Dead Wrong (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 7) Read online

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  What Others Are Saying

  About Jack Patterson

  “Jack’s storytelling feels as natural as James Patterson’s, and the short-chapter setup is the literary answer to Lay’s potato chips: you just want one more and before you know it, you’ve gone through the whole thing.

  - David Bashore, The Times-News, Twin Falls, ID

  “Jack Patterson does a fantastic job at keeping you engaged and interested. I look forward to more from this talented author.”

  - Aaron Patterson, bestselling author of SWEET DREAMS

  “Patterson has a mean streak about a mile wide and puts his two main characters through quite a horrible ride, which makes for good reading.”

  - Richard D., reader

  “Like a John Grisham novel, from the very start I was pulled right into the story and couldn’t put the book down. It was as if I personally knew and cared about what happened to each of the main characters. Every chapter ended with so much excitement and suspense I had to continue to read until I learned how it ended, even though it kept me up until 3:00 A.M.

  - Ray F., reader

  DEAD SHOT

  “Small town life in southern Idaho might seem quaint and idyllic to some. But when local newspaper reporter Cal Murphy begins to uncover a series of strange deaths that are linked to a sticky spider web of deception, the lid on the peaceful town is blown wide open. Told with all the energy and bravado of an old pro, first-timer Jack Patterson hits one out of the park his first time at bat with Dead Shot. It’s that good.”

  - Vincent Zandri, bestselling author of THE REMAINS

  “You can tell Jack knows what it’s like to live in the newspaper world, but with Dead Shot, he’s proven that he also can write one heck of a murder mystery. With a clever plot and characters you badly want to succeed, he is on his way to becoming a new era James Patterson.”

  - Josh Katzowitz,

  NFL writer for CBSSports.com

  & author of Sid Gillman: Father of the Passing Game

  DEAD LINE

  “This book kept me on the edge of my seat the whole time. I didn’t really want to put it down. Jack Patterson has hooked me. I’ll be back for more.”

  - Bob Behler

  3-time Idaho broadcaster of the year

  and play-by-play voice for Boise State football

  DEAD IN THE WATER

  “In Dead in the Water, Jack Patterson accurately captures the action-packed saga of a what could be a real-life college football scandal. The sordid details will leave readers flipping through the pages as fast as a hurry-up offense.”

  - Mark Schlabach,

  ESPN college sports columnist and

  co-author of Called to Coach

  Heisman: The Man Behind the Trophy

  Other titles by Jack Patterson

  Cal Murphy Thriller series

  Dead Shot

  Dead Line

  Better off Dead

  Dead in the Water

  Dead Man's Curve

  Dead and Gone

  James Flynn Thriller series

  The Warren Omissions

  For Aaron, the best brother a man could ever ask for

  CHAPTER 1

  KELVIN JAMESON WONDERED if a jury of his peers would convict him if he murdered Hank Bingham. The city would probably throw me a parade. Jameson smiled at the idea before letting his mind drift away for a moment about how to plan the perfect murder. Then Bingham’s voice snapped him back to reality.

  “If I had a nickel for every time Jameson passed up a shot, I wouldn’t have a nickel,” Bingham said. Hutch White, the former Washington Redskins star tight end, roared with laughter.

  Easily the Beltway’s biggest on-air radio personality, Bingham espoused his opinions about athletes as if they were trees or concrete or any other inanimate object. As Bingham’s voice droned through the speakers in his Mercedes-Benz S65 AMG, Jameson imagined the moment when the verdict was read.

  “If I were Nikolay Gavin, I would release Jameson now,” Bingham continued. “Who cares about the salary cap hit? Get this relic out of D.C. We don’t need Albatross any longer.”

  Albatross? What a couple of losers.

  Jameson wanted to slam his fist on the steering wheel and curse the two men who’d made it their life mission to destroy him. But he stopped short of hitting or saying anything when he heard a soft voice from the backseat.

