CHAPTER 20

CAL LOOKED AT HIS PHONE and saw Kelly’s name pop up on the screen. He’d have to be honest with her about what had happened—and he braced for her reaction.

“You did what?!” she said. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Buckman pulled me off the case. What was I supposed to do?” he protested.

“Figure out another way—a way that didn’t involve sabotaging another reporter’s livelihood.”

“I’ll tell Buckman just as soon as I’m done covering the story.”

“And how’d you get Ramsey to go along with that?”

“Maybe I have something on him.”

“Cal! Come on now. You’re better than this. You need to fight your battles the right way.”

“I know something’s going on here, Kelly. And I know that Ramsey would never figure it out. He’s lazy.”

“What about the Seattle PD?”

“I don’t have much confidence that they’ll figure this out, either. Look, I know it seems like I’m crossing the line with some of the things I’m doing, but it’s all to find out why Sid Westin was murdered.”

“And what if he wasn’t? What if it was all just part of a robbery gone bad? What then?”

Cal sighed. “If it was only that easy. When you know, you know.”

“I’m disappointed in you, Cal. I thought you were better than this.”

“If I’m bending the rules, it’s only so the person who took Westin’s life suffers just consequences.”

“But confronting his widow and pretending to be someone else?”

“Okay, look, I’m sure I could’ve gone about it another way. But as each day goes by and his killers walk free, it makes it that much more difficult to track him down. I can’t let that happen.”

“You just better be glad I’m not there to straighten you out.”

“You’re doing just fine from where you are.”

“About that, Cal. I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention to the national news lately, but there’s a huge late winter storm sweeping through the Southeast this week, and I doubt we’ll be able to make it back by Sunday.”

“Really? A big late winter snowstorm is going to hit the Southeast? I think the last one predicted to hit there when we lived back east generated a whopping half inch of snow.”

“They’re projecting eight to ten inches for Saturday night,” she said. “And as you know, that’s going to cripple this entire state, not to mention city and airport.”

“So, how much longer do you think you’ll be there?”

“I don’t know—a few more days. Not that Maddie minds. She’s being spoiled rotten by my mother.”

“Okay. Stay warm and keep me updated.”

“I will—and you better cut out the shenanigans, Cal. I’ll be home soon enough.”

Cal hung up and opened his laptop. While he had been pulled off the Sid Westin story and banished from the Seattle FC practice grounds for the time being, he still had one more story to write on the team—and it was due tomorrow.

Buckman still wanted the piece on Seattle’s new young star, Shawn Lynch. And Cal was going to give it to him.

He spent the rest of his morning pounding out the feature story on Lynch, but he felt it was missing something. There were a few quotes from Lynch, but most of them were from other people, including his father. Cal needed one or two more solid comments to solidify his lead paragraph.

I know just the guy.

He dialed Javier Martinez’s number and prayed he would answer so he could spend the rest of his day doing something he’d been warned by both his editor and wife against doing.

I could have a worse vice and drink myself into oblivion like most of my colleagues.

Cal knew it was a lame excuse in an attempt to justify his rogue behavior, but he’d been covering these types of stories long enough to learn that everyone justifies what they do, for better or worse. Over the years, he’d learned from the masters at how to fabricate a reasonably sounding justification. If forced to look at it objectively, he knew it was full of more holes than the Cleveland Browns defensive front. But at least for the moment, nobody outside of his wife or Ramsey knew what he was doing. And neither of them would be questioning him about his methods for a few days at least.

Martinez’s phone rang a few times, but he didn’t pick up. After the sixth ring, his voicemail came on.

“I’m out playing the beautiful game or enjoying this beautiful world. You know what to do.” Beep.

Cal hung up. He’d try again later.

He pushed back from the desk in his home office and propped his feet up. He put his hands behind his head and stared out the window at the cedar waxwing birds hopping on a tree branch in his backyard. Cedar waxwings were incredibly social birds and appeared to enjoy grooming one another. Cal watched with delight as the two birds traded duties of picking loose objects like dirt and twigs off one another with their beaks. They didn’t just survive but thrived because they worked together.

It’s a lost art among humans. At least some species on earth understands the concept of cooperation.

The sound of his phone buzzing on his desk jolted him out of his philosophical trance.

He glanced at his phone but didn’t recognize the number. It was a text message with an attachment icon in the upper corner.

What’s this? More spam?

He opened the email attachment that began with a brief message.

Guess when this photo was taken? While Sid Westin was playing his final away game.

Cal pulled his phone closer to his face and struggled to see the significance of the photo. It was a picture of Rebecca Westin standing in front of a sports car, making a sultry pose, including the puckered lips that Cal detested so much. He told Kelly more times than he could count that if he ever saw her puckering out her lips like a demented duck that he’d take her phone away. It was all in good fun as he knew she was in lockstep with him over their disdain for such ridiculous poses. “This is why the aliens will never land here,” Kelly once told him. And he wholeheartedly agreed.

He stared at the picture of Rebecca for a few more moments but didn’t see anything that would warrant a mysterious text. Cal loathed Instagram and other forms of social media, even if he had to join the various social networks per Buckman’s order, though he was certain this picture must’ve appeared on one of the social network sites. But despite his best efforts, he couldn’t make out anything scandalous. He decided to write the mystery texter back.

Who is this?

He waited a moment until he received a response.

Look more closely in the window of the car.

Before Cal could blow the picture up, the image vanished from his screen as Javier Martinez’s name and face popped up for an incoming call.

Nice timing, Martinez.

Cal answered the call. “Javy! How are you?”

“Did you call me, Cal?”

“I need a couple more comments from Seattle FC’s quote machine.”

Martinez laughed. “I do what I can. What do you need, brother?”

“I’m finishing up my story on Lynch, and I wanted to get a couple of comments from you regarding his maturation as a player. What has he done, in your opinion, to grow up so fast?”

“On the record or off the record?”

“Is there something about Lynch I should know?”

“For your story—and on the record—Lynch is one of the most dedicated players we’ve got. He arrives earlier and stays later than any other player on the team. He’s always trying to improve personally, and it’s paid big dividends for our team.”

“This is great. Just a sec.” Cal typed furiously as he transcribed Martinez’s comments in real time. It helped that he talked more slowly than some of his other Latino brethren. “Okay,” Cal said as he finished. “What about this off the record stuff?”

“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.”