Dead Drop Page 2

  As the leader barked out orders, Sid waited for the right moment. He watched as the frightened employees shoveled stacks of cash into a bag some of the other robbers held open while the leader paced back and forth, still atop the counter.

  The leader’s pacing was rhythmic, almost lulling one to sleep. But not Sid. He watched this go on for nearly a minute until he determined the right moment to strike. Conjuring up all the gumption he had, he leapt to his feet and charged the leader. Only his long strides click-clacking on the marble floor alerted the leader that something was wrong.

  The man spun and saw Sid racing toward him.

  The leader didn’t hesitate, firing once at Sid. The soccer star’s momentum carried him forward as he crumpled to the ground, stopping just short of the counter. The man stooped down and looked at Sid. Using his foot, the leader turned over Sid’s body and shook his head. Sid was clutching his side and gasping for air.

  “I said, ‘no heroes,’ you idiot.” The leader fired another shot, hitting Sid in the head.

  He turned and whistled at his crew. “Let’s go.”

  On the way out, the leader turned toward the security guard crouched in the corner and fired a shot, hitting him in the head.

  “Thank you for your time, ladies and gentlemen,” the leader said as they all stormed out the front door and into a waiting van.

  Sid breathed shallowly as he felt the life slipping out of him.

  “Just hang in there, Mr. Westin,” one of the tellers said. “We’re going to get you help.”

  Sid didn’t move.

  CHAPTER 2

  CAL MURPHY CHECKED his rearview mirror and quickly changed lanes, squeezing between two cars as he kept pace with the late morning Seattle freeway traffic. He glanced at the clock and then at his wife, Kelly.

  She put her hand on his knee. “Honey, we’re going to make it to the airport in plenty of time.”

  Drawing a deep breath, he nodded. He caught a glimpse of Maddie in the backseat. She was clutching her MooMoo, the stuffed cow she wouldn’t go anywhere without. He couldn’t help but smile.

  “Don’t let her forget MooMoo at your mom’s,” Cal said to Kelly.

  Her look turned serious. “That’s why I bought an extra one the last time she lost it, remember? We’re never going to endure that kind of torture again.”

  “You’re always so prepared—that’s why I’m so glad I married you.”

  “Is that the only reason you’re glad you married me?”

  Cal shook his head. “I don’t have time to list all the reasons before we reach the airport.”

  She chuckled. “Nice save.” After glancing out the window for a moment, she turned and looked at him. “How are you going to make it the next two weeks without me?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll manage somehow.”

  He turned on the radio just in time to catch the beginning of the sports news break on KJR 950 AM.

  Enrique Gonzalez is due to be in court this afternoon for his arraignment. Gonzalez, the Mariners’ leading hitter last season, was arrested for his role in an illegal gambling ring yesterday. If convicted, he faces up to fifteen years in federal prison…

  His face fell as he listened to the news.

  Kelly turned the radio off. “Cal, don’t be so hard on yourself. You weren’t the only person to believe his claims of innocence.”

  Cal pursed his lips and said nothing. His coverage of the Enrique Gonzalez gambling story wasn’t the brightest moment in his journalism career. After a tip from someone he knew inside the FBI office telling him that Gonzalez was an unfortunate bystander in all of this but wouldn’t be arrested, Cal interviewed Gonzalez about the allegations. His story painted a picture of Gonzalez being guilty only of picking friends of questionable character. And based on all the other facts and evidence Cal had pieced together regarding the case, it appeared that way to him as well. So, he wrote a story that all but said federal investigators had cleared Gonzalez of any wrongdoing and he was no longer part of the focus of their investigation.

