by Ray Flynt
“All right, what’s the eighth verse?” Brad tried not to show his impatience.
“Ezra, Chapter 4,” Nick said.
“Where’s Ezra in the Bible?” Sharon wondered. “I don’t remember that one.”
Brad ignored Sharon’s question. “Found it. The word is ‘kill.’ What’s next?”
“Joel, Chapter 2.”
As they reached the halfway point, Brad lined up the remaining active pages in front of him like a practiced bingo player, and turned the used ones face down on the table. He found that his eyes could scan all of them in a matter of seconds and lose less time than leafing through the pile. After the seventeenth word—‘i’—was revealed, Brad turned to Nick. “Is the last scripture reference in Exodus?”
Nick nodded.
“Sorry is the final word.” And in Exodus, Brad thought. If Wilkie had been a genius, he might have intentionally selected Exodus—symbolizing a journey to a new place—for his final word. Instead, Brad surmised, its location was pure happenstance.
Brad slid the tablet with the completed sequence of words between Sharon and Nick, then stood between them as they studied the words.
me and eddie not big guy paid money kill eddie
talked he get killed find real killer i sorry
“It sure doesn’t make much sense without punctuation,” Sharon commented.
Nick exhaled. “Unfortunately, that’s the best you get with a third grade education.”
“We can figure it out.” Brad put both elbows on the table as he studied the words. Assuming they were now in the correct order, he began dividing them into phrases. Wilkie’s spare syntax made the task difficult.
me and eddie not big
guy paid money kill
Brad glanced at Nick for a nod or other affirmation on the logic of arrangement.
Nick rubbed his chin and sighed. “Too bad this isn’t in English. Try moving the word ‘guy’ to the end of the first line.”
Brad rearranged the lines as Nick suggested, then copied the remaining phrases.
me and eddie not big guy
paid money kill
eddie talked he get killed
find real killer
i sorry
“Maybe the word ‘eddie’ belongs at the end of the second line,” Nick wondered aloud. “I always suspected Eddie Baker was killed and didn’t commit suicide. But I never thought Wilkie did it.”
Brad shook his head. “No. He couldn’t have. They weren’t housed in the same prison. Wilkie did his time at Pittsburgh. Baker was at Graterford when he died. But this message clearly says Eddie was killed because he talked.”
“If Wilkie was in Pittsburgh, how did he learn that Eddie was killed?” Sharon asked.
“The prison system has faster networking than Comcast Broadband,” Nick said.
“This is a death bed confession,” Sharon said. “The second line means he and Eddie Baker were paid to kill your mother and sister. He’s telling you to find the real killer!”
Brad agreed. Why couldn’t Wilkie have just given him the name of the “real killer?” Why had he resorted to such a roundabout means of telling him? Couldn’t he have blurted out the news on the death gurney? It troubled Brad that a case he thought was closed a week earlier was wide open again, and with more sinister implications.
Nick glanced at his watch. “Sorry, guys, I’ve got a meeting at headquarters at one o’clock. Let me know how you want to handle this, Brad, and how I can help.”
Brad stood up, put one hand on Nick’s shoulder and offered a handshake with the other.
“Why don’t you find out more about the death of Eddie Baker. You’ve got connections at Graterford, don’t you?”
Nick frowned. “Yeah. Most of ‘em are guys I sent there to do heavy time. Maybe one of my buddies in the department has a contact. Let me see what I can do.”
Sharon volunteered to escort Nick to his car, which reminded Brad that Nick had never said anything about his job offer to Sharon. He’d forgotten about it in his eagerness to learn more about Wilkie’s message.
Brad shouted after him, “Tell Ruth I said ‘Hi’.”
Brad resumed his seat and studied Wilkie’s cryptic message. His eyes were riveted on the page, and his lips occasionally mouthed the phrases. When Sharon returned to the pool side patio table, Brad stood and gathered all of the papers in his hands. “Well, Sharon, it looks like we’ve got to find a killer.” Brad added, “I’ll need your help.”
