Cal nodded sheepishly. When Kennedy broke down the pitch, Cal’s great story idea sounded more like something from an obscure blog site written by a guy wearing NFL pajamas living in his mom’s basement.
“So, you got only a tad more than nothing?” Kennedy asked rhetorically.
“I know it sounds crazy, but let me poke around on this, OK? Let me see if something comes up?”
Kennedy grimaced and rubbed his face with both hands.
“OK. You’ve got until Monday. If you don’t have anything more substantial by then, you’re off this story.”
Cal thanked him and turned toward the door.
Kennedy wasn’t finished.
“Cal, I have to be honest with you. I don’t want to let you go, but I’ll have to unless you give me a good reason I can take to the higher ups. More layoffs are coming and unfortunately, you’re on the short list for our department. If I had my druthers, I’d keep you around.”
“I understand,” Cal said.
“I’m not trying to put any undue pressure on you, but I figured you would appreciate me being real with you about the situation.”
Cal nodded knowingly and exited Kennedy’s office. He didn’t dwell on the last part of his conversation with Kennedy. He already knew that. Cal was already thinking about this story, something he needed to save his job.
He returned to his desk and dialed the number for Pacific Laboratories.
“PacLabs. My name is Jenny. How may I assist you?”
“Hi, Jenny. My name is Cal Murphy from The Chronicle. Do you guys give tours?”
“No. Sorry, but we don’t.”
“Is there anyone I can speak to? I have a few questions about a story I’m working on.”
“Everyone in our media relations department is out right now, but if you leave me your contact info, I will pass it along.”
Cal gave her his info but he never expected a call back. He would have to pay PacLabs a visit if he wanted some answers.
CHAPTER 5
TED SIMPSON PUT ON his lab coat and returned to processing drug tests. His hands began shaking so uncontrollably that he nearly spilled a sample. He let out a big sigh and tried to regain his composure.
“You OK, Ted?” one of his fellow lab assistants asked.
“Yeah. Just dealing with a lot right now. But I’m good.”
Like the rest of his life, Ted’s answer was only half true. He was dealing with plenty. His brother, Tommy, was suffering from a rare pulmonary disease and was constantly flirting with death. He had no other family since both his parents died when he was 14.
Ted appeared to be on the road for tremendous success career wise after graduating from college. He worked at a startup with a few of his college friends that started to take off. Then Ted’s brother fell ill. No matter how much money Ted made, it wasn’t enough to sustain his brother’s rising medical costs. That’s when the human resources director for PacLabs contacted Ted about a job. At first, Ted hesitated to leave his startup, but PacLabs quickly convinced him to leave and sealed the deal by agreeing to cover Tommy’s medical expenses. The company also agreed to help Tommy by also paying for an experimental treatment. Ted saw no reason to question PacLabs’ generosity. He thought it was an incredible gesture from a company that valued its employees and their loyalty. But he quickly learned that their loyalty came at a costly price.
Ted thought about his brother. It was a bond strong enough to cause Ted to forfeit almost every virtue he valued. Almost from day one, Ted realized this job consisted of much more than he imagined. He wasn’t sure if he could do what they asked him at first, but he concluded Tommy’s life was worth it. So he gritted his teeth and did it—but he wasn’t proud of it.
Over time as Ted’s conscience began to gnaw at him, he began gathering evidence. He shuddered to think what would happen to him if they caught him. He wondered about Tommy and if the doctors might remove him from the experimental treatment once he went public with this information. He wondered if he could find another job in this economy. Exposing PacLabs didn’t make rational sense. Just go along with it. Don’t butcher your milk cow. That was conventional wisdom. And Ted was tired of exercising conventional wisdom. That’s why he went to Cal Murphy—and that’s why his answer to his colleague was only half true. He was trying to be good and do good, but he felt anything but good at the moment.
“Ted, can you go check the front desk for those samples we were supposed to get today? Jenny’s been slacking lately,” came the request from the lab supervisor.
“Yeah. No problem,” Ted answered as he began walking toward the door.
