Better Off Dead (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 3) Page 8

  “So you think the league knew about this for a few days before it was announced?”

  “I’m sure they knew ahead of time, probably at least four or five days before.”

  “And no one called you?”

  “Nope. I even called one of my friends there to find out what was going on. He said the first he had seen or heard of it was when it was leaked in the media. It was like they were trying to depict Aaron as some kind of dark and sinister guy, like he was on drugs and wasn’t mentally stable getting his head bashed in as a running back. He certainly had his struggles, but it wasn’t quite as bad as everyone has claimed. But you just never know about people.”

  Cal thought for a moment as he scraped his plate with his fork to gather any remnant of barbecue sauce. The picture was clearer but hadn’t fully formed yet.

  He thanked Franklin for his help and got up to leave. He glanced at the wall as he walked toward the exit and noticed a picture of Charles Robinson and his family smiling with one of the owners.

  Cal sneered in disgust. He knew the codger was behind Aaron’s death. Now he just needed to know why and how so he could prove it.

  CHAPTER 19

  CAL SAT ON A BENCH outside of Jackson’s in the warm California sun. He needed a few moments of peace. With all that he’d been through, he needed more than just peace. He needed leads. He needed evidence. He needed answers. And none of it was happening quickly enough to suit him.

  Once Kelly arrived and picked him up, they debriefed each other on their conversations. Kelly met with several of the nurses who knew Aaron Banks when he volunteered there. But nothing much came of it. They all gushed about how Aaron loved the kids and how generous he was. Based on her brief conversations with the nurses, Kelly determined that his death was a shock, particularly the nature of it. They didn’t want to tell the kids, but one of them saw it on TV and started asking questions. The nurses struggled to explain why Aaron would take his own life as had helped them fight for theirs. One nurse said the kids spent the entire day crying once they heard the news.

  The nurses were right—it didn’t make sense. None of it did. And as Cal dug deeper, he grew more incensed at the way the authorities so quickly dismissed his death as a suicide without any in-depth investigation.

  Cal shared with Kelly what he learned from his meeting with Bobby Franklin. It led to more questions than answers, particularly about Aaron’s PED usage. Nausea crept over Cal as he thought about having to tell Mrs. Banks that her son was indeed using drugs. She adored her son and that was a truth she would not take too easily.

  As the sun began to dip into the Pacific, Kelly veered south onto the 5 and drove toward her apartment. The work ahead of Cal in solving who killed Aaron Banks would be immense—but he kept feeling like there was something else there. Something even bigger, as if Aaron’s death was covered up to hide what really happened. He would know more once Kelly’s cousin provided him with an autopsy report.

  Cal and Kelly said nothing as she drove. He was enveloped in his own sea of speculative thinking, as he suspected Kelly was also. However, it came to an abrupt halt.

  Bam!

  Cal and Kelly lunged forward as a silver truck smacked into their bumper.

  “What the—” Kelly exclaimed before getting rammed again.

  “Not again!” she shrieked.

  Cal turned around to see the perpetrator—a Dodge Ram with a steel grill on the front. The driver was a young man, perhaps in his late 20s, wearing a baseball cap covered by his hoodie and large reflective sunglasses. He also brandished a pistol.

  Cal shouted instructions, urging Kelly to switch lanes. Every time she did, the truck did likewise. After two more bumps and about a minute of heart-pounding driving, Cal urged Kelly to cut off a car on the right and then slow down in an effort to keep the truck from tailing them. She pulled it off like a Hollywood stunt driver. The driver didn’t look too concerned, laughing as he sped past Kelly all while waving his gun out the window.

  Maybe it was road rage. This was L.A., after all. Or maybe it was another warning. Cal wasn’t interested in taking chances. A brick in the window, an exploding car and being bumped in traffic on the 5 added up to trouble.

  “Let’s get your stuff from the apartment and stay somewhere else tonight,” Cal suggested. “I’m going to get a hotel room. Can you stay with a friend? I’d rather split up since I’m sure they are targeting me. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  Kelly nodded. Her mascara ran as tears streamed down her face. She bit her lip. Cal watched her fear turn to anger.

