Dead in the Water (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 4) (3 page)

Kelly smiled and gave him a few more encouraging words before he left the house for work.

***

When Cal arrived at the offices of
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
—more commonly known as
The
AJC
—Jim Gatlin was standing outside and taking the final drag of a cigarette. Cal shot him a disapproving glance before Gatlin tossed the butt down and mashed it into the sidewalk.

“I’m trying to quit,” Gatlin said. “Cut me some slack, will ya? It’s Friday.”

Cal smiled and nodded. He never once said a word to Gatlin about his smoking habit. Such browbeating toward smokers in the newspaper business would make Cal the most hated man in the newsroom. It was an acceptable mechanism to cope with all the daily stress associated with the job. Alcohol was also acceptable, though less so on the clock. However, Cal’s mere presence as a non-smoker seemed to extract Gatlin’s guilt. It was an uneasiness Cal wished didn’t exist between him and his boss.

“So, you got any leads on any good stories today?” Gatlin asked as they strode toward the elevator.

Cal nodded. “I think so.”

“Good. We need a good enterprise piece to fill up some space for the Thanksgiving issue in less than two weeks.”

“Not sure if it’s that good of a lead,” Cal answered as he pushed the button for the fourth floor.

“Try me.”

“Heard about a five-star college football recruit murdered in the bayou and my source tells me that foul play was involved.” Cal flinched as he stretched the truth.

“Who was the kid?”

“Tre’vell Baker from Saint-Parran.”

“Oh, that receiver kid? I’ve seen highlights of him on Youtube. He’s a beast.”

“Yeah, well, he’s dead now, and my source has good reason to believe it’s related to football.”

“I like it. We could go with the headline of ‘The Dark Underbelly of College Football’ or something like that.”

“Haven’t you used that before?”

They exited the elevator before Gatlin shot him a look.

“Are you trying to get on my bad side today?” Gatlin asked.

Cal smiled. “Do you even have a good side?”

“OK, fine. Go check it out. I wish it were somewhere in Georgia or Alabama instead of the godforsaken swamp that is Louisiana.”

“Gotta cover ‘Dixie like the Dew,’ right?”

“Sure—but you better come back with something, dark underbelly or not. Got it?”

Cal nodded and headed for his desk. He needed to do some more research—and book a flight for New Orleans.

CHAPTER 3

HUGH SANDERS HUNCHED LOW and peered across the horizon. There weren’t many activities that approached Sanders’ love for fishing around Devil’s Fork Bayou, but duck hunting was a formidable rival. As autumn settled in, Sanders enjoyed exchanging his fishing rod and boat for a shotgun and a duck blind. He nestled low to the ground in an effort to maintain his advantage on the targets approaching. Then in one smooth action, he hoisted his Browning Gold shotgun into the air and took aim.

Blam! Blam! Blam!

Splash!

Once the duck hit the water, Roxie, Sanders’ Labrador Retriever took off in the direction of the downed bird.

“Go get her, girl!” Sanders shouted as a huge grin spread across his face.

“Ain’t nothin’ like it nowhere,” he mumbled to himself as he watched Roxie gently secure the duck in her mouth and begin swimming back toward the blind.

Yet Sanders muttered the same expression for plenty of other joys in his life—reeling in a large bass, selling a fleet of cars to a business, and after every Alabama touchdown. To Sanders, these were the simple things in life, but they were also non-negotiable. Losing was not an option. He’d do just about anything to win.
Anything
.

Sanders welcomed Roxie back and retrieved the pintail duck from her mouth.

“That’s a good girl,” he said as he rubbed her head.

Four mallards and two pintails. Time to call it a day.

Sanders didn’t quit until he bagged the limit. Whenever he went hunting though, it was a foregone conclusion that he would get everything he could legally. Sanders only pulled the trigger three times because he liked shooting his gun, not because he needed the extra two shots to kill his prey.

He checked his watch. It was still early, but he had a full day ahead of him, one that included a church service and a meeting with Dominique Dixon to convince him to become a football player for the University of Alabama.

