Dead in the Water (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 4) (11 page)

“I think every kid under the age of eighteen in the state of Louisiana decided they wanted to play football for LSU if they hadn’t already. But Tre’vell made a big deal out of it. He drew a picture of himself wearing LSU colors with the number nine on his jersey. He wanted to be just like the player who scored the touchdown.”

“I’ve heard a lot of great things about Tre’vell as a person. What made him so special to you?”

“A couple of years ago, we were in a rough spot. We didn’t have no money and barely had enough food. But Tre’vell didn’t complain once. For about a month, he barely ate. He’d give up his meal for his brother to have seconds.”

“Sounds like a great kid.”

Lanette nodded in agreement. “The best.”

“So, what kind of progress has the sheriff made in his investigation?”

“Sheriff Mouton? That man’s worthless when it comes to solving crime.”

“I heard he was one of the best at solving cases.”

“Maybe if he’s there when two men start shootin’ at each other.”

“He came around here once but he said it was probably just some freak stray bullet.”

“Do you believe him?”

Lanette rubbed her hands together and looked at the floor. “I can’t imagine anybody would want to kill him. He didn’t have any enemies.”

“So you don’t think his death could’ve had anything to do with the fact that he reneged on his commitment to Bryant University just a few days before?”

“People are serious about their football around here, but not serious enough to kill anybody over it—unless they’re drunk at Bons Temps maybe.”

Cal sensed he wasn’t getting anywhere with Lanette. He nodded and jotted down some more notes.

“Now, I don’t mind these questions, but you didn’t say you were tryin’ to figure out who killed Tre’vell,” she said.

“I’m sorry, Lanette. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

She waved her hand at Cal. “It’s not going to offend me—it’s just that I’m ready to move on from the whole thing after tomorrow and don’t want to get it drug up again.”

“I understand. So, what’s next for you? Is it true that you’re moving?”

“Yeah. I got a cousin who’s helpin’ me get a job. She promised it’d be a better life than what I’ve got here.”

“So, where are you off to then?”

“Out of the bayou,” she said.

Lanette’s terse response let Cal know that it was time to stop asking about this and move on. “Well, I appreciate all your time and answering some tough questions. Your son has been quite an inspiration to me even though I’ve never met him. Sounds like you raised a great kid.”

Lanette nodded. “Don’t know how much I had to do with it, but he was somethin’ else. I can’t imagine a day will go by when I won’t remember him.”

Cal thanked Lanette and got up to leave. He glanced at a stack of letters on the entryway table next to the lone family photo. Most of the letters splayed about looked like stationary from college coaches addressed to her son.

But the letter on top was addressed to “Cousin Lanette” in messy handwriting. Cal noticed what looked like a check sticking out of the top. He couldn’t make out the city on the return address, but it was from somewhere in Alabama.

Cal slipped back into the truck and didn’t say a word to Potter.

CHAPTER 15

JIM GATLIN GAVE HIS REPORTERS plenty of leeway while they gathered their stories. He created such a big slush budget that his writers always felt confident they could get the necessary resources to properly report a story. It’s part of the reason why Gatlin racked up so many Associated Press Sports Editors awards. Five years ago, he ran out of room to secure them to his office walls. He started rotating the plaques until he just decided to leave the most recent year’s awards up. His walls were always full.

But Cal, with all his own truckloads of writing awards for past work, had yet to earn Gatlin and the paper any significant awards. Gatlin had been around long enough to know that award-winning writing was the result of three things: wordsmith skills, reporting prowess, and luck. So far, Cal’s hunches fizzled into well-read pieces, but nothing that was going to earn the Atlanta newspaper’s sports staff another honor.

Gatlin dialed Cal’s number. He needed an update of his whereabouts. With the story likely going nowhere, Gatlin needed Cal back in Atlanta to help cover a pre-season Hawks game. The regular beat reporter for the Hawks fell ill with a stomach virus and everyone else was either covered up with assignments or not scheduled to work. Overtime was no longer a luxury the paper afforded any reporter, even an editor with a slush fund like Gatlin’s.

Cal answered, plugging his other ear as he scrambled to escape the party-like atmosphere of Bons Temps.

