay,” Kittrell said, interrupting him. “That right there. I’m going to ask for a transfer now.”

  “What?” Quinn said, throwing his hands in the air. “What did I say?”

  “You used the word Belieber. You might as well have drug your fingernails down the chalkboard and chanted the word moist while you danced to a Justin Bieber song.”

  Quinn sat back in his seat. “I get the sense you don’t like Bieber.”

  “Well, you are my crack detective partner.”

  Quinn broke into a smile. “No matter how hard of a time you give me here, your rationale for propping your feet on top of Roman’s desk is ridiculous.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You two aren’t partners—and I guarantee you that he won’t like it.”

  A faint grin spread across Kittrell’s lips. “We’ll see about that.”

  A few moments later, the door flew open and Roman shuffled inside. When he turned around, his eyes went straight for Kittrell’s feet. “How many times do I have to tell you that I hate it when people mess up my desk?” He pulled Kittrell’s feet off his desk and gestured for him to get up. Kittrell complied and sat down next to Quinn as they both watched Roman open up the bottom right drawer on his desk and pull out a bottle of some cleaning agent and a rag.

  Roman squirted the liquid onto his desk and scrubbed the spot furiously. “So, what are you boys doing in my office so early? I hope you’ve found something on the robbery.”

  “As soon as we do, you’ll be the first to know, sir,” Kittrell said.

  Roman didn’t look up as he continued to clean. “Have you heard from forensics yet on the casings found at the scene?”

  Quinn pulled his chair closer to Roman’s desk. “Not yet.”

  “What about the autopsy? Have we heard anything back from the coroner on that?”

  Kittrell sighed. “Still waiting for that, too.”

  Roman stopped cleaning and finally looked up at the two detectives across the desk from him. “So, what have you been doing? Creating some plausible scenarios about who the perps are and why they attacked this particular bank? Have you done anything that’s going to help us catch them? I’ve got to speak to the press soon, and I need to give them an update—or at least give off the impression that you two are doing your jobs and aren’t going to let the department and this city down again.”

  Kittrell leaned forward. “Sir, if I may, I—”

  “You may find out what’s going on, Kittrell. That’s what you may do.”

  “Look, just indulge me for a moment, okay?”

  Roman opened his drawer and dug out a toothpick before sliding it between his lips. “Go ahead.”

  “What if Sid Westin was actually the target instead of the bank? What if the bank was just a red herring to distract us from a brazen murder?”

  Roman’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not asking me to indulge a theory; that’s asking me to believe lunacy.”

  “But, sir, there’s more, and if you—”

  “That’s enough.” Roman turned his gaze toward Quinn. “You agree with this cockamamie theory?”

  Quinn shrugged. “I agree that it’s not likely, but it’s still worth checking out. I don’t think anyone in this department wants another person to get away with murder, do we?”

  “Of course not. But this isn’t a homicide case; this is a damn bank robbery gone bad. Your job is to figure out a way to find the punks who were behind this so we can arrest them for armed robbery and murder. You’re both good detectives. Now go do your job.”

  Kittrell stood and put his head down as he exited the office, followed by an equally subdued Quinn.

  “That went over well,” Kittrell said.

  “You would’ve been better off just keeping your feet on his desk,” Quinn quipped.

  They turned toward their desks when one of the uniformed officers approached Kittrell. “Detective, we just received a call on the tip line that you might be interested in hearing. I put the recording to your voicemail.”

  Kittrell hustled toward his desk and slid into his chair, while Quinn sat on top of Kittrell’s desk. Kittrell dialed his voicemail and switched to the speakerphone as they listened in.

  “I’m calling about Sid Westin’s death at the robbery that took place earlier this week,” said the voice of a nervous male caller. “I—I—I just wanted to say that there may be more to this. I know that Sid was about to be outed for using performance-enhancing drugs. And”—there was a pause with some rustling going on in the background—“there’s more, but I can’t say any more. Gotta go.” Click.

