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

mistakes Tucker had made long ago—and had never been absolved for—was why he was standing over the sleeping body of Wayne Geller. Tucker’s past had caught up with him in the most unlikely way, but absolution would only come through commission of another sinful act—one of the worst acts of all.

Tucker grabbed the pillow from the empty top bunk and took a deep breath. If he was going to get away with this, he needed everything to be executed to perfection.

He gripped the pillow on each end and slipped it on top of Geller. Tucker then placed his knee on Geller’s chest, forcing his entire weight on his victim.

For a moment, nothing. Then Geller began to move. He tried to thrash violently but couldn’t. He couldn’t move, smothered by Tucker’s six-foot-three, 300-pound frame. Only the slight clinking of the handcuff chains on the bed frame interrupted the silence in the dark. It didn’t take too long for Geller to lose consciousness.

Tucker then worked quickly to wrap Geller’s bed sheet around his neck and hoist him up, hanging him from the ceiling. Given what had happened to Geller earlier in the day, Tucker doubted anyone would look into his death any further. By this time tomorrow, Geller’s life would be nothing more than the story of a sad and frightened criminal who saw no other way out.

He double-checked his knots and gathered his cuffs. Careful not to make any noise or get caught on camera, Tucker eased open the cell door and waited until the camera swept past him and focused on the opposite direction. He shut the cell door behind him and slipped into the hallway and out of the back door.

Five minutes after he returned to his post, his shift ended. He said good night to several other officers and got into his truck to head home. After buckling up, he hung his rosary beads over his rearview mirror and turned the ignition.

Despite his best efforts to compartmentalize what he’d just done, Tucker couldn’t. The image of a squirming Geller was burned into the recesses of his mind. He was so consumed with his guilt that he never saw the dump truck hurtling toward him as he eased onto the gas pedal.

CHAPTER 18

CAL DIALED KELLY’S NUMBER on his cell phone as he sipped his morning coffee. He usually spent his Friday mornings at home, preparing for a late night of sports coverage. Seattle always seemed to have some marquee event scheduled for Friday nights, a fact that more often than not disappointed his wife, Kelly. She preferred to have Cal all to herself on the eve of the weekend, yet no matter how many times he explained that working on Friday nights and weekends was the life of a sports writer, she still complained about it. But tonight his schedule was free, along with the rest of his day.

“What are you covering tonight, hon?” Kelly asked.

“I’ve actually got the night off.”

“What? And you let me go out of town? Cal Murphy, I swear if you—”

“It wasn’t by choice.”

Kelly stopped her rant and turned sympathetic. “What happened?”

“Buckman pulled me off the Sid Westin story.”

“Why would he do that?”

“This story is getting a little crazy right now. But long story short, Buckman is catching heat for a story he asked me to write so he’s got to look tough. Paul Holloway, the media relations guy for Seattle FC, didn’t appreciate how I conducted some of my interviews and called the paper to complain about me. So, Buckman’s using Holloway’s complaint as the reason why he’s handed the story over to someone else—but I know better.”

“Buckman’s trying to save his own skin.”

“I don’t blame him. He made a show of everything in front of the staff yesterday, but I don’t think that’s how he really feels. He’s just trying to do what management wants him to do.”

“So what are you gonna do?”

“Probably cover that Red Bull boat race on Sunday.”

“Well, who’s handling the Sid Westin story?”

“Take a wild guess.”

“It better not be Eddie Ramsey.”

Cal dropped into his sarcastic voice. “I know he’s your favorite, so try to contain your joy.”

“Any time a guy pukes on you at an office Christmas party, he’s forever deemed a loser—and I’ll never forgive him.”

“At least he didn’t get any on your shoes.”

Kelly groaned. “You’re too much. That’s one memory I’d love to purge from my mind. If I try hard enough to recall that evening, I can still smell his puke.”

“Well, the story is in capable hands now,” Cal said again.

“Your sarcasm is rich here.”

“What? I mean just because Ramsey botched up his interview with the mayor’s wife about her initiative to increase tennis in the inner city. that doesn’t mean he’ll make similar mistakes here. It’s not like once you call the mayor’s wife “sir” multiple times even after she’s corrected you—and continues correcting you—you can just shrug it off as a bad day. Forget the fact that the mayor’s wife wrote in her memoir before Ramsey interviewed her that she was mocked as a child for having a boy face. There was no need for her to be so sensitive about it. I’m sure it was all just a big misunderstanding.”

“Nothing left for you to do but enjoy your day off.”

Cal sighed. “I suppose, but I was having too much fun looking into the story.”

“You are one twisted man.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He paused. “Speaking of having fun, how are you and Maddie doing?”

“We’re having a wonderful time. It’s simply beautiful here.”

“What about things with your mom.”

She took a deep breath. “It’s simply beautiful here.”

“Okay. I get it. Have fun and kiss Maddie for me.”

“Oh, you know us,” she said.

Cal’s phone buzzed with a message. “Yeah, yeah,” he said before trying to open the message from a number he didn’t recognize.

“Cal, are you still listening?”

“Sorry, Kelly. I just got a text message.”

“Which is obviously more important than anything I have to say.”

“It’s not that. It’s just