by Ray Flynt
Sharon pointed at the coat tree. Allessi snatched his coat and threw it over his arm, then raced down the hall. Sharon ran out of the office to catch up with him.
“He's gone,” Sharon announced when she’d returned to the office. “He jumped into his Lexus, a midnight blue sedan, and left you a few rubber streaks on the cobblestones.
Brad nodded as he stood in front of the fireplace, with his back to her. “I heard the squealing tires.” He stared down at the glowing embers in the fireplace grate, upset with himself for losing control in their meeting. Brad had shouted at people before, and would do so again, but always for calculated effect. It usually only took him a split-second to decide whether fawning or fury would get him the response he wanted from a client, suspect, or witness. Brad had lost it with Allessi. Nothing calculated about it.
“Brad.” Sharon called his name.
He closed his eyes, and tightened the muscles in his face.
“Brad?” she repeated, this time with an edge to her voice.
He sucked in a big breath, before turning to face her. Deep concern lined Sharon’s face. Brad painted a soft smile on his own face before saying, “I don't think we've heard the last of the Camden con-man.”
Chapter Seven
Shortly after seven Brad walked into the kitchen to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
“Oh, good morning,” Sharon said, with a wide-eyed glance in his direction.
“You’re up early.” He headed straight for the coffee maker, double-checking the time on the kitchen wall clock. It wasn’t out of character for Sharon to be awake at that hour, but she usually ate her breakfast in her apartment, located above the garage, just east of the mansion. Brad filled his favorite ceramic mug, one he’d earned two years earlier on a weekend Habitat for Humanity building project, and stirred in a half-teaspoon of sugar. The variation in her morning routine was only a minor mystery, he concluded, and she would undoubtedly explain over breakfast. Out of the corner of his eye Brad thought he saw her slide something off the table and onto the bench beside her. He dropped an English muffin in the toaster.
“Did you and Mark get together last night?
“No.”
A concise answer? Now that was out of character, a question about Mark often produced a two-paragraph response. “Everything okay?” Brad rummaged through the refrigerator door bins in search of apricot jam.
“Uh huh ...” Sharon said, prompting Brad to stare at her. “What?” she said, with an open-mouthed gape. “Everything’s fine. Mark had class last night.”
“Ah!” Brad wondered why it took so long to elicit that bit of non-classified information.
Toting his cup, Brad placed it opposite Sharon on the cloth covered breakfast table, near a bay window with views of his backyard. “Be right back. I’m gonna get the Inquirer.”
He took two steps before Sharon said, “It’s not there. I looked earlier.”
“Hmmm, it’s usually here by now.” The second mystery of the morning, Brad mused, as he continued toward the foyer, but Sharon stopped him.
“Come and eat your breakfast while it’s warm!”
“Yes, Aunt Harriet.”
“I’ll check again when I get up.” Sharon smiled sweetly before bringing a glass of orange juice to her lips.
Brad didn’t feel like arguing and returned to his seat.
“Remember the letter we got last week from the guy in Pittsburgh wanting you to investigate his wife’s disappearance?” Sharon asked.
Brad nodded as he savored the taste of homemade brandied-apricot preserves on his muffin.
“I think you were hasty in turning him down,” she said. “His wife has family in Chicago and, I was thinking… you know? Maybe we could fly to Chicago and at least speak with her family, see if they’ve heard from her.”
Brad dabbed a napkin at the corner of his mouth. “She’s dead.”
“What?”
“Police found her body yesterday afternoon, at the edge of a playground a few miles from her home. They’ve already arrested the husband for her murder.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I saw a story on the eleven o’clock news last night.”
Sharon gasped. “A Pittsburgh murder on our local news! Did the police connect you to the case… you know, say the killer had tried to hire you?”
Brad shook his head. “It made national news because of the unusual way in which they solved the case. It seems the wife wasn’t completely dead when he dumped her body in the playground, and she had time to write his name in the dirt before she died.”
“Wow!” Sharon appeared relieved. “So asking you to get involved was a diversionary tactic on his part?”
“Yeah, the complete story‘s probably in today’s Inquirer,” Brad said. “Relax and enjoy your breakfast and I’ll go see if the paper’s here yet.”