Ted always liked talking with Jenny, even if she was spacey. In Ted’s mind, blonde hair, blue eyes and a tight body made up for plenty of shortcomings—even if none of it was natural. He tried to flirt with her, but she never reciprocated. She was all business with the lab techs.
“Hey, Jenny. Have you got any specimens for me?”
“Uh, no. I would call you if I did.” She paused. “And why do you have to call them specimens? That’s just gross.”
“That’s what we call them in the lab, Jenny. That’s what they are.”
“Well, that’s just disgusting.”
Before Ted’s failed attempt at flirting went any further into the abyss, he looked up and froze.
Cal Murphy was standing in the lobby.
* * *
When Cal walked into the PacLabs lobby, he surveyed the environment. White. Modern. Sterile. Nothing about the place suggested he sit and stay a while. He started to walk toward the receptionist’s desk when a guy in a white lab coat looked at him and quickly put his head down and dashed down the hallway. Cal immediately knew the guy was his snitch. Now all he needed was his name and he needed to get it in the most discreet way possible.
Cal walked up to the edge of his receptionist’s desk and flashed a warm smile.
“Boyfriend?” Cal asked, gesturing with his eyes toward the man bumbling down the hall.
“Him?” she asked in a tone suggesting Cal wasn’t serious.
Cal nodded.
“No, that’s just awkward Ted,” she said. “To be honest, most of the guys here are awkward—and single. But I haven’t found one that’s my taste yet.”
“So the odds are good but the goods are odd?” Cal asked.
Jenny furrowed her brow, unaware his response was a joke, subtle or otherwise.
“Never mind. I didn’t come here to talk about your love life. I actually came here to see if I could speak with someone who could answer a few questions for me for a story I’m working on regarding NFL drug testing.”
“OK, Mister —”
“Murphy. Cal Murphy from The Chronicle.”
“Let me check.”
Jenny began pressing buttons on her master switchboard telephone. Cal leaned on the desk and cut his eyes down toward her phone. He noticed about 40 names assigned to buttons, including the name of “Ted Simpson.”
Cal wasn’t paying attention to her conversation and was almost unaware it had ended until she said his name.
“Mr. Murphy, I’m sorry, but no one is here who can help you right now. I can have someone contact you later.”
“OK, that’s fine. I called earlier but I was in the neighborhood and thought I would stop by in person. I’ll just await your call.”
He casually turned and headed toward the door. He already had what he came for.
CHAPTER 6
MILES KENNEDY DRUMMED HIS FINGERS on his desk as he surveyed the story budget for the next day’s sports section. Selecting the top story pained him on this day. Aaron Banks had grown up in the Bay Area. He was Mr. Football for The Chronicle his senior year of high school and his scholarship signing was aired live on ESPN. There was no doubt he was a popular player and his paper had followed his every career move for the past fifteen years. That’s what made his decision even tougher. Did he really want to blare Banks’ suicide across the front of the section? Kennedy’s humanity chi
pped away at his newspaper soul when stories like these appeared in the news cycle.
His phone rang, breaking his moment of torturous solitude.
“Kennedy.”
“Mr. Kennedy, my name is Aretha Banks and I wanted to talk to you about something.”
Kennedy sat up in his chair and readied his pen to take notes.
“Mrs. Banks, let me first give you my condolences on the death of your son. Aaron was a great guy and I enjoyed every encounter I had with him.”
“Thank you for telling me that, Mr. Kennedy. But I have something to ask of you. I know it may sound crazy or just like an insane mama grieving the loss of her son, but I’m serious when I say this. I want you to investigate Aaron’s death because there’s no way he killed himself.”
Kennedy was taken aback by her comment. “I understand you’re grieving and I don’t want to be insensitive when I ask this, Mrs. Banks, but what makes you think someone killed him?”
“He would never do that. Ever. And he wouldn’t do drugs either. I taught him better than that. He still had the rest of his life ahead of him and I’m not buying everything that’s being sold by the media and the LAPD.”
