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

Johnson folded the paper and began nursing his tepid coffee. He motioned to the waitress to come over and top off his drink. He added a shot of cream before he processed the conversation he just overheard.

“Having a good day, Mr. Johnson?” the waitress asked.

“I’m alive—and Alabama lost yesterday and Bryant didn’t. I don’t have much to complain about,” he said.

While developing several innovative software designs for a private tech company in Hunstville, Johnson nearly quit after one of his ideas was stolen. A mole inside the company ratted out the secret behind one of Johnson’s groundbreaking projects and helped a rival company secure the patent first. It cost Johnson a small fortune in stock options and a promotion. Following the incident, he took extra precautions to ensure that his designs were hidden and secure. He worked on a computer that wasn’t connected to the Internet, making it nearly impossible to hack. His state-of-the-art home security system presented a formidable challenge to any thief hoping to steal his computer. To test the system, he hired three of the most widely regarded corporate thieves to break into his own home. They all failed. He resumed developing with confidence that his secrets would remain safe.

While a pivotal event in his professional life, it was also the same event that spurred Johnson’s hatred for all things Alabama. Though he was never prosecuted for his crime due to lack of evidence, the mole, Harry Williams, was the most obnoxious Alabama fan on the planet—at least he was in Johnson’s world. The rumor was that Harry sold the information to a tech firm run by an Alabama graduate in exchange for lifetime box seats at Bryant-Denny Stadium. Johnson had never engaged much in the tussle between Alabama and Bryant’s football fans. Though he’d read shocking stories—stories about Alabama fans poisoning trees used to celebrate wins at a rival school or stories about rival fans killing the grass on Alabama’s field—he preferred to stay above the fray. As a graduate of Cal Tech, football had no impact on his college experience and he liked it that way. College was about getting an education. But his view changed after Harry stole what was most precious to him. Johnson decided to do his part in stealing what Alabama fans treasured most: winning.

Without much of an idea of where to start, Johnson joined the Bryant University booster club. He bought season tickets and found a few friends to tailgate with on Saturdays in the fall. Over several years, he went from a guy who didn’t much like football to a guy who painted his face black and gold for every game. Behind software development, Bryant University football had become his passion.

The longer Johnson lived in Alabama, the more he transformed from a techie nerd from California to a techie nerd who fell in love with all things related to the South. His tailgating friends—none of whom held jobs that required college degrees—introduced him to fishing and hunting. It wasn’t long before Johnson was driving a truck with the windows rolled down and singing “Sweet Home Alabama” without any inhibitions. It truly felt like home.

While Johnson transformed outside the office, he transformed inside it, too. He went from being one of the brightest developers at the firm to the top developer. His stock options bonuses and patent royalties turned him into a multi-millionaire. With the capital he acquired, he founded his own software development company. He tripled his money before selling controlling interest in the firm so he could spend more time doing what he’d grown to love: fishing, hunting, and following Bryant University football. And although he enjoyed shooting an eight-point buck and snagging a six-pound bass, nothing gave him more joy than when Bryant defeated Alabama. He pictured a drunk Harry Williams sitting on the tailgate of a pickup truck as he wiped away his tears. It made Johnson smile.

These days, Johnson still tailgated with the same crew, but they all sat in his luxury box. His large donations to the athletic program over time eventually earned him a sit-down meeting with Bryant head coach Gerald Gardner. And before long, Johnson agreed to assist coaches on Gardner’s staff whenever they needed a little help with a potential recruit.

From January to June, he lived in his home in Saint-Parran, where he enjoyed daily fishing trips. He returned to Huntsville only for brief business meetings. All the locals in Saint-Parran knew him, though he toned down his passion for Bryant University football. This was Louisiana State football country and it was always best to respect that. But it was November and Bryant requested Johnson’s services in Saint-Parran.