  Then Sabremetrics genius Mike Felton got involved. Felton, whose analysis of baseball statistics had helped him emerge from a hobby in his basement to a regular guest on ESPN, found some strange anomalies in Gonzalez’s statistics. He compiled a list of games where Gonzalez’s play appeared suspect and turned it over to the FBI. After leaning on a few suspects the FBI had taken into custody, the truth came out. Gonzalez was indeed working with the gamblers by tanking in several games. Cal was baffled by the allegations, especially since the star outfielder was making $18 million a year. It was a high risk with apparently not much reward. Gonzalez released a statement through his lawyer that he was innocent and the truth would come out. But Cal knew that if the FBI was going to charge him, the feds had a rock solid case that would withstand the challenge of top criminal defense attorneys and the skepticism of a jury. Then another one of his FBI sources told him they had a paper trail on Gonzalez that showed that his involvement in the gambling ring was minor compared to his ties to other organized crime bosses. Cal’s source described Gonzalez as “an enterprising criminal who had parlayed his fame and wealth into something far more sinister.” And Cal had bought Gonzalez’s 100-watt smile and family man image, looking past the evidence that he normally would have scrutinized.

  Cal shook his head. “In my gut, I knew something wasn’t right. But I didn’t trust it—and I only have myself to blame.”

  Once the news broke of Gonzalez’s arrest—just two days after Cal’s glowing article about him—The Times sports editor, Frank Buckman, yelled at Cal for fifteen minutes in Buckman’s office, ranting about his irresponsible handling of the story. Cal took issue with his editor’s accusations while agreeing with the conclusion: bad reporting jeopardizes the trust the newspaper has with its readers. While Cal concluded there wasn’t much more he could’ve done to verify all of Gonzalez’s story, short of talking with federal agents who couldn’t comment during an ongoing investigation, at least he didn’t have to write a story stating Gonzalez was exonerated of any wrongdoing.

  “Well, don’t beat yourself up over it, Cal,” Kelly said as she patted him on the shoulder. “Just knock it out of the park on your next story—pun intended.”

  Cal forced a smile and glanced at her. “No, that right there is why I’m glad I married you.”

  He had a tendency to be hard on himself whenever he made a mistake, but she was right. The only thing he could do now was vow not to let it happen again and make his editor—and the newspaper’s readers—forget all about his missteps with some award-winning caliber reporting on his next story.

  He pulled up to the curb and put the car in park, hustling to the back and unloading Kelly and Maddie’s luggage.

  Kneeling down in front of Maddie, Cal looked her in the eyes. “You have fun with grandma, okay?”

  “I will, Daddy,” she said. “I’m gonna miss you.”

  “I’m gonna miss you too, pumpkin. Take care of Mommy for me.”

  She set down MooMoo so she could hug him tight with both hands. Cal tousled her hair and then watched her reach down and collect her stuffed cow.

  He turned toward Kelly. “And don’t you lose, MooMoo.”

  Kelly hugged him goodbye. “Don’t get in any trouble while we’re gone. Understand?”

  “You know me.”

  “That’s exactly why I said that,” she said as she grabbed the handle on her suitcase and offered her hand to Maddie. “You know where to find me if you need help.”

  He waved again as Maddie looked over her shoulder for one final glimpse at him before disappearing through the sliding glass doors.

  Cal slipped back into his car and pulled into one of the outer lanes. He hadn’t driven two minutes before his phone rang. He answered it without looking at the screen.

  “Did you forget something?” he asked.

  “Forget something?” came the familiar voice. “Who do you think this is?”

  Embarrassed that he
didn’t realize it was his editor on the other end of the call, Cal forced a laugh. “Sorry, Buckman, I just dropped my wife off at the airport. I thought she was calling me and telling me she’d forgotten something.”

  “If she did, she’ll need to figure out a way to get it herself.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “I need you on a story ASAP.”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s Sid Westin. He was killed earlier today.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  CHAPTER 3

  DETECTIVE MEL KITTRELL APPROACHED the crime scene and slipped underneath the yellow tape cordoning off a small perimeter in front of Puget Sound Bank. He stopped and held it up for his partner, Eddie Quinn, who ducked beneath the tape and joined him on the other side. Several uniformed officers scurried out of the bank.