  “Why does this always happen to us?”

  “You mean people trying to kill us?”

  “Yes, Cal. I just don’t understand.”

  “Deceit does its dirtiest work in the darkness. We’re uncovering the truth—and someone doesn’t want it to get out. You know this is never easy.”

  “I know,” Kelly said, sniffling. “I always want to expose the truth until we start to do it. I can’t take much more of this.”

  “Don’t worry. I feel like we’re close. Once we report the truth, no one will hurt us.”

  “I hope you’re right—I hope we stay alive to tell it.”

  Cal put his hand on Kelly’s knee, giving her a reassuring squeeze. He decided to get a room at a hotel nearby one of her friends' apartment, where she would stay. So far, the gate to Kelly’s apartment proved meaningless and she was more interested in getting a good night’s sleep—and knowing that she was safe when she put her head on her pillow.

  She didn’t look at Cal as she wiped away more tears while staring at the road.

  “Tomorrow, we fight back,” he said.

  CHAPTER 20

  CAL AND KELLY MET at the hotel around ten o’clock on Sunday morning. He wanted Kelly to get into the stadium early, while he thought it best that he wait later before entering the press box. There were people he wanted to talk with before the Stars likely tossed him out—and he needed to make sure they were there.

  Cal gave Kelly explicit instructions on who to photograph. He needed certain pictures to gain leverage in order to get the information he needed, none of which would be happening on the field. He texted her a reminder, attaching photos of people she needed to capture on film with Robinson. It was a lengthy list, but Kelly was already scanning Robinson’s box with her powerful telephoto lens. She was going to be ready.

  To pass the time, Cal sat in the car and listened to the experts talk about the game—and about the city council’s impending stadium vote on Tuesday. The result on the field would impact the playoff hopes of both teams. And with the Raiders on the verge of breaking a long playoff drought, the stakes soared. The atmosphere even felt more like a game in January than late November. The result from Tuesday’s council meeting would be met with equally exciting fanfare.

  Cal stared out the window at fans circled around grills, drinking beer and debating sports. He wondered what people would think if they really knew what went on behind the scenes—the drugs, the power struggles, the sabotage. He had seen it all while covering the NFL in the past. They likely wouldn’t care—as long as their team won. It’s the same way Americans viewed the government. They shrugged at scandals as long as they had jobs and were left alone to enjoy their own prosperity.

  Cal believed truth and justice were virtues worth fighting for. It’s why he didn’t back down from a bully like Robinson. Fear only gripped him when he thought about what could happen to Kelly. But as long as he could wield a pen, he welcomed the conflict. Most of his peers in the sports writing community sought the easy road. Just report the facts and follow up on the scandals when someone else broke them. So many of them were fans with laptops. Yet, Cal was a different breed. He had a few friends who viewed the profession like he did. Enjoy the easy days but don’t shy away from rolling up your sleeves. Cal often wondered how he ended up as a sports writer in the first place. His skill set was more suited for unearthing political scandals than frivolous sports’ cont
roversies. But this one felt different. This one felt much more far reaching and sinister.

  Of course, Cal had never faced a giant before like Robinson. Based on the events over the past week, Robinson had a firm grasp on every vein that might lead to the truth—and he was squeezing the life right out of them. Cal needed to resuscitate them, even if it was just one. He needed to throw Robinson off and put his attention elsewhere.

  Thirty minutes before kickoff, Cal made his way to the press entrance. The lines at the fans’ gates appeared surprisingly short for this close to kickoff. But Cal could hear from the stadium buzz that most of the fans were already in the stadium, calling for blood. The Raiders seemed to bring out the worst in opposing fans, particularly other teams in California. Cal enjoyed soaking in the atmosphere, even though he wasn’t writing a single word about it today. He noted that if felt more akin to a prison on the brink of a riot than a football game between two rivals.

