“I don’t know. This story requires some evidence before I write it and—”
“You don’t have the time to get it,” Buckman roared as he rose out of his seat. After he sat back down, he calmly continued, “Now, what I want you to do is to dig into this rumor that Seattle might get an NBA team again since Oklahoma City refuses to build a new arena for the Thunder.”
“So Seattle is willing to build one?”
“Anything to get our Sonics back.”
Before Cal could respond, his phone buzzed with a call. He glanced down at the caller ID and decided he couldn’t wait another moment to answer his phone. Cal held up his index finger and eyed Buckman. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to take this.”
“Stay here, and put it on speaker,” Buckman said. “I want to hear how you conduct your business.”
“So, you’re micromanaging me now?”
“Get over yourself, Cal. Put it on speaker now.”
Seething, Cal answered the the phone and pressed the speakerphone button. “This is Cal.”
“Hey, Cal. This is Jarrett Anderson.”
“Thanks for the call. It’s been a while.”
“Yeah, I know. Been to Mexico lately?”
Cal forced a laugh. He’d spent plenty of time trying to forget the nightmare of working with the FBI several years ago when Seahawks quarterback Noah Larson’s son Jake was kidnapped and taken to Mexico until the ransom was paid. He only hoped Anderson’s phone call wasn’t an omen of another harrowing adventure.
“I do my best to avoid all Spanish-speaking countries these days,” Cal said. “They’re nothing but trouble.”
Anderson chuckled. “I understand. Well, anyway, I wanted to let you know about a potential story that’s brewing here.”
“And you need my help?”
A moment of silence. “Okay, guilty as charged, Cal. If we could do this without you, we would. But our chief here thought you might be able to help us flush a suspect out. We don’t have enough on him yet, but all we need to do is get him to make a desperate move to nail him.”
“So, you’re feeding me a story for the express purpose of getting him to panic?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, I’m not sure my editor will go for that,” Cal said. Across the desk from Cal, Buckman was wildly waving his arms and shooting evil looks at his star reporter. “I’ll need to talk with him first.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Buckman whispered. “Of course we want the story.”
Cal sneered at him. “Don’t you want me to cover the annual rumor that Seattle is getting an NBA team again?” he said in a hushed tone. “Besides, you don’t even know what it is you’re agreeing to.”
“I don’t care,” Buckman said. “Tell him you can do it.”
“Cal? Are you still there?” Anderson asked.
“Yep. Sorry. I’m still here.” He paused. “You know, on second thought, go ahead and tell me what it is you want me to write about. I’m sure I’ll be able to convince my editor to run with it. I happen to have one of the most reliable sources.”
“Excellent,” Anderson said as the sound of him clapping came through clearly. “Have you got a pen and paper? You’re gonna want to take good notes?”
“I’m all ears.”
“Great. We’re nearing an indictment on Dr. Bill Lancaster. Dr. Lancaster runs a clinic in St. Louis that specializes in rehabilitation among other things. We also have record of him shipping HGH supplements to someone in your neck of the woods—and in quantities that defy logic.”
“And who might that be?” Cal said, pausing from his furious note taking for a moment.
“Are you familiar with a woman named Rebecca Westin?”
CHAPTER 11
AS CAL MOVED UPSTREAM against the fans making their way to the CenturyLink Field gates, he noted the lack of buzz and excitement that usually accompanied pre-game festivities. Dour faces dominated the crowd as it marched solemnly into the stadium. Seattle FC fans had lost not only one of the team’s best players, but they lost one of their favorites as well. The club’s public relations team billed the game with Portland as an opportunity to celebrate Sid Westin’s life as a player and as a beloved member of the city. To Cal, it looked more like a wake.
Cal made his way to his seat on press row, next to Josh Moore, who’d worked his way into The Times’s beat writer position for Seattle FC.
Hal Presswick, who covered the Portland Timbers for The Oregonian, slapped Cal on the back as he sucked in his gut and slithered his way to his seat.
