Dead Drop

by Jack Patterson

  What’s this? More spam?

  He opened the email attachment that began with a brief message.

  Guess when this photo was taken? While Sid Westin was playing his final away game.

  Cal pulled his phone closer to his face and struggled to see the significance of the photo. It was a picture of Rebecca Westin standing in front of a sports car, making a sultry pose, including the puckered lips that Cal detested so much. He told Kelly more times than he could count that if he ever saw her puckering out her lips like a demented duck that he’d take her phone away. It was all in good fun as he knew she was in lockstep with him over their disdain for such ridiculous poses. “This is why the aliens will never land here,” Kelly once told him. And he wholeheartedly agreed.

  He stared at the picture of Rebecca for a few more moments but didn’t see anything that would warrant a mysterious text. Cal loathed Instagram and other forms of social media, even if he had to join the various social networks per Buckman’s order, though he was certain this picture must’ve appeared on one of the social network sites. But despite his best efforts, he couldn’t make out anything scandalous. He decided to write the mystery texter back.

  Who is this?

  He waited a moment until he received a response.

  Look more closely in the window of the car.

  Before Cal could blow the picture up, the image vanished from his screen as Javier Martinez’s name and face popped up for an incoming call.

  Nice timing, Martinez.

  Cal answered the call. “Javy! How are you?”

  “Did you call me, Cal?”

  “I need a couple more comments from Seattle FC’s quote machine.”

  Martinez laughed. “I do what I can. What do you need, brother?”

  “I’m finishing up my story on Lynch, and I wanted to get a couple of comments from you regarding his maturation as a player. What has he done, in your opinion, to grow up so fast?”

  “On the record or off the record?”

  “Is there something about Lynch I should know?”

  “For your story—and on the record—Lynch is one of the most dedicated players we’ve got. He arrives earlier and stays later than any other player on the team. He’s always trying to improve personally, and it’s paid big dividends for our team.”

  “This is great. Just a sec.” Cal typed furiously as he transcribed Martinez’s comments in real time. It helped that he talked more slowly than some of his other Latino brethren. “Okay,” Cal said as he finished. “What about this off the record stuff?”

  “Well, this is all hearsay, so I can’t verify any of this,” Martinez began, “but I’ve heard a few whispers around the clubhouse from guys who think he’s using.”

  “Performance enhancers?”

  “Yeah. And it doesn’t surprise me either.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s not uncommon for a young player to add weight and strength once they arrive in the league and get the proper training. Dumbbells, diets, and drills—the ‘triple D effect’, as it’s commonly referred to in our locker room. Awful name, I know, but no crude jokes, please.”

  “No jokes, I promise,” Cal said with a smirk. “Go on.”

  “Usually, the triple D effect makes a moderate impact on a player. They all get stronger, sharper and swifter—”

  “The Triple S results?” Cal quipped.

  “Look, I don’t make up these lame names. I’m just telling you the story, okay?”

  “Got it. Please continue.”

  “Well, our trainer who’s been around the league since it started back more than twenty years ago said that Lynch’s results are off the chart. He’s never had anybody within twenty percent of what he’s accomplished in the time he’s been here. And he emphasized legally.”

  “Meaning guys have equaled or surpassed what he’s done illegally?”

  “That’s what I inferred from his comments.”

  “So, is Lynch using?”

  “The whispers around the clubhouse are that it’s only a matter of time before he gets caught. Players would love to turn his cocky self in, but we’re all benefitting from his improved play. And quite frankly we need all the help we can get right now after Sid’s passing.”

  “You really think he’s going to get suspended?”

  “Not think—know. You can’t get away with that in this day and age. If he’s raising the eyebrows of our trainer, I know plenty of other people around the league are looking suspiciously at Lynch.”

  “Thanks, Martinez. You’ve been a valuable help to my story—for both this one and some future ones I’m likely to write.”

  “Just keep my name out of those future ones, Cal.”

  “You know I will.”

  Cal hung up and took a deep breath. He wanted to contemplate for a moment if he should even write the story given what Martinez told him. Or perhaps he could simply tell Buckman and let him decide. Either way, it was a mess. But Cal didn’t have long to dwell on that potential bomb before he remembered the photo of Rebecca Westin.

  Rebecca’s voluptuous figure filled his screen. He zoomed in on the picture, trying to see what the anonymous person was trying to get him to see. It took him a few minutes. But after twisting his phone and scanning the picture, finally he saw it. And he wasted no time in asking again who the mysterious texter was:

  Who is this?

  Nothing. He waited for a few more minutes before concluding that he wasn’t going to hear from anybody. With all the scandals he was uncovering, Cal thought about checking his calendar to see if today was indeed Christmas. It certainly felt like it to him.

  His phone rang again with another number he didn’t recognize.

  “This is Cal Murphy.”

  “Cal, this is detective Mel Kittrell from the Seattle PD. We need to talk.”

  CHAPTER 21

  MEL KITTRELL WAVED the waitress over to his table and pointed at his coffee cup. She obliged his unspoken request and filled it up sufficiently, leaving just enough room for him to add cream or sugar. He scowled and motioned for her to continue pouring.

