Dead Drop

by Jack Patterson

  “Cal Murphy dropped it by. He told me to give it to you. It’s a burner phone that supposedly belonged to Sid Westin.” She paused. “He didn’t tell you about this?”

  “No, but thanks. I’ll contact him.”

  Less than a minute later, he was smiling as he strode into Molly Morton’s office. “Got a present for you.”

  She spun around in her chair. “It’s going to take more than a smile to get me to look at that for you—especially sometime this century.”

  “Grande soy latte?” he said as he pointed at her.

  “Now you’re talking my language.” She winked at him. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  CHAPTER 40

  MATT NORFOLK FLIPPED THE BALL into the air and juggled it on his foot a few times before whirling and kicking it from midfield into the upper right corner of the goal. The rest of his Seattle FC teammates had retreated to the locker room fifteen minutes ago when practice ended. But Norfolk wasn’t ready to quit. He’d sacrificed so much already just to reach this point in his career—and he wasn’t about to fall behind again.

  He started to repeat the drill when he heard a commotion coming from behind him at the other end of the field. Straining to make out who it was, he identified the Seattle FC media relations director, Paul Holloway, sparring verbally with another man. Holloway failed in his efforts to stop the man who evaded him. As the man walked in Norfolk’s direction, he recognized him: Cal Murphy.

  “I’m not going to ask you to stop again,” Holloway yelled at Cal.

  “Good!” Cal said as he continued to march toward the middle of the field.

  “I mean it. I’m going to call security and have them escort you off the premises. You’re not welcome here.”

  “Excellent. That will make for some great social media viewing since I’m recording everything right now.”

  “I told Buckman your credentials have been revoked,” Holloway said.

  Half annoyed, half intrigued, Norfolk jogged in Cal’s direction. He waved at Holloway. “It’s okay, Paul. I’ll talk to him. I’m sure you have better things to do. He’s harmless.”

  Norfolk watched Holloway huff and storm off. He then turned his attention toward Cal. “What brings you out here today, Mr. Murphy? Not enough muck to rake with the Mariners in Spring Training this week?”

  Cal threw his hands up. “What can I say? I’m impartial to the beautiful game.”

  “No, you’re impartial to the mystery behind Sid Westin’s death even though there’s no mystery any more. Wrong place, wrong time. It was unfortunate.”

  “Yet you benefit more than anybody with his death.”

  Norfolk began to juggle the ball on his foot. “It was only a matter of time before I overtook the old man anyway. He struggled in training and hadn’t lasted an entire game this season. He was on his last leg. If he didn’t get out of the way for me, he was going to get run over.”

  “I appreciate your confidence—I really do. But you and I both know your coach wasn’t going to replace Sid with you. He was a legend.”

  “Maybe you’re right. But they wouldn’t let me get away either. I’m the future of this club. They need me.”

  “He was a legend—and you are in your own mind.”

  “Did you just come all the way out here to insult me? I can call Paul back out here to have security escort you back to your car.”

  Cal held up both hands in a posture of surrender. “I come in peace.”

  “Then why don’t you act like it and get to the point of your visit.” Norfolk popped the ball in the air and kicked it into the goal.

  “The reason I’m here is I actually don’t believe the person responsible for Sid’s death has been found.”

  “What about the guy who shot him? Isn’t he dead?”

  “True. But he was just a pawn. Somebody hired him, and I think I might know whom. But I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

  Before Cal could say another word, Shawn Lynch, with his nasally voice, yelled at Norfolk. “You want to go to lunch today?”

  Norfolk waved him off. “I’m good. I’ll catch you tomorrow.” He returned his gaze toward Cal, who stared at Lynch, mouth agape. “You were saying—”

  Cal refocused his attention on Norfolk. “Oh, sorry. I was saying that I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

  Norfolk started to juggle another ball on his foot. “I know, I know. Get to them, okay? I still want to get some more drills in here.”

  “Do you ever feel like there are some guys on this team who don’t pull their weight?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, are there some guys who seem to vanish mentally in the middle of a game?”

  “We all do that sometimes. But are there some guys who do it more often than others?” Norfolk nodded. “Yeah. There are a few of those.”

  “What about him?” Cal said, pointing at Lynch, who was climbing into his car. “Does he do that sometimes?”

  “He’s one of the biggest offenders,” Norfolk said, nodding in Lynch’s direction. “But that’s not unusual for one of the new guys on the team. It’s an adjustment.”

  “But you don’t have that problem?”

  “The fact that I’m aware that an issue often exists ought to tell you all you need to know about my preparedness as a player.”