  Phil Arledge, the sergeant who first responded to the scene, stood at the top of the bank steps and surveyed the area. He glanced down at Kittrell and Quinn as they made their way up the steps. “You ready for this?” he asked.

  Kittrell shrugged and eyed the sergeant cautiously. “Would it make any difference if we weren’t?”

  “I’ve got half a mind to let one of those rookies take this case just because of your attitude,” Arledge shot back.

  “You sure it’s got nothing to do with our last case?” Quinn said.

  “Just don’t screw this one up, okay? Both our jobs might be on the line if you do. Got it?” Arledge said.

  Kittrell nodded and turned around to look at the officers interviewing witnesses and taking statements. A few feet away from the bottom of the steps, two officers were talking with the branch manager under the watchful eye of a man Kittrell assumed was the bank president based on his expensive shoes and designer wool suit.

  After taking in the scene, he followed Quinn into the building. Inside, the bank hummed with a bevy of activity. Picture taking. Bullet casing demarcations. Covering the deceased. The usual.

  Lenny Young, one of the uniformed officers working the scene, hustled over to Kittrell and Quinn. “Hey, guys. Welcome to the party. This one is pretty nasty.”

  “I thought it was a basic armed robbery,” Kittrell said.

  “Sure. The crime itself was basic, but not one of the victims,” Young said, gesturing for them to follow him. He pointed at the body. “See for yourself.”

  Kittrell knelt down and discreetly lifted the sheet draped over a lifeless body.

  “You recognize him?” Young asked.

  “Isn’t this the famous soccer player from England?” Kittrell said, snapping his fingers. “Shawn? Or Simon?”

  “Sid,” Quinn said. “Sid Westin.”

  “Yeah. This is the guy?”

  “The one and only,” Young said.

  Kittrell stood up. “Bastards shot him at point blank range.”

  “It appears that way,” Young said.

  “Anything else we need to know?”

  Young nodded. “Follow me.”

  Kittrell and Quinn trailed Young as he led them across the bank toward another covered body. Kittrell crouched down and lifted the sheet.

  “Security guard?”

  Young nodded. “Sounds like they shot him on the way out just for fun. Witnesses said he never went for his gun.”

  “Your weapon never does you any good in your holster,” Quinn said.

  Kittrell put his hands on his hips and exhaled. “So, how did this go down?”

  Young pointed back in the direction of Westin’s body. “Four perps. The leader commanded the scene from atop the counter. It sounded pretty straightforward and was going down without a hitch until Sid Westin tried to play hero.”

  Kittrell’s eyebrows shot upward. “Hero?”

  “Yeah. Witnesses said he rushed the leader, who shot him point-blank right before he reached him. Dropped Westin right there.”

  “Why would he do that?” Quinn asked.

  “Maybe he saw his opportunity to increase his brand if he brazenly stopped these guys,” Young said.

  Kittrell let out a long breath. “He’s lucky he didn’t get anyone else killed. You never know how these armed scum will react in a situation like that.”

  “Witnesses said the leader was very calm and in control. He warned everyone not to try anything.”

  “They always say that,” Kittrell said. “That’s Standard Bank Robbery 101.”

  “Well, at least it’s not like your last case,” Young said.

  Kittrell shot Young a dirty look. “If you want all your teeth, I suggest you keep those kind of comments to yourself.”

  Young didn’t flinch but stared back at Kittrell. “I’ll be over there if you need me for anything.”

  Kittrell watched him walk away, glaring at him the whole way.

  “Can you believe that guy?” Quinn said. “Like he’s a perfect beat cop. I’d like to—”

  “We can’t screw this one up,” Kittrell said. “Now, let’s focus and see if we can find any more clues about who these guys are. Something tells me it won’t be easy.”

