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

“Yep. Sorry. I’m still here.” He paused. “You know, on second thought, go ahead and tell me what it is you want me to write about. I’m sure I’ll be able to convince my editor to run with it. I happen to have one of the most reliable sources.”

“Excellent,” Anderson said as the sound of him clapping came through clearly. “Have you got a pen and paper? You’re gonna want to take good notes?”

“I’m all ears.”

“Great. We’re nearing an indictment on Dr. Bill Lancaster. Dr. Lancaster runs a clinic in St. Louis that specializes in rehabilitation among other things. We also have record of him shipping HGH supplements to someone in your neck of the woods—and in quantities that defy logic.”

“And who might that be?” Cal said, pausing from his furious note taking for a moment.

“Are you familiar with a woman named Rebecca Westin?”

CHAPTER 11

AS CAL MOVED UPSTREAM against the fans making their way to the CenturyLink Field gates, he noted the lack of buzz and excitement that usually accompanied pre-game festivities. Dour faces dominated the crowd as it marched solemnly into the stadium. Seattle FC fans had lost not only one of the team’s best players, but they lost one of their favorites as well. The club’s public relations team billed the game with Portland as an opportunity to celebrate Sid Westin’s life as a player and as a beloved member of the city. To Cal, it looked more like a wake.

Cal made his way to his seat on press row, next to Josh Moore, who’d worked his way into The Times’s beat writer position for Seattle FC.

Hal Presswick, who covered the Portland Timbers for The Oregonian, slapped Cal on the back as he sucked in his gut and slithered his way to his seat.

“Did you draw the short straw tonight?” Presswick said. Already sweating profusely, he wiped his forehead with the forearm of his sleeve.

“No other place I’d rather be tonight.”

“You wouldn’t rather be covering an NBA game? Oh, wait. Seattle doesn’t have an NBA team.”

Cal shook his head and smiled. “You do realize that I don’t spend my spare time with my friends talking about how much better Seattle is than Portland, much less what a better sports town Seattle is either. I hate wasting time talking about facts.”

Presswick dumped his laptop bag onto the desk and rolled his eyes. He slid his glasses up on his nose and sighed. Cal glanced down the row at him, waiting for Presswick’s comeback. It was a fun dance the two engaged in every time they saw one another. But Presswick didn’t fire off another salvo, instead choosing silence. Cal figured it must’ve been out of respect for the general somber mood of the press box. Almost every reporter present had dealt with Sid Westin at least once—and he was a favorite of them all. And in such a tight-knit group of writers, Westin’s death had hit home hard. He wasn’t just some athlete who died; he was someone they knew, someone who some of the writers might even call a friend.

Fifteen minutes before kickoff, Seattle FC played a video tribute to Westin on the jumbotron. It highlighted some of Westin’s more memorable moments with the team as well as candid photos and videos of him interacting in the community. Then a moment of silence.

Though players on both teams were visibly emotional during the pre-game ceremonies, it vanished once the whistle blew to start the match. From that point on, it was just another grudge match between the Pacific Northwest’s only two soccer clubs.

There were plenty of tense moments but little scoring until Matt Norfolk broke the ice. With a minute remaining until halftime, Norfolk headed in a goal on a cross from Javier Martinez to give Seattle FC a 1-0 lead.

Cal got up and took his place at the back of the line for the halftime dessert spread.

Presswick, who’d already piled a plate high of chocolate chip cookies and brownies, walked past Cal and sat down. “You’re getting treated to a great match tonight. I hope you appreciate it.”

“Oh, I am,” Cal said. “Almost as good as an English Premiership match.”

Presswick stopped and looked over the top of his glasses at Cal. “Let’s not get carried away here, okay?”

Once the second half began, Portland struck back ten minutes in, tying the match on a goal from a direct kick just outside the box.

With the outcome still in doubt, the tension in the stadium grew. Cal watched fans below tense up with each build-up, trying to will their team to score or stop their opponent. It was fantastic theater, something that made almost everyone forget about the fact that Westin was gone.

As the game entered the final three minutes of stoppage time, play on the field grew more intense. The crowd seemed to hold its collective breath with each shot on goal, no matter which side of the field it occurred on.

And then, a breakthrough.

Seattle FC midfield Shawn Lynch made a nifty move on a Portland midfielder to steal the ball and streak down the field toward the Portland goal. He zipped a pass to Norfolk between two Portland defenders, and Norfolk buried the ball in the back of the net.

The crowd went crazy, celebrating as if the team had won a championship. A few fans climbed over the wall and rushed onto the field, shaking hands with Norfolk. The subsequent roundup by security officials delayed the ensuing kickoff but didn’t seem to dampen the spirits of the fans. Moments after Portland kicked off, the referee blew his whistle to signal the end of the match.

Cal, who’d made his way down to the field with five minutes remaining, watched the surreal scene. It was as if all the pent up frustration and grief over Westin’s death was released the moment Norfolk’s shot curled neatly past the Portland goalkeeper and into the net.

“Helluva game, huh?” said Seattle FC President Fred Jameson