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

this story? Why? What happened? Are they trying to shut you out, too? What's really going on here?”

“I can assure you that I'd like to know just as much as you do, but at the moment, my hands are tied. I’m still trying to search out the best direction to go. But trust me, the moment I figure out what that is, I’ll give you a call. I’m going to need your help.”

“Thank you," she said as she sniffled.

“We can’t get discouraged in our fight for justice,” Cal said. “The road to justice is often long, bumpy, and uncomfortable—but it’s a worthy trip.”

“Thank you, Mr. Murphy.”

“Please, call me Cal.”

“Okay, Cal. Thanks for your help. I won't stop until my brother’s murder has been paid for by the person or people who did this.”

“You and me both, Alicia.”

Cal hung up and set his phone down on the coffee table. He needed to think. Bill Rafferty’s raspy voice coming from the surround sound system jarred him. “Onions!” Rafferty shouted as Xavier players danced around the court. “Little fella with the big three when it mattered most!”

At least one good thing happened today.

Cal turned the television off and pondered all the information he’d just taken in. Despite Alicia’s desperate plea to have someone investigate Sid’s death as a murder, he had to back up and look at what she said objectively. He was her ally in this theory, but it bordered more along the lines of a conspiracy theory due to the glaring lack of evidence. Anything they had was circumstantial at best, plain weird at worst.

The elements appeared to be there, but Cal couldn’t construct a theory that had any legs. He felt like he was trying to solve a puzzle and forcing the final pieces into place. Raising his hands and saying done wasn’t the way to win people over to his side or even interest them in his ideas about what really happened to Sid Westin. Without hard evidence, Cal was doing nothing more than speculating. And those theories would never see ink in the paper or even pixels on The Times’ website.

His phone buzzed again, this time with a call from a number he recognized—his favorite source on the inside at Seattle FC, Javier Martinez.

“Javy! How are you, my friend?” Cal said, answering the phone.

“Just getting ready to suit up for our game here in Salt Lake. And you?”

“I’ve been better.”

“I heard about your altercation with Ramsey.”

“Who told you?”

Martinez laughed. “Moore told us this morning at our walk through. I think it’s great, man. Ramsey’s a punk. Nobody on the team likes him.”

“I wish my editor felt the same way. Unfortunately, I’m off the story about Sid.”

“What? You’ve gotta be kidding me?”

“I wish I was, but I’ll still hear whatever you’ve got.”

“I almost hate to say this now that I know you’re not covering this story.”

“That could change, depending on what you’re about to say.”

“Well, it’s not even really about the story you’ve been working on, but I thought it might be of interest to you.”

“Go ahead. I’m listening.”

“I just found out that Tim Peterson is about to be suspended.”

“For what?” Cal said as he prepared to jot down some notes from his conversation.

“For PED usage. He just failed his most recent drug screening; he was using HGH.”

“That might have more to do with Sid’s death than you know.”

CHAPTER 27

KITTRELL FISHED THE WALLET out of the back pocket of the man who appeared to be the aggressor in the scene of the alleged murder-suicide. “Robert Elton Fisher, according to his driver's license,” Kittrell said aloud. “Anybody know anything about him?”

He looked up to see officers shaking their heads and mumbling offhand about how Fisher was a relatively small-time criminal.

Kittrell saw something that captured his attention. Fisher's sleeves were rolled up to his elbow. And it was a strange tattoo design that he eyed, demanding a closer look.

What’s this?

He grabbed a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and started to roll up Fisher’s sleeves to his shoulders.

“Hey, Manny,” Kittrell yelled at one of the officers working the scene. “Come here. I want you to look at something for me.”

“What is it?” Manny said as he knelt down next to the body.

“You recognize this tattoo?”

“It looks familiar.” Manny Romero gazed off into the distance as he tried to recall where he’d seen it. He started to snap his fingers. “I know. I remember now. It’s the same tattoo from that gang we busted at the docks two years ago. They were into all kinds of stuff. Extortion, gambling, bribery, drugs, trafficking. If there was something or someone to exploit, they would be found nearby.”

“So you didn’t get all those guys?”

Manny shook his head. “A few of the ring leaders are still in prison, but most of the grunt workers either got a slap on the wrist, three to six months in the slammer at best.”

“You think he was one of the ones you rounded up?”

“Perhaps, but his name isn’t ringing a bell.” Manny shrugged. “Doesn't mean anything though. I have a hard time remembering what I ate for dinner last night.”

Kittrell chuckled and slapped Manny on the arm. “Thanks for the help. And don’t announce this as a murder-suicide just yet. Fisher’s body is lying in an awkward position.”

Manny stood up. “So what happened, oh great crime scene whisperer?”

Kittrell waved off Manny. “I’ve got a theory—one you’ll hear about later once I confirm a few things.”

Kittrell took his gloves off and snapped a few more pictures of the scene with his phone. His particular interest centered around Fisher’s body. The two other dead cohorts didn’t interest him, at least not yet.

As he drove back to the precinct, Kittrell tried to assemble his theory. At the moment, it was weak, but if his hunch proved him correct, he’d be able to make his case and hopefully receive Chief Roman’s blessing to pursue the line of investigation. He wasn’t certain of anything at this point, but