  “Duly noted,” Cal said as he scratched down some notes on his pad. “Now, I promise not to quote you directly on this, but do you think Lynch would benefit from Sid being dead? Like, for example, would he get more endorsements? Because he’s already starting.”

  Norfolk shrugged. “Maybe. Sid was certainly hogging all the endorsements.”

  “Last question. Do you think he was capable of pulling off something like what happened to Sid?”

  Norfolk looked at him incredulously. “You mean hiring a hit man to kill him during a bank robbery? Is that what you’re asking me?”

  Cal nodded.

  “I guess so, but he’s far from the coldest player on this team and the one I would suspect if I were investigating Sid’s death as a murder.”

  “Well, out with it then.”

  CHAPTER 41

  THE CORPORATE HEADQUARTERS of Cars, Cars, Cars was far less assuming than Kittrell imagined. The way it was presented on television, Kittrell believed the company’s office space had to look like a scaled-down version of the Taj Mahal, complete with gold fenders and platinum bumpers adorned on the walls. Instead, it was rather modest with little more than art prints hung from the walls and uncomfortable—and mismatched—furniture used to decorate the waiting area.

  Kittrell glanced at his phone and waited to be summoned by the sassy receptionist, who looked over the top of her glasses at everyone.

  “Detective Mel Kittrell,” she called. “Mr. Lynch will see you now.”

  She pointed to her right where a young man was waiting for him. He greeted Kittrell with a smile. “Thank you for stopping by, sir. Right this way.”

  Kittrell followed the man through a set of double doors and into an expansive office where William Lynch sat pecking away on his computer keyboard.

  “Have a seat,” Lynch muttered as he continued to pound away.

  Kittrell sat down. “Thank you, Mr. Lynch.”

  After a few moments, Lynch looked up. “So, what is it you’re here to see me about, Detective?”

  Kittrell almost burst into laughter at the absurd portrait someone had painted of Lynch and his Pomeranian centered on the wall behind him. It wasn’t the portrait itself as much as it was the look on Lynch’s face—and how it matched the dog’s. They both peered down their noses, and it was exactly how Kittrell felt in that moment, as if Lynch was giving him the once over without considering what he had to say.

  “How well did you know Robert Fisher?”

  Lynch knit his brow. “Who?”

  “Robert Fisher.”

  “Never heard of him,” Lynch scoffed.

  “Are you sure about that?” Kittrell countered. “A
pparently, he worked for you for quite a number of years.”

  “Oh, yes, Bobby Fisher. We used to call him that and tease him because he shared the same name as the great chess player. But let me tell you, our Bobby Fisher couldn’t get his opponent into check if his life depended on it, let alone understand the concept of checkmate.”

  “And what exactly did he do for you?”

  Lynch leaned back in his chair. “Why all the interest in Fisher? What did he do?”

  “He’s dead,” Kittrell said, devoid of any feeling or emotion.

  “Dead?”

  “I didn’t stutter. He’s dead, sir.”

  Lynch put his hands behind his head, interlocking his fingers. He stared at the ceiling and appeared to choke back a few tears. It was all believable theater that Kittrell appreciated, even if he didn’t believe Lynch was being truthful.

  “Good ole Bobby Fisher is dead.”

  “As a doornail.” Kittrell paused. “Don’t you read the paper?”

  “Only to figure out how to place my bets.”

  “Fair enough. So, what I came here to ask you is why did your organization donate more than two hundred grand into an offshore account with Robert Fisher’s name on it?”

  Lynch sighed. “I don’t know, Detective. Does it look like I’ve got time to micromanage my people around here? I’m too busy building an empire to worry about who got what and how much. Maybe he did; maybe he didn’t. You’ll have to ask someone in accounting about that.”

  “So, for the record, you’re saying you had nothing to do with it?”

  “For the record, I barely know who Robert Fisher is.”

  Kittrell was persistent. “So, you’re denying any involvement with Fisher in his attempt to rob Puget Sound Bank a little over a week ago?”

  “I’m saying I hardly know who Fisher is, and I’d never ask him to do such a thing. If he was involved, it wasn’t on my behalf.”

  Kittrell stood up. “Sorry to take up so much of your time, sir. If you ever need any help at the department, please let me know.”

  Lynch chuckled. “Oh, yes. I’ve got a few suggestions for you, starting with Cal Murphy. If there’s any way you can get him tarred and feathered for suggesting that my son used HGH to make it to the high level of professional soccer in the U.S., that’d be great.”

  “I’m a detective, sir, not a miracle worker.”

  “Whatever you do, keep me posted. Understood?”

  Kittrell nodded. “I’ll update you when I have a chance.” He stood up. “And thank you for your time, sir.”

