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

The two old men both looked down at the newspaper on their table.

“And you wrote this article?” Mueller asked.

Cal nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

“And you don’t know the truth about William Lynch?”

Cal shrugged. “I only know what I know. If there’s more to him than low-budget car commercials, I’d love to learn about it.”

“William Lynch—or, more precisely, one of his minions—runs an underground sports book in the city,” Mueller said. “It’s one of Seattle’s worst-kept secrets. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of it if you’ve lived here longer than a month or two.”

Cal took another sip of his coffee before responding. “I’ve tried to expose organized crime rings in the past, and I’ve found it to be very dangerous to my health, not to mention my family’s.”

Thornbush’s eyes widened beneath his thick glasses, creating an optical effect that forced Cal to suppress a smile. “You better stay away from Lynch then. He has his tentacles in every aspect of this city.”

Mueller shifted in his seat. “That’s why I knew your story about the baseball player—what’s his name?”

“Gonzalez,” Cal answered.

“Yes, Gonzalez. I knew that story was a crock the moment I read it. Nailing Gonzalez was a big win for the FBI, even if someone in the department told you they wanted a bigger fish. That was a pipe dream. No way they were going to catch Lynch. He’s too good to get caught.”

“And even if he were to get caught, his goons would have leverage on someone to make sure the evidence was suppressed. There’s no doubt in my mind that’s what happened with Gonzalez.”

Thornbush nodded in agreement.

“How come I’ve never heard about any of this?” Cal said.

“We both worked at the docks for years. It’s a great place to hunt for guys looking for some supplemental income who have special skills,” Thornbush said. “Maybe it’s not as common knowledge as we think, but it’s not a state secret, I can tell ya that much.”

Cal faked a frightened look and lied. “Well, I’ll do my best to steer clear.” The truth was all he needed was a sports angle and he was all in.

What are sports without betting?

His fresh dream of mounting a surprise attack on William Lynch and crashing his empire ended quickly when Mueller delivered some ominous words.

“It’s too late for that, I’m afraid.”

Cal looked quizzically at Mueller. “What do you mean?”

“I can almost guarantee you that one of his men will pay you a visit after that article you just wrote.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You dared to mention that his son suddenly bulked up last season which baffled his teammates. Savvy readers know what you were insinuating.”

“And you think William Lynch will have someone come pay me a visit because of that one line in the article?”

“I’d bet the farm on it. Either way, you’re on his radar now, so you best be careful.”

Cal fished a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet and placed it on the table. He stood up and looked at the two men. “I appreciate this candid conversation, gentlemen. Hopefully, you won’t hear from me in The Times’ obituary section. But if you do, at least you’ll have an idea about what happened to me.”

Cal slid his chair under his table and exited the restaurant. He began walking back toward the greenbelt where he’d parked, these new revelations weighing heavily upon him. The news that Gonzalez’s indictment actually wasn’t the focus of the FBI’s pursuit of an illegal gambling ring ignited Cal’s ire. The senior Lynch’s finagling and meddling in the investigation resulted in making him look like a misinformed reporter at best, a sloppy one at worst. And Cal took this personally, even though he was sane enough to admit that this wasn’t a conspiracy against him.

Before he began mulling over a way to bring Lynch’s illegal empire to its knees—and save Seattle from any more of the worst low-budget commercials ever aired—he was shoved into an alley and sent sprawling to the ground.

Cal tried to stand up but didn’t make it before a boot connected with his ribs. He crashed back down to the ground, splashing into a small pool of standing water. Moaning, he started to stand up again before he was yanked to his feet and held against the wall.

Cal looked toward the alleyway entrance in hopes that someone might see them, but his view was impeded by a dumpster. He was left to face his attacker.

“What do you want?” Cal asked.

The man who’d hit him was wearing a mask, revealing nothing more than average brown eyes and a slightly crooked mouth.

“Mr. Lynch didn’t appreciate what you wrote in today’s paper about his son,” the man said. “He wants you to write another article about him that explains how he bulked up. Such insinuations could be detrimental to his career. And Mr. Lynch will hold you responsible if anything negative results from what you wrote.”

Cal sighed and winced as he pressed on his aching rib cage. “Unfortunately, I’m not permitted to write about Seattle FC anymore. You’ll need to get someone else to do Mr. Lynch’s bidding.”

“No, you need to clean up this mess. Otherwise, it will be unfortunate for you.” The man poked Cal in the chest, emphasizing the word you before he sucker-punched him again in the gut.

Cal staggered to the ground and looked up in time to see the man sprinting in the opposite direction.

The old men weren’t joking about William Lynch’s powerful influence over the city.

Cal had just poked a bear he didn’t even know existed.

CHAPTER 24

KITTRELL’S SATURDAY MORNING BEGAN by shuffling along the sidewalk of 5th Street until he reached Columbia and took a right. Outside of Seattle, grabbing a morning cup of coffee at Starbucks would’ve been considered a traitorous act, a brazen show of support for an established corporation. But inside Seattle, it was considered shopping local. Not to mention that Kittrell needed the strong, bold flavor that only Starbucks offered. If he could’ve bypassed it