Dead in the Water (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 4) Read online

  CHAPTER 2

  IT HAD BEEN TWO YEARS since Cal Murphy accepted a job at the Atlanta Journal-Constitution and moved east. Becoming an enterprise reporter for the sports department meant more freedom that he’d ever had in his career. Freedom to chase down fragile leads. Freedom to pursue injustices that would otherwise slip under the radar. Freedom to explore the kind of stories that attracted him to journalism in the first place. It breathed new life into Cal as a journalist. Meanwhile, the rest of his life was on hold, stifled by the kind of cruelty dished out exclusively by the likes of Mother Nature, acts of God, and Lady Unluck.

  When Cal proposed to his girlfriend, Kelly Mendoza, he sensed a change in his life. For once, things were going his way. He had the type of job he always dreamed of—and now the girl, too. Just before proposing to Kelly, Cal concluded an investigative report that rocked the NFL, revealing a performance enhancing drug cover-up that shook up the league’s policies and landscape of the cheating teams. It also created an intense bidding war for his services as a writer. To top it off, Kelly said yes—and they were off on an adventure in the deep South, this time together.

  Cal was mildly shocked at Kelly’s eagerness to join him without a job of her own. Kelly had worked for the Associated Press as a photographer in southern California but left knowing there were no openings in Atlanta. Cal figured it would be easy for someone as talented as her to find a job somewhere, if not as a freelance photographer. During their first year in Atlanta, she managed to pick up a few jobs here and there, but nothing permanent—and nothing that paid much of anything. Cal watched as it sent Kelly spiraling into depression.

  After a year, Kelly came to Cal with an idea, something to give her purpose since her photography career seemed to be disappearing.

  “Cal, I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” she said.

  “Do what?”

  “Boredom. It’s driving me crazy.”

  “What do you propose we do about it?”

  “I want a baby.”

  Anxious to become a father, Cal agreed. But it wasn’t long before the couple realized something was wrong. A trip to the fertility specialist confirmed their worst fear: Kelly would likely never get pregnant.

  “There’s only one procedure that’s had much success correcting your condition, Kelly,” the doctor told them.

  “What are our chances if it works?” Cal asked.

  “If the procedure goes well, couples get pregnant within a year about eighty percent of the time.”

  “So is there any downside to this?” Kelly asked.

  “It’s an elective surgery and is rarely covered by your insurance.”

  “Is that a problem?” Cal asked.

  “No, but it’s an expensive surgery.” He slid a paper across the desk that detailed the costs.

  They left the doctor’s office searching for ideas for how they could come up with an extra $40,000.

  Cal calculated that even if Kelly took a job at a small newspaper, it would still take two years before she could earn enough money for the surgery. And then there was always the gruesome reality that the surgery might not work. It was too much of a risk in his mind, too long to put their life on hold. Cal wasn’t sure how much longer Kelly would last before the dark depression brooding over her stole her last shred of joy. He needed another solution—a quick one.

  As he pondered where he could come up with such a large amount of money so quickly, Cal received a call from Barry Anderson, one of his college buddies.

  “Barry Anderson? To what do I owe the pleasure of this phone call?”

  “It’s been far too long, Cal.”

  “So, what are you doing these days?”

  “I’m not developing a reputation as the best investigative sports journalist in the business, that’s for sure.”

  Cal laughed. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

  “I don’t, but I was wondering if you could help me with a book I’m working on. I need some background on your story about the L.A. Stars a while back.”

  Cal didn’t mind sharing notes with Anderson, who’d been a good friend in college. Though they had spoken in recent years, Anderson’s call testified to the strength of their relationship.

  “Before I let you go, I’ve got a question for you,” Cal said.

  “Shoot.”

  “I’d like to get into writing books myself. It’s a long story, but I need to come up with a large amount of money and fast—and I think a book deal would be a great way to do that.”

  “Gambling again, Cal?”

  Cal chuckled. “No, I quit betting and playing beer pong our senior year.”

  “You were a drag that last year of college.”