  Lynch nodded back. “And, Detective? If you still think someone else was behind it all, I know exactly where you need to turn your focus.”

  CHAPTER 42

  CAL MET KITTRELL DOWNTOWN at the main precinct, both men eager to share with one another what they found and discuss the case. With Quinn gone, Cal felt like he was serving more as a substitute partner than a consultant.

  “Is Chief Roman still okay with me consulting on this case?” Cal asked.

  “At this point, what difference does it make? I think he’d approve of a cat being my partner if it meant we could close out this case.”

  “Not a dog?”

  “Some guys already have dogs as partners, had to be creative with my analogy.”

  Cal chuckled. “Maybe you should be the writer then.”

  “I hate writing reports. I couldn’t imagine how much I’d hate trying to write a book.”

  “To each his own,” Cal said, pulling out his notepad. “So, did you get a chance to listen to the recording on that phone I dropped off?”

  “I’m about three hours ahead of you here and have a truckload of information to share with you. But first things first: I had Molly play the recording for me on my way back from visiting William Lynch.”

  “And?”

  “And it sounded like Shawn Lynch to me, but I had her do a little digging on the phone.”

  “Like looking for numbers and prints?”

  “A little more advanced than that, starting with the recording itself.”

  Cal leaned forward in his chair. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, something sounded off about it, like it was faked.”

  “And what did she find out?”

  Kittrell cracked his knuckles and looked Cal in the eyes. “That conversation never happened. It was all digitally reconstructed.”

  “Was there anything else on the phone of use?”

  “At first Molly said it looked clean, but she took a second pass at it and found another file. People often make the mistake of thinking that when they delete something on their phone, it’s completely gone from the memory, but that’s not always the case. It’s gone forever when it gets recorded on top of. But when a phone has hardly any information stored on it, files are stored in fresh locations.”

  “Meaning there was another conversation?”

  Kittrell nodded and pulled out a thumb drive and then plugged it into his computer. “Listen to this.” He hit play and let the recording roll. It was Sid Westin talking with Javier Martinez.

  Sid: Javy, I’ve got a friend who’s been doing a little analytics for me.

  Martinez: Is it helping your game at all?

  Sid: A little bit. It’s made me think about my tendencies and be more pro-active about going left more often than always going right when I have the ball in the area. But that’s not the most interesting thing he’s discovered.

  Martinez: What was then?

  Sid: He showed me a spreadsheet detailing games we were favored in and the final outcome.

  Martinez: And that was more interesting?

  Sid: Only because it was also overlaid with each player’s performance metrics. And you know what he found?

  (No response from Javier)

  Sid: He found that in certain games where we were favored by two goals or more, you underperformed and we only won those games by one goal, sometimes tying. And then in certain games when we were predicted to lose by two goals or more, your performance exceeded your usual metrics. Oftentimes, we won those games or tied. Then he called a friend of his who runs one of Lynch’s underground gambling rings, and you know what he found?

  (Still no response from Javier)

  Sid: He found that those games where you performed differently than normal, there was an above average amount of money bet on those games—which got me to thinking. I know you used to work for William Lynch and your father still does. If this is some way to get back at him, I’m going to tell you right now that it’s a dangerous game you’re playing.

  Martinez: You don’t know what you’re talking about.

  Sid: The numbers don’t lie, Javy. This isn’t something to play around with. Lynch is a dangerous man. You think Shawn really made this team on his own merit?

  Martinez: Maybe Shawn did, and maybe he didn’t. But whatever you think I’m doing, you’re wrong.

  Sid: If it happens again, I’m going to the authorities—or William Lynch himself. I’m sure he’d love to know he’s being hustled.

  Martinez: I know what it might look like, but it’s not what you think. It’s complicated.

  Sid: It’s always complicated—so uncomplicate it. Do the right thing. People on this team are counting on you. We want to win a championship, and we’ll never be able to with a teammate who’s jerking us around like this.

  Martinez: Just worry about yourself.

  Kittrell turned the recording off and looked at Cal.

  “Why would Javy give me the phone with that information on there? It doesn’t make sense,” Cal said.

  “It makes perfect sense if he thinks he’s going to send you off in the wrong direction. This investigation has a shelf life, and if it’s not solved, we’re going to move on.”

  “But why would he use the same phone?”

  “Maybe he thought we’d be able to trace it back to its owner and he didn’t want to get caught in a cover up.”

  “Too late for that now.
”

  Kittrell nodded. “The problem we have now is admissibility. Would a judge allow this to be heard in court? If not, the prosecution would be sunk and he’d walk.”

  “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.