A week ago, Johnson had received a call that a pair of five-star recruits from Saint-Parran decided to renege on their commitment to play for Bryant. He had spent plenty of time talking with both Tre’vell Baker and Dominique Dixon. He didn’t think anything could sway them from attending Bryant. But something happened on their visit to the school that changed their minds, an unusual turn of events. If anything, recruits came back from an official visit more committed to the school than ever before. But not Baker and Dixon. And Gardner asked Johnson to find out why.

Johnson had only been in Saint-Parran a few days before he learned of the tragic news of Baker’s death. Shot right in front of his little brother. In days past, Johnson would’ve railed about such senseless violence in the South, all over the stupid game of football, no less. But that was before he understood its place and importance in the culture. Nothing shocked him any more, nor would anything make him climb atop a soapbox and chastise anyone for misplaced passions. This was his way of life now, too.

***

Johnson eased his truck along the dirt road that snaked toward Dominique Dixon’s house. The Dixons didn’t live on the water, but it was close enough. Johnson could hear the faint slapping of the water against the cypress tree roots as he climbed out of his truck and headed for the front door.

Before Johnson even had a chance to knock, Dixon opened the door and stared at him through the weathered screen door.

“What are you doing here?” Dixon asked.

“I wanted to stop by and see how you were doing,” Johnson responded. “I heard about Tre’vell and just wanted say how sorry I was and find out if there was anything I could do for you.”

Dixon slipped out the screen door and shuffled over to the front porch swing that creaked loudly when he sat in it.

Dixon stared at the ground before finally speaking.

“Is that why you’re really here?” Dixon said. “You sure it’s not out of some guilt you have or some need to make sure I keep my mouth shut?”

Johnson was taken aback by the accusations. “What do I have to feel guilty about? And what would you need to keep your mouth shut about?”

“I think you know more than you’re letting on, Mr. Johnson.” Dixon paused a moment as he looked Johnson up and down. “I think you’re a snake. And you know what we do to snakes around here?”

Johnson didn’t answer the question, nor did he feel like Dixon really wanted one.

“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Johnson said. “All I know is that something happened on your visit to Bryant that made you change your mind. And I want to know what we can do to change it back.”

“Bring back Tre’vell. That’ll change it.”

Johnson knew there was no worthwhile response to Dixon’s request. It was best to remain silent and let the kid vent.

Dixon stared out into the distance before returning his gaze back toward Johnson.

“You did this,” Dixon said. “I know you did.”

“Did what? Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

“Don’t play dumb with me.”

“I’m not playing dumb. I’d just like to know what you’re talking about. Like I said before, I’m just here to see what I can do.”

“You can’t do anything now. It’s too late. I should’ve never listened to you in the first place. Just another rich old man making your way down here to take advantage of us. You don’t care about me—you just care about winnin’ football games and drinkin’ with your friends. But this is my life we’re talking about here, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let you screw it up any more than you already have.”

Dixon’s voice rose so much as he spoke that it drew his father outside. Mr. Dixon stumbled through the front door and onto the porch.

“H-h-heeeey. Is this man messsin’ wit you?” Mr. Dixon asked his son while pointing at Johnson.

Dixon looked down and shook his head.

“It’s okay, Pop. I can handle this.”

Mr. Dixon shoved his forefinger into Johnson’s chest. “Youuuu better leave mah boy alone, ya hear?” He didn’t wait for answer before disappearing back inside.

Johnson seized the moment.

“Dominique, your life is only going to get better from here on out. Your destiny is greater than a job you hate that helps you barely survive and leaves you drunk on the weekend. I want to help you achieve greatness. Why is that so hard for you to accept? This isn’t about me. This is about you and what I can do to help you succeed in life.”

This wasn’t the first time Johnson dug deep and pulled out an inspirational speech. It was utter nonsense that he sold with fervor. Dixon had just about pegged him. Johnson did care about winning football games, though it was more about beating Alabama than anything else. And if the rumors were true that Alabama was Dixon’s preferred school, Johnson was going to fight like hell to make sure that never happened.

Dixon stared at the ground in silence.

Johnson patted Dixon on the back before wrapping up his pitch.

“You’re good enough to have it all one day, Dominique. But you’re also good enough to have anything you want right now. You just say the word, okay?”

