Dead in the Water (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 4) (16 page)

Jarvis joined his mother and started sobbing. “I miss him,” Jarvis stammered.

“Me, too, baby. Me, too.” She helped Jarvis climb into the front seat and held him in her lap while they cried.

After a few minutes, she pulled out her cell phone to make a call and get some help. The battery was dead. She pounded on the steering wheel again.

“What’s wrong now, mom?” Nikko asked again.

“Battery’s dead.”

“I’ll go get help if you want me to,” Nikko said as he grabbed the door handle and awaited her blessing to leave.

She stared out the windshield spattered with raindrops. In the distance, she could see the glow of the Saint-Parran High stadium lights. Coach Holloway had asked her to come to the game as the players wanted to pay tribute to Tre’vell and honor her as well. But she couldn’t bear the thought of being around the very thing that reminded her of the essence of her son. Not now. Not so soon. She wanted to put this nightmare behind her instead of dredging it up a day after she buried her eldest son.

Lanette cracked the window and could hear a man over the public address system announcing the starting lineups. She then rolled up the window.

“Let’s just stay here until the rain dies down.” She remained transfixed in the direction of the stadium.

“But it’s never gonna stop,” Nikko protested.

“It always passes, son—just before another takes its place.”

***

Cal stamped his feet once he entered the Saint-Parran press box. Two sports writers occupied the only seats made available for the press. Nicholas Turner, the local sports editor who also covered education and business for
The Toulon Times
, occupied one of the seats, though Cal wondered if Turner wouldn’t be more comfortable in two seats. Next to him was Luke Alexander, a correspondent for the
Times-Picayune
out of New Orleans. Both glanced at Cal when he walked in but neither was about to give up their prized piece of real estate.

Cal asked the announcer if he had any extra rosters. He didn’t, but Cal took a picture with his phone of the only one he had so he could follow some of the star players.

Early in the game West St. John took a 6-0 lead when one of the defensive lineman recovered a fumble at the 2-yard line to set up an easy score. But then Saint-Parran found its rhythm.

A long run by the team’s leading rusher along with an extra point gave Saint-Parran a 7-6 lead. Dixon later intercepted a pass and returned in 40 yards for a touchdown to give his team a 14-6 lead. Then just before halftime, Coach Holloway sent Dixon in to play receiver and he caught a screen pass that he turned into a 55-yard touchdown play. Saint-Parran held a commanding 21-6 halftime lead.

“What do you think?” the announcer asked Cal as he turned around.

“He’s more impressive in person,” Cal answered.

“Better than anything you’ve seen in Atlanta, I guaran-dang-tee ya,” Turner chirped.

“Better than anyone I’ve covered there, that’s for sure,” Cal said. He wanted to justify Turner’s pride. The truth was Cal had yet to cover a high school football game since he moved to Atlanta.

As the players exited the field, one of them collapsed. The players huddled around him and a buzz fell over the stadium followed by an eerie hush.

“Who’s down?” the announcer asked.

Turner picked up his binoculars and peered onto the field. “It’s hard to tell. Everybody’s so close around him.” Some of the players shifted around as two paramedics rushed in. “Oh, wait. It looks like Dixon. Yes, that’s him all right.”

Cal tore out of the press box and raced down the steps. He jumped the fence and hustled over to the players huddled around him. Cal passed Dixon’s mother, who was also sprinting toward the pack.

“What happened?” Cal asked Coach Holloway, who stood a few feet behind the paramedics.

“We don’t know. He just suddenly collapsed.”

“Has he ever done this before?”

“Not at practice or any other time that I’m aware of.”

Cal paced around as he watched the paramedics work. Dixon’s mother knelt down next to him and held his hand. The paramedics helped him up before giving him some oxygen. They then transferred him to a stretcher.

“He’s gonna be all right,” one of the paramedics said. “It looks like he’s had a reflux episode.”

Cal fought his way through several players standing next to the stretcher, where Dixon sat up.

“Back up. He needs his space,” the other paramedic said as he shooed away Cal and the other players.