Sharon hesitated before asking; “Don’t you think you ought to let the police handle this one?”
“Like I said, I’ll need your help.”
Sharon looked at him with a sardonic grin. “It’ll take a few years before they make me chief of detectives.”
“We can count on Nick, I’m sure. But the police aren’t going to invest the resources necessary to delve into an eleven-year-old case that’s already marked closed on their books. Wilkie’s message raises more questions than it answers. When I attended Wilkie’s execution I didn’t expect to find closure, but I’m sure as hell going to get to the meaning of this,” Brad said, waving the tablet with Wilkie’s message in his hand. “I need time to think. Let’s get together first thing tomorrow morning and develop a game plan.”
“Sounds good,” Sharon said. “Hey, you never told me where you snuck off to this morning?”
Brad shrugged. “I had a date.”
Sharon fired questions in rapid succession. “Who with? Do we know her? A breakfast date?”
“Well, appointment would be a better word,” Brad explained. “She works evenings most of the time, so breakfast seemed like a good time for us to get together.”
Sharon stared at him expectantly. “Aren’t you going to tell me who it is?”
Brad leaned back in his seat, and laced his hands behind his head. “I had breakfast with Paula Thompson of The Philadelphia Inquirer.”
Sharon’s jaw dropped.
Chapter Fourteen
Brad managed only four hours sleep before he woke pondering Wilkie’s message. At four-thirty a.m. he shaved, showered and dressed then ambled toward the library. The mansion’s sole inhabitant, he descended the curved stairs illuminated only by light spilling into the foyer from the flickering gas lamps that lined his driveway. Sharon’s room, on the second floor of the garage, had a clear view of the Palladian window above the mansion’s entrance, and Brad knew that if she awakened to the sight of the crystal chandelier blazing inside the two-story foyer, Sharon would investigate. He didn’t want company; besides he would soon have to learn to manage his business without her.
Sitting at his desk, Brad fired up the laptop, as he pulled the tablet in front of him, mulling Wilkie’s message. He typed Wilkie’s crudely written phrases into his computer, using a 36-point font, then hit Ctrl + P on the keyboard to print a copy. Brad studied the page, as if visualizing the words larger would clarify their meaning; or even better, suggest what he should do. Paid money kill: Brad’s eyes focused on those words.
Events from the kidnapping—still vivid after more than a decade—surged in his brain, from the alarming phone call he got from his brother to casting roses on the graves of his mother and sister after their funeral. They had been targeted for the ransom money, because of the family’s wealth, or so he thought. Paid money kill. Brad struggled to accept this new information that Wilkie and Baker had been paid to kidnap his mother and sister.
First light streamed through the shutters of the library, casting faint shadows on the Oriental rug, where Brad paced a well-worn path reflecting on Wilkie’s note and its meaning. Find real killer. What did the real killer want? Why had he selected Brad’s mother and sister as the target? It could be for reasons other than money, and Brad wondered if he would ever know the answer? He thought about Nick’s advice, to break down the case into manageable chunks. Brad knew he had to depend on others, and he needed evidence. When the crime-lab report was completed the police would know what accelerant fueled t
he fire in his office; it could help nail an arsonist, and Brad had strong suspicions as to who was responsible. Nick promised to ask questions about Eddie Baker’s death, because if Baker was killed in prison, maybe they could find a link that knew Baker’s secret. Find real killer.
Brad leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyelids. When he opened them, he found himself staring at the family portrait above the library’s mantel. He was barely a teen when an unknown artist—whose name his father could not remember and whose scrawled signature provided no help—painted the portrait. The artist had managed to capture Andy’s boredom, and Lucy’s angelic countenance, while Brad’s face evoked his wonder at the portraiture process. His mother looked serene, an incredible talent he realized for a woman with three children between the ages of 9 and 18, and his father stood proudly towering over all of them, the family’s bedrock.
My dad—Brad reeled from a gut wrenching thought. Whoever was responsible for ordering the kidnapping and murder of his mother and sister had his dad as their ultimate target. After all, it was his wife and daughter, his wealth, and his business.