“Look, we’re not investigators, per se. And there are limits to what information we can obtain, but I do have a reporter who is working on a story about Aaron and you could talk to him about it.”
Kennedy gave her Cal’s information and hung up. His first reaction was assuming Mrs. Banks was just like any other mother. But the more he thought about it, the more he started to believe maybe Cal was onto something and maybe there was a bigger story looming. However, it did nothing to solve how he would handle tomorrow’s front page.
* * *
Stopped at a traffic light, Cal looked at his buzzing phone. He didn’t recognize the number and sent it to voicemail. He debated cancelling his trip to see Kelly in L.A., but the more he thought about it, the more he was sure that he needed to go there to get the full story. There was only so much investigating he could do in San Francisco, especially with the weekend rapidly approaching. The light turned green.
Nothing mattered right now except for the name Ted Simpson. Who was this guy? What drove him to being a snitch? Cal needed a fuller picture of his subject before he began giving him the first degree. This was priority number one when he returned to the office.
Stopped at a traffic light, Cal tapped his hands on the steering wheel to one of his favorite Jay-Z songs. His love for hip hop was a newly acquired taste in music and he dove headlong into the genre. After watching a few Jay-Z videos, he learned that shaking your head too vigorously was a sign that you were not a true connoisseur of hip hop. Instead, you needed to nod your head ever so slightly to the beat of the music.
I got ninety-nine problems …
If Jay-Z had ninety-nine problems, Cal felt like he had at least 100, maybe more. Talking to Ted Simpson and getting him to go on record might solve the most important of those problems.
Bam!
Cal’s car lurched forward.
Great. Make that a hundred and one problems!
Cal stopped and looked in the rearview mirror, noticing a not-so-pleasant looking driver sitting behind the wheel of a black Hummer H2. With visible tattoos and a Fu Manchu moustache, the man remained in his vehicle, snarling at Cal. The light turned green and the growing line of cars at the light behind him began laying on their horns and shouting.
Cal ignored them and got out of his car. He walked toward the vehicle behind him before the driver of the H2 saluted Cal with his middle finger and roared away. Cal continued to walk to the back of his car to inspect the damage. Nothing major. A slight dent and some scratched paint. More cars pulled around Cal’s stationary vehicle. More drivers yelled nasty things at Cal.
Ah, California. Gotta love these people.
Flustered, Cal returned to his car. It was a hit-and-run accident, but it likely wouldn’t meet his deductible, so he didn’t bother calling the police or reporting it. Just another inconvenience to deal with next week after he came back from L.A.
Cal turned off Jay-Z and decided to listen to his voicemail. It was Mrs. Banks.
“Mr. Murphy, my name is Aretha Banks. Your kind boss gave me your number and said you were working on a story about Aaron. I told him and I’ll tell you—Aaron would not kill himself. Nor would he do drugs. I can’t get a straight answer from anyone at the LAPD about his death. Please call me if you get a chance. I need to talk with you.”
Cal figured if Kennedy passed his contact info along then he knew about this. Maybe his crazy hunch was turning into the legitimate story he needed—and the story Kennedy hired him to find two years ago.
Now Cal knew he needed to go to L.A. for sure. The smoke was sure to reveal a raging fire somewhere.
Cal approached another intersection and checked his rearview mirror. Then he checked again. Dominating the mirror was the black H2 that ran into him earlier, driven by the same jerk. The man gave Cal the cut-throat sign and flashed an evil grin. The H2 was two cars behind him, but Cal started to shutter. Is this guy just a world-class maniac or is he really following me?
Cal looked in his mirror again. This time, the man brandished a pistol and was pointing it right at Cal.
The light turned green and Cal stomped on the gas. He started to get that sick eerie feeling he always got when he began digging into a story that he knew nobody wanted unearthed.
* * *
Charles Robinson swiveled around in his chair to answer his cell phone.
“What is it?” he asked.
“We’ve got a problem,” came the reply.
“What kind of problem?”
“A rat.”
“Well, you know what to do.”
