Dead Wrong (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 7), page 8
Simon chuckled. He’d yet to meet a fan of the Wizards who didn’t loathe the enormous contract Jameson signed.
“Now, I’m tellin’ you right now, this was straight up murder. And Tonya Jameson isn’t getting what’s due to her because of this attempt to cover up a murder.”
“So, let me get this straight. Are you suggesting that Nikolay Gavin had Kelvin Jameson killed?”
“Look, I knew Kelvin well. We had our differences, of course, but we were cordial to one another. He was a good dude and doesn’t deserve to have his name dragged through the mud like this.”
“Is that a yes?”
DJ O.T.U.S. sighed. “Take what you want from this conversation, but I’m just speakin’ the truth.”
“I’m just not sure about all this.”
“Sure about what?”
“Sure that I want to run a story suggesting all these things. How do I know that you’re not saying all this just so Tonya Jameson can get her money?”
“I don’t appreciate your tone, Mr. Simon. Perhaps a libel lawsuit will get your attention more so than an exclusive to save your pathetic career.”
Simon shifted into his blogger sarcasm mode. “Insult the messenger. Good strategy.”
“I’ll tell you what isn’t a good strategy—ignoring me. You owe Tonya for what you said about her. That hurt her. Now, you need to make it right.”
“What? By becoming your mouth piece?”
“No, by becoming a writer who gets the scoop.”
“I think I’m already getting the scoop on every one.”
The sound of DJ O.T.U.S slamming his fist on his desk crackled through the phone. “If you don’t run with this story, I’m coming after you. And not only that, but I’m going to destroy you.”
“I’m sure you can drop some sick beats on a poor little blogger. Your fans will love that.”
“You bet they will, but I won’t stop there. I’ll make sure that you’re shut out of every NBA circle you’ve ever dreamed of being in. Rappers, actors, other sports celebrities. You’re going to be shunned, a pariah. And you’re going to think back to this moment and wish you listened to me.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You’ve got twenty-four hours before I launch a thousand ships in your direction.”
Simon laughed. “Who knew rappers were so versed in mythology?”
DJ O.T.U.S. didn’t respond.
Click.
The line went dead.
Simon stared at his screen, marveling at the headline he wanted to show the world.
He hit delete and started writing a new story.
CHAPTER 15
CAL EXPECTED TO AWAKE to text messages and tweets full of adulation related to his latest story when his alarm signaled the beginning of his day. He rolled over and kissed Kelly before he climbed out of bed and picked up his phone. After rubbing his eyes he glanced at the screen. Then he rubbed his eyes again, unsure of what he saw.
A scathing text message from his editor arrested his attention first. Then there was a link to a blog post from Will Simon.
That guy’s a muckraker if there ever was one.
He started reading Simon’s story that detailed an encounter between Wizards’ owner Nikolay Gavin and Tonya Jameson where Gavin allegedly offered to pay Jameson to keep her mouth shut. However, she allegedly refused because it wasn’t sufficient and it also required her to sign a non-disclosure agreement. No quotes, just “sources close to the situation.” More rumors and insinuations than facts.
More uncorroborated garbage.
He groaned. “How can anyone take this guy seriously?”
“What is it, honey?” Kelly said as she slipped up next to him.
“Oh, it’s this Jameson story. Will Simon wrote a post that shouldn’t be taken seriously by anyone, but is by my editor. He claims that Gavin is trying to pay off Jameson’s widow to keep her quiet.”
“Quiet about what?”
“Who knows? But it doesn’t look good.” He paused. “I just can’t believe I’m getting grief for this when none of this post has any quotes from anyone. Just ‘sources close to the situation’ ridiculousness. Like Will Simon has any source embedded anywhere.”
She rubbed his shoulders. “You know how it is these days—nobody cares about getting it right, just getting it out there first.”
“Bloggers don’t care about that stuff, but serious newspapers should.”
She patted him on the back and jumped in front of him. “And now we’ll have a few days with the team to find out more than Will Simon ever will. Besides, he’ll never get the access we will writing stories like that.”
“True, but it still has an impact on me, regardless of whether it’s a blatant lie or not.”
“Don’t let it bother you. Think about happy thoughts this morning—like Maddie. I think she’s calling for you.”
Cal smiled and shuffled down the hall to get his daughter ready for the day. His mother-in-law would be by soon to take care of his daughter and he wanted to make sure she had everything she could possibly need before jetting off to the other side of the country.
Just before he entered her room, Cal received a phone call from Marcus Hale.
“Good morning,” Cal mumbled.
“I wish I could say the same,” Hale shot back. “I’ve already been chewed out by management and it’s not even seven thirty in the morning.”
“So, you’re here to pass along what was dumped on you?”
“How could you miss this, Cal? This is a major development. You’re supposed to be all over this story for us. You can’t let a blogger with a sliver of the resources and contacts you have beat you like this.”
Cal sighed. “You’re seriously buying that story?”
“I don’t know what I’m buying, but I know what the general public is buying. Just turn on sports talk radio this morning and listen to what everyone is talking about.”
