“Please tell me you’re coming home soon,” Cal began. “I miss you guys terribly.”
Kelly laughed. “Running out of clean underwear, are we?”
“The dishes are piled high in the sink, if you must know.” Cal chuckled. “I’m kidding. No, I only miss you and Maddie.”
“Well, I’m here to tell you that your wish is my command. The Charlotte airport is running at full strength tomorrow, and we’ve got tickets for a flight back to Seattle.”
“Outstanding. When are you getting in?”
“Late. I’ll text you the times.” She paused. “Have you been staying out of trouble?”
Cal carefully considered his response before speaking. He wanted to be honest without causing alarm. “For the most part.”
“Cal!”
“Just a minor incident. I got roughed up in an alleyway.”
“You got beat up?”
“Beat up is such a strong way of describing what happened.”
“Assaulted?”
“Even stronger.”
“Well, what happened?”
“Nothing too major. Just got kicked in the ribs a few times.”
“By who?”
Cal sighed. “I’m not sure. The guy wore a mask and was gone before I could get a good look at him, but I think he works for William Lynch.”
“The Cars, Cars, Cars guy?”
“The one and only.”
“Why would he do that to you?”
“Apparently, he didn’t like how I insinuated that his son, Shawn, who plays for Seattle FC, was possibly using PEDs in my article.”
“People are so touchy these days.”
Cal broke into laughter. Kelly’s deadpan humor often caught him off guard, though it shouldn’t have after being married to her for a few years. “Well, I’m all right, and I doubt he’ll mess with me again unless I write a nasty article about Shawn. And if Buckman holds his ground with me, it certainly won’t happen any time soon.”
“Well, don’t write anything tonight that will get you in trouble, and we’ll see you tomorrow.”
Cal hung up and watched a few minutes of highlights on SportsCenter before getting ready for bed. He turned over theory after theory, hoping to figure out some way that Kittrell could pin Sid’s death on Umbert. But nothing. Cal figured he might have a better opportunity in the morning after he’d had a solid night of sleep.
***
ONCE HIS ALARM CLOCK went off and jarred him awake, Cal threw on a hat, grabbed his keys, and left the house in search of a good breakfast. He’d been so consumed with getting to the restaurant that he hadn’t seen the multiple text message alerts from Kittrell. He turned on the radio and caught the sports news update on KJR.
The biggest story of the day—and perhaps the year so far—revolves around a report in today’s edition of The Times, regarding former Seattle FC star Sid Westin and his agent Jonathan Umbert. According to the paper’s sources, Umbert is a prime suspect in a strange murder-for-hire plot that resulted in Westin’s death.
“Are you kidding me?” Cal yelled at the radio as he turned it off. A wave of emotions swept over him, starting with anger and rage followed by betrayal and embarrassment. He glanced at his phone again, afraid to listen to the voice messages from Kittrell.
After he pulled into the restaurant parking lot, Cal played the messages. Both of them were scathing rebukes, sent minutes apart. Kittrell’s first message would’ve sufficed, but Cal didn’t blame him for leaving a second one, just in case the first one wasn’t clear enough. He deleted both messages and then called Buckman.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this story?” Cal demanded.
“Cal, are you that dense or just stupid?” Buckman asked. “Let me break this down for you as clearly as possible: You’re not on the story. Ramsey is—and he got a tip from one of his contacts at the precinct last night about what was going down.”
“I knew what was going down.”
“Congratulations. But you weren’t on the story, so it doesn’t matter.”
“I was there and witnessed the interrogation.”
“And you didn’t call me to tell me about it?”
“I promised not to since I’m serving as a special consultant on this case with Detective Kittrell.”
“Doesn’t he have a partner?”
“He does, but he’s sick this week, so I’ve been filling in. And part of my deal was that I couldn’t write about any of this until I got the green light from him.”
“Well, look on the bright side,” Buckman started, “you didn’t write it, and you won’t be for a long time.”
“He’s going to think I’m his source.”
“Tell him it was someone else but you don’t know who. And if he wants to know who it was, he can figure it out. He’s a detective, isn’t he?”
“This isn’t going to be bode well for my future with any of the officers over there.”
“Good thing you’re not covering the police beat for the paper then, right? Besides, I’m sure you’ll find a way to patch things up and move forward.”
Cal rubbed his face with both hands and growled. He wanted to blame Ramsey or Buckman—or better yet, punch something. But he knew it was his fault. Letting his temper get the best of him was what got him into this situation in the first place. Without that incident with Ramsey, none of this would’ve ever happened.
His phone buzzed again, this time with a call from Kittrell.
Cal moaned and answered, bracing to get an earful from the detective. Kittrell didn’t disappoint.
“How could you? I trusted you, Cal. I just can’t believe you would do that to me. I’ve been on the phone with Chief Roman for the past half hour while he ripped me a new one. I just can’t—”
“I know this might be hard for you to believe, but it wasn’t me,” Cal said, interrupting Kittrell’s rant. “I swear. I would never break your trust like that. You’ve gotta believe me.”
“I don’t have to believe anything. We discussed this. I brought you on to help with this case under the condition that you wouldn’t write anything without my prior consent. But it’s apparent that you just used me to get a story.”