“Did you draw the short straw tonight?” Presswick said. Already sweating profusely, he wiped his forehead with the forearm of his sleeve.
“No other place I’d rather be tonight.”
“You wouldn’t rather be covering an NBA game? Oh, wait. Seattle doesn’t have an NBA team.”
Cal shook his head and smiled. “You do realize that I don’t spend my spare time with my friends talking about how much better Seattle is than Portland, much less what a better sports town Seattle is either. I hate wasting time talking about facts.”
Presswick dumped his laptop bag onto the desk and rolled his eyes. He slid his glasses up on his nose and sighed. Cal glanced down the row at him, waiting for Presswick’s comeback. It was a fun dance the two engaged in every time they saw one another. But Presswick didn’t fire off another salvo, instead choosing silence. Cal figured it must’ve been out of respect for the general somber mood of the press box. Almost every reporter present had dealt with Sid Westin at least once—and he was a favorite of them all. And in such a tight-knit group of writers, Westin’s death had hit home hard. He wasn’t just some athlete who died; he was someone they knew, someone who some of the writers might even call a friend.
Fifteen minutes before kickoff, Seattle FC played a video tribute to Westin on the jumbotron. It highlighted some of Westin’s more memorable moments with the team as well as candid photos and videos of him interacting in the community. Then a moment of silence.
Though players on both teams were visibly emotional during the pre-game ceremonies, it vanished once the whistle blew to start the match. From that point on, it was just another grudge match between the Pacific Northwest’s only two soccer clubs.
There were plenty of tense moments but little scoring until Matt Norfolk broke the ice. With a minute remaining until halftime, Norfolk headed in a goal on a cross from Javier Martinez to give Seattle FC a 1-0 lead.
Cal got up and took his place at the back of the line for the halftime dessert spread.
Presswick, who’d already piled a plate high of chocolate chip cookies and brownies, walked past Cal and sat down. “You’re getting treated to a great match tonight. I hope you appreciate it.”
“Oh, I am,” Cal said. “Almost as good as an English Premiership match.”
Presswick stopped and looked over the top of his glasses at Cal. “Let’s not get carried away here, okay?”
Once the second half began, Portland struck back ten minutes in, tying the match on a goal from a direct kick just outside the box.
With the outcome still in doubt, the tension in the stadium grew. Cal watched fans below tense up with each build-up, trying to will their team to score or stop their opponent. It was fantastic theater, something that made almost everyone forget about the fact that Westin was gone.
As the game entered the final three minutes of stoppage time, play on the field grew more intense. The crowd seemed to hold its collective breath with each shot on goal, no matter which side of the field it occurred on.
And then, a breakthrough.
Seattle FC midfield Shawn Lynch made a nifty move on a Portland midfielder to steal the ball and streak down the field toward the Portland goal. He zipped a pass to Norfolk between two Portland defenders, and Norfolk buried the ball in the back of the net.
The crowd went crazy, celebrating as if the team had won a championship. A few fans climbed over the wall and rushed onto the field, shaking hands
with Norfolk. The subsequent roundup by security officials delayed the ensuing kickoff but didn’t seem to dampen the spirits of the fans. Moments after Portland kicked off, the referee blew his whistle to signal the end of the match.
Cal, who’d made his way down to the field with five minutes remaining, watched the surreal scene. It was as if all the pent up frustration and grief over Westin’s death was released the moment Norfolk’s shot curled neatly past the Portland goalkeeper and into the net.
“Helluva game, huh?” said Seattle FC President Fred Jameson as he raced past Cal and onto the center of the field.
Cal nodded, partially in agreement, partially in disbelief at the scene unfolding. The whole city seemed to need something to celebrate after Westin’s tragic death. In some mystical way, the win served as a healing ointment, making everyone forget for just a moment about their grief and rally around a victory. To the outsider, Cal thought it would seem superficial. But it wasn’t. This was a coping mechanism, a short respite from the cruel realities of a world that isn’t so forgiving.
