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  Though it was Cal’s first Super Bowl, Media Day was exactly how he envisioned it: a 50-ring circus without the animals. Everywhere he looked there was a Seahawk player being swarmed by media members. Even the punter, Patt Ott, was worth five reporters and a cameraman.

  One woman even parachuted in wearing nothing but a bikini and a helmet with a camera attached to it. Security personnel quickly descended upon her to remove her from the stadium before she flashed her credentials. Cal could only guess what her story angle would be—herself.

  If only that was the craziest moment of Media Day. But it wasn’t. Some reporter brought his accordion and tried to get players to sing a ridiculous polka song he had written about the Super Bowl. His gag was received about as well as replacement officials. Other reporters lustily booed his act when he interrupted their serious interviews, effectively ruining the shtick.

  There were plenty of reporters on hand trying to be serious about their jobs. They asked pertinent questions about the season, the game, the opponents. It was refreshing. But any rapport building between a small crowd of reporters and the player disintegrated when a knucklehead would ask them if they’d ever done it on the 50-yard line or which lineman could drink the most beer in one sitting.

  Despite the chaotic scene, Cal managed to locate Telvin Hayes and get a few quiet moments with him to discuss the Seahawks’ quarterback. Hayes put his big ego aside when talking about Noah. Maybe it was because he was a veteran, but Noah had the respect of every player on the team—even the unlikely candidates such as Hayes. Even though Hayes’ miracle catch was a result of his own physical ability and a fortuitous tip, he refused to say anything negative about Noah’s pass.

  Ricky Johnson, Seattle’s leading rusher, handled Cal’s interview the same way. Nothing but class in his responses about the team’s undisputed leader.

  “How do you feel about your chances Sunday?” Cal asked.

  “With Noah at quarterback, you know we’re going to have a chance to win the game,” Johnson said. “He has an amazing ability to take this team on his back and carry it when necessary. There’s not a guy in our locker room who wouldn’t trust him with his life.”

  Cal scribbled down a few more answers on his notepad before turning off his recorder and scanning the field for Noah. Dark clouds gathered overhead, replacing the bright sunshine. The stadium lights began flickering on. There were only five more minutes left before Seattle players yielded the field to Miami’s. Where was Noah?

  Cal suddenly lurched forward as someone hit him square in the back. Accident or on purpose? Cal couldn’t tell, but it sent him flailing a few yards down the field.

  “Oh, hey, Cal.” said the familiar voice. “Sorry about that.”

  Cal spun to see Associated Press sports writer Damon James standing behind him.

  “No worries,” Cal said.

  “You know those pushy cameramen, gotta get the shot of that latest faux reporter trying to upstage the real celebrities,” James said, referring to the reason for bumping into Cal in the first place. “So, how are you?”

  “Oh, you know how it is. Same old, same old,” Cal replied.

  “Well, I saw you this morning … and getting an exclusive with the Seahawks’ quarterback a few days before the Super Bowl isn’t exactly ‘same old, same old.’ ”

  “True. I’ve got a good relationship with Noah. He was nice enough to do an exclusive,” Cal said, playing coy as he kept scanning the crowd for that same quarterback.

  “You keep this up, Cal, and you’ll be dragging one of those cameramen around with ESPN.”

  “I doubt that,” Cal said.

  “Well, keep it up. Good to see you. I gotta run.”

  “OK. See ya, Damon.” Cal nodded and watched the writer walk off before continuing his search for Noah Larson.

  In the east corner of the end zone, he saw a large crowd of reporters begin to disperse around Seattle’s star quarterback. A Seahawks media relations personnel motioned that the interview was over and begin ushering the reporters toward the center of the field. Cal hustled toward Noah, fighting the stream of reporters, most of them unwilling to cede any space to Cal.

  “Noah!” Cal called.

  Noah turned around.

  “I’m sorry. He’s done for the day,” the Seahawks’ employee said.

  “No, it’s all right. I’ll talk to him for a minute,” Noah said. He motioned for privacy from his handler.