“If you only knew how much I despise Eddie Ramsey, you’d realize your latest statement was laughable. That guy exists to give journalists a bad name.”
“Oh, I doubt they need much help.”
“Look, I’m sorry this happened, but I promise you I had nothing to do with it.”
Kittrell didn’t seem interested in Cal’s apology. “You wanna know what the worst thing is about all this?” It wasn’t a question. “Rebecca Westin got on a plane last night headed for Dubai. And in case you’re not up on your extradition treaties, there isn’t one for the UAE. She’s in the wind now. And if you think I’m upset, wait until you hear from your friends over at the FBI about this.”
Kittrell ended the call, and Cal was left to ponder how everything seemed to be unraveling all at once. Not only had Ramsey’s story set back the Seattle PD’s ability to catch the person behind Sid Westin’s death, it had also severely damaged Cal’s relationship with Kittrell and the rest of the police department.
Cal took a deep breath and remained in his car. He needed to think of something—and fast.
CHAPTER 33
KITTRELL POURED ANOTHER CUP of coffee and tried to calm down. He noticed his hand shaking as he started to type on his keyboard. The caffeine? Rage? He wasn’t sure why. As this case wore on, he needed to have a clear head to decipher how to navigate this investigation. Obviously, his plan to loop in a consultant had failed.
Chief Roman rumbled past his desk before stopping and turning around. “Look, I know I was hard on you earlier. I just wanna catch the sonofabitch who did this—and I know you do, too. Focus on the murder-suicide at the garage, and see what comes up. We might not be able to pin this on Umbert, but he might not be the only one involved. It might go higher up than him.”
Kittrell nodded, his bod
y language betraying his level of confidence. He’d been through every possible piece of evidence, and no potential lead seemed promising.
After several minutes of sifting through evidence and coming up with nothing new, Kittrell received an email. It was the manifest for the flight Umbert claimed to be on, except his name wasn’t on it. Kittrell immediately called the airline back and requested the manifests for all flights originating from London and arriving in Seattle over the past three days. Fifteen minutes later, he had them in his inbox.
Would you look at that?
According to the manifest with Umbert’s name on it, Delta Flight 179 landed in Portland around noon on Friday. The coroner’s report put the time of death in the supposed murder-suicide off Harrison Street at around 10 PM on Friday.
Why that little liar!
Kittrell hustled down the hall to Chief Roman’s office. “Chief, I think I’ve got something.”
Roman looked up from his work. “What is it?”
“Umbert told us that he didn’t come in until Saturday afternoon, which would’ve given him a great alibi. But instead of taking him at his word, I looked into it. He showed me his ticket, but I double-checked with the airline just to make sure. Get this: Turns out he was never on the flight. He flew in a whole day earlier and was here by noon on Friday. According to the coroner’s report, the time of death was round 10 PM on Friday which—”
Roman slapped his desk. “Which means that Umbert would’ve been here in plenty of time. So we’ve got motive, opportunity, and no alibi. The DA is gonna love you.”
Kittrell smiled for the first time in several days. “Yes, he is.”
“Now, you want any help bringing him in? I’ll gladly stand in for Quinn on this one.”
“Nah. I’ll handle it.”
Kittrell strode down the hallway. He hadn’t had that much pep in his step since he convinced Tara in accounting to join him for drinks one night after work.
He only hoped his happiness lasted longer than his date with Tara had.
CHAPTER 34
REBECCA WESTIN TIGHTLY HELD Mason’s hand as they wandered through the Dubai International Airport. The men adorned in white robes and red-and-white shemaghs appeared almost as ghosts hovering slowly along. Rebecca felt self-conscious, obviously out of place in this strange structure where the ancient and modern collided. Hathoric columns supported a ceiling that soared above them, while men stood like statues riding moving sidewalks. As a transplant to America, she knew the feeling of entering a foreign culture, but this felt more like entering another galaxy.
She pulled Mason closer and was able to find a taxi with little trouble. Within half an hour, they were checking into the Atlantis hotel at The Palm just before 7 PM Sunday local time. The hotel was gaudy and extravagant, and even with her hefty bank account, she felt slightly guilty for indulging herself like this, especially so soon after Sid’s death.
It’s for Mason, she tried to convince herself. This will be good for him. He needs this.
The truth is shewanted this. She was the one who needed to escape the fish bowl she’d been living in for the past week or so. Getting out from beneath the scrutinizing, the whispers, the mystery, the tragedy—this was the place to do it. Here, she could be anonymous. Of course, hundreds of other places would’ve sufficed, but when Umbert called her and told her to book a flight for Dubai, she didn’t protest for even a moment. He told her it’d be all right and that they would reunite once everything died down. But she wasn’t so sure.
While Rebecca checked in at the registration desk, Mason gawked at an aquarium teeming with exotic fish and other sea creatures.
“Mum! Check this out!” he yelled.
She smiled and waved at him. It was the first genuine moment of happiness she’d experienced in a while. For weeks—even months—leading up to this time, her life felt like a rollercoaster without any ups. It was just one massive downward spiral. For once, life flickered within her through watching her son. His eyes widened as he stared at a stingray hovering near the glass, appearing to be as interested in Mason as Mason was in it.