  Once inside the press box, Cal sought out one of his friends. He needed to find a place to publish his story, if it ever came to that point. He looked on the seating chart for a few of his friends. He noticed Marty Price’s name on the list. Marty ran RazorSharp.com, one of the best independent sports websites for California sports. Its readership was small in comparison to other national websites, but it was read closely by writers and bloggers for Yahoo!, ESPN and CBS Sports. Once, Marty broke a story about one of the L.A. Clippers players who was involved in a point-shaving scandal. Within 30 minutes of posting the story, ESPN was all over it. If he could convince Marty that the story was true, RazorSharp.com would be a perfect home for such an expose on Charles Robinson and the mysterious death of Aaron Banks.

  Cal discreetly found Marty and made his pitch. Marty didn’t make any promises but said he would consider it if the story contained proper sourcing and evidence. It wasn’t the immediate affirmation Cal hoped for, but it was something.

  Robinson’s box was close to the press box. Cal noticed a few guests in Robinson’s box. It was exactly what he was hoping for. He texted Kelly.

  I hope u r taking pix of CR’s box

  The replay came back quickly.

  oh yes

  Cal smiled. He had all the ammunition he needed to send Robinson into a panic and put him on the defensive.

  He then made his way to his assigned seat on press row, eyeing the carnage of what was once the media buffet. Only a few tin trays filled with dingy liquid and an overcooked steak remained along the buffet line. He shook his head and smiled. If there was one word to describe all sports writers, it was hungry.

  Cal sat next to Dave Thornton, the Raiders’ beat writer for The Chronicle. He shot Cal a surprised look.

  “What are you doing here?” Dave asked.

  “I was in town. I had a pass. What else was I going to do?” Cal asked.

  “Well, you better get up. That’s not your seat.”

  “What?” Cal asked, looking at the nametag with his name on it. “That’s my name right there.”

  Cal felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around to see Hardman.

  “Well, if it isn’t the unemployed sports writer,” Hardman said, smirking. “I believe you’re in my seat.”

  Cal stood up.

  “Listen here you little son of a—­“

  “No, no, no. No profanity allowed in the press box, Mr. Murphy,” Hardman interrupted. “You might get away with that while covering rousing chess club tournaments, but we professional writers keep it clean up here.”

  A few of the writers nearby snickered at Hardman’s inane suggestion that press box talk was genteel. Cal scoffed at Hardman’s snarky comment.

  “You stole my story, you worthless hack,” Cal said. “I should’ve known you might try to leach off of me.”

  “Please,” Hardman said, dismissively. “I was just doing my job, something you should’ve done a long time ago. Maybe one day you’ll understand the meaning of the word scoop.”

  With each exchange, Cal and Hardman’s voices grew louder, so loud that it drew the attention of press box security.

  Hardman turned toward the approaching guard and told him Cal was in his seat.

  Cal tried to protest, but spun around to see Robinson standing in the press box, waving arms wildly at a guard as he pointed in Cal’s direction. The guard joined the disturbance and took charge.

  “Cal Murphy, come with me,” he said. “Your pass has been revoked.”

  Cal didn’t resist, walking peacefully out of the box. He looked back at Hardman, who hadn’t yet sat down, apparently enjoying his triumphant ejection of Cal.

  Cal then turned to see Robinson. The Stars’ owner’s face appeared snarled and twisted as he glared at Cal.

  “Don’t you ever come back here again,” Robinson said. Then he learned in closer and said in a whisper, “I can’t stress how important it is that you end this little charade you call an investigation now, especially if you ever want to get paid another penny for a word you write.”

  Cal didn’t back down. He calmly whispered back, “I’m gonna nail you to the wall, you bastard.”

  Robinson immediately started screaming and yelling threats at Cal. Cal just smiled as the guards forcefully led him out of the room and out of the stadium. Mission accomplished.

  CHAPTER 21

  CAL SAT IN THE CAR and listened to the game on the radio. Playing with heavy hearts, the Stars struggled. Perhaps it had more to do with their quarterback being suspended than their backup running back having died earlier in the week. Either way, it led to a rout for the Raiders. The Raiders led 24-3 at halftime and fans came pouring out of the stadium.