Brad looked at his watch—7:10 a.m.—deciding if it was too early to call Gertie Lindstrom. If anyone had insight into his dad’s business from eleven years ago it would be her. He knew her phone number was on a Rolodex card that he’d kept in his office desk, but everything in the fire-damaged office had been discarded or moved. Brad called 411, asked for her number, and paid the extra money for the phone company to automatically dial it. He held his breath. She answered on the first ring.
“Good morning, Gertie, this is Brad Frame. I’m sorry to call you so early—”
“I’ve been awake since five,” she said, sounding chipper. “You caught me before my morning swim.”
“I’d like to come over to talk with you,” he said.
Gertie agreed. She seemed eager for his visit, and Brad suspected she hadn’t had many visitors since her surgery. Almost out the door, Brad remembered his nine o’clock meeting with Sharon. He penned a note for her and Scotch-taped it to the library door.
Sharon,
I’ve got an early meeting with Gertie Lindstrom. Didn’t want to disturb you. Working on ideas. Call the Philadelphia Clerk of Court’s office and request a transcript from Wilkie and Baker’s trial. See if you can put a rush on it. I should be back before noon.
Brad
The Lindstroms lived about three hundred yards beyond the manicured foliage and thick woods that lined Brad’s patio. But it was a chilly April morning and he preferred to drive, which turned a three-minute jog into a quarter-hour journey. The heated leather seats of his Mercedes felt good, as Brad turned west onto Route 30 and jostled with morning rush hour traffic. Fortunately, he was headed away from the city, which meant that the traffic moved, as opposed to the two crawling inbound lanes. Two traffic lights later he turned left into the quaintly dubbed Cider Mill Farms. Driving past contemporary estates on a nineteenth-century-style stone driveway, Brad recalled that Gertie’s father had once owned nearly five hundred acres of this land, but that except for her family’s old homestead, it had all been subdivided or sold to developers. As the Lindstrom’s two-hundred-year-old farmhouse came into view at the end of the drive, Brad realized that it had been several years since his last visit.
The rough-cut sandstone house was smaller than Brad’s mansion, but still an impressive structure, with thick walls and recessed windows topped with granite lintels. At the front porch a makeshift wooden ramp covered the steps, and at the foot of the ramp sat a white van with license plates designating its use by a person with a disability. Accustomed to the manicured lawn and shrubs of his estate, the Lindstroms’ yard looked shabby by comparison, and in need of a “curb appeal” makeover.
Brad parked his Mercedes behind the garage where Emerson Lindstrom was working on his antique car. The two-tone green sedan appeared to swallow him, as Em leaned over the engine fiddling with the carburetor. His white hair stood out in stark contrast to the dark underside of the hood. Grimy jeans, pulled high, accented his paunch, and his T-shirt, yellowed at the armpits, was smeared with automotive grease. The sun spilled into the open garage and gleamed off the polished chrome surfaces.
“Good morning, Em,” Brad announced.
Lindstrom jerked upward, banging his head. “I never heard you coming.” Em rubbed the back of his scalp and took a deep breath. “Whew,” he whistled, and managed a weak smile. “You gave me a start.”
“Cool car,” Brad said. “I’m guessing 1953.”
“1952 Hudson Hornet.” Em said proudly, hiking his pants further over his gut.
“How long have you had it?” Brad asked.
“Too long.” Em made a crude laugh by inhaling a gulp of air. “She’ll get on the road one of these days. I bought it ten years ago. Been fixin’ it ever since.”
“You’ll probably get run off the road in that car,” Brad commented as he thought about the morning rush hour traffic.
“Not this baby,” Em said, confidently. “She’s got a first-rate six cylinder engine. She can still challenge most of what’s sold today. This model won a lot of stock car races in her day.”
Brad ventured closer to the car and noticed Em rolling nuts and bolts, reminiscent of Captain Queeg’s marbles, inside an oil soaked rag in his hand. Em laid the clean items in a cardboard tray perched on the car’s fender.