  “Dad, are you gonna win tonight?” asked Jameson’s son, Kelvin Jameson Jr.

  Jameson adjusted his mirror and smiled as he looked at the eight-year-old. KJ—the name Jameson’s wife bestowed upon him since she refused to call him Junior—looked up at his father through a pair of doe eyes. It was apparent he wanted an answer, one that was sincere.

  “Why, of course, son,” Jameson said. “I never expect to lose.”

  KJ didn’t wait to respond. “You say that every time, Dad. And sometimes you lose.”

  “But not tonight.”

  “And why are you so convinced tonight that you’re going to win? You know we’re playing the Spurs.”

  Jameson flashed his winning smile as he glanced at KJ in the rearview mirror and chuckled at his son’s tenacious line of questioning. “I don’t know how to explain it, son, but it’s just a feeling.”

  “You said the same thing last week when we played Celtics. And I don’t think I need to tell you that the Spurs are a lot better than the Celtics.”

  “No, I’m well aware of how much better the Spurs are. But it’s just something I know. We’re going to win.”

  “And what if you don’t?”

  “I’ll buy you ice cream after the game.”

  “But, Dad—you always buy me ice cream after the game.”

  “Well, then I guess I’ll make it a double for you if we lose. Sound like a deal?”

  KJ nodded. “Deal.”

  Jameson rolled into the underground parking garage beneath the Wizards’ arena and whipped the car into an open space. He cut off the engine and turned around to help KJ out of his seat. But his son was gone.

  He bent down and looked under the seat, even though he knew his son couldn’t fit there. He leaned into the front and looked at the foot of the passenger’s seat.

  “KJ! Where are you?”

  Jameson stood up and scanned the garage area. He started to hyperventilate.

  “KJ!”

  Then his son tapped him on the back.

  Jameson spun around to see KJ standing there. He stared mouth agape for a few moments, trying to figure out how his son escaped the car so stealthily.

  “Don’t ever do that to me again, son. You scared me half to death.”

  KJ laughed. “Aww, come on, Dad. I was just messin’ with you.”

  Jameson held out as long as he could with the evil eye for KJ before caving. He smiled and tousled his hair. “Just don’t do it again,” he warned.

  The buzz of his cell phone cut Jameson’s evil eye short. He glanced at the screen. It was his agent, Scott Perry.

  Jameson rolled his eyes and sent the call to voice mail. He wasn’t in the mood to talk.

  ***

  TWENTY MINUTES BEFORE TIP OFF, Jameson gathered with the rest of the Wizards’ players in the locker room for one final diatribe from head coach Walt Ryman. At age 68, Ryman was on his way out of coaching. Jameson knew the old man still possessed the coaching acumen to succeed at the sport’s highest level—he just wasn’t sure how committed Ryman was. If he wasn’t griping about NBA officials calling ever
y hand-checking foul, Ryman was warning players about how too much social media would ruin them both personally and financially. But tonight something was different.

  Ryman rubbed his forehead and then slid his hand down the right side of his face. He sighed and grunted while staring at the floor. After a few moments of awkward silence, he looked up and scanned the players.

  “Let’s just win tonight, okay?” he said. “Do it because it’ll make an old man happy.” He paused. “It might make some young ones happy too.”

  The team exited the room in near silence. Jameson couldn’t remember a time in his 16-year career when he’d been in such a quiet locker room before a game. He’d been in plenty of locker rooms with disappointed players following a loss. But never like this, beforehand. It was eerie and unusual.

  As Jameson crossed the threshold into the walkway leading to the arena floor, he felt a tug on his shirt. He stopped and looked back to see Ryman yanking on him with one hand and motioning him to come back with the other. Jameson didn’t hesitate to comply. He slipped through the onslaught of players exiting the room and in a matter of seconds was left standing alone in front of his coach.

  “Did you want to see me?” Jameson asked.

  Ryman nodded but said nothing.

  “What’s all this about?” Jameson asked again.

  Ryman drew a deep breath and eyed Jameson cautiously. “We need you tonight in the worst way.”

