Better Off Dead (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 3) Page 6

  Cal suggested they enter the building separately so they wouldn’t raise any suspicion. He instructed Kelly to wait at least 15 minutes since he had no idea how long Robinson would keep him waiting.

  Cal strode up to the receptionist’s desk and explained his appointment. The receptionist took down his name, gave him a visitor’s badge and phoned Robinson’s assistant. It would be a five-minute wait. Of course it would be a wait, Cal thought. It’s a time-honored tradition for people of power to make the lessers waste time. Everyone did it, but it still irked Cal.

  The wait extended to ten minutes until an Asian woman with tightly-cropped, shoulder-length dark hair opened a door that led into the rest of the building. She asked Cal to follow her back to meet Robinson.

  She led Cal down a long corridor filled with framed photos of L.A. Stars players in action. Many of the other NFL team offices Cal had visited hung their franchise’s defining moment—a Super Bowl victory, a miraculous win, a division title. The Stars had none of these yet, but Robinson seemed like a man who was determined to change that at all costs, especially if Ted’s allegations were true.

  The woman passed by what was her desk with the nameplate of Kiaria Zhou. Everything on her desk appeared ordered, down to the nametags attached to her stapler and paper clip holder. She instructed Cal to wait for a moment while she notified Robinson he was ready to be seen. It gave Cal time to read the screen saver quote by Confucius on her computer terminal: “The perfecting of one’s self is the fundamental base of all progress and all moral development.”

  After a brief exchange with Robinson, she motioned for Cal to enter Robinson’s office. Robinson remained seated as Cal entered the room, a room so orderly that Cal thought perhaps everything might be glued in place.

  “Thank you for coming down here on a holiday weekend, Mr. Murphy,” Robinson said, gesturing for Cal to sit in one of the chairs facing his desk.

  Cal nodded. “Not a problem, Mr. Robinson.­“

  “No, please call me Charles.”

  The invitation to call Robinson by his first name took Cal aback for a moment. Maybe Robinson wasn’t the pretentious, power-hungry perfectionist he believed him to be.

  “OK, Charles,” Cal said eyeing a picture on Robinson’s desk. He picked it up and showed it to Robinson. “Is this your son?”

  “My son-in-law, Carlton, with my daughter, Vienna.”

  “Nice looking kids. I think—­“

  “Let’s cut the small talk,” Robinson interrupted. “I’ve got a busy schedule and you’ve got to fill up some space on the front page about how incredible I am for one of the twelve newspapers I own. So, let’s get started, shall we?”

  Nope. Cal’s first instincts were right. So much for warming up the interview subject.

  Cal dove in with his first question: “So, Charles, can you tell me about your first NFL game experience and how that impacted you?”

  And away the interview went.

  * * *

  Kelly tapped her finger on her cell phone, checking it nervously. Cal said to wait at least fifteen minutes, but she decided to wait nineteen. A random number, but it was her lucky number. At 10:19, she got out of her car and headed for the entrance to the Stars’ office building.

  The same receptionist who greeted Kelly put her through the same routine as Cal, inquiring about the nature of her visit.

  “I’m Kelly Mendoza from the Associated Press and I’m here to meet Brandon Freely from the AV department,” she said.

  The receptionist dialed a number and told Kelly to have a seat because Brandon would be a few moments.

  Through her work at the AP bureau, Kelly met Brandon. He often gave Kelly photos when she went looking for an action shot of a certain player but the bureau’s photos weren’t the required quality. Brandon oversaw a team of talented photographers, videographers and producers who captured still photos and video images for the Stars each week. Before working for the Stars, Brandon was a successful Hollywood producer. But he got burnt out from the rugged production schedules movie making demanded and sought a more regular schedule. The Stars snapped him up, and Brandon’s video productions aired at the stadium during home games became a regular topic of conversation on local Monday morning sports talk shows. His following was cult-like as there were at least a dozen blogs who posted and critiqued Brandon’s videos after each game.

  Brandon finally came through the door and exchanged pleasantries with Kelly before leading her toward his office.

  “I can’t believe it has taken me this long to actually come down here and see where all the magic happens,” Kelly said.

  “You’re too kind, Kelly. Right this way.”

  Brandon led her through a few more doors and hallways before finally arriving at the AV office. It was a large room devoid of windows and dotted with cubicles. A few stations had large flat-screen monitors as young employees appeared to be tweaking and editing video footage. He gave Kelly a quick tour before taking her to his office, the only one in the room with a door.

  “So, what prompted this tour?” Brandon asked.

  “Oh, it’s Thanksgiving weekend and I didn’t have to work, so I thought it might be nice to visit. I never have time to do this stuff when I’m scheduled to work.”

  Brandon smiled and nodded knowingly.

  “So would you like to see the rest of the facility?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  It was the real reason Kelly visited in the first place.

  * * *

  Cal found his interview with Robinson enlightening. He read that Robinson grew up poor, but he never realized just how poor. Robinson’s mother raised him and his three siblings by herself after her husband died in a bar room fight one night. Robinson said it was just as well since his father beat the entire family on a regular basis. A toothpaste cap left off or an improperly folded newspaper were acts that riled up Robinson’s father and led to a beating.