“Sounds like a party going on there, Cal,” Gatlin said.

“Just taking it easy tonight. I’ve got a lot to think about.”

“Got anything to write about?”

“Not yet. I’m still working on it.”

“Well, I think I warned you about the storm coming.”

“Some of the locals think it’s nothing. Besides, I feel like I’m close to discovering some dark secrets around here.”

“It’s the bayou, Cal. There are dark secrets lurking everywhere.”

“Not like this. I feel like everyone is sketchy, like it could be any one of a handful of people I’ve spoken with. Nobody seems like they’re being up front with me.”

“Why should they be? You’re some big city reporter.”

“It’s like they’re all covering it up.”

“Well, we don’t have any more time to uncover anything. I need you back in Atlanta to cover the Hawks on Saturday. I already booked you a flight home for tomorrow afternoon.”

“Oh, come on, Gatlin. I’m supposed to talk with the Dixon kid tomorrow. He sounded like he had something important to tell me. Besides, this is the first story I’ve had in a while with some real potential.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I say it because it’s true. You’ve assigned me nothing that matches my potential as a reporter—just bush league stuff. But this is the kind of story I thrive on. It brings out the best in me.”

Gatlin paused for a moment to think. He needed Cal to come up with a winning story far more than he needed him to cover a meaningless pre-season basketball game.

“Fine. It’s the Hawks. There won’t be five hundred people there anyway and even fewer interested in reading about it the morning after. I’ll get some intern to cover it.”

“You won’t be sorry.”

“I better not be. What’s going on tomorrow?”

“Tre’vell Baker’s funeral. I should be able to interview a few more people afterward.”

“I expect a full report tomorrow. And don’t ignore that storm, Cal. It’s still bearing down on Louisiana.”

Gatlin hung up, unsure if he made the right decision. He trusted Cal even though his young hotshot reporter had done nothing in Atlanta to earn his trust.

CHAPTER 16

DOMINIQUE DIXON AWOKE from one dream to another on Thursday morning. His mother knocked on his door and called his name, as was their customary ritual. But there was something different in her voice.

“Nique, time to get up!” she said in a sing-song manner. She normally grunted or yelled at him. But this time her voice surprised him. “There’s a surprise for you.”

Dixon shot out of bed and scrambled to put on his sweat pants and a t-shirt. The last time his mother told him about a surprise she gave him tickets to see the Saints play the Falcons in New Orleans. She never told him where the tickets came from, but he never asked. He didn’t want to ruin a good surprise. On Sunday, the Saints were playing the 49ers—a fact Dixon knew all too well.

“Good mornin’, mom,” he said.

“Mornin’, son,” she said. “How’d you sleep?”

“Good. What’s goin’ on?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said there’s a surprise for me.”

“Look outside.”

Dixon walked to the window and pulled back the curtains. In the driveway sat a brand new red Audi TT.

Dixon put his hand over his mouth, agape from the shock. “Are you for real? When did you get that?”

“I didn’t get it—and it’s not for me.”

Dixon’s eyes widened. “What?”

“It’s from your uncle.”

“Uncle Bernard?”

“That’s what it said on the note,” she said, waving the note above her head.

“Gimme that.” Dixon snatched the note from his mom’s hands and read it.

I’m so proud of you, Dominique. You’re big time now and I want to make sure you arrive at college in style. Good luck! ~ Uncle Bernard

“Where’d he get the money for this?” Dixon asked.

“It’s a gift, son. Just receive it and don’t ask too many questions.”

Dixon looked at his mother and then stared back down at the card. He had plenty of questions, starting with the fact that this wasn’t his uncle’s handwriting. But maybe his mother was right. The fewer questions, the better. The less he knew, the more likely he wouldn’t get in trouble for taking a gift—a gift he knew never came from his real uncle Bernard.

***

Saint-Parran High buzzed Thursday morning over Dixon’s new vehicle.

“So, when are we going to shoot a rap video of you and a bunch of girls in bikinis all over you in this car?” asked Carl Nelson.

Dixon shook his head. “No need for all that.”

“Seriously? No need to make you look like the stud that you are?”