  “Seriously, do you think you can help me?”

  Anderson gave Cal a few names of literary agents, thanked him for the information and wished him good luck.

  Cal reached out to several literary agents but heard nothing. He was almost ready to begin looking for a higher paying job elsewhere when one of the literary agents he’d spoken with a few weeks before contacted him.

  “Mr. Murphy?”

  “Yes?” Cal answered.

  “This is Mike Nicholson from Nicholson & Associates. We spoke briefly about your interest in writing some sports-related books.”

  “Yes, I remember. How are you?”

  “I’m doing well, thanks. And yourself?”

  “I’m all right. Still wracking my brain for a book idea that could get published.”

  “Well, I think I found a potential one for you and wanted to see if you were interested.”

  “Oh? Tell me about it.” Cal sat down at his desk and pulled out a note pad, ready to hear the big idea.

  “While college football recruiting has become a hot commodity as it pertains to reader interest among newspapers and sports websites, very few books are being written about it. And for good reason—recruiting coverage builds toward signing day and then it’s over.”

  “Yes, I know,” Cal said. “I hate covering recruiting. A bunch of seventeen- and eighteen-year-old boys who are indecisive and easily swayed make for a maddening few months of work.”

  “Very true. However, there is a side to recruiting that hasn’t been covered much—the dark side. And I’ve got a publisher who wants a book on the dark side of recruiting.”

  “What exactly do you mean by that?”

  “I mean, he wants a book that exposes the dirty tactics and cheating ways of major universities. However, he’ll settle for the story of one school.”

  “One school? Everybody does it. Why just one?”

  “In this case, the publisher thinks he sees potential in a story brewing down in Louisiana that could make for one heckuva book on recruiting.”

  “And what story is that?”

  “The murder of Louisiana five-star recruit Tre’vell Baker.”

  “Recruits getting murdered before signing day isn’t common but it has happened before.”

  “True, but there’s something about this story that doesn’t pass the smell test. For starters, the Baker kid was committed to Bryant University before suddenly reneging on his commitment. Then he winds up dead a week later after rumors emerged that he was going to Alabama instead.”

  “Perhaps that’s just coincidence?”

  “Coincidence? I thought I was talking to Cal Murphy, journalist extraordinaire who’s found enough dirt on sports figures in the past few years to fill a pig farm’s mud pit.”

  “You are, Mr. Nicholson. But conspiracy theories abound in college football. And even when you know a school is cheating, the NCAA struggles to prove it.”

  “Sure. But cheating is one thing—murder is another.”

  “What makes you so sure that the Baker kid’s murder is directly tied to dirty recruiting?”

  “The publisher said he just has a hunch.”

  “And who’s the publisher?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, but let’s just say he’s willing to pay you
a handsome advance if this story is true.”

  “Define handsome.”

  “Nothing definitive yet, but he said it will be six figures.”

  Cal gasped but remained quiet.

  “Cal? Are you there?” Nicholson asked.

  “Yes, I’m here,” he answered.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “I think I’ll talk to my editor about it and get back with you.”

  Cal hung up and tried to temper his excitement. He then ran into the kitchen to tell Kelly.

  He then spent the next few minutes trying to temper her excitement as they hugged and dreamed of the possibilities.

  “Nothing is for certain, but I’m going to convince my editor to let me go down to Louisiana and check it out,” Cal said.

  Kelly smiled and gave him a few more encouraging words before he left the house for work.

  ***

  When Cal arrived at the offices of The Atlanta Journal-Constitution—more commonly known as The AJC—Jim Gatlin was standing outside and taking the final drag of a cigarette. Cal shot him a disapproving glance before Gatlin tossed the butt down and mashed it into the sidewalk.

  “I’m trying to quit,” Gatlin said. “Cut me some slack, will ya? It’s Friday.”

