Kittrell picked up the envelope and dumped out the flash drive. “Did he say what was on it?”
Franks shrugged. “I’m just relaying a message, but not that I know of. He didn’t know what we were looking for, did he?”
“Thanks, Franks. I’ll take a look at it.”
“Chin up, Kittrell. Roman’s feeling the heat right now, but he’s a realist. He won’t hold it against you forever.”
Kittrell looked down at his desk. “That’s not helping.”
“Better you than me.” Franks winked. “Later.” He disappeared around a corridor.
Kittrell sat still for a moment and then got up and wandered down the hall in search of someone on the forensics team to help him dissect the evidence. He couldn’t even remember where this business was, but he figured it must’ve been important if he put in a request for security camera footage. After fifteen minutes of wandering the halls looking for help, he gave up and found a studio to examine what was on the drive himself.
“I’ve seen them do this a thousand times,” Kittrell muttered aloud. “I’m sure I can figure this out.”
In less than five minutes, the computer started to whirr. Kittrell jammed the flash drive into an open USB port and started clicking. He found the digital time stamp that aligned with the time the robbery occurred. The images jutted by on the screen for several minutes, yet nothing appeared to be significant. At least, not yet anyway.
Then a flash on the screen—and Kittrell froze. He backed up the footage and slowed it down to make sure what he saw was actually happening. He paused on a frame showing a white van pulling into a discreet garage entrance in a back alleyway behind the business. Zooming in on the license plate, he wrote it down on a sticky note and rushed back to his desk to check his files. He dug out some of his files and located the report about Sid Westin’s white van. The license plate numbers matched.
He’d done this a thousand times, but his heart always started racing when he collected a piece of evidence that could help him catch a perp. Rushing back to the studio, he opened a web browser and searched for the address of Phil’s Paint Shop. He needed to determine the approximate location affiliated with the garage entrance.
“Gotcha!” Kittrell yelled. He scratched down the street name and number on a sticky note again and sprinted back to his desk. He re-read the address back to himself: 860 Harrison Street.
He started to dial Chief Roman’s number to tell him that they needed to get a SWAT team over there—or at least a forensics team to comb the place. But as Cal was dialing the number, he heard dispatch squawk something on the scanner that made him freeze.
We’ve got a possible 187 reported at 860 Harrison Street. Requesting assistance.
Kittrell glanced down at his note. The addresses matched.
He didn’t waste any time. He grabbed his keys and jacket before sprinting out the door to his car. As a frequent patron of nearby favorite pizza joint, Serious Pie & Biscuit, he knew the area well. It wasn’t any more than a ten-minute drive even in rush hour traffic.
As he drove, Kittrell hoped against hope that it was a mistake, that perhaps he got it wrong and the address was 840 or 850. He’d been wrong before, but not often—yet he’d never wanted to be so wrong in his life.
When his car skidded to a stop in the alleyway behind the store, he didn’t bother to shut the door as he got out and ran toward the flashing lights. Two cars had beat him to the scene, and all the officers had their guns drawn.
“Come check this out,” one of the officers shouted.
Kittrell rushed inside the garage and flashed his badge at one of the other officers. He scanned the area and couldn’t believe what he saw. Three bodies were scattered throughout what appeared to be a staging area for the robbers.
He couldn’t be sure what happened, but he tried to cobble together a theory. Given that the men lying dead around the room were indeed scumbags, Kittrell didn’t feel much remorse or sadness over their deaths. One of these men had killed another innocent unarmed man in cold blood. And for what? For fun? Because he could?
No matter what the reason, Kittrell couldn’t say he was displeased over the end result. He stepped over one of the bodies as if it were a stump on a trail in the woods.
“Greedy bastards,” one of the officers said aloud as he looked down at an alleged thief still grasping a stack of hundred dollar bills. “Probably killed each other over money.”
One of the officers looked up and saw Kittrell. He’d worked with Kittrell before on several cases, and it was common knowledge around the precinct that Kittrell and Quinn were the lead detectives on the recent bank robbery.
Kittrell put his hands on his hips as he surveyed the scene. “What do you think happened here?”
“Looks like a murder-suicide to me,” the officer said. “These two guys here were surprised, and then this guy walks over here and shoots himself in the head. Simple as that.” He paused. “But I’ll let you make the final determination on that.”
Kittrell crouched down next to the body of the man who appeared to take his own life. “It doesn’t look that simple to me.”
CHAPTER 25
REBECCA WESTIN PEERED through her blinds onto an empty street early on Saturday morning. Finally, the media that had been hounding her were gone. A sex tape of a prominent city council member was leaked on the Internet, supplanting the Sid Westin story as the one every editor in every medium of journalism wanted. Driven by a gust of wind, a stray candy bar wrapper tumbled along her front yard. It was the only sign that anyone had even been staked out there—and for what? Quick B roll footage on the news? A picture for the tabloids? She smiled knowing that she had given them nothing the entire time they were out there. She’d even managed to sneak out the back for Sid’s funeral. And last night, she’d also snuck out to pick up Jonathan Umbert from the airport.