  Kittrell hung up and spun around in his chair to look at Quinn. “What do you make of that?”

  “I’m not sure. What are you thinking?”

  Kittrell shrugged. “There could be something to it. I think we both agree that it’s possible that this was more than just your cut-and-dry armed robbery, though we’re not sure what yet. Maybe this is the key.”

  “Or maybe it’s someone trying to punk us after the Arnold Grayson case.”

  Kittrell held his index finger in the air. “That’s a possibility we can’t rule out either. Sorting through the crap in this case isn’t going to be easy. But I think we ought to wait until the report comes out before we start building theories around an anonymous call from the tip line.”

  Quinn nodded and got up before returning to his desk.

  Kittrell pulled out his notebook and jotted down a few notes. He publicly stated his position on the tip, holding it suspect. But, privately, the gears inside his head were whirring. This was the break he’d been hoping for.

  Now, it was just a matter of constructing a believable theory and pitching it to Quinn and Roman as Kittrell began the investigation. And it wouldn’t be easy.

  CHAPTER 7

  BILL LANCASTER RUBBED HIS HANDS together as he waited for the FBI agents to enter the room. The doctor glanced at his hands, which had started to bead with sweat. Patting his hands dry on his pants, he stared at the two-way mirror directly in front of him. He knew they were watching, but he couldn’t make the color return to his face or appear less nervous. If they revealed their strategy, he might relax—but not a second sooner. He couldn’t fake courage.

  For the past few months, he’d been wondering when this encounter would take place. A friend at the St. Louis FBI field office warned him that they were looking into him and that he better make sure everything he was doing was above board. It was common courtesy, though also illegal. But Lancaster took the tip seriously, which enabled him to tweak his records. He couldn’t make them look perfect for fear that they would investigate further. Instead, he decided to plant a red herring and send them off in pursuit of a lead that would take them nowhere. He would get a slap on the wrist, if anything at all. It was all very simple—a forged signature by a doctor for a prescription to a Major League Baseball player who’d already been convicted of using illegal prescriptions. Lancaster dug through his phone records to find the date the scrupulous doctor’s office had called him and faxed him something. With the doctor already in jail, it wouldn’t be enough to cause the feds to spend thousands of dollars in time and resources to pursue such a claim. Lancaster’s invention had nothing to do with the athlete, of course, but it would lend veracity to his forthcoming statement, one he’d rehearsed a thousand times since the FBI served him with a search warrant and carted out boxes of records. He’d claim he was simply filling a prescription for the office when it was out of the drug. If that were the impending line of questioning, the interrogation would run smoothly and rather harmlessly. Yet the uncertainty of it all was why Lancaster hadn’t relaxed for even a moment as he fidgeted in his seat.

  When agent Al Hollister entered the room with his partner Bart Zellers, neither one of them appeared to have any intention of putting Lancaster at ease. There was no cordial greeting or small talk; it was all business.

 
Hollister dropped a manila folder on the table and then slid it toward Lancaster.

  Lancaster put his hands on top of the folder—palms down—and dragged it in front of him. “Am I supposed to know what this is?”

  “You tell me,” Hollister shot back as he eyed Lancaster. “Go ahead. Open it.”

  Slowly, Lancaster reached for the curled corner of the folder and grabbed it with his thumb and forefinger. He pulled it open and tried to hide his shock. There was nothing about the disgraced and convicted doctor or the baseball player. Instead, staring back at him was a copy of an order his office fulfilled and shipped out. He never considered for even one moment that this order would attract the scrutinizing eye of the sharpest FBI agent. The HGH levels in the prescription order were within legal ranges. However, the frequency was a day or two earlier than was legal. He’d already planned to dismiss it as a clerical error or give the standard, “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for this. We would never knowingly break the law.”

  But that would be a lie. He would knowingly break the law, and he wouldn’t give it a second thought. For Lancaster, he lived by the carpe diem mantra. Or in his case, seize the money. Though it was really about something else entirely. A soccer player needed help, and Lancaster was happy to oblige, even if it was illegal.

