Cal loathed Twitter. His @CalMurphy24 account languished with several hundred followers, most of whom only followed him so they could mock him. If Cal wrote a story about the rise of a good young quarterback, fans took to Twitter to blast him, excerpting partial sentences with the player’s dismal stats. It made fans feel superior to an “expert.” It had become a sport in its own right—and a vicious one at that.
For all of social media’s irritating traits, getting news out fast was the golden nugget Cal embraced today. He put Robinson on his heels by drawing his ire in the press box on Sunday. Today, he was going to send him running. All Cal had to do was find one willing blogger to stoke the fire of a nasty rumor.
As soon as he woke up early on Monday morning, Cal called his friend Trip Cantley. Trip blogged for DeadOn.com, which regularly engaged in click-bating stories. The website amassed millions of hits each day, using the gallery of cheerleaders to hook users. But for those who visited the site for more than just pictures, there were some well-sourced articles written by sharp bloggers. Trip was one of those bloggers.
Cal told Trip what he knew. It wasn’t a full-fledged report that he offered, but Cal’s pitch was enough to draw Trip’s interest. And he knew it would draw readers’ interest, too. Cal emailed Trip the photo and a few notes. Such inside information gave Cal the title of “sources close to the organization”, enabling Cal to remain anonymous. All he had to do now was sit back and wait for the Internet explosion to take place.
* * *
Miles Kennedy sipped his coffee, piping hot and straight. He chided reporters for adding anything to their daily caffeine shots. “Real reporters drink their coffee black,” Kennedy always said, “not this mamby-pamby double-shot soy latte crap.” Interns usually took the brunt of his tirades with comments like, “Why put coffee in your drink when all you want is sugar and milk?” Seeing someone dress up their coffee usually made Kennedy grumpier than if he skipped coffee altogether.
Kennedy didn’t see anyone committing such a cardinal sin today, but he was still cranky, perhaps more than he had ever been. And it was more than just being another Monday. Despite scooping every paper over the weekend on L.A. Stars’ Isaiah Smith’s suspension due to drug use, Kennedy burned over having to fire Cal. He recognized Cal’s potential as a reporter and resented the fact that he wouldn’t be able to nurture him any further. More than that, he cared about Cal and wanted to know how he was doing.
Kennedy dialed Cal’s number.
They exchanged awkward pleasantries. Such small talk seemed forced.
“I just want you to know that if I ever get a chance to hire you back, I will,” Kennedy said. “That is, if you’d like to work for me.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that. I know your hands were tied. And I hate to tell you this, but you’re going to have more fun with hands-tied reporting in the coming days.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ll know soon enough,” said Cal, remaining cryptic. “That is unless you’re willing to part with the company line.”
* * *
It was 10 a.m. and Cal grabbed his bag and headed to the airport. He needed to be back in time to attend Aaron Banks’ memorial service on Tuesday morning as well as pick up Kelly’s cousin, who had agreed to perform another autopsy on the dead NFL star. Kelly had secured three personal days to return with Cal to San Francisco. He certainly didn’t mind the company. She didn’t mind escaping the city where she had been assaulted twice in less than a week.
Cal met Kelly at the airport for their noon flight out of L.A. They had a tight schedule for their time in San Francisco. It wasn’t exactly the way he would’ve wanted to spend time with Kelly, but any time was better than no time. Seeing her every day for over a week straight was a luxury rarely afforded.
Once they got through the security checkpoint, they found their way to the gate. Cal was anxious to discuss their next move in the investigation.
“Did you set the bomb?” Kelly asked as she smiled.
Cal glared at her in disbelief.
“Kelly, this is an airport. Don’t joke like that here,” he said, looking around to see if anyone heard her.
No one was within earshot. Then he continued.
“I sent everything to Trip. We’ll see what he does with it.”
Kelly changed subjects quickly.
“The LAPD called me this morning.”
“Oh? Did they tell you who blew up your car?”
“They said it was gang related. Apparently, Honda Accords are popular among drug dealers. They told me about some gang related shooting involving a black Honda Accord less than two miles away from my apartment complex. They think it was retribution but they got the wrong car.”
“What about the note on the door?”
“They said it wasn’t written for me.”
“That sounds shady to me, like someone’s on the take.”
“Does everyone have to be on the take, Cal? I swear you’re the most suspicious person I know.”
Cal raised his defenses. “And you think I don’t have reason to be? There are just too many coincidences to make me think you weren’t being targeted. A brick through the window, a blown up car and a road rage incident. You can’t tell me those aren’t related somehow.”
“Maybe they are. But right now, I’m taking some solace in their report. I’d like to think I’m not the target of some secret assassin.”
“Don’t be so naive.”
Kelly furrowed her brow and crossed her arms. She wanted to feel safe. She needed to feel safe. And if the police report made her feel that way, Cal needed to drop it.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Cal said, putting his arm around an unreceptive Kelly. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, OK?”
She nodded but said nothing, staring blankly out a glass window at a jet roaring off the ground.
Cal got up to get something to eat, offering to bring back Kelly something. She declined, still seething over Cal’s comment. It was a lame apology at best.