  Cal smiled and nodded. He never once said a word to Gatlin about his smoking habit. Such browbeating toward smokers in the newspaper business would make Cal the most hated man in the newsroom. It was an acceptable mechanism to cope with all the daily stress associated with the job. Alcohol was also acceptable, though less so on the clock. However, Cal’s mere presence as a non-smoker seemed to extract Gatlin’s guilt. It was an uneasiness Cal wished didn’t exist between him and his boss.

  “So, you got any leads on any good stories today?” Gatlin asked as they strode toward the elevator.

  Cal nodded. “I think so.”

  “Good. We need a good enterprise piece to fill up some space for the Thanksgiving issue in less than two weeks.”

  “Not sure if it’s that good of a lead,” Cal answered as he pushed the button for the fourth floor.

  “Try me.”

  “Heard about a five-star college football recruit murdered in the bayou and my source tells me that foul play was involved.” Cal flinched as he stretched the truth.

  “Who was the kid?”

  “Tre’vell Baker from Saint-Parran.”

  “Oh, that receiver kid? I’ve seen highlights of him on Youtube. He’s a beast.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s dead now, and my source has good reason to believe it’s related to football.”

  “I like it. We could go with the headline of ‘The Dark Underbelly of College Football’ or something like that.”

  “Haven’t you used that before?”

  They exited the elevator before Gatlin shot him a look.

  “Are you trying to get on my bad side today?” Gatlin asked.

  Cal smiled. “Do you even have a good side?”

  “OK, fine. Go check it out. I wish it were somewhere in Georgia or Alabama instead of the godforsaken swamp that is Louisiana.”

  “Gotta cover ‘Dixie like the Dew,’ right?”

  “Sure—but you better come back with something, dark underbelly or not. Got it?”

  Cal nodded and headed for his desk. He needed to do some more research—and book a flight for New Orleans.

  CHAPTER 3

  HUGH SANDERS HUNCHED LOW and peered across the horizon. There weren’t many activities that approached Sanders’ love for fishing around Devil’s Fork Bayou, but duck hunting was a formidable rival. As autumn settled in, Sanders enjoyed exchanging his fishing rod and boat for a shotgun and a duck blind. He nestled low to the ground in an effort to maintain his advantage on the targets approaching. Then in one smooth action, he hoisted his Browning Gold shotgun into the air and took aim.

  Blam! Blam! Blam!

  Splash!

  Once the duck hit the water, Roxie, Sanders’ Labrador Retriever took off in the direction of the downed bird.

  “Go get her, girl!” Sanders shouted as a huge grin spread across his face.

  “Ain’t nothin’ like it nowhere,” he mumbled to himself as he watched Roxie gently secure the duck in her mouth and begin swimming back toward the blind.

  Yet Sanders muttered the same expression for plenty of other joys in his life—reeling in a large bass, selling a fleet of cars to a business, and after every Alabama touchdown. To Sanders, these were the simple things in life, but they were also non-negotiable. Losing was not an option. He’d do just about anything to win. Anything.

  Sanders welcomed Roxie back and retrieved the pintail duck from her mouth.

  “That’s a good girl,” he said as he rubbed her head.

  Four mallards and two pintails. Time to call it a day.

  Sanders didn’t quit until he bagged the limit. Whenever he went hunting though, it was a foregone conclusion that he would get everything he could legally. Sanders only pulled the trigger three times because he liked shooting his gun, not because he needed the extra two shots to kill his prey.

  He checked his watch. It was still early, but he had a full day ahead of him, one that included a church service and a meeting with Dominique Dixon to convince him to become a football player for the University of Alabama.

  Sanders collected his gear and headed for his truck. He struggled to get anywhere quickly. Maybe I should’ve held off the buffet last night. Thank God for belts. His good looks long since gone, Sanders paused to stare at his 58-year-old face in the truck’s side mirrors. Beauty’s fleeting but power isn’t, he thought to himself as he raked his thinning gray hair over to one side.

  Slightly out of breath, Sanders stowed all his gear just before his phone rang. He recognized the number right away.

  “Hello, Coach. How are you on this fine mornin’?”

