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?”
Kittrell nodded. “Apparently it was a big secret. There were a few other people who knew about it. We tracked down the guy Sid bought the van from just to make sure it was indeed Sid—and the seller confirmed it was.”
“So you think Rebecca found out about the van and used it to frame him?”
“Maybe. I think we need to catch Umbert off guard first and get a bead on him before we start firming up theories.”
A few minutes later, they pulled into the parking garage where Umbert’s office was located. The sign for Umbert & Associates was both bold and elegant, the signature name highlighting the top of the twelve-story office building and sending the message Umbert obviously intended to send with his business: rich and powerful.
“I don’t understand why these sports agents spend so much money on their office space,” Kittrell wondered aloud. “They’re just negotiating contracts for professional athletes; it’s not like they need all this.”
“Would you want to hire an agent who worked out of his garage?” Cal asked as they entered the lobby.
“Great things have come out of garages over the years.”
“But they don’t stay there.”
They stepped onto the elevator and began ascending to the top floor.
Kittrell shrugged. “To each his own, I guess. If I was collecting ten percent of these players’ monster contracts, I’d still work out of my garage. It’d be a posh garage, mind you. But I wouldn’t leave the house.”
“Maybe it’s a good thing you’re not an agent then.”
The elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open, revealing the ritzy office environment of Umbert’s business. Plush leather couches and chairs, Italian marbled floors, multiple flat screen HD televisions inset into oak wood panels, a small fountain covered with coins on the bottom—not pennies, but golden one dollar coins.
The duo took in the scene for a moment before locating the front desk and heading toward it.
“You think your garage would look like this?” Cal whispered.
Kittrell shook his head. “Nope. Never like this—even if I was an agent.”
Cal smiled as he approached the svelte young woman with blonde hair who returned his smile before speaking.
“What can I help you gentlemen with today?” she asked.
“I’m Detective Kittrell, and this is my special consultant, Cal Murphy. We were hoping to speak with Mr. Umbert today about an ongoing investigation.”
Her face fell. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Umbert isn’t in the office right now.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back? We can wait.”
“You’ll be waiting a while. He’s in London this week on business.”
“What’s he doing in London?” Cal said.
She tilted her head to one side. “Apparently another young soccer player wants to play for Seattle FC, and he’s going to meet with him. It was all very last minute.”
“Do you know when he’s scheduled to return?” Kittrell asked.
“I’m not sure. He asked me to purchase him an open-ended ticket. I can let him know that you stopped by when he calls to check in, if you like.”
Kittrell held up his hand. “That won’t be necessary. Thanks for your time.”
They turned away from the desk and headed toward the elevator. Once inside, they waited until the doors closed until either of them spoke.
“He leaves the country now,” Kittrell said. “How convenient.”
“No way this was a coincidence.”
CHAPTER 23
THE NEXT MORNING, Cal took advantage of his girls being out of town and decided to get in a morning run at the Queen Anne Greenbelt before feasting at his favorite breakfast haunt, The 5 Spot. Although he didn’t have as much time to run as he used to, his decision to run for nearly an hour on the greenbelt had more to do with guilt for what he was about to eat rather than for what he’d already eaten. With Kelly out of town, Cal’s diet was reduced to little more than fast food and greasy spoons. He’d made significant changes to his dietary habits since he married Kelly, but he hated to miss an opportunity to indulge in some of his guilty pleasures from yesteryear. In his mind, the long run mitigated the ill-effects of The 5 Spot’s biscuits and gravy dish he was craving before he sat down and opened up a copy of The Times.
Cal decided to re-read his article on Shawn Lynch to make sure some copy editor didn’t exchange his tight prose for something deemed more nuanced and gripping. He’d never been married to every word he wrote in a story, but he hated it when his stories were unrecognizable after an editor decided to justify his or her existence. One of the reasons he enjoyed working for Buckman was his philosophy that editors were there to improve upon an existing piece of work—and nothing else. However, the ambiguous and subjective definition as to what qualified as “improved” oftentimes created angst between Cal and the copy desk.
Yet for the most part, Cal’s article remained untouched save a few spots where the writing was tightened. His story highlighted Shawn Lynch’s ascension through the ranks of the Seattle FC team and how he’d become a solid cornerstone for the team to move forward. He related a story about how Lynch sold his coach on his ability to create scoring opportunities and how Lynch’s salesmanship was only rivaled by his ability to score goals.
From there, Cal’s story transitioned with this line: “But that shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone who’s lived in Seattle longer than a week and heard his father’s catchy jingle on the radio or television about his automobile conglomerate named Cars, Cars, Cars.”