  Kittrell walked the outer perimeter of the main bank lobby and searched for anything the crime scene crew might have missed since they began tagging and bagging all the evidence. As he strode around the room, he tried to focus and not get distracted by Arledge’s and Young’s comments. He tried not to take it personally, though it was nearly impossible. Over the past few weeks he’d received plenty of flack for his inability to capture Arnold Grayson, a serial killer who’d murdered six high-profile businessmen in the Seattle area over the past three years. He and Quinn arrested two men on suspicion of the murders, including one who was a high-level executive at one of the city’s largest tech companies. Their blunders didn’t play well publicly as the local media branded them the Emerald City’s “Keystone Cops.” The Times ran a big picture with the same moniker in large font above them. Nobody at the department was happy that they’d drawn such negative attention, especially the chief.

  Kittrell and Quinn looked even worse when Grayson committed suicide by jumping off the Space Needle. He wrote a letter apologizing to the victims’ families and listed each one, which turned out to be seven. When the media got wind that the serial killer had murdered more victims than the police first believed, it made the situation worse. Were they lying or just inept? That was the question hundreds of armchair detectives spent hours discussing on local radio talk shows.

  Kittrell didn’t help matters when a pushy reporter shoved a microphone in his face as he left the downtown precinct one day.

  “At least we didn’t shoot anybody,” Kittrell said. And with that comment, he sparked another media firestorm that would undoubtedly fuel the news cycle for several more days.

  Yet he was determined to make the department proud this time. He wasn’t much of a soccer fan, but based on the way the city had embraced its soccer team, he knew this case was going to be a high-profile one. Everyone would want justice for Sid Westin—and he and Quinn were going to give it to them.

  Kittrell stopped and looked down at something that appeared partially lodged beneath the molding at the foot of the teller counter. Stooping down, he slid the object out into the open with his pen, careful not to touch it. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves and examined what appeared to be a sports card. It contained Sid Westin’s picture on one side and his statistics on the other.

  Perhaps it was nothing. Or maybe it was the key to the case. At this point, it was simply a piece of evidence. But if he were going to get outsmarted again, it wouldn’t be for negligence or lack of due diligence on his part.

  No, these criminals wouldn’t see him coming—and he wouldn’t have his gun holstered either.

  CHAPTER 4

  REBECCA WESTIN POURED herself a glass of chardonnay and shifted back and forth on the stool. She slid the bottle down the bar to her friend Elizabeth, who’d stopped by to check on her. For Rebecca, Elizabeth’s timing couldn’t have been any better.

  She k
ept one eye on Mason in the front yard, still working on his soccer skills.

  “Oh, bloody hell, when is that pathetic excuse for a husband of mine going to be home?” Rebecca groused.

  “Are you sure you want me to stay here until he arrives?” Elizabeth asked.

  Rebecca nodded. “It’ll keep me from murdering him.”

  She swept her hand across the counter, sending a small stack of papers flying.

  “I know you’re upset, Becs, but try to hold it together. If for anything, do it for Mason. Don’t let him see you like this. Be strong.”

  “Is it wrong that I want him to know what a jerk his father is?”

  Elizabeth patted her on the hand. “He’s not a jerk of a father, just a husband, right?”

  Rebecca rolled her eyes and sighed. “If you insist on keeping me from being pissed off, I just might kick you out.”

  “I’m not saying you can’t be upset, but just keep it under control. You don’t want to do anything you’ll regret.”

  “Already too late for that,” Rebecca said as she took another gulp of her wine. “I married Sid.” She teared up but waved her hands in front of her eyes.

  “It’s okay to cry.”

  “No. I’m not going to shed one tear for him. He’s a bastard, serving me divorce papers right in front of Mason, papers that accused me of infidelity. He needs to get off his self-righteous high horse.” Rebecca grabbed the tabloid at the end of the bar and held it up. “Here he is running around the city with all these beautiful women and just shrugs like it’s no big deal—and he acts like nothing is going on.” She slammed the paper on the bar. “He’s full of it. I know for a fact he’s had at least two affairs since we’ve been married.”

  “Two affairs? Are you sure? Why are you still with him?”

  “I never caught him, but I suspected him at least twice. He was acting strange, and when I confronted him about it, he denied it all. But I’m no idiot.”