  “You know I do my best every night,” Jameson shot back.

  “I need you to do better than your recent best.”

  Jameson cocked his head and furrowed his brow. “What exactly do you mean?”

  “I mean, I need you to play like the Kelvin Jameson we all fell in love with the first few years you were in the league—you know, the one who won the Rookie of the Year Award. I don’t need washed-up Kelvin Jameson bleeding this club out for a ton of money. I want you to find yourself again on the floor in this game—and prove to us all that we weren’t crazy to believe in you.”

  Jameson nodded. “I get it. We’re both two aging dinosaurs in a young man’s game—and you hope that if I can rekindle that old magic that maybe we have a shot in the playoffs.”

  “I’m tired of finishing second to somebody—everybody, every year—I want to win one more title before I retire.”

  Jameson bobbed his head up and down. His eyebrows shot upward. “I’m with you, Coach. I think it’s high time we go out and show the fans what we’re really made of.”

  Jameson turned to go before he felt another tug on his jersey. He stopped and looked back at Ryman holding a fistful of his shirt.

  “This is it for me. One way or another at the end of this season, I’m gone. I know that. But I put my neck on the line for you when we signed you. I said you’d bring us a championship. Don’t make a liar out of me.”

  “I’m gonna make you a prophet—don’t you worry.”

  ***

  WITH TWO MINUTES REMAINING in the game, the Wizards watched their 20-point lead vanish and soon found themselves trailing by two points. On the next several possessions, each team struggled to score. Jameson could feel the anxiety heighten to an almost palpable level. The fans, the coaches, the players—he sensed everyone was wondering if another Wizards meltdown was about to happen. It had been the story of the last six weeks for a team with more than just playoff aspirations. Many pundits picked the Wizards to advance to the NBA Finals in November. But as the season neared the middle of February, Jameson hoped they could still qualify for a playoff spot. The odds seemed to dim with each gut-wrenching loss.

  With forty seconds left in the game, Jameson took the ball on the right wing, made a nice move to the basket to slip the defender and tied the game with a dunk. The crowd roared with delight as the decibel level in the arena soared.

  Jameson looked over at his son seated four rows behind the Wizards’ bench with his mom. KJ was cheering and waving a white towel. Jameson pointed at him and smiled as he backpedaled down the court.

  On the other end, the Wizards’ point guard Eric Ford stripped the ball from one of the Spurs players to set up a final shot to win the game.

  Ryman called time out and diagramed a play.

  “I want the ball in Jameson’s hands. If they double-team you and you can’t get a shot off, Ford’s going to be open right here,” Ryman said as he sketched. “Either way, somebody is gonna get a good look at the basket and hopefully one of you can knock it down.”

  The Wizards returned to the court and inbounded the ball. The seconds ticked off the clock:

  12, 11, 10, 9, 8…

  Ford finally put the play in action and delivered a bullet pass to Jameson. However, the Spurs converged on him, leaving Jameson with very few options. Yet with three seconds remaining, one of the Spurs’ players slipped and created a window for Jameson to pass the ball back to a wide-open Ford. Instead, Jameson saw the reduction from a triple team to a double team as his opportunity to fire up a shot.

  3, 2, 1. Buzzzzzz.

  Jameson launched the ball a fraction of a second before the buzzer signaled the end of the game. The crowd fell silent as everyone awaited the final destination of the shot—made or missed. He shared their anticipation but he knew the moment he shot it where it was going.

  Clank.

  The ball bounded off the front of the rim and fell onto the court.

  Overtime.

  In the huddle, Ford glared at Jameson. “What was that?” he asked.

  “What was what?”

  “That shot? I was wide open.”

  Jameson waved him off. “You didn’t have a chance, man. I saw how far you were from the basket.”

  “I was wide open.”

  “I got a good look.”

  Ford shook his head. “For a blind man.”