He walked straight toward “Home Turf Sports Bar”, his favorite place to kill some time while waiting for the flight to begin boarding. Before he got there, his phone started buzzing, alerting him to the arrival of several new text messages.
Are you watching this?
And another one:
Did you start this rumor?
Then one from Kennedy:
Thanks a lot!
Cal then hastened his gait. He needed to get in front of a television and find out if everything worked.
The television in the bar was tuned to ESPN. Two talking heads blathered on about the playoff chances of the Raiders after Sunday’s big win. But it was the news scrolling across the bottom that drew a discreet fist pump from Cal.
“BREAKING: Sources report Stars owner mulling move to Toronto.”
But that wasn’t all. It was the next line that caused Cal to smile.
“L.A. City Council postpones vote on stadium deal indefinitely.”
CHAPTER 23
CAL SLIPPED OUT EARLY to go to Seaside Cemetery alone. The early morning sun glistened off the bay as a brisk wind whipped through the grounds. Cal was glad he wore his shades and a stocking cap, partially because of the weather but also to serve as a disguise. He didn’t want to detract from the memorial service for Aaron Banks. And while he wouldn’t be the one causing a commotion, Charles Robinson might if he saw Cal.
Despite the private nature of the service, Cal estimated there were at least 300 chairs set out, most of which were already taken once he arrived. To accommodate the crowd, the service was held in another portion of the grounds, apart from the burial site. Mrs. Banks sat on the front row, decked out in standard black attire, including a lace veil attached to the front of her large black hat. Not a word had been uttered and she was already dabbing her tears, crying softly. Aaron Banks’ titanium casket remained closed. Cal knew his body wasn’t inside, but it was still a sobering visual. It didn’t seem fair to
Cal that a few poor choices led to Banks’ sudden demise. If that’s all it took to end up six feet under, Cal would have been there long ago.
Cal scanned the crowd for Robinson and noticed him almost immediately. Robinson always carried a billionaire’s entourage with him. His included a flakey blonde assistant in her 20s—someone too young to have grown tired of the pompous codger—along with a late-30s yes man and two other team officials. It would be easy to avoid him now.
At eleven o’clock, the funeral grounds chapel chimed, marking the beginning of the service. It dragged on with frequent interruptions from Mrs. Banks’ wailing along with other young women who just couldn’t control their sorrow. Cal wasn’t sure who the other women were, but he presumed they were Banks’ various love interests at different times in his life. It pained Cal to observe the whole scene.
Finally, the minister spoke. Dr. R. G. Wright took command of the service and seized the attention of everyone in the crowd. As head of one of the Bay Area’s largest churches, Dr. Wright was well-respected for his moderate stance on many social issues that he said did nothing but distract the church from its central mission, which was “to show the world God’s love.” He was also a pastor to San Francisco’s stars. Whenever local celebrities were in crisis, it seemed like they always sought out Dr. Wright. He oftentimes became the de facto spokesperson for those in the limelight struggling with their success—or their failure. So when he spoke about Aaron Banks, it felt like it was first-hand knowledge rather than a second-hand story.
“Most of us will remember Aaron for his God-given ability to play football,” Dr. Wright said. “He brought stadiums to their feet as crowds of adoring fans chanted his name following a touchdown or a fantastic play. It was something he was good at, excelling easily. But he did other things too when no one was looking, like volunteering at the children’s cancer ward of St. Mark’s Hospital. There was no adulation, no endorsement deals to be had, no forward-thinking career moves. It was just Aaron and his kids.
“I once visited Aaron’s house for dinner while traveling to Los Angeles last year. Over the years, I’ve had the privilege to go inside the homes of many famous celebrities. And one of the things I always want to see is their trophy case. For some people, it might be their Oscar or Grammy. Or for athletes, they like to display championship rings and MVP awards. Aaron won plenty of accolades throughout his career, and I was anxious to see how they were displayed.
“But as I looked around, there weren’t any to be found. So, I asked him where they were. And he said in all sincerity, ‘Dr. Wright, you know I don’t care about that stuff. Let me show you what’s really important to me.’
“He led me toward the beginning of a hallway and flipped the light on for me. And what was hanging on the wall? Drawings from kids at the cancer ward lined both walls all the way down the hall. Then he looked at me and said, ‘Everything I do now is for these kids—even playing football. Once football is over, this is what I want to do. I want to give kids hope and show them love.’
“This was something Jesus did. Even his disciples weren’t thrilled to see a bunch of children interrupting their master’s time. But that’s when Jesus explained just how important that time is. In the eighteenth chapter of the Gospel of Luke, Jesus told his disciples, ‘Let the children come to me, and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the Kingdom of God. Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it.’
“Now, Aaron didn’t have any biological children of his own. Then again, neither did Jesus. But that doesn’t matter. Long after we stop thinking about Aaron’s amazing feats on the football field, there will be kids—kids who will be all grown up—that will never stop thinking about how a professional football player paid attention to them when they were at their weakest. They will always realize that they matter.
