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

“I appreciate your confidence—I really do. But you and I both know your coach wasn’t going to replace Sid with you. He was a legend.”

“Maybe you’re right. But they wouldn’t let me get away either. I’m the future of this club. They need me.”

“He was a legend—and you are in your own mind.”

“Did you just come all the way out here to insult me? I can call Paul back out here to have security escort you back to your car.”

Cal held up both hands in a posture of surrender. “I come in peace.”

“Then why don’t you act like it and get to the point of your visit.” Norfolk popped the ball in the air and kicked it into the goal.

“The reason I’m here is I actually don’t believe the person responsible for Sid’s death has been found.”

“What about the guy who shot him? Isn’t he dead?”

“True. But he was just a pawn. Somebody hired him, and I think I might know whom. But I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

Before Cal could say another word, Shawn Lynch, with his nasally voice, yelled at Norfolk. “You want to go to lunch today?”

Norfolk waved him off. “I’m good. I’ll catch you tomorrow.” He returned his gaze toward Cal, who stared at Lynch, mouth agape. “You were saying—”

Cal refocused his attention on Norfolk. “Oh, sorry. I was saying that I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

Norfolk started to juggle another ball on his foot. “I know, I know. Get to them, okay? I still want to get some more drills in here.”

“Do you ever feel like there are some guys on this team who don’t pull their weight?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, are there some guys who seem to vanish mentally in the middle of a game?”

“We all do that sometimes. But are there some guys who do it more often than others?” Norfolk nodded. “Yeah. There are a few of those.”

“What about him?” Cal said, pointing at Lynch, who was climbing into his car. “Does he do that sometimes?”

“He’s one of the biggest offenders,” Norfolk said, nodding in Lynch’s direction. “But that’s not unusual for one of the new guys on the team. It’s an adjustment.”

“But you don’t have that problem?”

“The fact that I’m aware that an issue often exists ought to tell you all you need to know about my preparedness as a player.”

“Duly noted,” Cal said as he scratched down some notes on his pad. “Now, I promise not to quote you directly on this, but do you think Lynch would benefit from Sid being dead? Like, for example, would he get more endorsements? Because he’s already starting.”

Norfolk shrugged. “Maybe. Sid was certainly hogging all the endorsements.”

“Last question. Do you think he was capable of pulling off something like what happened to Sid?”

Norfolk looked at him incredulously. “You mean hiring a hit man to kill him during a bank robbery? Is that what you’re asking me?”

Cal nodded.

“I guess so, but he’s far from the coldest player on this team and the one I would suspect if I were investigating Sid’s death as a murder.”

“Well, out with it then.”

CHAPTER 41

THE CORPORATE HEADQUARTERS of Cars, Cars, Cars was far less assuming than Kittrell imagined. The way it was presented on television, Kittrell believed the company’s office space had to look like a scaled-down version of the Taj Mahal, complete with gold fenders and platinum bumpers adorned on the walls. Instead, it was rather modest with little more than art prints hung from the walls and uncomfortable—and mismatched—furniture used to decorate the waiting area.

Kittrell glanced at his phone and waited to be summoned by the sassy receptionist, who looked over the top of her glasses at everyone.

“Detective Mel Kittrell,” she called. “Mr. Lynch will see you now.”

She pointed to her right where a young man was waiting for him. He greeted Kittrell with a smile. “Thank you for stopping by, sir. Right this way.”

Kittrell followed the man through a set of double doors and into an expansive office where William Lynch sat pecking away on his computer keyboard.

“Have a seat,” Lynch muttered as he continued to pound away.

Kittrell sat down. “Thank you, Mr. Lynch.”

After a few moments, Lynch looked up. “So, what is it you’re here to see me about, Detective?”

Kittrell almost burst into laughter at the absurd portrait someone had painted of Lynch and his Pomeranian centered on the wall behind him. It wasn’t the portrait itself as much as it was the look on Lynch’s face—and how it matched the dog’s. They both peered down their noses, and it was exactly how Kittrell felt in that moment, as if Lynch was giving him the once over without considering what he had to say.

“How well did you know Robert Fisher?”

Lynch knit his brow. “Who?”

“Robert Fisher.”

“Never heard of him,” Lynch scoffed.

“Are you sure about that?” Kittrell countered. “Apparently, he worked for you for quite a number of years.”

“Oh, yes, Bobby Fisher. We used to call him that and tease him because he shared the same name as the great chess player. But let me tell you, our Bobby Fisher couldn’t get his opponent into check if his life depended on it, let alone understand the concept of checkmate.”

“And what exactly did he do for you?”

Lynch leaned back in his chair. “Why all the interest in Fisher? What did he do?”

“He’s dead,” Kittrell said, devoid of any feeling or emotion.

“Dead?”

“I didn’t stutter. He’s dead, sir.”

Lynch put his hands behind his head, interlocking his fingers. He stared at the ceiling and appeared to choke back a few tears. It was all believable theater that Kittrell appreciated, even if he didn’t believe Lynch was being truthful.

“Good ole Bobby Fisher is dead.”

“As a doornail.” Kittrell paused. “Don’t you read the paper?”

“Only to figure out how to place my bets.”

“Fair enough. So, what I came here to ask you is why did your organization donate more than two hundred grand into an offshore account with