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

“Well, this is all hearsay, so I can’t verify any of this,” Martinez began, “but I’ve heard a few whispers around the clubhouse from guys who think he’s using.”

“Performance enhancers?”

“Yeah. And it doesn’t surprise me either.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not uncommon for a young player to add weight and strength once they arrive in the league and get the proper training. Dumbbells, diets, and drills—the ‘triple D effect’, as it’s commonly referred to in our locker room. Awful name, I know, but no crude jokes, please.”

“No jokes, I promise,” Cal said with a smirk. “Go on.”

“Usually, the triple D effect makes a moderate impact on a player. They all get stronger, sharper and swifter—”

“The Triple S results?” Cal quipped.

“Look, I don’t make up these lame names. I’m just telling you the story, okay?”

“Got it. Please continue.”

“Well, our trainer who’s been around the league since it started back more than twenty years ago said that Lynch’s results are off the chart. He’s never had anybody within twenty percent of what he’s accomplished in the time he’s been here. And he emphasized legally.”

“Meaning guys have equaled or surpassed what he’s done illegally?”

“That’s what I inferred from his comments.”

“So, is Lynch using?”

“The whispers around the clubhouse are that it’s only a matter of time before he gets caught. Players would love to turn his cocky self in, but we’re all benefitting from his improved play. And quite frankly we need all the help we can get right now after Sid’s passing.”

“You really think he’s going to get suspended?”

“Not think—know. You can’t get away with that in this day and age. If he’s raising the eyebrows of our trainer, I know plenty of other people around the league are looking suspiciously at Lynch.”

“Thanks, Martinez. You’ve been a valuable help to my story—for both this one and some future ones I’m likely to write.”

“Just keep my name out of those future ones, Cal.”

“You know I will.”

Cal hung up and took a deep breath. He wanted to contemplate for a moment if he should even write the story given what Martinez told him. Or perhaps he could simply tell Buckman and let him decide. Either way, it was a mess. But Cal didn’t have long to dwell on that potential bomb before he remembered the photo of Rebecca Westin.

Rebecca’s voluptuous figure filled his screen. He zoomed in on the picture, trying to see what the anonymous person was trying to get him to see. It took him a few minutes. But after twisting his phone and scanning the picture, finally he saw it. And he wasted no time in asking again who the mysterious texter was:

Who is this?

Nothing. He waited for a few more minutes before concluding that he wasn’t going to hear from anybody. With all the scandals he was uncovering, Cal thought about checking his calendar to see if today was indeed Christmas. It certainly felt like it to him.

His phone rang again with another number he didn’t recognize.

“This is Cal Murphy.”

“Cal, this is detective Mel Kittrell from the Seattle PD. We need to talk.”

CHAPTER 21

MEL KITTRELL WAVED the waitress over to his table and pointed at his coffee cup. She obliged his unspoken request and filled it up sufficiently, leaving just enough room for him to add cream or sugar. He scowled and motioned for her to continue pouring.

“Real men don’t add anything to their coffee,” he grumbled as she stopped filling up his mug just a hair’s width before it overflowed. “It puts hair on your chest.”

The waitress forced a smile before she scurried away to another table demanding her presence.

The bell on the door jangled against the glass, drawing Kittrell’s attention along with the other four patrons in the restaurant. It was Cal Murphy, who kept his head down except to glance around the room and identify who he was scheduled to meet. Kittrell watched as Cal walked nonchalantly toward him before sliding into the booth seat opposite of him.

“Thanks for coming,” Kittrell said.

Cal shrugged. “Not sure I can be of much help, but I’ll try. Where’s your partner?”

“He’s got a nasty case of the flu. I prefer not to see him again for at least another week.”

“I don’t blame you.”

The waitress bounced back toward their table and turned over the plain white mug sitting in front of Cal.

“Coffee?” she said, unwilling to wait for Cal’s response. She filled his cup halfway before he had a chance to respond.

“Thanks,” he said as he stared down at the steaming liquid in front of him. “So, what’s this all about?” Cal began as he redirected his attention toward Kittrell. “And before we begin, full disclosure—I’m back on this story.”

Kittrell furrowed his brow. “When were you ever off it?”

“A couple of days ago, but I fixed that.”

“What happened?”

“Someone with vested interest in this story put pressure on my boss to get me off the story, but I pulled a few strings to rectify the matter.”

“Legally?”

Cal scrunched up his face and shrugged as his head bobbed from side to side.

“Never mind. You don’t have to answer that. In fact, I don’t wanna know.”

“Fair enough. So, what’s this all about?”

“I think we both know by now that Sid Westin wasn’t just an innocent bystander killed during an armed robbery.”

“I’m beginning to have my doubts about the innocent bystander thing.”

“You’re just beginning to have doubts?”

“Look, Detective. I can’t imagine it’d be much different in your world than mine. I can’t print anything until I’ve got some verifiable proof—the kind of proof that we can leverage to escape a messy lawsuit if one happens to appear. And right now, as much as my gut is telling me that something is awry here, I don’t have the kind of proof required.”

Kittrell slapped the table and grinned. “Well, you’re wrong. My world is very different—at least at this point it is. I’m simply tasked with coming up with a theory. Nothing has to be confirmed or verified yet.