  “Are you going to stay quiet about this, Cal?” Noah asked quietly.

  “Look, Noah, the FBI called me, and …”

  Noah didn’t let him finish.

  “You didn’t tell them, did you?”

  “I had no choice. They know the game is being fixed and asked if I knew anything. I couldn’t lie to them.”

  “I trusted you, Cal!” Noah said, raising his voice. “You told me you wouldn’t say anything!”

  “I said I’d consider it, but I didn’t have a choice.”

  The commotion in the end zone suddenly became a focal point for all the media. By the time the cameras began rolling, Noah held a handful of Cal’s shirt with his fist.

  “If they kill my son, I’m holding you responsible,” Noah whispered.

  “Look, the FBI wants to help you. They’re not going to let your son die. They need to talk to you to find out who took him. They’ll get him back.”

  “You don’t know that,” Noah said, releasing Cal’s shirt and pushing him away.

  “I know my friend Agent Anderson is working the case, and he promised me he would do all that he could. Please call him.”

  Cal felt the cameras burning a hole in him by this point. He discreetly put a card with Anderson’s number on it into Noah’s hand. “They’ve got a lead on a guy placing wild bets in Vegas. But they need more information from you. Do the right thing, Noah. They’ll help get your son back.”

  Noah took the card and stormed off.

  Cal sighed and looked down at the freshly painted grass. He felt like the dirt beneath it. Rain began pelting him. He looked up and saw the media members scattering across the stadium in search of cover. He slid his notepad and recorder into his bag and walked off the field.

  Cal didn’t desire to stick around for interviews with any of the Dolphins players. He especially didn’t want to hear Miami quarterback Hunter Newton drone on about his heroics in the AFC championship game. Everyone knew the Dolphins were in the Super Bowl because of their defense, not their quarterback. Newton grated on Cal like nobody else. Maybe it was the fact that he was a media darling while playing on a traditional powerhouse college team from the South—and that his success was always due to someone else, like his Heisman Trophy running back. Or maybe it was because he never praised his teammates. But Cal never liked him. Hunter’s father even asked colleges to pay a large sum of money for his son’s services. The NCAA investigated and they never found enough evidence, but anyone with half a brain knew they were guilty. And while he was an athletic player, Hunter was a living, breathing Me-Monster and Cal despised him.

  But Cal didn’t need to stay behind, not today. The Times’ lead columnist was focusing on the Dolphins, releasing Cal from writing mundane stories that didn’t interest Seattle readers. Cal found a media charter bus and returned to the hotel with a small group of reporters. The rain streaming down the bus windows blurred the view of the Houston skyline. Cal disappeared into his thoughts.

  Did he do the right thing? Did he lose Noah’s trust forever? Would his decision cost Jake his life?

  He needed to talk with someone about what was happening. He needed Kelly.

  CHAPTER 9

  BY THE TIME CAL RETURNED to his room, his phone buzzed. It was his editor, Thurston Fink.

  “Hey, Fink. What’s happening?”

  “Cal, you’re supposed to report the news, not make it!” Fink shouted.

  The vague reprimand caught Cal off guard.

  “What are you talking about, Fink?”

  “I’m talki
ng about your altercation with Larson. There’s video of you two going at it on several websites already.”

  “What? We were just having a conversation.”

  “Well, it looks like he’s about to rip your head off. The star quarterback of the Seahawks in a tussle with a reporter? That will even beat bikini babes on Super Bowl Media Day.”

  “Look, Fink, I can explain.”

  “You better start talking fast. You know I don’t put up with that garbage on my staff. It’s a privilege to work here, not some right.”

  “I know, I know. It was a misunderstanding.”

  “Was it? Or is there something else I should know about?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Earlier today, I got a call from an FBI agent asking about any rumors we might have heard regarding a member of the Seahawks planning on throwing the game Sunday. Heard anything like that?”