  “Real men don’t add anything to their coffee,” he grumbled as she stopped filling up his mug just a hair’s width before it overflowed. “It puts hair on your chest.”

  The waitress forced a smile before she scurried away to another table demanding her presence.

  The bell on the door jangled against the glass, drawing Kittrell’s attention along with the other four patrons in the restaurant. It was Cal Murphy, who kept his head down except to glance around the room and identify who he was scheduled to meet. Kittrell watched as Cal walked nonchalantly toward him before sliding into the booth seat opposite of him.

  “Thanks for coming,” Kittrell said.

  Cal shrugged. “Not sure I can be of much help, but I’ll try. Where’s your partner?”

  “He’s got a nasty case of the flu. I prefer not to see him again for at least another week.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  The waitress bounced back toward their table and turned over the plain white mug sitting in front of Cal.

  “Coffee?” she said, unwilling to wait for Cal’s response. She filled his cup halfway before he had a chance to respond.

  “Thanks,” he said as he stared down at the steaming liquid in front of him. “So, what’s this all about?” Cal began as he redirected his attention toward Kittrell. “And before we begin, full disclosure—I’m back on this story.”

  Kittrell furrowed his brow. “When were you ever off it?”

  “A couple of days ago, but I fixed that.”

  “What happened?”

  “Someone with vested interest in this story put pressure on my boss to get me off the story, but I pulled a few strings to rectify the matter.”

  “Legally?”

  Cal scrunched up his face and shrugged as his head bobbed from side to side.

  “Never mind. You don’t have to answer that. In fact, I don’t wann
a know.”

  “Fair enough. So, what’s this all about?”

  “I think we both know by now that Sid Westin wasn’t just an innocent bystander killed during an armed robbery.”

  “I’m beginning to have my doubts about the innocent bystander thing.”

  “You’re just beginning to have doubts?”

  “Look, Detective. I can’t imagine it’d be much different in your world than mine. I can’t print anything until I’ve got some verifiable proof—the kind of proof that we can leverage to escape a messy lawsuit if one happens to appear. And right now, as much as my gut is telling me that something is awry here, I don’t have the kind of proof required.”

  Kittrell slapped the table and grinned. “Well, you’re wrong. My world is very different—at least at this point it is. I’m simply tasked with coming up with a theory. Nothing has to be confirmed or verified yet. That all comes later. I just need to develop a plausible theory and work it until its logical conclusion.”

  “And what theory are you working right now?”

  “The one that says Rebecca Westin is behind all of this.”

  Cal eyed him cautiously. “What makes you say that?”

  “Evidence, to be honest. Though if I was backed into a corner, I’d say most of it was circumstantial. But Rebecca will benefit the most from Sid’s death.”

  “That’s far from news. Aren’t most spouses the primary beneficiary of their spouse?”

  “Unless there’s a written will, yes. But in the case of a young husband dying, that’s almost always an easy out.”

  “Why is it not only easy but also correct this time around?”

  “For one, we’ve already been able to tie the vehicle the bank robbers used back to the Westins.”

  Cal smiled and held up his hand. “Is this on the record or off? I just want to clarify.”

  “For now, it’s off. But help me solve this thing and that will all change.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The unfortunate part of my story is that our chief witness in the story hung himself in his jail cell after he agreed to cooperate.”

  “Sounds fishy to me?”

  Kittrell’s eyes widened as he stared at Cal for a moment before speaking, “That’s what I said. Nobody at the department was listening to me.” He sighed. “And to be honest, I never imagined he would take his own life.”

  “That’s because he didn’t.”

  Kittrell nodded at Cal. “You’ve got a point—a point that fell on deaf ears when I made it at the department right after it happened.”

  “But right now, there are just too many things aligning for Rebecca not to be the killer.” Cal leaned back in his seat. “Way too many.”

  “Is there something I should know about?” Kittrell asked.

  Cal fished his cell phone out of his pocket and tapped in the security code. He navigated to the correct page and slid the phone across the table to the sergeant. “Take a look at this.”

  Kittrell cocked his head to one side as he took the phone and stared at the page on the screen. He squinted as he stared at the image. “What am I looking at here?”

  “This picture was supposedly taken and posted when Sid Westin was out of town for Seattle FC’s last road game.”

  “I get that, but what am I looking at?”

  Cal took another sip of his coffee. “I think the better question is who, Detective.”

  “How’d you get this photo?” Kittrell said, his gaze darting from the screen to Cal.

  “Someone sent it to me.”

  “Did they obtain it legally?”

  “Doubt it. Look in the window in the background.”

  Kittrell zoomed on the picture and gawked at the image on the screen.

  “Do you see it?” Cal asked.

  Kittrell chuckled to himself. “Oh, I see it all right. I just want to know who that is.”

  “Look a little closer.”

  After a few seconds, Kittrell smacked his forehead with his hand. “Is that who I think it is?”

  Cal nodded. “Yep. Sid Westin’s agent, Jonathan Umbert.”

  “What was he doing with Rebecca Westin?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, but I can almost guarantee you they weren’t going over Sid’s latest contract.”