Dixon then locked eyes with Cal and extended his pinky and index fingers on his right hand, locking down the other fingers with his thumb. Then he flashed the numbers “three” and “four” before nodding at Cal.

What does that mean? Does Dixon like to rock? Is he a Texas Longhorn fan? And then is that thirty-four or three and four?

Cal knew Dixon was trying to tell him something, but what? For a kid immersed in the world of college football, that symbol was notorious with Texas’ fans “Hook ‘em Horns” symbol. But what did that have to do with anything? To Cal’s knowledge, Dixon never seriously considered Texas as a school he wanted to play for.

He raced back to the press box to report the good news that Dixon would be fine. He passed the information along to the announcer who assured the crowd that Dixon was not seriously injured or ill, though his status for the second half was unknown.

With his mission completed, Cal slipped into the coaches’ box and began to think about what Dixon was trying to say. He then entered “Longhorns 34” into the search engine on his phone’s browser. The first few entries to pop up were related to former Texas star running back Ricky Williams. Below them appeared an entry containing a box score from several weeks ago: Bryant Huskies 43, Texas Longhorns 34.

Cal read through the details of the game but nothing clicked with him right away. It seemed like it was innocuous. Maybe he needed to look at some of the other entries. Then Cal stopped. In a small box at the top of the story was the Las Vegas betting line: Bryant -10. Bryant was favored by ten points. Then Cal noticed a line in the story about Bryant’s star running back who rushed for 150 yards and three touchdowns and one fumble. Cal scrolled over to the play-by-play chart of the game. It detailed every player involved on each play, including down and distance. Cal searched all the way until he found what he was looking for late in the fourth quarter.

With two minutes remaining, Bryant’s running back fumbled on the 5-yard line. Usually, the play-by-play chart would mention what defensive player forced the fumble, but there wasn’t one. The absence of a defender’s name meant the running back fumbled on his own.
The ball just slipped out of his hand?
First, he checked the weather for the game. At kickoff, it was 68 degrees and sunny. Then he checked the player’s season stats. It was his only fumble of the season through ten games.

Was Dixon trying to tell me what this looks like—that Bryant was point shaving? Could this be what Tre’vell Baker found out?

Cal shoved his phone back into his pocket and exited the press box. He needed to talk to Dixon again.

CHAPTER 29

FRANK JOHNSON snuck into the Saint-Parran field house. The kerfuffle he helped create by providing an extra spicy pre-game meal for the players triggered a reflux episode in Dixon. It was something one of the Bryant coaches mentioned offhand to him shortly after Dixon’s visit to the school. Following one of the evening meals, Dixon had a reflux episode that gave everyone a scare.

Johnson did his research. He tasted several varieties before settling on Burpee’s supersteak tomatoes, which were so acidic they curled his toes. He gave the caterer a bushel of the tomatoes with a special request that the sauce be homemade according to the details of a special family recipe. The truth is there was nothing special about it. It was extra spicy and comprised of his choice tomatoes—all designed to elicit a reflux response in Dixon. It worked like he planned.

Once inside the field house, Johnson wasted no time. He located Dixon’s locker and walked straight toward it. He scavenged around until he found what he was looking for: Dixon’s phone.

Johnson began searching through his email and found one from Tre’vell Baker that included a video attachment. He opened it up and watched a conversation between one of the Bryant coaches and players that clearly indicated they were point shaving.

If this video ever fell into the wrong hands …
Johnson shuddered and sent the video to himself. He deleted both the copy from Baker and the copy he’d just sent to himself in the outbox. He used a handkerchief to wipe off all his prints before his final point of business. Searching for a blunt object, Johnson picked up a helmet and smashed the phone with it. He slid the mangled device back into Dixon’s bag and exited through the back of the field house. He peered around the corner to see if anyone would see him leaving.

He muttered a few curse words under his breath. Cal Murphy was headed straight for the field house.

***

The Saint-Parran High marching band waded onto the field and began a routine that included Michael Jackson’s
Thriller
. Cal winced as he heard the dissonance trying to emulate musical genius. As he made his way down the grandstand steps, he contorted his face at the moment a loud off-key note echoed through the stadium. It was a look that apparently caught the eye of an elderly gentleman.