  As a teenager, Robinson grew tired of living impoverished and vowed to become rich. He took advantage of financial aid, went to the University of Southern Cal, and joined a fraternity. He refused to reveal his major to Cal, insisting that the most important thing about the college experience is learning how to network. Robinson then explained how he leveraged his network to help him get ahead, sharing how a few key relationships helped him meet the integral people who launched his business career.

  After Cal had sufficient fodder to create a portrait of Robinson for the article, Robinson concluded by saying his goals in life had changed. He now wanted to be filthy rich so he could be more philanthropic when he eventually retired. It was a goal Robinson was on his way to achieving, a goal that he made sound noble.

  In writing his article, Cal would present Robinson in the best light possible, especially since he owned the media conglomerate that ran The Chronicle. But Cal saw the true Robinson—and now he had no doubt that Robinson was so driven, he would do anything to win. Anything.

  Cal checked his watch as he got up to leave. He dragged the interview out fifteen minutes longer than he was scheduled for. Wanting to make the most of his visit to the Stars’ office, he then swung by the media relations office to pick up his press credential for Sunday’s game.

  Cal hoped Kelly pulled it off. He couldn't wait to find out what she learned.

  But when he arrived at his car, Kelly wasn’t there.

  CHAPTER 14

  AFTER A LONG LAZY TOUR with Brandon, Kelly asked to use the restroom. He gave her directions and returned to his office.

  Kelly crept past the restrooms and up a flight of stairs at the end of the hall. She had swiped an access card from a vacant interns’ desk in order to gain access to the medical records room she spotted during the tour. No one was in the hall.

  She made her way down to the hall and waved her card in front of the access panel. The door clicked and she opened it. While on the tour, Brandon had opened the door and showed her the room. She noted the organization of the filing system. It ca
me in handy now as she needed to move fast to find Aaron Banks’ medical records.

  It didn’t take long before she found his folder and began taking pictures with her camera phone. It was a thick file, but she raced through as many pertinent documents as she could find before returning the folder and slipping out of the room.

  She nearly reached the foot of the stairs before she heard a voice shouting in her direction.

  “Hey! What are you doing young lady?”

  Kelly spun around to see a portly gentlemen wearing a light blue shirt with dark pants. He also carried a stick and wore a holster with a gun. A security guard.

  “I was looking for the restroom and got turned around,” Kelly stammered.

  The guard glared at her, unsure if her response was honest. Then Kelly made sad eyes, which gave her the appearance of being innocent. It was enough to convince the security guard.

  “The second floor is off limits to unaccompanied visitors. The bathrooms on the first floor are next to the stairwell just below us.”

  “Thank you,” Kelly said before scampering down the stairs.

  She returned to Brandon’s office to thank him for the tour. He ushered her out through the front doors.

  * * *

  While waiting for Kelly, Cal wasted no time. He put in a request to interview the coroner who examined Aaron Banks’ body. It was a lead worth exploring.

  He then turned the radio on and began listening to sports talk radio. Banks died on Monday, but the hot topic was still concussions and player safety. KSPN’s Mark Willard was interviewing Buck Mason, president and CEO of Head Gear.

  “Buck, your company has been searching for ways to address this issue in high impact sports and from what I understand you’ve made some technological breakthroughs. Tell us about that.”

  “Sure, Mark. We’ve done extensive testing of our helmets with a handful of NFL teams as well as with college, high school and recreational teams. And the results are pretty exciting. Our helmets won’t prevent concussions entirely, but players who wore our helmets reduced the likelihood of getting a concussion by ninety-eight percent.”

  “Wow, Buck. That’s incredible.”

  “It really is. And while I know there are plenty of parents out there who are hesitant to let their kids play football these days, our innovation goes beyond the NFL and college level. This spring, our new line of helmets will be available for youth and high school teams as well. We’re excited about our commitment to making football as safe as possible.”

  “This is great news, especially in light of the recent tragedies around the NFL related to head injuries. And for all your investors out there, Head Gear will have a public offering in a couple of weeks. I’m not a financial advisor, but this company seems like a no-brainer—no pun intended.”

  Cal rolled his eyes. The idea that a study could quantify the amount of reduction in potential concussions was laughable. It was some pseudo-science hocus-pocus that was undoubtedly going to make Buck Mason a rich man. And if he was a smart man, he’d sell his share and retire before the lawsuits started flooding in the minute a kid suffered a concussion wearing one of their helmets.

  Cal was checking his watch when Kelly climbed into the passenger side seat; she sighed.

  “That took you long enough. I was starting to get worried. Did you get the files?”

  “Yes—and you’re not going to believe what I found,” Kelly said.

  Cal’s phone started buzzing.

  “Hang on. I want to hear all about it.”

  Cal answered his phone. “Hey, Kennedy. How are you?”

  “Not good, Cal.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “I told you to drop it with the Aaron Banks’ conspiracy theory. Just go down to L.A., write a puff piece on Robinson and get back for Banks’ memorial. This was your chance to get back in good graces with upper management. But you couldn’t leave it alone, could you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about—the request to interview Banks’ coroner.”