Dixon nodded as he remained transfixed on the ground.

Johnson returned to his truck and began heading back toward town. His objective seemed simple enough: get Johnson to recommit to Bryant. But achieving such a goal seemed like a formidable task in the wake of his conversation. Despite his smooth speech, Johnson knew Dixon was angry over what happened to Baker. And he couldn’t blame the kid either.

But something had happened on Baker and Dixon’s visit to Bryant. Nobody knew what it was—at least if they did, they weren’t telling him about it. If he had any hope of success, he needed to know what it was that happened. He needed to know why Tre’vell Baker was dead—and he needed to know why Dixon thought he had something to do with it.

CHAPTER 5

ON MONDAY MORNING, CAL TRUDGED through security at Atlanta Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. He wondered how the busiest airport in the world could be so inept at screening so many passengers. It was a nightmare as usual. Long lines full of grumpy business travelers who had yet to ingest the necessary level of caffeine to ease the pain of waiting to be either frisked, wanded or X-rayed. Cal just wanted to be on his plane for New Orleans and grab a few extra minutes of sleep.

Once the TSA agents determined Cal posed no imminent threat to the airplane, he gathered his belongings and headed toward his terminal.

As he neared his departure gate, Cal stopped at a small bookstore. All the latest bestsellers filled a small shelf. At the bottom of the list, he noticed a title that interested him: “MUSCLE: How the NFL went from 0 to 100 on the back of performance enhancing drugs.” Then he saw the author’s name—Barry Anderson. The book held the eighth position on
The New York Times’
bestseller list.

The bestseller list? If Barry can do this, so can I.

Cal plunked a twenty-dollar bill on the counter to buy the book. He needed to know how this was done if he was going to land that big contract Mike Nicholson told him was there for the taking if this mystery in the bayou unfolded the way he was told it would.

***

When Cal exited the New Orleans airport and headed toward the transportation area, he saw his name scribbled on a tattered cardboard sign: “Cal Murphy.” Holding the sign was a chubby man who appeared to be in his 40s and had a distinct disdain for grooming. His soiled Remington cap tried to hide the scraggly salt and pepper hair curling beneath it. He wore a pair of dirty jeans with boots and a brown down vest atop a red short-sleeve t-shirt.

“Are you Cal Murphy?” the man asked as he walked slowly toward Cal.

Cal nodded. When his editor suggested he get a guide, Cal scoffed. But then he relented, concluding that it might be a good idea to have a local on his side. Now, Cal was wondering why he didn’t protest more and trust his first instinct.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Murphy,” the man said as he offered his hand. “My name is Phil Potter and I’m supposed to take you to Saint-Parran today.”

Cal shook Potter’s hand and acted as polite as possible. This was Cal’s first time in Louisiana—and it wasn’t at all what he expected. Quite frankly, he wasn’t sure what he expected. Drunken revelers during Mardi Gras, crazy Cajuns on a reality TV show, and despondent homeowners during Hurricane Katrina were the images conjured up in his mind when anyone mentioned this unique state. But it was evident that this was a different kind of place, the kind of place that made Cal feel like a foreigner.

Potter led Cal to his truck and threw his carry-on luggage into the bed. He covered it with a tarp that buttoned down along the edges of the truck bed.

“That ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Potter said as he smiled at Cal before slapping the side of the truck and unlocking the doors.

Cal opened the door and used the handle to propel himself onto the running board and into the truck that appeared to be jacked at least a couple of feet in the air. He searched awkwardly for the seatbelt before wrangling it and securing it. The smell of tobacco emanated through the vehicle. Cal stared at the handful of empty tobacco tins that littered the floorboard.

“Sorry about the mess,” Potter said as the engine roared to life.

Cal gave him a friendly nod and smile.
If he was that sorry, he would’ve cleaned it out before he picked me up.

“First time in Louisiana?” Potter asked, trying to engage Cal in a conversation.

“Yes, it is.”

“Well, I hope you enjoy your time here. It’s a heckuva place. I’ve lived here a long time and wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.”