“It’s just a car,” Dixon said as he tried to downplay the gift.

“Just a car? If I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought you lost your mind.”

“How so?”

“This is your dream car. You talk about this car all the time. And now it suddenly shows up in your driveway as a gift from your uncle. We’ve got to make an epic video, spliced with highlights of you intercepting a pass and returning it for a touchdown. You’d have colleges beggin’ you to go play for them.”

“I already do, Carl.”

“I mean schools like Southern Cal and Ohio State and Miami.”

“They’ve all sent me letters.”

“And you’re not going there?”

“I still haven’t decided.”

“Maybe you ought to find out who gave this to you and show them some loyalty.”

“My uncle gave it to me,” Dixon said as he looked at the ground and kicked at the pavement.

“I understand code, bro. It’s all right. You don’t have to tell me who gave it to you.”

“I told you—my uncle gave it to me.”

“No, it’s cool.”

Dixon grew frustrated with the suspicion from his friend—and everyone else for that matter. Before the first period bell rang, he had posed by his car with at least a dozen of his friends. Friends posted the picture on social media accounts with a short note about how Dixon’s uncle gave him the car. The word
uncle
was always surrounded by quotation marks. By the time the second period bell rang, the hash tag “#MyUncleGaveIt2Me” was trending on Twitter in Louisiana, Alabama, Mississippi, Florida, Texas, and Georgia.

Even Gatlin saw it.

***

Saint Anne’s Catholic Church bustled with well-wishers and mourners. Cal, joined by Potter, estimated two hundred people jammed the pews to watch Tre’vell Baker receive a proper memorial before the private burial service. He also noted that both Hugh Sanders and Frank Johnson attended the service, as did a pair of assistant coaches from LSU.

Father Benoit opened the service and spoke about Baker’s penchant for helping others. Everything he said seemed consistent with what Cal had heard in his interviews so far: Tre’vell Baker was an outstanding kid who put others above himself. He also shared a funny story about how Baker loved his iPhone and he was always the first person he turned to when looking for suggestions for apps. As a result, he mentioned how Lanette Baker thought it was best that her son be buried with his phone.

The service continued with a rendition of “O Sacred Heart, O Love Divine,” sung fervently by all those in attendance. Next came a handful of Baker’s friends and adult mentors—coaches and teachers—who praised the young man.

Father Benoit then resumed his position at the front of the church and delivered a stirring message about how everyone must make his life count and how no one ever knows when it will be his last day on earth. Cal wondered if maybe the stray bullet theory was true—it was all just a random incident. And a tragic one at that. Cal struggled to conceive why anyone would want to kill such a kid.

But then again, as an investigative reporter he knew that everyone had secrets.

CHAPTER 17

AFTER THE MEMORIAL SERVICE, Cal accompanied Potter to Café Lagniappe for some coffee. Everyone there recalled stories of Baker helping them or making a spectacular catch to win a football game for Saint-Parran High. Cal hoped to glean something more about Baker, though it sounded like more of the same.

Cal’s phone buzzed. It was Gatlin.

“Sorry, I gotta take this,” he said as got up out of his chair and walked outside.

“Hi, Gatlin,” Cal said as he answered the phone.

“Cal, what are you doing down there? Are you drinking? Are you fishing? Please give me an excuse I can live with.”

“Whoa, whoa. Slow down. What’s going on?”

“Have you not been checking your email?”

“I’ve been at Tre’vell Baker’s funeral service all morning.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“No excuse for what?” Cal asked as he paced about the parking lot.

“No excuse for one of my reporters being on site for one of the biggest recruiting stories that’s trending on Twitter right now—and not a single word of copy written about it,” Gatlin said. Cal was glad several hundred miles separated him from his boss.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about Dominique Dixon and that new Audi TT of his.”

“What? I was just there. He didn’t have an Audi.”

“He does now. Just look up hashtag MyUncleGaveIt2Me on Twitter,” Gatlin said. “Tell me what you see.”

Cal put Gatlin on speakerphone so he could continue the conversation while he searched for the hashtag on the social media site.

It didn’t take long for Cal to find the original source and gasp—first at the brazen nature of the initial tweet and then at the avalanche of responses.