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

you the names of the athletes she supplied HGH to as we speak. Feel free to write this story but quote me only as an anonymous source. Got it?”

“Yeah. And what about Rebecca Westin? What’s going to happen to her?”

“We gave her immunity, but again she wasn’t the focus of our investigation. We just needed her to roll over on Dr. Lancaster. But she has to give back the money she made off the sale of the HGH.”

“She won’t be hurting for cash anyway. Sid had a nice insurance policy.”

“As long as she wasn’t behind killing him.”

“You think she was?”

Anderson sighed. “I doubt it, but you never can quite tell about people, now can you?”

Cal thanked Anderson and hung up to call Buckman.

“I thought you were taking the day off,” Buckman groused.

“I’ve got a story for you, but I want you to promise to let me write it,” Cal began. “No Eddie Ramsey. Got it?”

“No promises, but what is it?”

“No promises, no story.”

“Cal, you ought to know by now that you can’t hold me hostage with something like that. I’m hanging up now.”

“You’re not going to hang up, Buckman. Your curiosity is far greater than your pride. Tell me I can write the story, and I’ll tell you what just went down.”

Buckman sighed. “Fine, Cal, you win. What’s the scoop?”

“Rebecca Westin just confessed to being an HGH supplier to several of the city’s top star athletes.”

“I thought she fled the country.”

“She did, but apparently she couldn’t bear the thought of Jonathan Umbert going to jail on a murder charge. She claimed to be with him at the time of the staged murder-suicide in the warehouse.”

“What’s going to happen to her?”

“Slap on the wrist. She gets immunity and goes free in exchange for her testimony of Dr. Bill Lancaster, who was the target of the FBI’s investigation all along.”

“Well, that’s all well and good, but the bigger story still remains: Who murdered those men, and was Sid Westin’s murder premeditated or just wrong place, wrong time?”

“I’m assuming you still want this story though, right?”

“You’ve got one hour to file it—then I want you to get back on the Sid Westin story.”

Cal smiled. “Why the change of heart?”

“Your story on yesterday’s boat race was a steaming pile of shit—and Ramsey couldn’t find a source if it hit him over the head.”

“You won’t regret this.”

“I think I already am.”

***

CAL POUNDED OUT HIS STORY and needed to get confirmation from Detective Kittrell about a few details, particularly if Jonathan Umbert had been released.

“Yes, we released him about a half hour ago,” Kittrell told Cal over the phone. “I swear I don’t know how you find out about this stuff so quickly.”

“So nobody else knows?”

“We haven’t put out a press release yet, if that’s what you mean. Chief Roman isn’t too fond of trumpeting faulty arrests.”

“What about the murder-suicide with the bank robbers? Anything there yet?”

“Not yet. I’m moving slow these days with Quinn still out sick. But the department’s position is that it was staged and the killer is still out there. We don’t think he’s a danger to anyone. Heck, I don’t mind if he takes out a few more of these low-life scumbags. But that’s all we know at this point.”

“Thanks for all this. I have a feeling we’re not done working together.”

“Not by a long shot—at least, not until we catch this killer. Until then, we won’t have any answers about Sid Westin.”

Cal hung up and finished writing his story. He filed it with The Times and returned to scrubbing the walls.

He’d only been back at it a few minutes when Kelly stopped in the doorway again. “Still scrubbing the same wall? Good thing you write for a living. We’d all starve if you were a professional wall scrubber.”

“For the record, I had some business to attend to.”

She smiled and shook her head. “You’ve always got some excuse.”

“I’m not kidding.”

Cal’s phone buzzed again.

She pointed at his phone. “Looks like you’ve got some more business to attend.” She paused as he took off his gloves. “Just wondering if you asked your friends to call you so you could get out of this.”

Cal waved her off dismissively. “Ever the comedian.”

She disappeared down the hall, and Cal answered the phone.

“This is Cal Murphy.”

“Cal, this is Javier Martinez.”

“Good to hear from you, Javy. What’s going on?”

“Well, I found something I thought you might be interested in.”

“What is it?”

“There’s something I need to show you. I’ll text you the location and meet you there in an hour.”

CHAPTER 38

CAL PULLED INTO THE PARKING LOT of a vacated Wal-Mart just a few miles from the Seattle FC practice facility. Developers had bet heavily on this bedroom community of Seattle becoming the next big housing boon, but local city council quarrels left infrastructure projects dangling, and it never really got off the ground. A stiff breeze whipped around the plastic covering of a half-finished fast-food restaurant located at the corner of the lot near the road. Like the massive box store that closed its doors three months ago, it too now sat abandoned.

Cal got out of his car and looked for Martinez, but he wasn’t there. He leaned against his car and tried to soak up some of the intermittent sunshine. After a few minutes, he decided to retreat back into his car. He checked his phone again and noted the time. Martinez was fifteen minutes late, and Cal was beginning to wonder if he was coming at all.

Just as Cal had decided to call him back, Martinez roared up next to him in the lot in his red Ferrari FF. They both got out of their cars.

“Sorry I’m late,” Martinez said. “I had to take my mom to the store to buy her groceries this week.”

“Javy, the good son,” Cal said with a laugh. Then he stopped and admired Martinez’s car. “I always wondered whose car this was.”

Martinez smiled. “She’s my pride and joy.”

“But a four-seater?”

“The more the merrier, I say.”