  Ryman ignored the banter and drew up a few more plays. “We can’t worry about what just happened. We have to focus on what we have to do right now to win this one. We need it bad, so let’s go get it.”

  The players returned to the court for an extra five minutes—or more if the teams couldn’t break the deadlock in the first overtime.

  Jameson wiped away the sweat beading up on his forehead. He tried to ignore all the insults hurled at him by angry Wizards fans. He thought it was strange how they all sounded like Hank Bingham to him. Instead of dwelling on all the negative energy directed at him, Jameson went on a mental retreat as he zeroed in on KJ

  His son’s face appeared forlorn. With arms crossed and a protruding bottom lip, KJ stared at the ground. When he looked up, Jameson caught his eyes. He mouthed, “I love you, son,” and smiled. The corners of KJ’s mouth curled upward; a twinkle returned to his eyes. Then another message. “We’re going to win.”

  KJ flashed a thumbs-up sign to his dad and returned to screaming for the Wizards.

  Overtime followed the same script as the waning minutes of the game—minus a few made shots. Neither team seemed poised to snatch the victory. But when the Wizards fell behind by two points with fifteen seconds left to play, defeat grew more imminent with each tick of the clock.

  Without any timeouts remaining, the Wizards inbounded the ball and charged down the court to set up a last gasp play. Ryman encouraged Ford to drive the lane and go for the tie. It was an idea that collapsed as quickly as the Spurs’ defenders filled the lane and forced Ford back outside.

  Five seconds remaining.

  Three defenders surrounded him, but somehow Ford squeezed the ball through them with a quick pass to Jameson. He scooped up the loose ball.

  3, 2, 1, buzzzzzzzz.

  Jameson had enough time to square up and hoist a high-arcing, three-point shot toward the basket before the game ended—and this time with different results.

  The ball tickled the net as it went through the hoop, setting off a chaotic celebration in the stands and on the floor.

  Jameson reveled being swarmed upon by his younger teammates. It reminded him of what it was like when he was a young rising
star in the league. All the adrenaline. All the passion. All the dreams of a championship. As he looked up at the arena lights beaming brightly onto the floor, he felt all of those things were still there—and still within his reach. It wouldn’t be easy, but hope dangled in front of him and served as a reminder that he was still very much alive—and that he belonged in the league no matter what Hank Bingham said.

  After Jameson escaped the mob and conducted several interviews with local radio and TV outlets, he returned to a locker room full of high spirits.

  Except for one.

  Eric Ford sat slumped in his locker, towel draped over his head. Several teammates approached him and he stuck out his knuckles for a half-hearted fist bump.

  Jameson wasn’t going to let Ford’s self-imposed alienation create a situation in the locker room. The Wizards’ championship aspirations were on life-support at the moment, but they were still alive. One hot streak and the team might find itself with a three or four seed in the talent-dilapidated Eastern Conference. Either way, once the Wizards got into the playoffs, who knew what could happen. At least, that was Jameson’s take on the situation. And he wasn’t about to let one player’s ego create a toxic environment for everyone.

  “Get up,” Jameson said as he yanked on Ford’s arm.

  Ford withdrew forcefully, ripping his own arm away from Jameson’s grasp before folding his arms and tucking his feet up near his chest.

  “I ain’t playin’ with you,” Jameson said again as he reached for Ford’s arm. “Get up.”

  “Leave me alone, Albatross.”

  Jameson’s eyes narrowed. “What did you call me?”

  Ford stood up. “You heard me,” he said as he poked Jameson’s chest with his index finger. “Al-ba-tross,” he said, reinforcing every syllable with a poke.

  “Don’t ever do that again, fool,” Jameson said.

  A sly grin spread across Ford’s face. “Do what? This?” he said as he jammed his finger into Jameson’s chest again.

  Jameson didn’t hesitate to act. He grabbed Ford’s fingers and then his hand and spun him around. Ford let out a yelp in pain and grimaced as Jameson gained a positional advantage. Ford had no leverage and no way to escape Jameson’s grip.