A half hour after the game ended, the players filed into the interview room to stand before a media anxious to grab a quote or a sound byte quickly enough to satisfy their tight deadlines. Seattle FC media relations director Paul Holloway grabbed a microphone and stood in the corner of the room.
“First up is Matt Norfolk,” Holloway said.
Immediately, Norfolk made a brief statement. Then the questions began raining down upon him. The first few questions danced around Westin’s death. It was almost as if the reporters were afraid to broach the subject out of respect for the dead. But once Holloway recognized Cal, he didn’t hesitate to ask the question everybody wanted to know the answer to.
“How much did you guys talk about Sid’s death tonight before the game?” Cal asked.
“A lot,” Norfolk said. “Before the game began, I wanted to dedicate my play on the field tonight to Sid.” He ripped his trademark wristband off and showed everyone the number 18 emblazoned on it—Sid’s number. “This game tonight was for him.”
Cal wasn’t finished.
“Without Sid here tonight, you really picked up the slack. How much of that was adrenaline? And how much of that was you finally getting an opportunity to step out of his shadow?”
Norfolk sighed and glared at Cal. “I know you’re not The Times’s regular reporter and aren’t too aware of what this team is capable of, but Sid Westin—with all due respect—wasn’t the only person scoring goals on this team.” He paused. “It was terrible what happened to him, and this team was much better with him on it. But am I worried about the future of this club? I think tonight’s performance answered that question. We just beat the defending league champs. We’re going to be just fine.”
Norfolk took a few more questions before slipping through the throng of reporters.
Cal scribbled down a few notes before meandering down the hallway toward the exit. He was almost to the door when he heard a familiar voice calling his name.
“Cal!”
Cal turned around to see Javier Martinez standing in front of him.
“Javy, good to see you. Great game tonight.”
Martinez ran his hand through his hair, still wet from his post-game shower. He glanced down the hallway and then looked back at Cal. “We did all right.” He looked over his shoulder again. “Look, I know the Matt Norfolk angle makes for an interesting story, but if you want to know the real secret behind this team’s success tonight, look at Shawn Lynch. His play at midfield is what’s keeping this team together.”
“Shawn’s kind of new to the scene, isn’t he?”
Martinez shook his head. “No, he’s been around a while. But he’s really come on strong lately, almost out of nowhere. I would’ve pegged him for a lifer on the practice squad if you would’ve asked me about him a year ago, but he’s improved more than anyone else on the team. That’s the story you’re really looking for.”
Cal shrugged. “Perhaps, but I’m beholden to the almighty editor for my assignments with you guys, and tonight he said to write a mood piece about Sid Westin.”
“Maybe another time then, huh?”
“Sure,” Cal said, firmly grabbing Martinez’s shoulder. “If not me, I’ll make sure Josh Moore gets on it.”
Martinez sighed. “Well, I think it should be you who writes it.”
“Okay, man. I didn’t know you had such strong feelings about who wrote what story in the paper.”
A smile spread across Martinez’s lips. “Sometimes, you want the very best.”
Cal chuckled and shook his head. “You’re too kind, my friend. Have a good night.”
Ambling across the parking lot, Cal nearly made it to his car before he felt a heavy hand laid upon his shoulder. He turned around to face Paul Holloway.
“Paul, how are you?”
Holloway glared at him.
“Okay,” Cal said as he took a step back. “I take it this isn’t a social call.”
“You be careful out there,” Holloway said, wagging his finger at Cal. “I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”
“Is there something specific that I should be concerned about?”
Holloway had already turned and was walking away. “You know what you’re doing out there, and you know when you cross the line. Just don’t cross the line.”
Cal took a deep breath and looked upward at the stars that were still bright enough to penetrate the light pollution from Seattle’s evening sky. For a moment, he enjoyed the serenity. Then he collected his thoughts and climbed into his car. The peace was fleeting. He couldn’t shake the sense that something dark was brooding over the team’s beloved soccer club. And he wasn’t going to stop digging until he learned what it was.