  Cal would never consider leaving any game early. It was also his job to stay until the end, but even when it wasn’t he remained in his seat until the last out was made or the last second ticked off the clock. He once went to a Mariners-Red Sox game with one of his college buddies, which included the privilege of taking his friend's five-year-old brother. The kid got restless and wanted to leave early. With Jamie Moyer and Curt Schilling locked in a tight pitcher’s duel, Cal did everything he could to keep the kid satisfied. But by the time the ninth inning rolled around, Cal had exhausted all his tricks. They were all walking out of the stadium when John Olerud hit a two-run homer in the bottom of the ninth to win the game for Seattle. Cal vowed never to leave early again. It was out of principle. Keep fighting until the end because you never know what break you’re going to catch.

  Robinson’s antics in the press box gave Cal a big break. With so many witnesses and some motivation that was public knowledge, Robinson would have to back off now. And even if he didn’t, he would after Cal moved to the next phase of his plan to buy more time.

  * * *

  At the end of the third quarter, the Raiders held a 27-10 lead. Cal predicted there would be no stirring comeback by the Stars either. Not that he would be allowed in the stadium to watch it even if it did. His work was almost done.

  Cal’s phone buzzed. It was Kelly.

  “I’m leaving now. Where are you?”

  “I’m at the car.”

  “At the car?”

  “Yeah, I got kicked out. I’ll have to tell you all about it. Did you get the pictures?”

  “Oh, yeah. They’re perfect.”

  “Great. Hurry back.”

  Cal hung up. He and Kelly made a great team. He didn’t like dragging her into such complex investigations, often fraught with danger. But she liked it and he enjoyed her company. And she was good at what she did.

  Once she got back to the car, they left the stadium. The game was still in the early stages of the fourth quarter, making for a quick exit from the stadium parking lot. During the drive back to Cal’s hotel, Cal related what happened in the press box incident. Kelly squealed and clapped her hands a couple of times when Cal redelivered his parting shot to Robinson. Cal felt like doing the same thing when he saw Kelly’s pictures.

  Upon entering Cal’s room, he opened his laptop and they began downloadin
g Kelly’s pictures. Her zoom lens produced pictures so clear that it was as if she was standing in the press box with them snapping grip-and-grin photos.

  Cal dragged the ones he was interested in to a new folder on his desktop. He continued sifting through the images until he came across one that made him start to think.

  “Do you know who these guys are?” Cal asked.

  “One of them is Robinson’s son, right?

  “Son-in-law,” Cal corrected. “What about the other guy? Do you recognize him?”

  “No, not really. You just said to keep my camera trained on Robinson’s luxury box and his guest box. That was from his guest box. Do you recognize him?”

  “Yes. I also think I know why Aaron Banks was murdered.”

  * * *

  The sun was slipping down into the Pacific Ocean when Charles Robinson slumped into his office chair. He had no reason to celebrate, so he punished himself with a glass of less expensive Scotch.

  Swilling the amber liquid around in his glass, he pondered his next steps to mitigate the growing disaster that was Cal Murphy. Everything he worked for could come crumbling down, though he felt confident Cal’s credibility would come into question after he spread the word that Cal had been plagiarizing. It wasn’t true, of course, but it only took a few swift strokes to his archived articles on The Chronicle’s website by a hungry intern to fix that. Robinson made sure dead ends would appear when Cal least expected him.

  It wasn’t a permanent solution, but a temporary one would have to suffice. Today, Robinson had lost his cool and showed his true colors. It was a costly mistake, but one he could fix. He just needed some more time, something he was in short supply of.

  CHAPTER 22

  WITH THE RISE OF SOCIAL MEDIA, news reporting devolved into a race to be first, facts be damned. Being the first news agency out in front of a story meant bragging rights, often times with scooped reporters forcing themselves to cite a competing news agency’s name in their on-air reports or online articles. The entire article wasn’t even necessary when it came to social media. A titillating headline sufficed. And if you were wrong? Scrub your social media feed and the problem was solved. The occasional ridicule from the public paled in comparison to sticking it to the competition.