“And that’s how I want us to remember Aaron today. I want us to remember him as someone who believed everyone mattered, even the least of the least. It was something about his character that stood in stark contrast to the me-first attitude of professional athletes today. It’s refreshing. And it’s a shame that he left this world earlier than he had to.”
Cal caught himself whisking away a tear before anyone noticed him. Not that there was anything wrong with crying at a funeral. But Cal was a journalist. He wasn’t supposed to get emotionally attached to his subjects. His job was to tell the story, present the facts. The public decided how they wanted to interpret them or respond. Yet, here he was crying over Dr. Wright’s moving and inspirational story about Aaron’s life.
A few friends shared similar stories about Aaron before the service finally drew to a close. It made Cal resent his journalistic code of objectivity, so much so that he determined to dispose of it almost entirely. He didn’t care anymore what stood between him and proving Robinson had Banks murdered. It emboldened Cal, making him forget about his initial instinct to avoid the Stars’ owner. Instead of avoiding him, Cal decided to confront him. He needed to stir Robinson up, get him to make another mistake. It was the only way Cal believed he could force the billionaire to show his hand.
Cal waited for the service to conclude before approaching Robinson, who was in no hurry to get to his limousine. A pack of reporters hovered around Robinson’s car, awaiting his arrival. He strode slowly down the hill until he heard a voice that arrested his attention.
“It’s a shame Aaron Banks had to die so young, isn’t it?” Cal said. With both his hands stuffed in his coat pocket, Cal exuded confidence—the confidence of a man with nothing to lose.
Robinson spun in Cal’s direction.
“Why you son of a—” Robinson said as he strode toward Cal and away from the media cameras.
Cal walked backward slowly before stoking Robinson’s anger again. “It’s OK, Charles. I know you’re angry. I heard about the city council’s decision to postpone the vote on the new stadium. Tough week for you.”
Cal wasn’t just pushing Robinson’s buttons—he was mashing them with a sledge hammer.
Robinson stopped just short of Cal, invading his personal space and leaving him vulnerable and uncomfortable. But Cal held his ground.
“You listen here, you worthless hack,” Robinson began. “I know what you’re up to, but if you think I’m going to be intimidated by you and your little games, you’ve underestimated me. I’m going to make it my personal mission to make sure you never get a respectable writing job for the rest of your life.”
Cal laughed. “You think slaving away at one of your papers was ever respectable? I’m afraid you overestimate your self-importance. Besides, I don’t know any murderers who run what I would call respectable businesses.”
“I don’t like what you’re insinuating. But if you keep it up, I might just dig a hole and bury you in it myself.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a promise!” Robinson said before storming off to his car.
Cal pulled his phone out of his pocket and turned off the app that recorded his entire conversation. Hopefully it would be enough to convince the last remaining detectives not on Robinson’s payroll to look into him if Cal somehow ended up missing. He attached the recording and immediately emailed it to Kelly and Gregory from his phone. Insurance was just as important as proof at this point in Cal’s investigation.
Cal lingered to watch the media show with Robinson. He watched Robinson vanish in a sea of cameras and microphones. Cal couldn’t hear what Robinson was saying, but his body language conveyed his response: it was a ridiculous rumor and he had no plans of leaving Los Angeles.
And it was a ridiculous rumor, one Cal had helped birth. To give a rumor legs, the appearance of truth needed to be there—and Cal made sure all the ingredients were present. Carl DuBois was a wealthy Toronto businessman who often declared that should the NFL ever want to expand into Canada, he would be an eager owner with the necessary capital to buy in. DuBois also built his wealth on the back of the newspaper indu
stry, though he was more famous for his designer watches. The DuBois timepiece collection served as a status symbol among the wealthy. It grew out of a small investment DuBois made, morphing into an international conglomerate that ran the gamut of accessories, such as purses and wallets. Almost everyone had forgotten about DuBois’ ownership—and true passion—the newspaper business.
When Cal interviewed Robinson, he noticed a ticket envelope sitting on Robinson’s desk with DuBois’ name scrawled on the outside. DuBois was there to talk about buying some of Robinson’s newspapers in the upstate New York area, not the moving of an NFL team. But newspapers reporting about newspapers always made for dull news. The rumor dripped with truth even after it had been marinated in deceit.
Satisfied with the spectacle, Cal looked back toward the service site. He took a moment to gather his thoughts and composure before approaching Mrs. Banks. He wanted to pay his respects again, but he also wanted to make sure she was still willing to allow the independent autopsy to continue.
He trudged up the hill toward her and caught her when she was left alone for a minute.
“Mrs. Banks, I wanted to let you know again that I’m sorry for your loss,” Cal said.
“Thank you, Cal. I appreciate all your support and help in finding out the truth behind Aaron’s death.”
“You’re welcome. After hearing those stories about him today, I’m more convinced than ever that someone was behind this. And I think it’s a far more diabolical plot than I could’ve ever imagined.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I think that Aaron’s death wasn’t random. I think it was plotted out for several months. But I need that autopsy to help prove this. You’re still OK with the independent autopsy being performed, aren’t you?”
Better Off Dead (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 3) Page 9