by Ray Flynt
Brad closed his eyes, trying to picture the scene, then found himself shaking his head.
“You don’t buy it?” Nick asked.
Brad opened his eyes. “I’m remembering Wilkie’s note and what it said about Eddie talking and getting killed. Doesn’t seem like that part is true.”
“Wilkie may have believed it was true. Word of a death in another prison would spread fast. It’s possible a guard made a smart-ass remark to Wilkie about it. Guards—and cops—do shit like that. Not that it ever happens on the Philadelphia police force.” Nick winked.
Three short tones sounded.
“Hold on,” Nick said, reaching for his beeper and examined the message. “I have to take this call. I don’t know where my son went, but I’ll take the dog with me.”
Nick left the room with Aloysius reluctantly in tow. “Let me see if Ruth can get us some refreshments.” As he passed through the entry hall he shouted up the stairs to his wife, “Honey, can you take care of our guests a minute?”
Nick disappeared before Brad could object.
A few minutes later Ruth Argostino entered the living room. She’d added a few pounds since he’d last seen her, but had the same expressive eyes and olive skin. Brad stood up. “Hi, Ruth. Nick didn’t need to trouble you.”
They hugged.
“It’s not a bother,” she said, sizing him up. “Welcome, stranger. Nick told me you’d be visiting. I wasn’t being anti-social, but I’ve been studying for a re-certification test at work.”
“We don’t want to hold you up,” Brad said.
Ruth Argostino shook her head. “I needed a break.”
“I’d like you to meet my associate, Sharon Porter.”
Ruth extended her hand. “Hi. I feel like I already know you. My husband talks about you all the time and what a great addition you’ll be to the department.”
Sharon blushed, while Brad felt emptiness and knew he would soon have to re-group at his detective agency.
They heard a low rumbling noise approaching, sounding like low flying aircraft, but passing quickly. “What was that?” Sharon asked.
“Oh,” Ruth said, after a moment, “that’s the Chestnut Hill train. The tracks are right behind our property. It runs about every fifty minutes this time of night. I’m so used to them, I barely notice any more.”
Nick returned, apologized for his absence and thanked his wife for being a gracious hostess. Ruth hugged Brad tightly, whispering in his ear, “Come back soon.”
After they resumed their seats in the living room, Nick continued, “I found out Wilkie and Baker met at Bensalem Heights’ YDC.”
“YDC?” Brad asked.
“Youth development center,” Sharon explained, “a juvenile institution North of Philly. I recommended a lot of kids for placement there.”
“Wilkie had a juvenile record as long as your arm,” Nick explained. “He was a city kid, grew up on the West Side, and never had much adult supervision. His record included burglaries, car thefts—mostly property crimes. On the other hand, Baker came from the mining country of northeast Pennsylvania—product of a broken home. His mother couldn’t control him, and his rap sheet started with drugs, assaults, and graduated to a whole series of violent crimes including rape. Baker had a sick sadistic streak in him, and I’m sure he was the one who committed the brutalities in the kidnapping case. How those two paired up is a mystery to me.”
“Maybe Wilkie became Baker’s protector at the YDC,” Sharon said.
Nick nodded.
“Odd that the sadistic one needed protection,” Brad said.
“I’m no shrink, but he probably got off hurting his victims—a way of getting back for his own victimization. When they got out of Bensalem Heights, those two stuck together,” Nick explained. “Before they were nabbed for the murders, they both worked downtown near Penn Station—night shift cleaning crew—within a block of your dad’s office.”
“Was there any contact between them when they were in prison?” Brad asked.
Nick shook his head. “I can’t imagine how, with them three hundred miles apart.”
Brad moved forward in his seat. “I appreciate the information, Nick.”
“Wait,” Nick said, holding up his hand. “According to his case file, when asked why he was in prison, Baker claimed he was too greedy. When the intake officer wanted a better explanation, Baker said he made a ‘$5,000 mistake’.”
“Hmmm,” Brad stroked his chin as he digested the information. “Wilkie said they were paid. They probably split $10,000 and spent most of it before they were caught. That means someone else netted $490,000 in ransom money.”
“And,” Nick said, leaning forward with his hands on his knees, “I learned who instructed Superintendent Dolewski not to send you a copy of Wilkie’s list of scripture references.” Nick wore a wide grin. “The directions came from the Deputy Director for Public Affairs at the Department of Corrections.”
“Jeez, a guy like that would have to take his feet off the desk long enough to butt in to the Superintendent’s business?” Brad commented.
Nick lowered his voice. “You didn’t hear this from me, but it’s just possible that it might have been because of a call he got from State Senator Violet Wesley’s office.”
Flash bulbs popped in Brad’s brain, and the grin on Nick’s face confirmed his suspicions.
“From the Senator’s office, not the Senator directly?” Brad asked.