“Of course they’re talking about Simon’s blog. It’s far more scintillating. Spousal implications are run of the mill, but a fat cat owner? The common man loves to take him down if for the simple reason that he’s wealthy.”
“Maybe Gavin has something to hide.”
“Like what? The murder of Kelvin Jameson? You can’t be serious about this.”
“What makes you so sure of his innocence? With Jameson’s death, Gavin shed dead weight on the roster and a burden to the team’s salary cap. Isn’t that motive enough?”
“Or maybe Jameson’s philandering wife wanted to get her hands on all of her husband’s money?”
“They didn’t sign a pre-nup. She could’ve divorced him at any time. Her involvement wouldn’t make sense.”
Maddie started crying and Cal stole into her room and picked her up to quiet her down. “Maybe not, but her ties to DJ O.T.U.S. and Ballou Baller records introduce a different dynamic. She may have had more motive than you think.”
“We just need more on this story, Cal. If you and I have all these questions, you can bet our readers do, too.”
Cal started changing Maddie as he held the phone close to his ear with his right shoulder. “Any word on what the police are saying from our crime reporter?”
“They’ve remained tight-lipped but I’ve heard that privately they still believe it’s a routine drug overdose.”
“I’ll look into it some more.”
“For the record, my money’s on Gavin.”
“Why? Because of some unsubstantiated blog post by Will Simon?”
“No, because he has the most to gain with Jameson’s death. Motive is everything, Cal.” Hale paused. “And don’t discount Simon’s reporting. I’m getting pressure to hire him depending on how this story turns out. Don’t make me regret standing up for you.”
“Have I ever let you down?”
“Just do your job, Cal. Got it?”
Cal mumbled, “Yes,” and hung up. Then Maddie looked up at him and burst into tears.
He picked up her and coddled her. “It’s okay. I know how you feel.”
CHAPTER 16
NIKOLAY GAVIN SQUINTED at the sunlight piercing the horizon as he stooped into his limousine. Another day, another headache. More like another hundred headaches. No matter how hard he tried to quell the grumbling about the state of the Wizards, he couldn’t. Likewise for his business exploits as well.
There’s always something.
To torture himself further, Gavin turned on one of D.C.’s sports talk radio programs. Two of the morning radio hosts were replying a segment from Hank Bingham’s show the day before.
“During this West Coast road trip, could we just leave the team out there and start over?” Bingham asked. “Nikolay Gavin doesn’t care about these guys. It’s a hobby to him. He’s probably sitting somewhere drinking Vodka and eating caviar without a second thought about how to win this city a championship.”
Perhaps the only thing I hate more than Vodka and caviar is the sound of your voice.
Bingham’s tirade continued as he skewered everything from the team’s promotions to the fact that the Wizards last championship was in 1978.
Gavin had heard enough. He called his accountant.
“But you know nothing about running a radio station,” the accountant warned.
“I knew nothing about real estate either,” Gavin countered. “I’ll hire someone who will. Just make the offer.”
He hung up and took another long pull on his glass of wine. He wanted to fire Hank Bingham personally—on the air.
Bingham continued. “This was supposed to be the Wizards’ year. What did Gavin promise Wizards’ fans? The team would make the Eastern Conference Finals or a fifty percent discount on next year’s season tickets? Ha! I hope he’s got his accounting department ready to work overtime.”
Gavin had heard enough and turned the radio off.
He knew the blowhard was right. The team didn’t have a shot of making a deep run into the playoffs without someone to not only replace Kelvin Jameson but to supersede him. He knew Orlando’s Kyle Hutton was the answer, though the last thing he’d heard was some reluctance on the part of Orlando. But he had a plan for that, a plan he wanted to move on, but not too quickly. Though he couldn’t wait long either. The trade deadline was approaching and if he dallied, he might miss his chance altogether. It was a delicate dance, one that required Fred Astaire moves rather than his own two left feet.
He had a hundred other things he needed to do this morning, but the only thing he cared about at the moment was the Wizards. A great window of opportunity stared at him—and he was going to do whatever it took to help the team win. Anything.
No, Mr. Bingham, you’re wrong. I sit around thinking about how to make this team better all the time. I’m going to loosen the purse strings and see that I make good on my promise, while I tighten the ones around your radio station once I buy it tomorrow.
He smiled as he imagined Bingham’s face as he interviewed him—and then right after fired him.
His phone rang, interrupting his momentary bliss.
“What is it?” Gavin asked.
“Have you seen Will Simon’s story suggesting that Kelvin Jameson was murdered?”
“What?” he said. “When is this madness going to stop?”
“That’s not all, sir.”
Gavin emptied the rest of his glass of wine. “Oh, please, tell me more.”
“The blog post detailed an alleged conversation you had with Tonya Jameson.”
“What’s she running to a muckraking blogger for?”
“I’m not sure, sir, but the implications in the post are clear.”
He sighed. “And that is what?”
“That you attempted to pay her off.”
“That’s all?”
“No, I’m afraid there’s more.”
“Out with it. This conversation’s agitating me.”