Cal figured he could count on one hand the number of times he’d been driving in Seattle and not been within an arm’s length of at least two other automobiles that didn’t have a Cars, Cars, Cars nameplate affixed to the trunk or the company logo emblazoned on the license plate tag holder. Seattle residents often joked that they bought their latest car from Cars, Cars, Cars just so he’d stop advertising. Yet lining William Lynch’s pockets with more revenue resulted only in a more substantial marketing budget—which meant more commercials on local TV and radio stations.
However, Cal didn’t mind. He found the senior Lynch’s commercials plenty amusing, mostly due to the fact that the old man liked to ride horses in the commercials. The irony wasn’t lost on Cal, who wondered if William Lynch was simply a man who time had forgotten. There was little doubt in Cal’s mind that if the elder Lynch had been born a hundred years earlier than he was, he would’ve sold more horses to cowboys than anyone in the Pacific Northwest. Even as he put down the newspaper to take a sip of his coffee, he looked up on the television to see Will
iam Lynch galloping onto the screen while swinging a rope. The camera panned in awkwardly on Lynch’s face as he expressed delight over what he’d done. When the camera pulled away, he was reeling in a zero percentage sign, which was the popular selling hook for the moment.
The two old men crammed into the table next to him were complaining loudly about everything from the weather to politics to new technology. They both stopped what they were talking about to gawk at the commercial before a new rant began.
“Hasn’t that guy stolen enough people’s money already?” groused one of the men, who was wearing a hound’s tooth hat and tapping his cane to emphasize certain words.
“It’s bad enough he’s fleeced half of Seattle; the least he could do would be to spare us these commercials. These things are so bad, he makes the marketing team for LifeCall seem like advertising geniuses and…” The elderly gentleman started wheezing and coughing, and Cal couldn’t make out the rest of the man’s sentence.
The other man held up his newspaper and pointed to Cal’s article. “And now we have to read about him and his son in The Times. I swear if I still had my license, I’d—”
“Excuse me,” Cal said, temporarily halting their joint rant. “I couldn’t help but overhear you two talking about William Lynch. What did you mean when you said he’s ‘stolen enough people’s money?’ Is there something I should know about Cars, Cars, Cars?”
The man with the hat looked Cal up and down. “Are you new in town?”
“I’ve been around a while, but perhaps maybe not as long as you two have. Just trying to glean some wisdom here.”
The other man pointed at Cal. “Hey, I know you. Aren’t you that sports writer for The Times? I think I’ve seen you in some ads or interviewed on television before.”
Cal nodded. “Guilty as charged.” He offered his hand to the men. “Cal Murphy from The Times.”
The man in the hat shook Cal’s hand. “Ed Mueller.”
“Casper Thornbush.”
The two old men both looked down at the newspaper on their table.
“And you wrote this article?” Mueller asked.
Cal nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“And you don’t know the truth about William Lynch?”
Cal shrugged. “I only know what I know. If there’s more to him than low-budget car commercials, I’d love to learn about it.”
“William Lynch—or, more precisely, one of his minions—runs an underground sports book in the city,” Mueller said. “It’s one of Seattle’s worst-kept secrets. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of it if you’ve lived here longer than a month or two.”
Cal took another sip of his coffee before responding. “I’ve tried to expose organized crime rings in the past, and I’ve found it to be very dangerous to my health, not to mention my family’s.”
Thornbush’s eyes widened beneath his thick glasses, creating an optical effect that forced Cal to suppress a smile. “You better stay away from Lynch then. He has his tentacles in every aspect of this city.”
Mueller shifted in his seat. “That’s why I knew your story about the baseball player—what’s his name?”
“Gonzalez,” Cal answered.
“Yes, Gonzalez. I knew that story was a crock the moment I read it. Nailing Gonzalez was a big win for the FBI, even if someone in the department told you they wanted a bigger fish. That was a pipe dream. No way they were going to catch Lynch. He’s too good to get caught.”
“And even if he were to get caught, his goons would have leverage on someone to make sure the evidence was suppressed. There’s no doubt in my mind that’s what happened with Gonzalez.”
Thornbush nodded in agreement.
“How come I’ve never heard about any of this?” Cal said.
“We both worked at the docks for years. It’s a great place to hunt for guys looking for some supplemental income who have special skills,” Thornbush said. “Maybe it’s not as common knowledge as we think, but it’s not a state secret, I can tell ya that much.”
Cal faked a frightened look and lied. “Well, I’ll do my best to steer clear.” The truth was all he needed was a sports angle and he was all in.
What are sports without betting?
His fresh dream of mounting a surprise attack on William Lynch and crashing his empire ended quickly when Mueller delivered some ominous words.
“It’s too late for that, I’m afraid.”
Cal looked quizzically at Mueller. “What do you mean?”