Mason tugged on her shirt from behind, startling her. She darted to the side as she spun around, falling to the ground.
“Mom, are you okay?”
“Oh, I'm fine. I— You just caught me off guard, that's all.” She collected herself and then knelt down to get eye level with him. “Are you okay, Mason?”
He shook his head. “I miss Dad.”
She pulled him tight and gave him a hug before standing up. “You and me both.”
It wasn’t a complete lie. She did miss Sid. Surely, she could’ve done worse when it came to accepting a marriage proposal. After all, Sid had the potential to make a large amount of money, not to mention become famous in the process. While she wished she could’ve chosen a different path for her life, she quit sulking about her decisions long ago. Instead, she vowed to make new decisions, decisions that could influence her future in a positive way. And though she wasn't proud of what she’d done, her future seemed brighter now. However, she never imagined that she'd actually miss Sid as much as she did.
While she was lost in thought, Mason hadn’t moved. She hadn't even noticed him until he sneezed.
“Oh, Mason, you're still here. I didn’t even know you were standing right next to me.”
“Can I go outside and play? I'm tired of staying inside all the time.”
“Sure. Are you going to practice soccer?”
He nodded. “I want to make Dad proud.” He started to walk away before he paused and turned around to face his mother. “Do you think Dad can see me playing from Heaven?”
“I'm sure he can. And I'm sure he'll be proud of you out there practicing hard. Go get ‘em, little buddy.”
A smile flickered across his face as he headed toward the door. The last time she saw one of those on her son’s face was when she watched Sid kick the ball with Mason in the front yard the day of his death.
Her phone rang, and she rushed across the room to answer it. The name and accompanying picture flashing on the screen brought a smile to her face as well. It was Jonathan Umbert.
“Well, hey, you. How was the rest of your night last night?”
; Umbert didn’t return any pleasantries. “Where are you?”
“I’m at home. What’s going on? You sound nervous.”
“I just checked my messages and had one from a reporter from The Times, a Cal Murphy and—”
“Yeah, that jerk wrote some story about me being part of some FBI probe, but I don’t believe a word of it.”
“Becs, are you crazy? They are going to nail you.”
“For what? I didn't do anything.”
“Look, I understand if that’s how you want to be, but there is something going on here, and you know what you've done. I read about it all this morning. If they're on to Lancaster, you know it's only a matter of time before they’re on to you.”
“And you, too.”
“I can handle myself, but you need to leave—like thirty seconds ago.”
“I'm not going anywhere.”
“Becs, think about Mason. If you get arrested, who's going to take care of him? And if he's taken, you're crazy if you don't think your assets will be frozen—or perhaps controlled by the state.”
“The government could do that?”
“Health and Welfare can do whatever they want if they deem the child is in danger. I know it might be different in England, but here you’ve got no recourse—especially a single parent with no relatives living here.”
“My sister-in-law is here.”
“And you’re fine with Alicia caring for Mason and spending all your money while you sit in jail for who knows how long? Pack your bags and get out of the country—now.”
Rebecca paused for a moment to think. Everything he said made sense. But she didn't want to leave without him. “What about you? What are you going to do?”
“I’ll join you later. I’ve got to get a few things in order first, but you need to go to a country where there's no extradition treaty so they don't pursue any trumped up charges. You being gone will make this case too costly to pursue.”
“So where should we go?”
“I’ve got just the place.”
CHAPTER 26
CAL COLLAPSED ONTO THE COUCH and held a bag of ice on his ribs. If he had a muscle that didn’t ache from his invigorating morning run, it hurt from the pounding he took at the hands of the assailant who attacked him in the alleyway after breakfast. He was already starting to miss Kelly, but now he wanted her home twenty minutes ago—even if he knew she’d give him a hard time about being careless. The beating wasn’t his fault, but he wondered why no one ever warned him about the Lynch family. Or maybe knowledge of their family’s power wasn’t well known beyond the docks.
He turned on the television and flipped the channels until he came to some basketball. March Madness had descended upon the rest of America and consumed the lives of sports fans who weren’t interested in solving murders. Cal had almost forgotten about the tournament.
Oregon was playing Xavier in a tense second-round matchup, and the outcome appeared destined to be determined by whichever team had the ball for the final possession. For a moment, Cal almost forgot about his injury. He sat up on the couch, rooting against one of his alma mater’s rivals. “Come on, Xavier!” he shouted, yet the second he did, he felt a tight twinge in his chest.
He grimaced as he watched the clock begin to tick away. “Come on, Musketeers!”
The sound of his phone buzzing interrupted his intense cheering for the lower-seeded team from Cincinnati. He glanced at the screen and didn’t recognize the number.
Who’s calling me now?
“Cal Murphy,” he said as he answered.
“Mr. Murphy, I’m so glad you picked up.”
“Who is this?”
“I’m sorry. My name is Alicia Westin; I’m Sid’s sister.”
Cal leaned back on the couch. “I’m sorry about your brother, Alicia.”