CHAPTER 12
LATE TUESDAY MORNING, Shawn Lynch ran passing drills with several members of the Seattle FC practice squad. Practice had ended ten minutes ago, but he still felt the need to take a few more reps before retreating to the locker room. It’s not like the media members were clamoring to interview him either. Letting it all clear out was a tertiary benefit of staying out on the field.
Lynch yelled at one of the production staff members. “Where’s my music?” he asked, throwing his hands in the air.
The staffer jogged toward midfield. He sat down at a table and started pushing buttons on a small soundboard there. In a matter of seconds, the sounds of Garth Brooks came blaring through the loudspeakers.
“Awww, come on, Lynch,” one of the practice squad members groaned. “More country music? Geez. This is almost unbearable.”
“If you can’t get fired up listening to Thunder Rolls, you’ve got problems,” Lynch fired back. “It’s the perfect metaphor for a midfield that’s playing well together.”
The player shook his head and rolled his eyes. He turned his back on Lynch, who booted a screaming line drive pass across the field that hit the player in the back. Surprised, the player fell forward and onto the ground. He got up rubbing his back and shot Lynch a dirty look.
“I’m done for the day,” he said as he glanced over his shoulder at Lynch.
Lynch laughed as he jogged toward the ball.
“I’m outta here, too,” said another player.
Left alone, Lynch began juggling the ball at midfield and singing along with his favorite country music star.
The voice of a man neaerby arrested Lynch’s attention. “Aren’t you a little young to be a fan of Garth Brooks?”
Lynch snatched the ball out of the air and stopped. He glanced to his left to see The Times reporter Cal Murphy standing a few feet away.
“I think the interviews are in the clubhouse,” Lynch said. He turned his back on Cal and continued juggling.
Cal put his bag down on the ground and grabbed one of the balls lying nearby. He started juggling, keeping pace with Lynch.
After a few moments, Lynch stopped and cocked his head to one side. “I don’t think we’re having any more open try outs, but if yo
u want to play, you should talk with coach. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Lynch started juggling again, but this time, Cal stepped in and stole the ball in midair with his foot.
Lynch put his hands on his hips. “Okay, dude, I don’t know who you are, but you’re starting to annoy me.”
Cal stopped. “Cal Murphy from The Times.” He offered his hand, but Lynch ignored it.
Lynch picked the ball up from the ground and tucked it under his arm. “Like I said, the interviews are taking place in the clubhouse,” he said, pointing toward one of the exits.
“Yes, but the player I want to interview is right here,” Cal countered. “Wanna chat for a few minutes?”
Lynch shrugged. “I must warn you that I’m not a great interview.”
“Says who?”
“Says everyone.”
“Well, maybe you just haven’t been interviewed by the right person.”
Lynch flashed a smile. “So, what’s this story about that you want to write?” He gestured for Cal to sit on the front row of the small set of metal bleachers off to the side.
“You,” Cal said, pulling out his notebook and digital recorder. “Well, mostly about you. A little bit about the rise of the team this season and what’s behind it. But also about you.”
“Where’s Josh Moore? Isn’t he the normal writer for you guys?”
“Yes, he’s the team beat writer, but we all pitch in and help from time to time.” Cal flipped a page in his notebook and then eyed Lynch closely. “So, several of your teammates have encouraged me to talk to you about how you’ve gone from the practice squad to the starting lineup in such a short period of time. One player even told me he would’ve bet you’d never have made it.”
“Who said that?”
Cal chuckled. “I don’t want to throw anyone under the bus.”
“It was probably Martinez. He never thought much of me.”
“Would it make you feel better to know that he was the one who first recommended I interview you?”
Lynch shook his head. “I don’t know. He can be a snake sometimes.”
Dead Drop (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 9) Page 6