“I can almost guarantee you that one of his men will pay you a visit after that article you just wrote.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You dared to mention that his son suddenly bulked up last season which baffled his teammates. Savvy readers know what you were insinuating.”
“And you think William Lynch will have someone come pay me a visit because of that one line in the article?”
“I’d bet the farm on it. Either way, you’re on his radar now, so you best be careful.”
Cal fished a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet and placed it on the table. He stood up and looked at the two men. “I appreciate this candid conversation, gentlemen. Hopefully, you won’t hear from me in The Times’ obituary section. But if you do, at least you’ll have an idea about what happened to me.”
Cal slid his chair under his table and exited the restaurant. He began walking back toward the greenbelt where he’d parked, these new revelations weighing heavily upon him. The news that Gonzalez’s indictment actually wasn’t the focus of the FBI’s pursuit of an illegal gambling ring ignited Cal’s ire. The senior Lynch’s finagling and meddling in the investigation resulted in making him look like a misinformed reporter at best, a sloppy one at worst. And Cal took this personally, even though he was sane enough to admit that this wasn’t a conspiracy against him.
Before he began mulling over a way to bring Lynch’s illegal empire to its knees—and save Seattle from any more of the worst low-budget commercials ever aired—he was shoved into an alley and sent sprawling to the ground.
Cal tried to stand up but didn’t make it before a boot connected with his ribs. He crashed back down to the ground, splashing into a small pool of standing water. Moaning, he started to stand up again before he was yanked to his feet and held against the wall.
Cal looked toward the alleyway entrance in hopes that someone might see them, but his view was impeded by a dumpster. He was left to face his attacker.
“What do you want?” Cal asked.
The man who’d hit him was wearing a mask, revealing nothing more than average brown eyes and a slightly crooked mouth.
“Mr. Lynch didn’t appreciate what you wrote in today’s paper about his son,” the man said. “He wants you to write another article about him that explains how he bulked up. Such insinuations could be detrimental to his career. And Mr. Lynch will hold you responsible if anything negative results from what you wrote.”
Cal sighed and winced as he pressed on his aching rib cage. “Unfortunately, I’m not permitted to write about Seattle FC anymore. You’ll need to get someone else to do Mr. Lynch’s bidding.”
“No, you need to clean up this mess. Otherwise, it will be unfortunate for you.” The man poked Cal in the chest, emphasizing the word you before he sucker-punched him again in the gut.
Cal staggered to the ground and looked up in time to see the man sprinting in the opposite direction.
The old men weren’t joking about William Lynch’s powerful influence over the city.
Cal had just poked a bear he didn’t even know existed.
CHAPTER 24
KITTRELL’S SATURDAY MORNING BEGAN by shuffling along the sidewalk of 5th Street until he reached Columbia and took a right. Outside of Seattle, grabbing a morning cup of coffee at Starbucks would’ve been considered a traitorous act, a brazen show of support for an established corporation. But inside Seattle, it was considered shopping local. Not to mention that Kittrell needed the strong, bold
flavor that only Starbucks offered. If he could’ve bypassed it all for a shot of adrenaline, he would have.
Chief Roman scuttled Kittrell’s Friday evening plans when he leaned on him to produce some results. Quinn threatened to crawl out of bed and assist Kittrell by reviewing the files, but Kittrell insisted his partner remain at home resting. Catching Quinn’s nasty bug would slow down Kittrell, and that was something the chief explained wouldn’t be tolerated.
Their brief successful capture of Wayne Geller left Chief Roman craving a win—a big win. He wanted to solve the case on the robbery that left Sid Westin dead and gain some closure for all parties involved. Everyone on the force united around this desire, but it wasn’t translating into finding another person involved in the robbery. Or even solid leads for that matter.
Kittrell had spent a good portion of his Friday night combing through surveillance footage in the surrounding area and digging through Geller’s phone records to uncover a connection to the other robbers. But he’d come up empty. All the numbers Geller called from the phone he had with him were to burner phones. It was nearly impossible to link them to another person—and Kittrell was finding this to be true.
Once he reached his desk and began sucking down his Starbucks, Kittrell tried to think of any ways to identify and locate any of Geller’s accomplices. Old girlfriends, former employers, relatives, bar haunts—they’d all resulted in nothing significant. His ideas were drying up fast.
A knock on the side of his cubicle brought him out of his personal doldrums.
“Detective, I’ve got something you might be interested in,” said Woody Franks, a fellow detective, as he tossed an envelope with the name Phil’s Paint Shop scrawled on the front onto Kittrell’s desk. “Some guy dropped this off at the front desk. Said you’d requested the footage from his surveillance camera and he was out of town until last night.”
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