“Gotta turn up the volume on this hearing aid.” Nick fiddled with an imaginary amplifier behind his ear. “I could’ve sworn I heard you say Senator’s office, and I know we weren’t having any conversations about any Senator.” Nick’s belly rippled as he suppressed a guffaw.
“Right,” Brad said, playing along with Nick’s confidential tone. “Let’s see, what were we talking about? Ah, Herb Trawler at Blankenship, Trawler and Ivanic, has a sister, doesn’t he?”
Nick nodded. “Uh huh.”
Brad connected the dots. “I think her married name is Wesley. One more reason why we’re gonna have another visit with Ron Allessi.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Brad was saving a document on his computer when Sharon descended into the office from the second-floor gym sipping from a 20-oz. bottled water. From her damp T-shirt, it looked like she’d had quite a workout.
“Did I hear you talking with your brother?” she asked.
“You do some of your best spying from up there, don’t you?” Brad said, and then caught Sharon rolling her eyes. As her face reddened he clicked the computer into sleep mode. “Yup, Andy’s back in Houston, but I got an update on his meeting last night with Ron Allessi.”
Sharon pulled a wooden side chair up to Brad’s makeshift desk and straddled it facing backward, then glanced at her watch before saying, “Do tell.”
“Andy said they puffed on a few cigars together in the Tack Room of the Rosewood Country Club. Allessi was charming and undemanding, but arrived with a manila envelope, which lay in front of him the whole time. Apparently the attorney was very low key, and kept talking about how difficult things had been for Diane; how she hoped Andrew would understand her needs, etcetera.”
“Sounds like he had your brother on the hook and was reeling him in,” Sharon said.
“Yeah, Andy’s not a good poker player,” Brad said. “I would have never asked what was in the envelope, but when Andy did, Allessi slid it in his direction and invited him to open it. It contained the outline and first chapter of a book entitled Demons of Bryn Mawr.”
“I can hardly wait to see the movie.”
Brad laughed. “My brother swore he hadn’t had anything to drink. But when I asked how bad it was, Andy’s response was, ‘I swallowed the olive.’ As you can guess, Andy and I are the demons. The synopsis portrayed him as a corporate climber who doesn’t care who he steps on or climbs over to get to the top.”
“Dare I ask?” Sharon said.
“I’m the brother coasting through life on good lo
oks and family money.”
A devilish grin came to Sharon’s face.
“What are you thinking?” Brad asked.
“Nothing,” she said, coyly. “I’m just wondering who’ll play you in the movie.”
“Oh, stop. There won’t be any movie. Not if I can do anything about it.”
“Did Andy read chapter one?” Sharon asked.
“He could only stand reading a couple of pages, before he threw it back at Allessi. Apparently it started off with him abandoning his wife and seven-year-old son.”
“Can he fax you a copy?” Sharon inquired. Brad noticed she glanced at her watch again.
“No. Allessi kept it. I asked Andy if there was an author’s name on the synopsis or chapter, and he said no.”
“Interesting.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Brad pushed back from his seat and walked over to the French doors. “According to my brother, Allessi never said anything explicit. He used phrases like ‘generous offer’ and ‘reasonable settlement.’ He told Andy that he’d gladly assist in drafting a new alimony agreement.”
Brad’s fax machine began to whir.
“What time is your physical endurance test?” Brad asked.
“One o’clock,” Sharon said. “I can’t believe Allessi actually mentioned alimony.”
“He didn’t. Andy admitted he had used the word first, so that the lawyer only had to respond, ‘If you need help drafting a new one…’ Andy figured Allessi was worried that I’d wired him up for the meeting.”
“Maybe you should have,” Sharon said.
“He may not be the world’s smartest lawyer, but Allessi knows he’d be disbarred if he were caught in any extortion scheme.”
Brad walked over to the fax machine, as it finished spewing out three pages.
Brad studied the document. “Hmm. Interesting.”
“What is it?” Sharon asked.
“It’s the list I requested of major trading in Joedco stock—five thousand shares or more—during the period from ten days before Mom and Lucy’s kidnapping until ten days after their death became public. There are a couple of interesting names on this list. Diane Panella-Frame sold 65,000 shares of stock a week before the kidnapping. Hiram Gibbons bought 32,000 shares.” Brad flipped through to the back of the list as he walked back over to his desk. “Four days after my mom’s funeral Gertrude Lindstrom bought 40,000 shares.”
“How much money are we talking about?” Sharon inquired.
“Andy said the stock was selling at 12 and 3/4 before the news.” Brad circled back around to his desk top, reactivated his computer, and clicked on a calculator program. He punched in a few numbers, then announced, “Diane sold $830,000 worth of stock.”
Sharon mouthed the word “wow,” then added, “I wonder what prompted her to do that?”
“Gertie mentioned that Joedco was getting ready to purchase Diane’s father’s company,” Brad explained. “Maybe Diane figured Joedco stock was headed downward after the acquisition. But I’ll ask her about it this afternoon. I called Diane and told her I wanted to meet with her, and she invited me for tea.”