Leaning against the fence, the man turned to face Cal and began speaking.

“It’s times like this that I bet you wish you had a pair of these,” the man said, gesturing to his hearing aid devices snug behind each ear.

Cal smiled and nodded as he kept walking. Once he exited the stands, he dodged a group of elementary-aged boys engrossed in their own game of touch football just beyond the stands. He quickened his pace as he walked headlong into a gusting wind.

Cal’s phone buzzed. It was Gatlin.

“Hello,” Cal said.

“Sick, huh?” Gatlin asked.

“Look, I can explain.”

“I don’t want any explanations, Cal. I just want you to do what I tell you to do. I let my reporters have long leashes to explore stories, but when I say that’s enough, that’s enough. I’ve been in journalism longer than you’ve been alive and I know when a story isn’t materializing. So unless you want to vanish with that story, I suggest you get back here on the next plane or else don’t come back at all.”

“But, you don’t understand—”

“I don’t want to understand. I just want you back here. Got it?”

Cal reached the edge of the field house and leaned against the outer wall. There was just enough of an eave to shield him from the rain falling directly down. It did little for the rain whipped sideways by the rhythmic blasts of wind.

“Listen to me, Gatlin! I think I know what got Baker killed.”

“OK, I’m listening.”

Cal lowered his voice. “I think they found out that Bryant was point shaving during their visit.”

“Do you have any proof before you make such an accusation?”

“No, not yet. But I think I may be able to get some.”

“Great. You can get some from Atlanta. I want you back here tomorrow to cover the Hawks. And maybe if you somehow get a story out your wild adventure down there, I’ll forgive you and won’t make you cover another one. Got it?”

“But Gatlin—”

“We’re done talking about this. Call me once you’re on the road. I don’t want you trying to pull anything over on me this time.”

“This is big, Gatlin. I—”

“I don’t wanna hear it. Get back now if you value your job, Cal.”

Gatlin hung up. Cal sighed and gently rapped his head against the exterior field house wall.
This is too good to pass up. Screw it. I’m gonna stay here until I find out what’s going on.

Cal’s phone rang again.

“Kelly?” Cal answered.

“When are you coming back?” Kelly asked.

“I don’t know. When I have feel like I have enough to write my story. Probably a day or two.”

“I suggest you get back as soon as you can.”

“Why’s that?”

“Gatlin called here looking for you and I slipped up and told him you weren’t here—”

“That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“I just got a call from him and he chewed me out, demanding that I come back to Atlanta right away. But I’m getting close to this story. I want to see where it leads.”

“No, Cal. You can’t do that. You can’t lose your job. If you don’t get this story and that book deal, it’s not the end of the world. We can survive without a surgery, but not without your job.”

“But, Kelly—”

“I’m sorry, Cal. I wasn’t thinking when I told him that. My mind’s been a bit loopy lately. But you’ve gotta come back. You know it wouldn’t look good to get fired because you were moonlighting for a publisher in pursuit of a book deal—all without your editor’s approval.”

Cal sighed and said nothing.

“You get back here as soon as possible,” Kelly said.

“OK, OK. I’ll call you later.”

Cal hung up. He needed to think. He needed to talk to Dixon.

***

Around the corner, Frank Johnson felt his chest tightening. He hated dirty work. It’s why he went to college in the first place.

“You see those guys wearing orange vests and digging that ditch?” his father would ask as they were driving by road construction sites. “That’s gonna be you if you don’t get a good college education. Stay in school, son. It’ll pay dividends for you way down the road—and I guarantee you that you’ll never have to dig ditches for a living.”

Johnson didn’t mind hard work as long as it didn’t require getting his hands dirty. But his college degree couldn’t help him avoid the dirty work now before him.

CHAPTER 30

INSIDE THE SAINT-PARRAN FIELD HOUSE, Dominique Dixon returned to collect his bag. One of the paramedics waited for him at the door.

“Are you all right, ‘Nique?” one of the players asked.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Dixon said.

“Are you going to be able to play any more tonight?” another player asked.