This is going to be great.
She got her keycard and grabbed their bags, and an attendant hustled over to help. She politely refused his help and called for Mason. He didn’t budge.
“If you think that’s cool, Mason, just wait until you get to swim with the dolphins,” she said.
Immediately, Mason’s trance was broken as he spun and ran toward her.
“Dolphins? Real life dolphins? I can swim with them?” he asked.
She nodded. “First thing in the morning.”
Mason grabbed his bag and joined her, keeping pace with his mother’s long strides.
But they didn’t make it to the elevators before she heard a sound that made her cringe. A click-click-click and a loud voice in a British accent.
“That’s Rebecca Westin!”
She glanced over her shoulder to see a small contingent of European photographers rushing toward her. She couldn’t see who was the subject of their original impromptu photo session, but she didn’t look long enough to identify the person—nor did she care. She had become their next target.
Pecking at the elevator button to close the door, she grabbed Mason’s hand and told him to look away.
“Come on, come on,” she said.
“What is it, Mum? Who are those people?”
“Just keep your head down.”
Rebecca couldn’t imagine any doors possibly taking longer to close. With her head still down and her eyes shielded by her hand, she looked up ever so slightly to sneak a peek at the oncoming photographers. They were still at least ten meters away as the last glimmer of light from the lobby vanished behind the elevator doors.
She exhaled and tousled Mason’s hair. “It’s okay now. They’re gone.”
He looked up at her. “Does this mean we won’t be able to swim with the dolphins tomorrow?”
“Nothing is going to stop that. Don’t you worry.”
He smiled again and squeezed her hand.
***
AFTER REBECCA PUT MASON to bed, she ordered up a bottle of chardonnay from room service. She needed to unwind after a long day of travel, and finding a comfortable stool at the bar wasn’t an option tonight.
As she popped the cork, she poked her head into Mason’s room. She felt guilty about splurging for a two-room suite, but at fifteen hundred a night for one room, she figured another five hundred wasn’t a big deal. Besides, it was only for a few nights. Jonathan Umbert was going to let her know what to do next. Perhaps everything would’ve died down by now. Surely the feds weren’t going to go after her. They’d never have enough evidence to prove anything. As long as Dr. Lancaster kept fastidious records, she would be fine—at least that’s what everyone told her. But she didn’t want to risk it, especially if it meant losing Mason.
Mason didn’t move when the light from the hallway spilled into his room. She could almost see a half smile on his face as he breathed steadily.
She closed the door and meandered out onto the deck. It was still warm—hot by Seattle standards—this late at night. An intermittent breeze off the gulf waters helped cool the air. When the latest gust ended, she tucked her hair behind her ears and leaned on the railing overlooking the palatial grounds of the Atlantis. It was perfect—almost.
Rebecca wanted the man who’d made this moment of freedom possible to join her. And if he couldn’t be there in person, the least she could do was call him.
She glanced at her phone. It was a few minutes past midnight in Dubai, which meant it was around 1 PM in Seattle. She dialed Umbert’s number. Straight to voice mail.
Undaunted, she called Umbert’s assistant, Ellie Dunaway.
“Ellie, this is Rebecca Westin. Do you happen to know where Jonathan is?” she asked as soon as Ellie answered.
“Oh, Mrs. Westin, I’m so sorry to hear about your loss. You’re definitely in my thoughts these days.”
“
Thanks, Ellie.” She forced herself to thank the woman even though she knew Ellie didn’t mean it. “Now, do you know where Jonathan is by chance? When I called, I went straight to voice mail.”
“Oh, you haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“It’s all over the news.”
“Ellie, I’m in Dubai. It’s not on the news here.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Westin. He’s been arrested for murder—and they’re saying he killed the men he hired to kill Sid. I’m sorry to tell you like this, but I thought you would’ve heard this by now.”
“Can you tell me any more details?”
“The story on the news is that the bank robbers who killed Sid were all found dead in a warehouse in what first appeared to be a murder-suicide. But then they found out that Mr. Umbert arrived on a flight early enough to kill the men and stage a murder-suicide.”
“Did they say when he got back?”
“Yeah, they said sometime around 10 PM on Friday.”
Rebecca hung up and smashed her wine glass on the balcony. She let out a frustrated scream and was heading inside when she heard a voice that arrested her attention.
“I know that scream,” said an elderly woman on the balcony next to Rebecca’s room.
Rebecca stopped and shot the woman a look. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know that when a woman breaks a wine glass, it can only ever be about one thing.”
“And what’s that?” Rebecca snarled.
“A man.”
Rebecca was angry, and she found a target practically begging to be peppered with multiple rounds of hateful words. “Well, congratulations, Dear Abby. Women only get upset about two things: men or their kids. You had a 50-50 shot.”
“And is this man here with you?”
“I didn’t ask for a counseling session.”
“Good because I’m not giving one. I only give guidance. And if you love this man as much as I think you do, you need to go to this man.”
“Not so easy, oh great wise one. He’s in prison now.”
Dead Drop (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 9) Page 16