  It’ll be virtually undetectable to some FBI analyst combing through my records.

  Lancaster was wrong, as evidenced by the piece of paper lying on the table right in front of him. They’d caught him, and he had no plausible explanation—at least not one on the tip of his tongue. He needed to stall.

  Lancaster furrowed his brow and stared at the sheet of paper. “What exactly am I looking at here? I’m afraid that I’m not too familiar with shipping records and practices. That’s not my department.”

  Deep breath, Bill. You can do this.

  Hollister leaned forward on the table and clasped his hands. “Dr. Lancaster, please dispense with the naivety act. This is very much a part of your business, and I think you’re very well aware of why this was flagged during our investigation.”

  “I’m sure if this is true, then perhaps there’s some reasonable explanation for it all.”

  Hollister leaned back and crossed his arms. “Enlighten me.”

  “A glitch in the computer system perhaps. Our orders are automated.”

  “Need I remind you that this conversation is being recorded right now?”

  “Are you charging me with something? Because if you are, I’d like to see my lawyer.”

  Zellers, who’d been observing quietly in the corner of the room, stepped forward and broke his silence. “We’re just asking you a few questions, Dr. Lancaster. If this is all just some big misunderstanding, we’d love for you to clear it up for us.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got reservations at Machiano’s tonight at seven. Make my wife happy, and explain it all to us.”

  “I am giving you the most reasonable explanation I can think of.”

  Hollister’s eyes narrowed as he used his index finger to tap the papers he’d placed in front of Lancaster. He took over the questioning with an aggressive stance toward Lancaster. “Do you recognize the name on this document? A Mrs. Rebecca Westin? Of all the clients—”

  “Patients, Agent Hollister. I have patients.”

  “Of all the clients, why was it her? Why didn’t your system goof up someone who lived in, say, Timbuctu, Nebraska? Why was it specifically Rebecca Westin in Seattle? Explain that one to me.”

  “I really think I need my lawyer before we go any further.”

  “Oh, sure. Go hide behind your lawyer. That doesn’t make you look guilty at all.”

  Lancaster felt the blood rush to his face. In a flash, he went from irritated to angry. “I don’t know what kind of witch hunt you’re on, Agent Hollister, but you’re not going to get me to admit to anything I didn’t do. Not now, not ever.”

  Zellers put his hand on Hollister’s shoulder and spoke calmly, “If you cooperate, we can make sure the judge goes easy on you. You’ll lose your license, but you won’t spend the better part of your life in prison.”

  “I didn’t commit any crime, at least not knowingly. And if the FBI wants to exhaust all of its resources just to prove I’m innocent, by all means, go ahead. I’ll happily file a countersuit to recoup all my lawyer fees and embarrass both of you. If this was your big attempt to get me to admit to your asinine theory, you two are in far more trouble than you realize right now.”

  Zellers sighed. “We aren’t trying to coerce a confession, Dr. Lancaster. That would be illegal. We are simply extending you an opportunity to admit to the truth before this investigation goes any further and we uncover more unpleasant things for you.”

  “More unpleasant than what? Than this? Having my integrity and practice questioned is as unpleasant as it could ever get for me.”

  Hollister stood up. “Oh, trust me. It can get far more unpleasant, especially when it comes out that several high profile Seattle athletes have recently tested positive for HGH. None of it has been made public yet. We’ve been working with various league officials to keep it under wraps so we could flush out the source.” He gestured toward Lancaster. “And look what we found.”

  “How does it feel to grasp at straws?” Lancaster asked. “You two are pathetic, wasting my time and taxpayers’ precious dollars. Charge me, or we’re done here.”

  Zellers motioned toward the door.

  Lancaster didn’t linger for even a moment, storming out of the room and marching down the hall toward the exit. He didn’t know if his act convinced them to dig deeper or to drop the case. Under his breath, he prayed it was the latter.

