Dead Drop by Jack Patterson (reading cloud ebooks txt) 📕

to get up and begin his day. He still had a few rocks he wanted to turn over and inspect before resigning himself to the fact that the obvious answer was indeed the actual one.

***

AFTER CAL HAD SHOWERED and finished his first cup of coffee, his phone rang again. This time, it was a number he didn’t recognize.

“This is Cal Murphy.”

“Mr. Murphy?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Alicia Westin, Sid Westin’s younger sister.”

Cal knew exactly who she was. Someone in The Times’ features department wrote a story about her and how she’d left everything in England to start over and follow her brother’s soccer career in Seattle. She was devoted to her brother, if anything. “Oh, yes, Alicia, I know who you are. Hi. I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, kind sir. I appreciate the gesture. But I’m afraid that there might be more to his death than we realize, and it’s something I want to see resolved before I can truly lay him to rest, mentally speaking.”

“I understand. Go on.”

“After knowing what I know about Sid’s history with some of the other players on the team, it’s completely plausible that this was a deliberate attempt on his life.”

“I’m not saying I disagree with you, but what kind of information do you have that’s making you suppose such a thing happened?”

“A few days ago, I remarked about how cute Matt Norfolk was. It’s not the first time I tried to worm my way into getting a date with a professional soccer player.”

“And what does this have to do with your suspicions of foul play?”

“Sid told me to stay the hell away from Matt Norfolk and threatened me if I dared to go against him.”

“So, your brother thought Matt Norfolk was a sketchy individual?”

“Yes, and he told me other things about him too.”

“Such as?”

“Such as Matt confronted Sid once after practice and told him he was going to take his job and then his livelihood for how he was treated. Sid obviously never lost his job. But guess who’s starting now?”

“Perhaps it’s Matt Norfolk.”

“I’d like to string that little punk up for what he did to my brother.”

“Now, Alicia, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in investigating a story like this, it’s important not to rush to judgment—from any side. Don’t even form a serious hypothesis until you’ve heard all the facts.”

“I’ve heard enough—like Matt told Sid to go back to England.”

“While that’s interesting, it’s hardly proof that he attempted something so malevolent as murder.”

“Don’t ever underestimate a spurned soccer player.”

Cal chuckled to himself. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for the call.”

Once he hung up, Cal smiled. He wasn’t taking his own advice. He’d created a theory before he heard both sides of the story, and her claim was starting to fit neatly into it. It wasn’t solid journalism—yet. But it was an interesting theory to explore.

And that’s exactly what he intended to do.

CHAPTER 9

MEL KITTRELL FELT THE WEIGHT of catching the brazen bank robbers crushing him each day as the case dragged on. The media had dubbed the group of thieves “The Seattle Swipers” as they sought to link them to another recent unsolved bank robbery. While the Seattle Police Department denied a connection, the idea that the heists were connected made for a sexier story. And the general public bought it without giving it a second thought.

Kittrell drove toward the Seattle FC practice complex and made the mistake of turning on a Friday afternoon talk radio program. One local talk show host launched into a lengthy diatribe excoriating Seattle law enforcement for not catching the thieves after their first hit. Now one of the city’s most beloved athletes was dead—and a talk show host was blaming the police.

What are these guys doing? Driving to Portland every day to pick up boxes of Voodoo Doughnuts? How come they can’t catch these guys? This is getting beyond absurd.

Kittrell clicked the radio off, deciding it was better to ride in silence. And while he objected to the brash nature of the talk show hosts’ characterization of the Seattle police, he agreed they should’ve nabbed the punks before now. Each day that passed made it that much more difficult to locate and apprehend these men. And it made Kittrell’s stomach turn. The last thing he wanted was another failure on a grand stage. He didn’t know if his career could survive it, let alone his mental well-being.

Kittrell pulled into the practice complex and parked in the visitor’s lot. He ambled toward the field, ignoring the security guard who had his back turned.

“Sir, I’m sorry, but this is a closed practice,” the guard said as he jogged after Kittrell.

Kittrell didn’t even turn around. He fished his badge out of his pocket, flashed it behind him and kept walking. “Detective Mel Kittrell, Seattle PD.”

The players were huddled, listening to their coach until he dismissed them. They scattered, most of them heading toward the clubhouse. A few others lingered on the field, taking advantage of the opportunity to get in a few extra drills before joining their teammates.

Kittrell stopped short of midfield and scanned the field for his target.

“What are you doing out here?” came a man’s voice from across the other side of the field.

Kittrell hardly paid attention to the man, who was now sprinting toward him, waving his hands in the air and squawking about how he wasn’t allowed to be there.

“He’s quite a character,” said a man, who’d slipped up next to Kittrell unnoticed.

Startled, Kittrell turned to his right to see a reporter standing next to him.

“Cal Murphy,” the man said, offering his hand to Kittrell.

Kittrell shook Cal’s hand and then gestured toward the guy still running toward them. “Is he always this animated?”

“Only when you violate his rules.”

“Rules?”

Cal chuckled. “Yeah, like the one that says no media is allowed on the field.”

“So, he’s running after you, not me?”

“It’s hard to tell. He doesn’t really like anyone.”

Kittrell furrowed his brow. “That’s strange for someone whose job is