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

papers made it sound like it was. Is that why you stopped by? To find out about my marriage?”

Kittrell shook his head. “Actually, we stopped by for a different reason.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“It’s about the van used in the robbery,” Kittrell said. “We were able to track it down a couple of days ago.” He eyed her cautiously, hoping to spot an expression or gesture that might give her away. Still nothing. “It was registered to your husband.”

“Sid had a van?” she asked incredulously. “If he did, he neither told me about it, nor did he ever show it to me. Are you sure?”

“It’s registered in his name right here,” Quinn said as he pulled out a copy from a file folder he was holding. He set it down on the table and pointed at Sid’s name.

“Where would he have kept it?” Rebecca wondered aloud.

“We were hoping you could help us with that, ma’am,” Kittrell said. “Did you have a weekend home on the water somewhere or a mountain cabin?”

She nodded. “We have a cabin in the mountains just northwest of Port Angeles, but I would’ve seen it there.”

Kittrell kept peppering her with questions. “A storage unit perhaps?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Did you store a boat anywhere?”

“Yes, we did have a boat that he kept at Eagle Harbor on Bainbridge Island, but I don’t know of any storage space there where he would’ve been able to keep such a vehicle.”

“I know the place,” Quinn said as he stood up. “We’ll go check it out.”

Kittrell stood up as well and looked at the widow, who struggled to put forth a believable performance that she was indeed struggling with Sid’s death. “Look, I know this may be difficult for you as people sift through your life—especially the press—but I can assure you that we’ll be discreet about how we share information publicly. We’ll do our best not to blindside you.”

“Thank you, Detective Kittrell,” she said, shaking his hand. “I appreciate that.”

“Ma’am,” Quinn said, nodding at her before heading toward the front door.

Kittrell lingered behind for a moment. “And if there’s anything else you want to tell us or feel like would help with our investigation, don’t hesitate to call me,” he said, slipping his business card into her hand. “From the appearance of things, this looks like a bank robbery gone bad, but this latest information about the van used by the thieves being registered in your husband’s name does make us want to take a deeper look at this. We’re not trying to stick our noses where they don’t belong, but we want answers just like you do.”

“Thank you,” she said, sniffling as she looked down.

Kittrell acted as though he was done, but he wasn’t. He took a deep breath as he initiated a tactic to draw what psychologists referred to as “door knob confessions.” But with his own twist. Patients often divulge the most pertinent information in a counseling session just moments before heading out the door. And while Kittrell wasn’t in a counseling session, he was tinkering with human psychology. He’d been a detective long enough to know that closing cases consisted of good work and oftentimes a bit of luck. And sometimes it was necessary to set a trap, panic the suspect, and collect the bounty—all part of his inventive door knob confession tactic.

“Didn’t you have a break-in a few months ago?” he said as he grabbed the handle to the front door.

She nodded. “Yeah. Why?”

“Well, I found it interesting that some of the bullets found at the scene of the bank robbery matched the markings of a bullet fired from your husband’s gun.”

Rebecca furrowed her brow. “How would you know that?”

“When he registered his gun, he fired a bullet and gave it to us just in case we ever needed it. It’s quite the coincidence, don’t you say?”

She shook her head. “I—I don’t really know what to say.”

“Your husband certainly didn’t come across as an avid fan of guns. But apparently he was. Looks like he was also skilled at keeping secrets.”

“I think it’s time for you to leave, Detective.”

“Perhaps you were more skilled than he was.”

“Thank you, Detective. I’ve already had a trying enough morning with all the media reports swirling around about me. I’m not in the mood to take on more accusations. That will be all,” she said as she grabbed the door and started to close it.

Kittrell stumbled outside in front of the gawking news media members, who captured the entire incident on film.

“What was that all about?” Quinn said discreetly.

“I just gave Mrs. Rebecca Westin reason to panic.”

“In the vain of the late great Sid Westin, ‘You cheeky little devil.’”

Kittrell suppressed a smile and headed toward their car. He didn’t want to give the media anything else to talk about. “Did you see this morning’s paper?”

Quinn nodded. “Can’t believe you’re just now bringing this up. It would’ve been far more interesting than driving over here in silence—or listening to Mitch in the Mornings.”

“We need to get a paper.”

Quinn held up a copy he’d snagged on his way out of his apartment earlier that morning. “No need. We’ve got everything we need right here.”

CHAPTER 16

CAL SHUFFLED INTO THE OFFICE in time to make The Times’ sports department’s daily 3:30 PM budget meeting. The meeting consisted of an unscientific approach to culling out all the day’s news that wouldn’t be of interest to the majority of the Seattle area readers. Unlike some areas of the country where Cal had lived, Seattle sports fans were far more passionate about their teams than they were about the national perspective of a particular sport. If fans cared about the NFL, they only cared about the news coming out of the league office if it had anything to do with their beloved Seahawks. Major League Soccer fans wanted to know about Seattle FC, but nothing more. Baseball was the same way: If there was no Mariners’ news, the majority of fans didn’t care.

But