“No. Wait!” Sharon tried to get up, jostled the table, and her juice glass tipped over and made a mess.
“Shit,” she muttered, pulling up the tablecloth and dabbing the growing wet spot with the dry edge of the cloth.
Brad threw his napkin on top of the spill to help sop up the liquid.
Sharon wriggled toward the window on her side of the table, trying to avoid a rivulet of orange juice careening over the edge. When Brad heard a recognizable thump beneath the table, he looked over at Sharon who had frozen in position. She gazed back at him with a deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression.
“Did I just hear this morning’s Inquirer fall on the floor?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said softly, pouting, as if in defeat.
“Hand me the paper.”
“Not while you're eating,” she implored.
With calm intensity, Brad said, “Sharon, give me the paper, please!”
“Okay,” she said. “But don't say I didn't warn you.” Sharon reached under the table and retrieved the morning paper, handing it to him.
Brad got up from the soggy table, which Sharon promptly began to clear, and placed the newspaper on the nearby counter. Below the fold of the front page he saw the article that Sharon had tried to keep from him. Paula Thompson had struck again.
KILLER LEAVES CRYPTIC MESSAGE
The Bible Frank Wilkie carried with him to his execution may have contained a final message, according to speculation by officials at the Rockview State Correctional Institution in Central Pennsylvania. The Bible was mistakenly given to Brad Frame when he attended the execution of the condemned killer.
Frame’s Mother and Sister, Edith and Lucy Frame, were kidnapped eleven years ago and their ravaged and dismembered bodies were subsequently discovered in a boat docked in Fairmount Park.
Brad swallowed; hoping to digest the angry lump forming in his throat, then continued reading.
Following a three-month long investigation, in which Brad Frame personally participated, aided by reward money from his family’s fortune, Frank Wilkie and Eddie Baker were arrested and charged with the crime. Both men were convicted on two counts of first-degree murder and kidnapping, and sentenced to death. Baker died two and one-half years ago at the Graterford Correctional facility in Montgomery County. His death was ruled a suicide, although human rights advocates later questioned the ruling. Wilkie was executed on Tuesday at Rockview, which has housed the State’s execution chamber since 1913. Pennsylvania changed its method of execution from the electric chair to lethal injection in 1990.
According to sources at the state penitentiary, Chaplain George Haines, 47, of Bellefonte, acted contrary to established Corrections Department policy when he turned over Frank Wilkie's Bible to Brad Frame during a secret meeting at an area tavern following the execution. Late yesterday afternoon officials were reportedly eyeing disciplinary action against Haines, a nine-year veteran of the chaplain’s office, but have declined further comment pending the outcome of their investigation.
“It's customary to turn over personal effects to the next of kin,” a correction’s department sp
okesman in Harrisburg explained. “A Bible is one of the most personal of an inmate's possessions. I'm sure we can count on Mr. Frame's cooperation to see to its safe return.” See Killer’s Message, A19
Folding the paper open to the continuation of the article, Brad wasn’t so sure about Mr. Frame’s cooperation. He couldn’t help notice that Sharon kept glancing in his direction as she scurried between the table and the counter cleaning up the breakfast dishes. She wadded up the soiled tablecloth and tossed it in the laundry room. He rescued his mug before she could put it in the dishwasher, and continued reading.
Ronald Allessi, of Blankenship, Trawler and Ivanic, visited with Wilkie just days before the execution and echoed the sentiments of the prison's spokesman. “I'm sure we all appreciate the dreadful pain Brad Frame and his family has endured during the last several years, but we're anxious to tie up the loose ends of Mr. Wilkie's life as well.” Asked if he expected Frame's cooperation, Allessi asserted, “I'm confident he will cooperate. After all, he's a licensed detective, sworn to uphold the law.”
Brad Frame was unavailable for comment.
Brad left the paper lying open on the counter and returned to the breakfast nook. He clasped his hands together in front of his face, propped his elbows on the table and gazed out the window. Brad exchanged glances with a wary-eyed sparrow, perched on the sill of the angled bay window, until it flew away. The morning sun cast deep shadows across the dew-covered grass, and beyond he saw men from the landscaping service spreading fresh mulch around the budding trees. The tranquility of his backyard belied the turmoil he felt within.