  “How did you know about that? I just made that request like fifteen minutes ago. Besides, what’s wrong with that?”

  “Never mind how I know about it. I told you to drop it—that’s what’s wrong with it. And you didn’t. And now you’re fired.”

  “Fired?! What?”

  Cal watched Kelly’s eyes grew wide as she went slack-jawed from hearing one side of his conversation.

  “Yeah, you heard me, Cal. Fired,” Kennedy said. “I’m not excited about it and I hate to let you go, but this decision came over my head. Just promise me next time you’ll listen to your editor when he says stop, OK?”

  Cal tried to apologize, searching for the right words. He wanted to convince Kennedy he was right for continuing to investigate Aaron Banks’ death and the possible link to PacLabs, but it would be a futile effort. Kennedy didn’t fire him. Someone high above Kennedy wanted him gone.

  And that someone didn’t like Cal snooping around when there was something to hide.

  CHAPTER 15

  TED SIMPSON DESPISED THE FACT that he was in this situation. Life had dealt him a rotten hand yet he kept drawing bad cards. Two dead parents, a dying brother, a once-promising career. Not to mention that his only friends were those he met online in role play games after all his real friends died. Maybe it was better that way, living in some virtual reality. The real one he lived in certainly wasn’t worth delving into. He couldn’t even get a date with PacLabs’ scatter-brained receptionist.

  His phone rang.

  “Yeah,” he answered.

  “So, have you decided what you’re going to do?” said the voice on the other end.

  “I’ll do it.”

  Ted hung up. He felt nauseous. He thought maybe this was it, the one opportunity to turn around his pathetic life. It would assure his brother’s safety and he could escape somewhere, anywhere. He could start over, lay down a winning hand and reclaim some of his lost riches. He could stomach the assignment if it meant he could make all his troubles vanish. It would be worth it. But his nausea remained.

  * * *

  The news of Cal’s firing cast a dour mood over he and Kelly. It was challenging enough to gather enough information and sources to write a story of this magnitude for an editor who trusted you and with all the resources a large media conglomerate could offer. But without an editor? Or a platform to write it for? Cal felt this story slipping away into the abyss.

  Cal told Kelly he didn’t want to talk. She remained quiet for the rest of the ride back to her apartment before breaking the silence.

  “I’m sorry, Cal,” she said. “I know this can’t be easy, especially when you’re just doing your job.”

  “I really thought Kennedy had my back—but it’s clear someone wants me shut down.”

  “There’s only one thing to do then,” Kelly said.

  “Drink?”

  Kelly laughed. “No. We’re going to keep doing exactly what they don’t want us to. We’re going to keep digging.”

  “So, what did you find at the Stars’ facility?” Cal asked, obviously in agreement with Kelly’s counter suggestion.

  “You’re going to want to take a look at this.”

  Kelly plugged her iPhone into her desktop computer and began downloading the pictures. She began opening them up one by one.

  “What are we looking at here?” Cal asked.

  “These are Aaron Banks’ team medical records. There were two files on him, almost identical with the exception of the concussion baseline tests.”

  Kelly pecked away on the keyboard and called up two files with the same date from the current year. One showed the evidence of a concussion, the other didn’t. Then she called up two files with the identical dates from the previous year. The same alterations were shown.

  “These records have been tampered with. It’s clear that someone wanted Aaron Banks’ death to appear as it were concussion related.�
��

  Kelly’s last statement hung in the air. A million questions flooded Cal’s mind. Who? Why? Did Aaron Banks really commit suicide? If so, why make it look like it was concussion related? If not, who did kill him? And how on earth was this related to the falsified drug tests Ted Simpson gave him? The number of potential rabbit trails was enough to drive him mad.

  Cal said nothing as he pondered the best course of action.

  “So what do you think we should do, Cal?” Kelly asked.

  “I think we should call Aretha Banks,” he said. “And call your cousin, the coroner. We need an independent autopsy report on Aaron.”

  They both swung into action, dialing away on their phones. This course of action required fast talking to get Mrs. Banks to agree to have her son’s body examined again—and to get Kelly’s cousin to fly from small town Idaho to San Francisco to inspect it.

  Both succeeded in their missions. On Tuesday, Mrs. Banks was holding a closed casket memorial service anyway and nobody would know that his body wasn’t there. And Kelly’s cousin could do an independent examination on Wednesday morning.

  They spent the rest of the day writing out notes and drawing up plausible theories with a list of suspects and motives. The oddities around the case, as well as the attempted cover-up, made Cal far beyond suspicious. He was convinced someone—a someone named Charles Robinson—was benefitting from Aaron Banks’ death, he just couldn’t figure out how. Cal had even followed the money, but he couldn’t find a way to link it to the Stars’ owner.

  * * *

  By 10:30, Cal was tired and ready to go to bed. He was brushing his teeth when there was a loud knock on Kelly’s door.

  Cal went to the door but didn’t see anyone as he looked through the peep hole. He opened the door anyway to make sure. Just as he was about to close the door, he noticed a yellow sticky note on the door that said, “We warned you to drop it.”