  CHAPTER 8

  CAL WOKE UP to a buzzing cell phone. He rolled over and picked up the phone, squinting as he looked at the image on the screen. Kelly’s face was staring back at him.

  “Do you have any idea what time it is?” he mumbled.

  “Yeah, it’s nine,” she said before realizing her mistake. “Oh, Cal, I’m sorry. The time difference slipped my mind. I hadn’t talked with you and just wanted to find out how things were going.”

  He moaned. “You know better than to call me this early. I’m a grouch until I’ve had my first cup of coffee.”

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry. I totally forgot.” She paused. “But now since you’re up, do you wanna talk?”

  Cal scratched the sleep out of his eye with the index finger on his free hand. He tried to change his disposition, something he’d only do for Kelly. “Sure, I’d love to. Are you guys having a good time?”

  “Believe it or not, it’s been wonderful so far. Me and Mom haven’t gotten into a single argument.”

  “Well, that’s good news.”

  “Yeah. And Maddie is having a great time. She’s getting to visit some of her favorite playgrounds here.”

  “Maddie remembers those playgrounds? She was barely two years old when we left.”

  “I don’t know. She says she remembers them.”

  Cal laughed. “Does she remember the day she was born?”

  “Oh, Cal. Don’t be hard on her. She’s just trying to be big.”

  “I know, but I want to keep her as little as possible for as long as possible. Is there anything wrong with that?”

  “I’m right there with you, hon. But just cut her some slack and play along when she talks to you, okay?”

  “Fine. Your wish is my command.”

  “How’s your coverage of the Sid Westin death? It was big news out here on the East Coast, too.”

  “I don’t know. It’s going okay, but I’ve got a funny feeling about this.”

  “What do you mean by that? It’s just a few reaction stories, right?”

  “It could be—or it could be something much more.”

  “Now, Cal, don’t go poking your nose where it doesn’t belong and wind up shot or kidnapped.”

  “I’m always cautious. You know me.”

  She sighed. “Yes, I do know yo
u, and that’s why I feel obligated to say such a thing.”

  “All right, all right. You win.” He held up his hand as if he were swearing an oath, even though she couldn’t see him. “I promise to be cautious.”

  “Good. Now that we’ve got that settled, why do you feel uneasy about the story?”

  “It’s not that I feel uneasy about it as much as I think there’s more to it—like perhaps Westin was the intended target rather than the vault.”

  “Is Buckman on board with your theory?”

  “Not exactly. He keeps telling me to drop it.”

  “But not Cal Murphy,” she quipped.

  “Exactly. Something is a little hinky about it all.”

  “Hinky? Since when did you start using the word hinky?”

  “My word choice is bothering you now? First I’m giving Maddie a hard time; now my vocabulary isn’t to your liking. Man, I can’t win for losing today.”

  She chuckled. “Just think what it would be like if I was actually there.”

  He scanned the room, which more closely resembled a volcanic closet that had erupted and spewed clothes down the mountainside. It wouldn’t send the natives running for cover, but it would send him running for his life if Kelly saw the sudden onset of a pigsty. “It’d be better than living the bachelor life—that’s for sure.” He couldn’t see her, but he knew she was smiling.

  “So, what seems so hinky about this story?”

  “I don’t know, but he certainly wasn’t beloved by all his teammates.”

  “Horror of horrors,” she said in a mocking tone. “Somebody didn’t like Sid Westin.”

  “Stop it. You’re the one who asked.”

  She turned more serious. “Well, it doesn’t sound like much at the moment beyond what we know happened.”

  “When you put it that way, it does sound like I’m about to lose my mind. But the truth of the matter is he wasn’t universally loved.” He paused. “Just don’t tell Maddie. She’ll be crushed that not everyone worships Sid Westin like she does.”

  “I’d let you not tell her yourself, but she’s out having too much fun on the playground.”