Scott Matthews - The Assassin's list

By his sophomore year, he was a starter, and by the third game, a star. He ran the forty-yard dash in three point five seconds, and at six foot seven inches, two hundred forty pounds, he was hard to stop when he caught the ball. He found it was more fun running over cornerbacks and safeties than outrunning them. By the end of that year, sports writers were already projecting him as a first-round draft pick.

Then, a damn, dumb white lineman who wasn’t even a starter fell on his leg in spring practice and put him out for the year. He had worked hard rehabbing his knee, and then been asked to take a drug test. No one told him who’d talked to the coaches, but his best guess had always been someone on the depth chart wanting his position. That ended his collegiate career, and his last attempt to make the American system work for him legally.

With the NFL out of reach, the next quickest way for a young black man without a stellar academic reputation to make it was by selling drugs. It hadn’t take him long to build a sizeable market among former teammates and other athletes in the Bay area. An irate high school coach put the cops on him and he was in prison before what would have been his junior year.

His two years in Folsom, however, proved to be the best years of his life. He found a religion that promised him personal peace and a way to strike back at a nation of fools.

Less than a week and this phase of the operation would be over. Allah willing, his latest plan would be satisfyingly accomplished.

Thursday morning held promise, a clear sky and not too warm for a workout and run with Lancer. Drake was enjoying a breakfast of hash browns, sausage, and eggs when Paul Benning, his secretary’s husband, called.

“Margo said you wanted to know if I heard anything about the murder at Martin Research. Their head of security committed suicide yesterday afternoon. He left a suicide note. Seems he was selling inside information. They found a recent deposit in his bank account for a hundred thousand dollars. Detective Carson went to his home, found Newman had been drinking. There was a gun on the floor under his hand, and a note on his computer said he was sorry for the secretary’s death.”

“Any forensics evidence, except for Newman’s, on anything?” Drake asked.

“Not that they’ve found.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Newman I talked with yesterday. He wasn’t defensive about anything, but he was suspicious of their security firm. He thought they were employing a bunch of felons with new Muslim names.”

“You think he was just pointing you in another direction?” Paul asked.

“No, I felt he was genuinely concerned that his company’s security had been compromised.”

“Have you talked to Carson yet?”

“No. We have a history. I’d be surprised if I ever hear from Carson about this.”

“Margo said you had a visitor. If you need someone at your office for a while, I can work something out. This whole thing’s starting to hang together in a way I don’t like.”

“Paul, if I think we’re in the middle of something, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Well, be careful.”

“I will. Tell Margo I’ll call her, when I head in.”

Drake finished breakfast and thought about his meeting with Sam Newman. Why would he turn on his brother-in-law’s firm for money?

He needed to talk with Detective Carson, as much as he disliked the man. Carson could run checks on the ISIS guards. If there was something there, Carson could follow up. If it was a dead end, he’d be able to tell Richard Martin his brother-in-law was a bad apple. It wouldn’t do much for the company’s security clearance, but that was something Martin would have to handle.

Drake found the card Carson had given him the day before and called.

“Detective Carson.”

“Adam Drake. I heard about Newman. You have time for coffee this morning? Thought I’d share what I’ve learned so far, stuff you might want for your report.”

“Appreciate your concern for my report, Counselor, but I’ve got this one covered. Doubt there’s much you can tell me. Newman’s suicide note made it pretty clear.”

“Did you know Newman was Richard Martin’s brother-in-law, and owned enough of the company’s stock to be financially comfortable if the company did well? Why would he betray his brother-in-law and do anything to hurt the company?”

Drake waited for Carson to answer. “I didn’t think you knew. We need to meet. How about the Starbuck’s at Tanasbourne? I can be there in thirty minutes.”

“You buy and I’ll listen, but I don’t think it’s going to change anything. Thirty minutes.”

After a short drive in the 993 and a quick call to let Margo know where he was, Drake pulled into an open space in front of the ubiquitous green and white logo of the world’s largest coffee chain. Through the front window, he saw Carson sitting at a small table reading the paper.

Drake ordered a light house blend, added some cream and walked over to Carson’s table. The detective was working hard to look as if he hadn’t noticed Drake.

“Drake, thought you weren’t coming,” Carson said, looking down at his empty cup.

“Let me get you a refill. What are you drinking?”

“Grande cappuccino. Thanks.”

When Drake returned, he noticed Carson’s empty cup was a tall cappuccino.

“So, Counselor, what is it you want to share? You turn up something I missed that proves this wasn’t suicide?”

“Carson, enjoy your coffee. I don’t think you missed anything. Newman shared things with me he didn’t share with you, that’s all. He was a cop. He wouldn’t tell you things you’d include in your report he didn’t have evidence to back up. What he shared with me were suspicions, based on his experience and observations. I think you need to hear what he was worried about.”

Carson ran a hand over his bald head and forced a smile.

“Drake, the man committed suicide. He must have been worried about a lot of things.”

“Carson, if you want to write this off as suicide, be my guest. I’m not going to let my client be smeared in the press when they run wild with a story based on your incomplete investigation. If I prove this wasn’t suicide, and you’ve closed the case, my only recourse will be to let the press know how you botched the job. You think your career will stand another embarrassment?”

Drake noticed Carson’s clenched jaw and thought he’d just wasted a good part of his morning. He could manage without Carson’s help, it would just take him a little longer. He got up to leave.

“Sit down, Drake. Tell me what you think Newman was worried about, and then get the hell out of my investigation. This isn’t the only case I’m working.”

Drake sat down and leaned forward onto his forearms, holding his coffee in both hands in the middle of the table. He didn’t want the rumor of the day at Starbucks to be his mention of ex-cons at Martin Research.

“You can spot an ex-con walking down the street, and so can I. Newman could too, and thought some of the ISIS security guards had the look. When he checked, he found their records were squeaky clean. They all had new Muslim names and weren’t from around here. He suspected their IDs were phony. I interviewed the ISIS manager to check it out, and got nowhere. I thought the manager looked like a felon too, although he’s damn good at hiding it. I, for one, do not buy suicide. I talked with Newman around noon, and he was not depressed. He was tired and pissed that someone had messed with his company. He was blaming someone, ISIS predominantly, but not himself.”

“Drake, I talked with Newman, too. He was anxious, upset, and distraught. That sounds like someone capable of suicide to me. If I’d banked a hundred thousand dollars for selling company secrets, I’d be anxious, upset, and distraught.”