  Kittrell shook his head. “This just got really interesting.”

  CHAPTER 22

  CAL FILED HIS STORY on Lynch and took a call from Buckman less than fifteen minutes later. According to Buckman, he’d received an email from an anonymous source with footage of Cal’s confrontation with Ramsey at King’s Hardware. Buckman went into a tirade, complete with yelling, cursing, and threatening. Buckman’s bluster didn’t bother Cal too much as he’d experience a far more emotional Buckman when the curmudgeon once exploded in a staff meeting over the inability to apply the Oxford comma in various articles in that day’s edition.

  “Finally,” Buckman said, “I’m taking you off this story completely. You are done, Cal. I can’t believe you acted like this toward a fellow colleague. You’re lucky I didn’t fire you over this.”

  Cal knew better than to concoct some excuse. Enduring a tongue lashing from his wife was sufficient. Buckman was only telling Cal what he already knew.

  He hung up and let out a guttural growl. Knowing Ramsey the way he did, Cal suspected this was his doing. It was confirmed less than five minutes later when Cal received a text message from Ramsey with nothing but an emoji sticking its tongue out.

  I wish that was your face so I could punch it right now, you spineless punk.

  It was too late to dwell on what he should have done to get himself back on the story. Violence wasn’t the answer—and he knew it. All his justifications felt lame and contrived and desperate. He was driven by both the desire to atone for missing on the Gonzalez story as well as his dogged determination to get the truth out. But Kelly was right that he knew better, and it was nothing more than an impulsive decision to try and reassert himself in one of the most important stories in the city to come along in the past few years, even if it didn’t seem that way to anyone else.

  A bank robbery that resulted in the death of one of the city’s most beloved sports stars was a shame, yet that story that didn’t have many legs. But a murder disguised as a bank robbery? The latter was the kind of story sadistic reporters dream about. And Cal fell squarely into that category. He craved stories with angles galore and legs that would carry them for miles of column space on the front page. While he felt like his ability to worm his way back into Buckman’s good graces might appear like an insurmountable challenge, he knew he’d find a way back armed with the truth of what really happened—as long as he beat Ramsey to it.

  The questions of who and why gnawed at Cal as he mulled over his hypothesis that the bank robbery was all a cover for the blatant murder of Sid Westin. Rebecca, Sid’s wife, was looking more and more guilty by the moment—and perhaps she was aided by Umbert. Or maybe Umbert planned the whole thing so he could have Rebecca all to himself. At this point, Cal couldn’t be sure, but he wasn’t going to rule anything out either. And there was still the possibility that none of these scenarios were correct.

  He slammed his laptop shut and headed out the door, destined for the downtown Seattle PD precinct to meet up with Kittrell.

  ***

  WHEN CAL ENTERED the precinct, he was met by a few familiar faces—some friendly and some not so much. Cal saw the chief and nodded at him. The chief nodded back and then glanced at his coffee cup that appeared as if it had been ejected from a machine in the break room. Cal watched the chief take a sip and then glance back over in his direction.

  Cal began to grow nervous, even though he had no reason to be concerned. His nerves returned when he saw Kittrell walk up to the chief, slap him on the back with a case folder, and share a laugh together.

  “You ready to do this?” Kittrell asked as he neared Cal.

  Cal nodded. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Th
e two agreed to work together on questioning Umbert. Since Cal wasn’t on the case any longer, Kittrell told him he’d ask the chief about letting him join as a special consultant. With Cal’s knowledge of all the principle suspects involved, Kittrell believed it would benefit the department to have him join in. At least that’s what Cal heard. He wondered if this whole show of partnership was nothing more than to keep an eye on The Times’ feisty reporter who often stirred up trouble for the Seattle PD. Cal decided he’d honor his word not to write about the case as long as he was working on it with Kittrell. But Cal knew the minute the heart of the story broke, he’d resign as a consultant. There was no way he was going to give this story to anyone else in the department—especially Ramsey.

  They took Kittrell’s car, and the two engaged in small talk as the detective navigated Seattle’s late afternoon traffic with relative ease.

  “How do you know about all these shortcuts?” Cal asked, half awed, half jealous over Kittrell’s prowess on the streets.

  “GPS directions are so overrated. They send everyone down the same beaten path. Meanwhile, if you have a good sense of direction and a good idea about traffic flow patterns, it’s not difficult to maneuver around the so-called preferred routes with ease.”

  “So, have you developed any alternate theories about Umbert yet?” Cal asked.

  “I haven’t had time to.” Kittrell glanced over at Cal. “But at this point, do we really need to? It seems pretty open and shut to me—as long as we can gather the evidence to prove Umbert had something to do with it.”

  “That might not be so easy.”

  “Well, you might be right.”

  Cal eyed the detective cautiously. “What are you not telling me?”

  He sighed. “The getaway van used by the robbers was in Sid Westin’s name.”

  “Come again?”

  “I think you heard me loud and clear.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t believe it. How is that even possible?”

  “Rebecca claims she didn’t even know her husband owned a van.”

  “But you’ve verified that he did?”