“Don’t get too close.” Em barked. “Sorry, but I just polished those fenders. I don’t need fingerprints all over them.”
“I understand,” Brad said, as he aimed toward the front entrance. “I’m here to see Gertie. She’s expecting me.”
“Not that way. Gertie’s in by the pool.” Lindstrom pointed to the back of the garage. “You can go through the breezeway,” he said, wagging his finger. “Gertie’ll be happy to see you.” Em gave a mean-spirited cackle. “She’s got nothin’ better to do.”
Brad frowned and Em averted his gaze.
Brad gave the car a wide berth as he walked alongside it admiring the workmanship, especially the cream-colored leather seats that looked original. Em shouted to Brad. “Watch out for that extension cord. It's still a little chilly, but she insisted on opening the pool. Gertie never seems to get warm enough, so I got a heater fixed up for her.”
Brad stepped over the yellow heavy-duty extension cord and followed it as it snaked its way out of the garage, past the breezeway and through the door to the enclosed pool, with excess cable coiled behind an electric space heater. Brad felt like he’d entered a tropical chlorine rain forest. Moisture condensed inside the glass walls surrounding the pool, and beads of perspiration gathered on his face. He quickly shed his fleece-lined coat.
Gertrude Lindstrom sat in her motorized wheelchair at the opposite end of the pool near double-doors that led into their home. A big smile crossed her face when she spotted Brad. She grabbed the joystick, swiveled the chair in his direction and propelled it along the tile surrounding the pool until the chair glided to a halt in front of Brad. She extended her left hand giving Brad’s right hand a firm grip. Brad bent down and gave her a peck on the check.
“It’s good to see you, Brad.”
“I ran into Em on the way in.”
“He’s out there working on that old car, isn’t he?”
Brad nodded.
“One of these days I’m gonna bury him in that car. I swear I will.”
Brad smiled back at her. Thinking about his own model railroad, he couldn’t begrudge a man’s hobby.
Gertie wore a floral print bathing suit. She had draped a shawl over her shoulders, and covered her legs with a light blanket.
“You look a lot better than you did the night of the fire,” Gertie said. “Did the police figure out what happened?”
“They suspect arson, but they’re waiting for a report from the crime lab.” Brad neglected to mention that the police suspected him of the arson. Any day now he expected them to return with a search warrant, seeking to find him in p
ossession of the suspect accelerant.
“I would have been happy to come over and see you.” Gertie’s hand trembled as she gestured. “Em could have driven me. I like to get out once in a while,” she said in a firm voice, giving careful attention to each word. Her dark eyes sparkled, but her face appeared waxy.
“I know you would have, Gertie, and I appreciate it. But I’m just as happy to visit you. Besides, I think this is my first opportunity to see your new pool.”
“I love this pool. It makes me feel free again. I can almost forget about my paralysis when I float in the water and look up at the sky through the branches of the elm trees. My father planted those trees when I was a little girl, and now look at them.” She let out a self-satisfied humph, as she stared up through the glass structure.
Reflections of the trees bounced off the serene surface of the water; their tight buds resisted the sun’s prodding to open against the better advice of the spring chill.
Gertie spun her wheelchair ninety-degrees and pointed toward two lounge chairs at pool side. “Have a seat. I’ve already got mine.”
The sun shone directly on her and Gertie squinted, then tried shielding her eyes with her good arm. “I’m gonna switch to the other side of you,” she said, maneuvering her motorized chair.
“What can I do for you, Brad?”
“Gertie, I need you to think back to the time when my mother and sister were kidnapped.”
Panic grew on her face. “Oh my. What’s wrong?”
“Was there anything unusual going on with the business at that time?”
“Unusual?”
“I realize it's an open ended question, but I recently learned information that leads me to believe that my mother’s and sister’s deaths weren’t a random act of violence. I think their kidnapping was an attack on my father.”
She gasped. “Joe? How? I don’t understand.”
“I’m not sure I do myself, Gertie. I think it’s possible someone was out to get my father by kidnapping my mother and sister. He was the real target and they were the bait.”