“I’m sorry.” Sharon said, sliding into the booth across from him.
Brad avoided her gaze, continuing to stare out the window. He imagined her hangdog expression; he’d seen it before. He could understand why Sharon would think the article might upset him, but why had she hidden the newspaper? They had worked together for three years, survived hairy situations with criminals. They’d become a good team. She often acted on impulse where he usually weighed all of the possible options. He’d learned to trust her instincts—maybe he should now.
Brad turned to Sharon. “Apology accepted.” She grinned broadly. “On the condition,” he continued, “that you explain why you hid the newspaper from me.” Her smile faded.
“I’m worried about you,” she began. “You lost control during your meeting with Allessi. You’re too emotionally wrapped up in Wilkie’s case, even if it has been eleven years.”
She’d nailed him on that, Brad thought, embarrassed.
Sharon continued, “After yesterday I figured you should just give Allessi back the Bible and get on with your life. Wilkie’s Bible can’t give you back your mother and sister. And an apology from Wilkie, even if it’s written in code, won’t mean much.”
Brad agreed with her. “But?”
“Then this morning I saw the article. It seems like Allessi is in overdrive trying to get the Bible back. Even though I can share your pain, I think I still have an unbiased perspective. So I keep asking myself, what we have overlooked?”
She made sense, he thought. “And the answer is?”
“Well,” Sharon said, then took in a deep breath. “At first I thought you hit the nail on the head when you confronted Allessi about the ransom money. The article doesn’t mention the ransom, maybe because Allessi doesn't want people to focus on it. If he thinks there’s a message in that Bible that will point him toward missing ransom money...” Sharon didn't finish her thought, but kept talking. “Allessi knows that Wilkie wanted you to have his Bible; you told him that, and I bet he heard the same thing at the prison. We keep asking ourselves why Wilkie wanted you to have it, and that's the same question they're asking down at Blankenship, Trawler and Ivanic. They’ve got the list of Bible verses and you have the Bible. Their list doesn't make any sense without what you've got.”
“And vice versa,” Brad reminded her.
“But the warden is sending you the list—so in the next day or two you’ll know—but they won’t. Look, even Thompson stumbled on it. Allessi managed to set up the reporter on a story about you getting the Bible after the execution, but somebody at the prison spilled the beans about the list of scripture references.”
“Sharon, you’ve seen the words Wilkie wrote in his Bible. How are words like kill and eddie going to point anyone to hidden ransom money?”
Sharon shrugged. “Maybe the numbers in the list of chapters and verses do. Like coordinates on a map.”
Brad scowled. “Wilkie wasn’t a codebreaker for the CIA for Christ’s sake, he was a middle-school dropout with an IQ slightly more than... that squirrel.” Brad pointed at the furry creature scampering up the tree outside his window.
“See!” Sharon pointed a finger at him across the table accompanied by a stern expression. “This is exactly why I didn’t want you to see that newspaper article. You are on edge—no better than you were at the end of your meeting with Allessi. Now if you’ll be quiet I’ll give you the rest of my theory.”
Chastened, Brad leaned back and folded his arms across his chest prepared to listen.
“Okay, follow this,” Sharon said. “If you didn't know anything about Wilkie and the murders, et cetera, and you just read that article, who would your sympathies be with—you or Wilkie's family?”
“Wilkie, I guess.”
“Let’s take Allessi at his word that getting the Bible relates to a book deal. Allessi worked with Wilkie for two years. If Wilkie wanted to, he had a lot of time to tell Allessi where they stashed the ransom. But a true crime story featuring the most infamous crime of the last decade and one of Philadelphia’s most prominent families could reap a bonanza. Remember, Allessi came over here to play nice after he picked up Wilkie's personal effects, after he got a list of the Scripture references, and after he learned you had Wilkie's Bible. The Bible closes the circle between Wilkie and your family. I think this morning’s article is aimed at: A) Putting pressure on you to get the Bible back, and B) Generating publicity to increase demand for the future book.”
Sharon made the picture look easy, but Brad couldn’t fit together all the pieces of the puzzle. She must have noticed the skepticism on his face.
