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

“I’m not sure. He asked me to purchase him an open-ended ticket. I can let him know that you stopped by when he calls to check in, if you like.”

Kittrell held up his hand. “That won’t be necessary. Thanks for your time.”

They turned away from the desk and headed toward the elevator. Once inside, they waited until the doors closed until either of them spoke.

“He leaves the country now,” Kittrell said. “How convenient.”

“No way this was a coincidence.”

CHAPTER 23

THE NEXT MORNING, Cal took advantage of his girls being out of town and decided to get in a morning run at the Queen Anne Greenbelt before feasting at his favorite breakfast haunt, The 5 Spot. Although he didn’t have as much time to run as he used to, his decision to run for nearly an hour on the greenbelt had more to do with guilt for what he was about to eat rather than for what he’d already eaten. With Kelly out of town, Cal’s diet was reduced to little more than fast food and greasy spoons. He’d made significant changes to his dietary habits since he married Kelly, but he hated to miss an opportunity to indulge in some of his guilty pleasures from yesteryear. In his mind, the long run mitigated the ill-effects of The 5 Spot’s biscuits and gravy dish he was craving before he sat down and opened up a copy of The Times.

Cal decided to re-read his article on Shawn Lynch to make sure some copy editor didn’t exchange his tight prose for something deemed more nuanced and gripping. He’d never been married to every word he wrote in a story, but he hated it when his stories were unrecognizable after an editor decided to justify his or her existence. One of the reasons he enjoyed working for Buckman was his philosophy that editors were there to improve upon an existing piece of work—and nothing else. However, the ambiguous and subjective definition as to what qualified as “improved” oftentimes created angst between Cal and the copy desk.

Yet for the most part, Cal’s article remained untouched save a few spots where the writing was tightened. His story highlighted Shawn Lynch’s ascension through the ranks of the Seattle FC team and how he’d become a solid cornerstone for the team to move forward. He related a story about how Lynch sold his coach on his ability to create scoring opportunities and how Lynch’s salesmanship was only rivaled by his ability to score goals.

From there, Cal’s story transitioned with this line: “But that shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone who’s lived in Seattle longer than a week and heard his father’s catchy jingle on the radio or television about his automobile conglomerate named Cars, Cars, Cars.”

Cal figured he could count on one hand the number of times he’d been driving in Seattle and not been within an arm’s length of at least two other automobiles that didn’t have a Cars, Cars, Cars nameplate affixed to the trunk or the company logo emblazoned on the license plate tag holder. Seattle residents often joked that they bought their latest car from Cars, Cars, Cars just so he’d stop advertising. Yet lining William Lynch’s pockets with more revenue resulted only in a more substantial marketing budget—which meant more commercials on local TV and radio stations.

However, Cal didn’t mind. He found the senior Lynch’s commercials plenty amusing, mostly due to the fact that the old man liked to ride horses in the commercials. The irony wasn’t lost on Cal, who wondered if William Lynch was simply a man who time had forgotten. There was little doubt in Cal’s mind that if the elder Lynch had been born a hundred years earlier than he was, he would’ve sold more horses to cowboys than anyone in the Pacific Northwest. Even as he put down the newspaper to take a sip of his coffee, he looked up on the television to see William Lynch galloping onto the screen while swinging a rope. The camera panned in awkwardly on Lynch’s face as he expressed delight over what he’d done. When the camera pulled away, he was reeling in a zero percentage sign, which was the popular selling hook for the moment.

The two old men crammed into the table next to him were complaining loudly about everything from the weather to politics to new technology. They both stopped what they were talking about to gawk at the commercial before a new rant began.

“Hasn’t that guy stolen enough people’s money already?” groused one of the men, who was wearing a hound’s tooth hat and tapping his cane to emphasize certain words.

“It’s bad enough he’s fleeced half of Seattle; the least he could do would be to spare us these commercials. These things are so bad, he makes the marketing team for LifeCall seem like advertising geniuses and…” The elderly gentleman started wheezing and coughing, and Cal couldn’t make out the rest of the man’s sentence.

The other man held up his newspaper and pointed to Cal’s article. “And now we have to read about him and his son in The Times. I swear if I still had my license, I’d—”

“Excuse me,” Cal said, temporarily halting their joint rant. “I couldn’t help but overhear you two talking about William Lynch. What did you mean when you said he’s ‘stolen enough people’s money?’ Is there something I should know about Cars, Cars, Cars?”

The man with the hat looked Cal up and down. “Are you new in town?”

“I’ve been around a while, but perhaps maybe not as long as you two have. Just trying to glean some wisdom here.”

The other man pointed at Cal. “Hey, I know you. Aren’t you that sports writer for The Times? I think I’ve seen you in some ads or interviewed on television before.”

Cal nodded. “Guilty as charged.” He offered his hand to the men. “Cal Murphy from The Times.”

The man in the hat shook Cal’s hand. “Ed Mueller.”

“Casper