“Thanks. It’s been rough on us, but we’re getting through it.”
Despite wanting to get back to the game, Cal turned the volume down on the television a few notches. Alicia’s strong English accent was a small consolation prize for getting interrupted at this point in the game. “So, how can I help you?”
“I noticed you haven’t written anything lately on the robbery. In fact, no one has. What’s going on?” She kept going without taking a breath. “The Seattle police won’t give me any answers by saying they can’t talk about an ongoing investigation. It seems odd that they're not interested in the fact that Rebecca kept pestering Sid to up their life insurance. I want some answers.”
“Slow down, Alicia. Just slow down. I might be able to help, but I want you to take a deep breath.” He waited for a moment until her shallow breathing ceased. “Are you okay now?”
“That depends on what you're about to tell me.”
“Before I answer some of your questions and tell you what’s going on, I want to know why exactly you feel like your brother’s death was a murder. What makes you think that? By all accounts from law enforcement officials, it was an armed robbery gone bad.”
“I know that’s what it looks like, but I don’t think that was really the case. The robbers escaped with a measly two hundred thousand dollars. What four guys would rob a bank for just fifty thousand each? The risk and reward equation seems off.”
“Any other reasons?”
“Sid told me about a year ago that Rebecca wouldn’t stop bugging him to up their life insurance.”
“Is that one of the reasons why he served her divorce papers?”
“No.” Alicia paused for a moment. “Rebecca was never interested in my brother really. She just wanted his money, and she used her assets to put him in a trance. I’d been telling him that for years, even before they married. He finally woke up to the truth and realized what he should have a long time ago.”
“And you feel like she wanted more money and created a plot to have him killed?”
“Yes. Sid already had a two-million-dollar life insurance policy and, unless he was lying to me, he had quite a healthy bank account through investmenting on the stock market and had more than twenty million. Rebecca would live a comfortable life if something ever happened to him. But she demanded he increase the policy to ten million.”
“Uh, huh,” Cal said as he scratched down a few notes on a pad. “And you think that extra eight million was the motivation she needed to kill him.”
“Maybe. I don't know if he ever actually increased his policy or not. I just remember hearing him complain incessantly about her nagging to get him to do it.”
“That’s an important fact. If there’s any way you can get that—”
“Mr. Murphy, do you think Rebecca’s going to tell me that now?”
“I never suggested asking her.”
The line went silent for a few seconds. “Oh, are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”
“I just asked if there’s any way you can get that information. How you get it is up to you. But it sure would be helpful to know that if you’re really going to accuse your sister-in-law of a murder-for-hire plot.”
“I just can’t believe he’s gone,” she said before breaking down and crying.
Cal grew uncomfortable with her show of emotion. He hated watching his wife cry, but he could almost always do something to comfort her. But a woman he’d recently met over the phone now heaving sobs? Cal realized there was nothing more he could do for her—or nothing more he could learn from her at the moment.
“Again, Alicia, I’m sorry for your family’s loss, but I will look into this. I’m no longer the reporter assigned to this story, but I will do my best to explain this to my editor and see what he says.”
“You're not the reporter on this story? Why? What happened? Are they trying to shut you out, too? What's really going on here?”
“I can assure you that I'd like to know just as much as you do, but at the moment, my hands are tied. I’m still trying to search out the best direction to go. But trust me, the moment I figure out what that is, I’ll give you a call. I’m going to need
your help.”
“Thank you," she said as she sniffled.
“We can’t get discouraged in our fight for justice,” Cal said. “The road to justice is often long, bumpy, and uncomfortable—but it’s a worthy trip.”
“Thank you, Mr. Murphy.”
“Please, call me Cal.”
“Okay, Cal. Thanks for your help. I won't stop until my brother’s murder has been paid for by the person or people who did this.”
“You and me both, Alicia.”
Cal hung up and set his phone down on the coffee table. He needed to think. Bill Rafferty’s raspy voice coming from the surround sound system jarred him. “Onions!” Rafferty shouted as Xavier players danced around the court. “Little fella with the big three when it mattered most!”
At least one good thing happened today.
Cal turned the television off and pondered all the information he’d just taken in. Despite Alicia’s desperate plea to have someone investigate Sid’s death as a murder, he had to back up and look at what she said objectively. He was her ally in this theory, but it bordered more along the lines of a conspiracy theory due to the glaring lack of evidence. Anything they had was circumstantial at best, plain weird at worst.
The elements appeared to be there, but Cal couldn’t construct a theory that had any legs. He felt like he was trying to solve a puzzle and forcing the final pieces into place. Raising his hands and saying done wasn’t the way to win people over to his side or even interest them in his ideas about what really happened to Sid Westin. Without hard evidence, Cal was doing nothing more than speculating. And those theories would never see ink in the paper or even pixels on The Times’ website.
His phone buzzed again, this time with a call from a number he recognized—his favorite source on the inside at Seattle FC, Javier Martinez.
“Javy! How are you, my friend?” Cal said, answering the phone.
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