Robinson slammed his phone down. He didn’t need any problems. Not this week, anyway. He was too close to moving into phase 2 of his plan for anyone to stop him.
CHAPTER 7
CAL ARRIVED BACK AT the office and didn’t even acknowledge Hardman’s stale chess-related barb as he breezed through the cubicle farm to his desk. He sat down and began pounding in the name “Ted Simpson” along with “lab research” into a Google search.
Bingo!
Ted Simpson graduated from Berkley’s prestigious Fung Institute with a masters in bioengineering six years ago, claimed his bio on a failed startup company website. DigiTest was a drug testing company that could test for PEDs with a finger prick. Apparently, the market wasn’t there to make it viable. Or at least, some people with more money and muscle didn’t want blood testing to be that simple.
Cal also located Ted’s Linked-In account. The premium upgrade came in handy when researching the background of those he was going to interview, especially on a day like today. He learned that Ted began working at PacLabs three years ago and that he had been involved in DigiTest’s failed venture. Nothing else. The guy was as boring as you might expect a lab coat technician to be. His Facebook profile picture was a model strand of DNA. Probably some nerd humor, but it did nothing to shed light on who Ted Simpson really was. Nevertheless, Cal wondered how a Berkley grad ended up in such a drab job. Lead researcher for a failed company to lab tech for a drug testing company? Something didn’t add up.
More snooping was needed before Cal headed to the airport for his flight to L.A. It required some drastic measures.
Cal punched in some numbers to his phone and waited for someone to pick up.
“Berkley Alumni Relations. This is Stephanie. How may I help you?”
“Hi, Stephanie. My name is Cal Murphy and I’m a reporter for The Chronicle. I want to profile a distinguished graduate from one of your programs and I’m having a hard time locating him. Would you mind looking up his contact information for me?”
The power of the media. Cal had his information in a matter of seconds and started toward the door.
“Murphy! Come here!”
It was Kennedy. Cal hoped he wasn’t about to get slammed with some other meaningless assignment
when he had a real story to chase.
“What is it?” Cal asked his boss.
“Did you talk to Aretha Banks today?” Kennedy asked in a hushed tone.
“I called her back and left a message. Why?”
“I think there’s more to this story and we’ve got to get on it quick. She’s desperate and I don’t want any of the TV stations getting wind of this story until we break it. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Kennedy slapped Cal on the arm and walked away. Cal let out a sigh of relief and continued toward the newsroom exit.
After Cal made his way down the stairs and to his car in the parking garage, he entered “*69” on his phone and began dialing PacLab’s number. Cal had long since learned the value of blocking his number during investigative research.
“PacLabs. My name is Jenny. How may I assist you?”
“Ted Simpson, please,” Cal requested as he buckled his seat belt.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Yes, this Bill Smith from United Lab Suppliers and I wanted to talk to him about a recent order.”
“I’m sorry, but Ted went home early sick. Can I take a message?”
Cal hung up.
He grabbed his laptop bag and hurried toward the door. Cal knew time was of the essence or Ted might disappear forever.
* * *
Cal pulled up to the address for Ted’s house on Robinhood Drive. It was an older quaint bungalow with a fantastic view of the bay. One of the windows to the left of the front door was open as the drapes flapped in the cool breeze. Someone had to be home.
Cal knocked on the door and called out for his informant.
“Ted! This is Cal. I know you’re in there. We need to talk.”
There was no reply.
“Come on, Ted. I can keep your name out of this, but I’ve got to talk to you.”
No voice called back, but Cal heard what sounded like some footsteps scuffling across the floor.
“Please, Ted. Open up. This is important.”
Finally, the door swung open. A woman dressed in a fluffy pink robe stood in the doorway. A half-lit cigarette clung to lips, serving as an accessory to her yellow curlers attempting to beautify her bedraggled hair. Her gut pooched over what Cal hoped were a long pair of shorts and not boxers, but he didn’t stare long enough to figure out which it was.
Better Off Dead (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 3) Page 3