Sanders collected his gear and headed for his truck. He struggled to get anywhere quickly.
Maybe I should’ve held off the buffet last night. Thank God for belts.
His good looks long since gone, Sanders paused to stare at his 58-year-old face in the truck’s side mirrors.
Beauty’s fleeting but power isn’t,
he thought to himself as he raked his thinning gray hair over to one side.

Slightly out of breath, Sanders stowed all his gear just before his phone rang. He recognized the number right away.

“Hello, Coach. How are you on this fine mornin’?”

It was Dick Raymond, head coach of the University of Alabama’s football team. Raymond publicly rebuked boosters’ involvement in the recruiting process. But that was all for show. Privately, he had a dozen Alabama boosters on his speed dial and employed them to add a little sugar to his sales pitching to play at the school. This elite corps of boosters would drop everything to help. It was their way of contributing to the program beyond money. Raymond believed it was the little things that made the difference; his three championship rings proved he knew what he was talking about. When he preached this same message at alumni and booster meetings across the state of Alabama, everyone said amen with more than just their pocketbooks. They would do anything for Raymond. Hugh Sanders was no different.

Sanders knew the purpose of Raymond’s call: to secure Dixon’s commitment to the school. Alabama lost two games the previous season and failed to win a conference championship, far below the standards Raymond set when he first began coaching there. It was a title or bust. And last season was a bust due to an inexperienced secondary that gave up passing yards by the truckloads. They needed to shore up their defense. They needed Dixon.

Receiving such calls from Raymond made Sanders feel important. He’d always loved Alabama football, but never did he dream he would be speaking regularly with the head of the program, much less helping secure star recruits.

“Don’t worry, Coach,” Sanders said. “He’s gonna be wearin’ crimson and white next fall. I guarantee it.”

Sanders hung up and jumped into his truck. He needed to wash up before he got his hands dirty again.

***

Sanders fidgeted in his seat as Father Benoit prayed and began his homily. As far back as he could remember, Sanders attended church on Sundays. It was a Sanders family tradition. No excuses. Once when Sanders was nine, he contracted a nasty virus that kept him out of school for three days and made him miss his football game on Saturday. But when Sunday morning arrived, Sanders was in church along with his cold sweat and aches. Try as he might, Sanders couldn’t get out of the habit. While he considered his true sanctuary to be Bryant-Denny Stadium in Tuscaloosa on Saturdays, any building with a cross would suffice for Sundays.

St. Anne’s Catholic Church in Saint-Parran met Sanders’ criteria. He would’ve gone elsewhere if possible, but it was the only church in the parish. Despite his aversion to kneeling, sitting and standing—positions he regularly took throughout every Alabama football game—Sanders walked into St. Anne’s with a smile on his face. He usually attended a large Baptist church in Birmingham when he was home running his multi-million dollar car dealership. But when he had a chance to get in some extra fishing and hunting, Sanders piloted his PC-12 to Saint-Parran and his second home in the bayou. Most of his wealthy peers would have preferred to purchase a second home on a beach somewhere, but not Sanders. Sitting in the sand and reading a book was not his idea of a relaxing time.

Sanders caught himself paying attention as Father Benoit extoled the virtues of honesty.

“In Proverbs, King Solomon shares a simple truth: ‘A faithful witness will not lie: but a deceitful witness uttereth a lie,’” Father Benoit said.

Sanders squirmed in his seat. He was no liar, but he didn’t mind stretching the truth—as long as it was for a good cause. He figured some kids needed a little more coaxing to go to Alabama and that in the long run an education at the finest university on the planet with undoubtedly the best football team would benefit them more than they might realize. Bending and exaggerating the truth were helpful tactics in a game with life-altering implications. It’s not really lying if everyone was doing it. Sanders decided not to ponder the scripture for too long before Father Benoit read his mind and called him out by name.

Once the service ended, Sanders hustled out the door and to his truck. He didn’t want to keep Dominique Dixon waiting.

***

All respectable business in Saint-Parran occurred at Lagniappe Café. It was the meeting place of choice for Sanders, who asked Dixon to meet him there that afternoon. Sanders ordered a coffee and waited for his guest. He scanned the room for any new additions to the wall. Nothing new. Just the same old faded out newspaper clippings from glory years gone by.