“He suggested that he was murdered—by you.”
Gavin growled. “I don’t have time for this. Make it go away.”
“But that’s not all, sir.”
“There’s more?”
“I’m afraid so. You know that meddling reporter for The Washington Times, Cal Murphy?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, he’s relentless—and he’s sniffing around in all the wrong places. He poses a threat to some of your interests as well.”
“Can you buy him off?”
“He’s not so easily swayed.”
“Then use other persuasive means. Just take care of it.”
He hung up and slumped in his seat, wishing he could punch Hank Bingham, Will Simon, and every other media person in the face. Or better yet, get them all one-on-one in his club.
CHAPTER 17
CHRIS BUTLER KEPT HIS PHONE on as instructed as he drove to Hyde Field. With the radio in his car not working, he was left to ponder in silence the sudden turn of events in his life. He wanted to know why he was targeted and not his co-pilot. Perhaps it was his bulging waistline. His sporadic flight schedule made it difficult to develop any regular rhythm of exercise—and his unhealthiness made his claim that he was having chest pains seem more believable. But his co-pilot also appeared to be losing the battle of the bulge. Butler wondered if the people targeting him also knew he had a background in acting. Maybe that was what earned him the nomination to fake a heart attack.
At this point, the why didn’t matter. Butler was going to do whatever he needed to in order to ensure his family’s safety. Yet, the nature of the mystery helped him pass the time as he inched along the Beltway.
Then he let his mind drift to the how. His method of execution would be critical to his success. His co-pilot, Ed Wilson, had been flying with him for the past six months and they’d become well acquainted after sitting together for hours in a cockpit with nowhere to go and no one to talk to but each other. Butler wondered if the sudden revelation that he was having chest pains would cause Wilson to suspect him. To his recollection, Butler never mentioned having heart issues. But he would never have done such a thing in the first place. It would put him under scrutiny from the airline if Wilson exposed him, perhaps costing him his job. Such secrets were best kept from everyone, especially a co-pilot.
It might create an issue if Wilson suspected something. But Butler would address that issue if it arose. In the meantime, he needed to focus on just how he might fake a heart attack and sell it as real.
The truth of the matter was Butler left high school as a failed actor. Sure, he had several credits next to his name in the Altoona High School yearbook. But that was just to impress colleges. The only real role he ever accepted was that of a clown in a play about a circus. Instead of excelling in his role, he stumbled onto stage, which resulted in a face plant. Though his character was supposed to provide comic relief, it should’ve been more for his lines than a slapstick shtick. He tripped again when he tried to get up and nearly fell off the stage before he became entangled in a trapeze net nearby. The unfortunate incident led to him earning the nickname “Clown Man.” He never tried out for another play, nor did he ever live down the event either. He seethed when he showed up at his school’s ten-year reunion and was greeted by his mocking moniker.
He looked down at his left hand, fully clenched. Anger, frustration, nervousness. The trifecta of emotions coursing through him did nothing but set him on edge. That and the Beltway traffic.
Get it together, Chris. You can do this.
His phone buzzed with a new message from his wife. It was a picture of his two sons in the backyard, posing in their superhero costumes. His oldest wore the blue and red of Superman, while his youngest puffed his chest out cloaked in a Batman outfit. He laughed for a moment, nearly forgetting the task ahead of him. Then he remembered again.
As much as he loathed—and feared—this assignment, it was different. His family’s life depended on it. He was going to give an Oscar-worthy performance.
Everyone on that plane was going to believe he was having a heart attack.
CHAPTER 18
SCOTT PERRY BREEZED PAST his assistant and entered his office. He shut the door behind him and leaned against the door. For the first time in twelve hours, he had a respite from his nagging wife. He wished for a vacation from all his problems, but he’d settle for what he could get at the moment. And if that meant getting to the office earlier than normal to avoid her incessant whining about the state of their finances, so be it.
He started for his desk when a knock at his door startled him. He spun around and opened it.
It was his assistant.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry to bother you so early, Mr. Perry. I know that you like to get situated before you hear bad news, but I thought you needed to see this right away.”
She offered him a piece of paper, which he snatched from her hand.
He scanned it and started to growl. “Is this some kind of sick joke? Doesn’t anyone out there know what we’re going through here this week?”
“I know. I thought the same thing.”
He slung the paper onto his desk and put his hands on his hips, contemplating his instructions for his assistant.
“Get Darren on the phone for me,” he said. “We need to talk about this.”
Darren, as in Darren Norman, one of the NBA’s rising stars up for free agency once the season ended. Perry sought out potential recruits like Darren. Their initial contracts weren’t going to bring home any significant windfall. But the second contract? That was when he made his living on rising stars like Darren. Swiping fifteen percent from a negotiated contract of four or five years for eight to ten million dollars was his end game. The initial representation after a player was drafted was all window dressing. Only the top draft pick really mattered, as he set the standard from which to determine the value for the remaining contracts as each one tiered down. Darren Norman was drafted third by the Boston Celtics, but he was paying big dividends for the team and had the team on the cusp of the playoffs for the first time in several years.