  It was Dick Raymond, head coach of the University of Alabama’s football team. Raymond publicly rebuked boosters’ involvement in the recruiting process. But that was all for show. Privately, he had a dozen Alabama boosters on his speed dial and employed them to add a little sugar to his sales pitching to play at the school. This elite corps of boosters would drop everything to help. It was their way of contributing to the program beyond money. Raymond believed it was the little things that made the difference; his three championship rings proved he knew what he was talking about. When he preached this same message at alumni and booster meetings across the state of Alabama, everyone said amen with more than just their pocketbooks. They would do anything for Raymond. Hugh Sanders was no different.

  Sanders knew the purpose of Raymond’s call: to secure Dixon’s commitment to the school. Alabama lost two games the previous season and failed to win a conference championship, far below the standards Raymond set when he first began coaching there. It was a title or bust. And last season was a bust due to an inexperienced secondary that gave up passing yards by the truckloads. They needed to shore up their defense. They needed Dixon.

  Receiving such calls from Raymond made Sanders feel important. He’d always loved Alabama football, but never did he dream he would be speaking regularly with the head of the program, much less helping secure star recruits.

  “Don’t worry, Coach,” Sanders said. “He’s gonna be wearin’ crimson and white next fall. I guarantee it.”

  Sanders hung up and jumped into his truck. He needed to wash up before he got his hands dirty again.

  ***

  Sanders fidgeted in his seat as Father Benoit prayed and began his homily. As far back as he could remember, Sanders attended church on Sundays. It was a Sanders family tradition. No excuses. Once when Sanders was nine, he contracted a nasty virus that kept him out of school for three days and made him miss his football game on Saturday. But when Sunday morning arrived, Sanders was in church along with his cold sweat and aches. Try as he might, Sanders couldn’t get out of the habit. While he considered his true sanctuary to be Bryant-Denny Stadium in Tuscaloosa on Saturdays,
any building with a cross would suffice for Sundays.

  St. Anne’s Catholic Church in Saint-Parran met Sanders’ criteria. He would’ve gone elsewhere if possible, but it was the only church in the parish. Despite his aversion to kneeling, sitting and standing—positions he regularly took throughout every Alabama football game—Sanders walked into St. Anne’s with a smile on his face. He usually attended a large Baptist church in Birmingham when he was home running his multi-million dollar car dealership. But when he had a chance to get in some extra fishing and hunting, Sanders piloted his PC-12 to Saint-Parran and his second home in the bayou. Most of his wealthy peers would have preferred to purchase a second home on a beach somewhere, but not Sanders. Sitting in the sand and reading a book was not his idea of a relaxing time.

  Sanders caught himself paying attention as Father Benoit extoled the virtues of honesty.

  “In Proverbs, King Solomon shares a simple truth: ‘A faithful witness will not lie: but a deceitful witness uttereth a lie,’” Father Benoit said.

  Sanders squirmed in his seat. He was no liar, but he didn’t mind stretching the truth—as long as it was for a good cause. He figured some kids needed a little more coaxing to go to Alabama and that in the long run an education at the finest university on the planet with undoubtedly the best football team would benefit them more than they might realize. Bending and exaggerating the truth were helpful tactics in a game with life-altering implications. It’s not really lying if everyone was doing it. Sanders decided not to ponder the scripture for too long before Father Benoit read his mind and called him out by name.

  Once the service ended, Sanders hustled out the door and to his truck. He didn’t want to keep Dominique Dixon waiting.

  ***

  All respectable business in Saint-Parran occurred at Lagniappe Café. It was the meeting place of choice for Sanders, who asked Dixon to meet him there that afternoon. Sanders ordered a coffee and waited for his guest. He scanned the room for any new additions to the wall. Nothing new. Just the same old faded out newspaper clippings from glory years gone by.

  Fifteen minutes after one, Dixon strode through the front door. He wore a black hoodie and grey sweatpants with the number eighty-one stitched on the left side. Sanders gave a little head nod to Dixon, who walked slowly toward his table.