  It was one thing to lie to the FBI. It was worse to lie to Fink. The hardened sports editor was good at his job, if not the best in the business. But he didn’t get that way by coddling his reporters. Nor did he take any crap from them. If you didn’t tell him every fact you knew when he asked you, he would explain the facts of his position: The best sports writers in the world begged to work for him, and if you didn’t respect him enough to tell him the truth, he would find someone who would.

  “So, this morning, I had my exclusive with Noah over breakfast. When he got up to get another pot of coffee, a text message and photo appeared on his phone.”

  “Wait, Noah was drinking coffee?” Fink never missed a detail.

  “Yeah, I know, crazy, right? Anyway the photo was a picture of his son with a gag in his mouth along with a threatening message. Fink, someone kidnapped Noah’s son, Jake, and if Noah doesn’t lose the game, they’re going to kill his son.”

  “No way! This is unbelievable!”

  “I’m dead serious, Fink.”

  “So, what happened today at Media Day.”

  “Well, I had told Noah I would think about not telling anyone and if I did, I would let him know beforehand. But before Media Day, a friend of mine from the FBI office in Vegas called me and said they were getting reports of some suspicious bets placed by local sports books and wanted to know if I knew anything. So, I told them what I learned from Noah.”

  “And Noah wasn’t happy, was he?”

  “No, he wasn’t. And I understand his position. I would probably be mad, too. But I feel like the FBI is the only one who can help him. He’s not going to think rationally in a situation like this.”

  “Does anyone else know?”

  “About the kidnapping?”

  “The FBI knows now but no other media does, if that’s what you mean.”

  “OK, just file your feature story on Noah for now. We can sit on this if nobody else is going to run it. I’ll do that out of respect for Noah. But if anybody else gets wind of this, you know it will be a race to report it. Just keep quiet about it. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Call me after you send us your story.”

  Cal hung up and felt somewhat relieved. At least Fink knew he wasn’t monkeying around with his assignment and losing credibility with the players for some amateurish reporting. Though Fink didn’t say it, Cal sensed a tinge of empathy out of his boss. It wasn’t much, but it was more than Cal expected from his mentor.

  He turned on the television and immediately saw himself in what looked like a heated exchange with Noah. Who was he kidding? It was heated.

  The suit reporting this bit of “news” from Media Day speculated what the exchange was about with a title stripped beneath the video: “Larson Invades Murph’s Turf.”

  The parachuting bikini babe followed his story. Cal found some humor in the moment and then reminded himself how grateful he was not to work in that part of the journalism industry.

  * * *

  AFTER CAL FINISHED WRITING his story that afternoon, he lay down to take a short nap. He needed to rest. Parties with required schmoozing filled Cal’s social calendar later that evening. He wasn’t asleep more than five minutes before his phone rang. It was Kelly.

  “Hey, Cal. Whatcha doin’?”

  “Well, I was trying to take a nap, but you ruined that idea.”

  Kelly laughed.

  “Good to see you’re working hard during Super Bowl week. But I thought you might be prepping for some radio talk show appearances after your little spat with Larson.”

  “Look, it’s not what it seems.”

  “Oh, really? It looked like he was ready to spike you in the end zone there from the footage I saw.”

  “Ah, television. They can edit anything to make it appear juicier than it was.”

  “Well, what were you talking about then?”

  “I’m not sure I can talk about it, to be honest.” Cal needed to change the subject fast before Kelly got too curious. “You still up for getting together tonight?”

  “Sure thing. I’ll call you after I get checked in at the hotel.”

  “Sounds good. Talk to you then.”

  Cal hung up and turned his phone off. He needed some uninterrupted peace.

  CHAPTER 10

  GIL JACKSON DRUMMED HIS FINGERS on the glass case holding his prized mint-condition merchandise inside his sports memorabilia store. A signed Honus Wagner baseball card. A soccer ball signed by New York Cosmos’ international stars Pelé, Giorgio Chinaglia, and Franz Beckenbauer. A football signed by Walter Payton from Super Bowl XX. But these were essentially worthless to him until a customer paid his asking price.

