Dead Drop Jack Patterson (best chinese ebook reader TXT) 📖

“Then why are you out in the cold, blacklisted by the club? Answer me that. Besides, it’s too late now. Ramsey is taking over the story. I’ve got some other assignments for you that we’ll discuss later.”

Cal furrowed his brow and leaned on the table. “I wrote the story that you insisted I write.”

Buckman glared at him. “Why don’t you leave the room so we can finish our meeting? You don’t have anything for tomorrow’s paper anyway.”

“I hear there’s a big high school swim meet downtown this weekend, Cal,” Ramsey said with a wink. “It’s got your name all over it.”

“Shut up, Ramsey,” Buckman growled.

Cal collected his papers and left. He didn’t mind getting chewed out by Buckman, most of the time it made him a better reporter, but he hated being treated unfairly. Despite his protests, Cal was forced to write the story about Rebecca Westin—and he knew that was ultimately why Seattle FC brass was upset. It had nothing to do with him finding creative ways to get interviews out of players. And Buckman knew it too, no matter what he said in the conference room in front of all the other reporters.

Cal sat down and opened his Twitter account on his desktop. He knew it was against his better judgment—as well as against his personal policy of never reading the comments. But there was no other assignment he had looming over him. Once the web page opened, he started to scan the comments. They were cruel—and terrifying. Death threats, unfounded accusations. It was an all-out assault on his integrity as a journalist as well as his manhood. While he contemplated replying, he concluded there was nothing he could say that would assuage the attackers. They were out for blood and gleefully circled him in the digital waters.

Without an outlet to write about what he’d learned, Cal slumped in his chair. He threw a pen at his monitor and sighed. Instead of fighting for Cal, Buckman had caved to the pressures of an organization that had grown more powerful in recent months—at least that was Cal’s assessment. He adored Buckman, but he had a distinct difference of opinion in this situation. Yet Cal wondered if he’d be able to re-establish his reputation before it was too late.

CHAPTER 17

EARLY THURSDAY MORNING, KITTRELL ARRIVED at the Seattle Police Department headquarters to review some of his notes from the case. He’d tried not to fret about the deadline Chief Roman had imposed upon them to find something that would assuage the city council members he was scheduled to meet with later that afternoon. But with daylight just breaking across the bay and Kittrell already at his desk, it was obvious he’d succumbed to worry.

And so had Quinn.

“Looks like we both had the same idea,” Quinn said, setting down a cup of coffee next to Kittrell’s stack of reports.

“Thanks,” Kittrell said, reaching for the cup but refusing to take his eyes off the report in front of him.

“What’s so interesting there?”

Kittrell continued to scan the page without responding.

“Hey, earth to Kittrell. You still with us, buddy?”

Kittrell looked up at Quinn. “Sorry, just trying to figure out if we missed something.”

“You may not have missed something, but we found something,” came a voice from across the room.

They both turned around to see Darrell Barrow from the forensics lab striding toward them.

“Gentlemen, I think we found something you’re gonna wanna see.”

Kittrell scrambled to his feet and followed Barrow and Quinn back toward the lab.

“What did you find?” Kittrell said as they entered the room.

Misty Morton was furiously typing on her keyboard but paused and spun around in her chair, pointing toward the large monitor on the wall. She glanced at Quinn and shot him a dirty look, a moment that didn’t escape Kittrell.

“It looks like we have our first suspect,” Barrow said.

Quinn and Kittrell both stared at the screen.

“Who’s Wayne Geller?” Quinn asked as he studied the picture and details of the rap sheet of the man whose image was now larger than life on the monitor. He didn’t look menacing—and neither did his prior arrests, which were nothing more than a few speeding tickets and misdemeanor charges like public drunkenness and disorderly conduct.

Morton stood up and began to pace next to the monitor. “When we first went through the van dusting for fingerprints, we didn’t find any—not even those of Sid Westin. But we forgot to dust the gas cap. And when we did, we captured Geller’s prints. They were the only prints in or on the entire vehicle.”

“Doesn’t look like our typical armed robber, but let’s bring him in,” Kittrell said.

***

KITTRELL WAS GRATEFUL apprehending Geller wasn’t a messy ordeal. He and Quinn both hated chasing down suspects. The suspects never got away, but they almost always tried—the great misfortune of having two detectives who’d medaled in the state high school track and field 100-meter dash come for them. Geller, who worked at a body shop just outside of downtown, insisted it was all a big mistake, and to prove it he’d be more than willing to talk with them at the precinct. Kittrell decided against sticking handcuffs on a man who was so compliant, despite Quinn’s protests.

To Kittrell, Geller didn’t quite look the part of an armed robber. He was clean cut, polite, and well spoken. All of his responses to Kittrell’s questions didn’t seem rehearsed but authentic and calmly answered. After a half hour, Kittrell announced that they needed to take a break and they’d resume in a few minutes. Quinn followed him out of the interview room.

“Is this our guy?” Roman asked as he wandered up on the detectives.

Quinn shook his head.

“Kittrell?” Roman said, turning to look at him.

“I-I don’t know. It doesn’t look like it.”

“But his prints were found on the van?”

“Yes, on the gas cap, which he said came from when he did work on the van and filled it up as a courtesy