“Allessi is the only named source for the article,” Sharon said, holding up one finger. “Pity the poor chaplain with all these bureaucrats coming down on him for granting the last wish of a dying man. From his law firm Allessi could have easily put pressure on State Correction’s officials. And if he read Thompson’s article on the morning after the execution, he knew what her bias would be if he planted another story with her.”
The phone rang.
Sharon jumped to answer it. “Hello.”
She tugged at the phone's extension cord to unravel its kinks.
“This is Sharon Porter, I’m Mr. Frame’s associate.” She sounded very businesslike and protective, Brad thought. “Oh, yes, Superintendent Dolewski, I’ll get Brad for you he’s—” Sharon had moved in Brad’s direction, but stopped abruptly. “Sure I can take a message, but he’s sitting right—” Sharon listened, and furrowed her eyebrows.
“Yes, Mr. Dolewski. I know about the list of Scripture references.”
As Sharon held the receiver to her ear Brad saw her face sag.
“Yes, Superintendent,” she said. “I'll make sure Brad gets the message.”
Sharon hung up the phone handset and exhaled.
“What did he say?” Brad asked.
“Dolewski worked late last night, and forgot all about faxing you the list,” Sharon announced. “And as of this morning he has been requested—that’s the word he used—not to forward you a copy of Wilkie's scripture verses.”
Brad felt his shoulders slump. “So it’s a stalemate. We’re never going to find out what Wilkie’s message means, but I’ll be damned if I’m turning that Bible over to them.”
Sharon sat opposite him once again, deep lines forming between her eyebrows. Brad clutched his mug like it was a hand railing
on the deck of a rolling ship. He looked at Sharon and could only shake his head.
“You have any assignments for me today?” she asked.
Brad shook his head. “Any more news on that missing kid?”
“Yeah, I got the screen name of the girl he’s been chatting with—L-i-t-l-e-B-i-t-s-c-h.” Sharon spelled the girl’s Internet handle, adding. “I bet if she could spell she’d be dangerous. Her profile confirms she lives in Colorado. By this afternoon I hope to have an address.”
“Good work,” Brad said.
“If you don’t need me for anything special, I'm going out for a while,” Sharon said before she got up from the table and rushed out of the kitchen.
Brad sat watching the landscapers work in his backyard, and he thought about what Sharon had said about Wilkie’s Bible.
Chapter Eight
Sharon had given him an idea, and he decided to take action. Only when he headed for his office forty-five minutes later did he think to question why Sharon had left so abruptly. What was she up to? She sure knew how to push his buttons. Unlike the many cases he had handled for clients, it bothered him to feel so out of control, unable to shape events affecting his own life.
He settled into the comfortable chair behind his desk long enough to check e-mail, then extracted Wilkie’s Bible from the drawer. Approaching his desktop copier, he realized he couldn’t lay the Bible flat in his machine, so he decided to visit a Kinko’s within five miles of his Bryn Mawr home. He opened the desk drawer once again; this time to get the copy of Sharon’s list, since it noted the Bible pages where he could find Wilkie’s words.
Traveling west along Route 30 in the direction of Paoli, Brad passed St. Matthew’s Episcopal Church where he had faithfully attended with his family until heading off to college. There he’d drifted away from formal religion, describing himself to friends as spiritual but not religious. In truth, Brad had ventured into a few churches over the years, but found the experience smothering. One could no longer duck into a pew and enjoy the worship service—singing the hymns, listening to the organ, having the occasional sermon strike his soul like a note affects a tuning fork. No, one had to pass the sign of the peace and endure questions from parishioners once they spotted a stranger in their midst. Making his way to shake hands with the minister after Sunday services too often felt like running a gauntlet: Are you new in town? What church were you baptized in? Won’t you join us for tea in the first floor parlor? Ironic, he thought, that a man who everyone knew professionally as an extrovert could be so introverted in social situations—including church. St. Matthews, for all its cold gothic architectural details, gray granite walls, pewter candelabras, and ice-blue stained-glass windows, evoked a warm family memory for him. Glimpsing the Bible on the seat next to him, Brad saw further irony that a killer’s Bible had stirred his reflections about church versus spirituality.