  When the economy boomed, no fan thought twice about dropping $500 for a signed card of his favorite player. But a market bomb replaced the boom. Jackson felt fortunate to garner $500 in sales in a day.

  Difficult times made it easy to say yes to a simple proposal: Place large bets at a few casinos in town and collect $50,000. Jackson only made half that in the past year through his business. When one of his regular customers, Diego, made the offer to Jackson, he didn’t have to ask twice.

  It was five minutes before noon, five minutes before Diego gave Jackson $50,000 for three betting slips.

  Jackson stopped drumming when a black sedan stopped along the curb outside his shop and two men in suits stepped out of the car. They headed straight for his front door.

  “Mr. Jackson?” one of the men asked.

  “Yes, I’m Gil Jackson.”

  “We need to speak with you.”

  “Look, now isn’t a good time. Who are you?”

  “I’m federal agent Jarrett Anderson with the FBI and this is my colleague Sid Gant. We have a few questions for you regarding a case we’re investigating.”

  “Can you come back later?”

  “How about six o’clock at your house tonight?”

  “OK, sounds good. You know where I live?”

  Anderson smiled. “We know where everyone lives, Gil.”

  Jackson forced a chuckle. “OK, see you then.”

  * * *

  JACKSON’S MIND BEGAN to race once the agents left the store. What could they want? He hadn’t done anything wrong in placing those bets. It has to be about Carlita. She was in the U.S. illegally. They weren’t married yet, but they were engaged. He couldn’t imagine life without her. The feds couldn’t send her home, could they?

  Before Jackson had time to exhaust all the reasons why federal agents stopped by his shop, the bells on the glass door clanged. Jackson looked up. It was Diego.

  “Hey, Diego. How are you, my friend?” Jackson asked with a smile.

  “Depends if you’ve got something for me,” Diego shot back as he swaggered toward the glass case separating him from Jackson.

  “Of course, I do. Right here.” Jackson held up the betting slips. “Do you have something for me.”

  Diego flipped a backpack off his shoulder and onto the counter. Packets of $100 bills spilled out. “Fifty Gs right there as promised.”

  “Excellent,” Jackson said
. “I appreciate it, Diego.”

  “No problem.” Diego took the slips from Jackson and was about to push the door open before he turned around. “Those weren’t feds were they?”

  “Actually they were.”

  “What did they want?”

  Jackson began to get nervous. “They wanted to talk to me about Carlita. They think she’s here illegally.”

  “Pigs. I can’t stand them.” Then Diego walked out.

  Jackson let out a big sigh of relief. He could take the feds poking around in his business. But he didn’t want Diego and his gang, the Black Knights, suspecting him as a rat.

  * * *

  JACKSON SHUTTERED HIS SHOP at 5:30 and made the short five-minute drive to his apartment. When he went to unlock the door, he noticed it was ajar.

  “Carlita? Are you here?”

  Jackson noticed the house was a wreck, not characteristic of the way Carlita kept their place. He then turned toward the near corner of the room to find Diego sitting in his recliner. Diego pointed his gun at Jackson.

  “What have you done?” Jackson asked.

  Diego didn’t say anything. He simply motioned to the corner of the room with his gun. There lay Carlita’s dead body, the carpet soaked in her blood.

  Jackson’s face went white. He began sobbing as he moved toward her body. “How could you do this?” Jackson asked, glaring at Diego.

  “Nothing personal, Jackson. We can’t have anyone talking to the feds. No loose ends.”

  Jackson gasped for breath as he tried to process what had just unfolded. Carlita was gone. He wailed for a minute or so, throwing himself across her body.

  When he finished, he wiped his tears and turned angry as he spoke.

  “I didn’t say anything to them about anyone. They didn’t even tell me what they wanted to talk to me about.”

  Diego didn’t get up. “I can’t take any chances, Jackson. My bosses are careful people.”

  Diego was done explaining. He fired three shots at Jackson. Two bullets to the chest. One to his head.

  Jackson collapsed to the floor.