Fifteen minutes after one, Dixon strode through the front door. He wore a black hoodie and grey sweatpants with the number eighty-one stitched on the left side. Sanders gave a little head nod to Dixon, who walked slowly toward his table.

“Have a seat,” Sanders said, gesturing toward the empty chair in front of him.

Dixon sat down and didn’t say a word.

“I wanted to offer my condolences about Tre’vell,” Sanders began. “He was a class act.”

Dixon stared down at the table and nodded.

“He was,” Dixon said.

“It’s crazy to think someone is runnin’ around the woods and shootin’ at people.”

“You ain’t kiddin’.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I don’t meant to bring up bad memories. I’d heard you two were close—”

“We were tight. But it’s no big deal. He’s gone now and there’s nothin’ we can do about it.”

“Does the sheriff know who did it?”

Dixon scowled at Sanders. “Are we here to talk about Tre’vell or me?”

“Sorry. Yes, we’re here to talk about you. So, how do you feel about becomin’ part of the Alabama family?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it too much.”

“Haven’t thought about it? You mean, you haven’t pondered what it would be like to play for the greatest football program in all of the land?”

Dixon snickered. “Look, I know you probably bleed crimson and white, but it’s not that clear cut for me. Besides, Tre’vell and I made a pact to go to the same school, no matter where it was. I can’t keep that promise now, but I still want to honor his memory wherever I go.”

Sanders looked down, unsure of how to proceed. Though he’d only met Tre’vell Baker once, Sanders was sure he was well on his way to playing for Alabama after he reneged on his commitment to Bryant University. Baker’s death actually created a twinge of pain for him as well.

“Look, I’m very sorry for your loss,” Sanders began. “I met Tre’vell once at a camp in Tuscaloosa and he seemed like a great kid. And I can’t imagine what this all feels like for you. I know it’s not easy. But don’t let this paralyze your decision-making process. There are only so many scholarships available at Alabama—and you’re at the top of Coach Raymond’s list. But if you decide to go elsewhere or drag your feet, that scholarship may not be there by the time you have to make a decision.”

Dixon nodded.

A waitress topped off Sanders’ coffee and placed a menu on the table. Dixon waived her off as they continued their conversation.

“I’m just not sure what I’m going to do,” Dixon said. “This isn’t easy for me or my family. They know I want to play a long way from here, which has been difficult for them to take. It’s just a lot to handle right now, especially without Tre’vell. I’m not in a place where I feel like I can make a decision. I’ve gotta think about this some more.”

“Well, take your time—just not too much time, OK?”

Dixon nodded again, pausing a moment before speaking.

“All I know is that I won’t be going to Bryant, not after what they did to Tre’vell,” Dixon said.

Sanders sat up and leaned in as he spoke in a hushed voice. “What are you talkin’ about? What did they do to Tre’vell?”

“They killed him, that’s what they did.”

“
They
killed him? I thought you said the sheriff isn’t sure who did this? Who’s
they
?”

“You’re right—I said the
sheriff
isn’t sure who did it. But
I
am.”

“Do you think someone connected to Bryant did this?”

Dixon nodded. “It makes me sick to my stomach,” Dixon said. “None of this would’ve ever happened if I would’ve just kept my mouth shut.”

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“I don’t know. I’ve already said too much. I’ve gotta go.”

Dixon got up and darted out the door.

Sanders watched the star recruit disappear as his mind whirred.
Dixon thinks someone from Bryant University killed his friend?

Sanders fished his cell phone out of his pocket and began searching for Coach Raymond’s number. In less than three seconds, his phone was ringing.

“Tell me the good news,” Raymond said as he answered. “Is Dixon going to join us next year?”

“Not sure about that yet, Coach,” Sanders said. “But there’s one thing Dixon is sure of.”

“Oh, what’s that?”

“That someone murdered Tre’vell Baker—and he thinks he knows who did it.”

CHAPTER 4

FRANK JOHNSON LOOKED UP from his newspaper and watched Hugh Sanders exit Lagniappe Café. Properly positioned, the paper hid Johnson’s presence well enough that neither Dixon nor Sanders noticed him. It was a trick he learned from several spies after getting burned in a corporate espionage scandal.