His ex-sister-in-law, Diane Panella-Frame, lived in Haverford, another moneyed enclave along Philadelphia’s Main Line. It had been a long time since Brad had been to the home that she once shared with his brother, located on the crest of a hill at the end of a long winding driveway. But he found it easily enough, recognizing the English Tudor style-design with brick facing on the lower level and rough stucco and dark wooden timbers on the second floor, dormers, and gables.
Brad parked his car in the driveway and walked to the front door where a maid in black uniform, and with ample cleavage, received him.
“Monsieur Frame, Madame is expecting you,” she said, in a thick accent.
Brad chuckled to himself. He’d known Diane for more than twenty-five years, and no French maid or other ostentatious displays could alter the indelible impression she’d made on his family years earlier. For all of the house’s old country charm, the interior was contemporary. The maid escorted him across a white tile floor, past white walls adorned only with minimalist prints, down a short flight of white carpeted steps leading to an all-white living room, framed on one side with a glass-walled view of an English country garden with tulips just coming into bud. Amidst the plush white furniture, white-enameled light fixtures, and white drapes, the only splash of color in the room was Diane Panella Frame wearing a smartly tailored teal suit and ivory blouse and seated at the end of an L-shaped sectional sofa. She stood to welcome him.
“Brad, how nice of you to come to tea,” she said, extending her hand. “It’s been too long.” Her eyes studied the length of him. “You look like you’re taking care of yourself.”
“I am, thank you, Diane,” Brad said, clasping her hand with both of his.
Brad marveled again at the similarities between Diane and Andrew’s second wife, Barbara. Diane stood with her feet in the second position, and Brad remembered how she used to brag about her ballet training. Her blonde hair, meticulously arranged in curls and waves, seemed lacquered in place, and since she looked no older than when he’d last stood that close to her more than a decade earlier, Brad imagined she might have had a few cosmetic surgeries. She pointed to the sofa, inviting him to sit.
“What would you like to drink?”
Before he could respond, she said, “Let me order something special for you, Brad.” Diane summoned her maid with a crystal bell. “I know what you like,” she purred.
The maid quickly appeared, and Diane said, “Marie, two flutes of Champagne et Framboise.”
The maid nodded. “Oui, Madame.”
Brad smiled. He’d first met Diane at a Philadelphia area frat party that a buddy invited him to when he was back home from Princeton during spring break. A bring-your-own-bottle affair, most of the partygoers brought six-packs of beer or fifths of rum to lace their Cokes, but Diane had a picnic basket filled with raspberry-flavored Champagne. She was stunningly beautiful, and he didn’t mind sharing a few glasses of Champagne with her over a few hours in a dimly lit lounge of the frat house. Later, after she’d met and married Andy, Brad had learned that she kept embellishing the story of the one and only evening she’d spent with him.
Brad winked at her. “You remembered.”
“Of course, how could I forget? I always said that I married the wrong brother.” She sighed. “How is Andrew? I saw him at the funeral. He looked well.”
“The business keeps him very busy.”
“Andrew always was a workaholic. Particularly when some young secretary could be persuaded to stay late at the office.” The sweetness in her voice disguised the barb.
“Don’t go there, Diane,” Brad said firmly. “He is my brother, and…”
She held a finger up to her glossy lips painted a peachy-pink. “Shhh. I promise I’ll be kind. I don’t want to spoil such a nice visit.”
Marie returned pushing a fancy silver cart containing the drinks and tea sandwiches. The maid draped a napkin on Brad’s lap before handing him the flute, then Brad chose a white-bread triangular-shaped sandwich from an offered plate of goodies.
Diane waited until Brad had eaten his sandwich before resuming their conversation. “You know Andy and I don’t speak to each other.”
“That’s what I understand,” Brad said off-handedly, signaling his intention not to follow her further on the subject of his brother.
Diane wasn’t done. “I really won’t complain about Andrew. After all, he gave me Byron, the light of my life. He is the sweetest, most considerate young man. A good student. Not out chasing skirts all the time like his father. Every mother should be so lucky to have a son like Byron.”
After watching Byron chasing Sharon, Brad suspected he had a few more of his dad’s chromosomes than Diane was aware.
“What can I do for you today, Brad?” Diane asked.
“I’m looking at some company transactions from eleven years ago.”
“Let’s see,” Diane said, dimpling her cheek with a finger, “I would have been in junior high school back then.” She giggled and sipped her raspberry-flavored Champagne.
“Specifically, Joedco bought your dad’s business,” Brad explained. “What can you tell me about that?”
“Daddy was getting ready to retire. For some reason, I can’t explain why, Daddy always liked Andrew.”
“Diane!” Brad raised his arms in exasperation.
“All right, Brad,” she said, demurely. “One night they—Daddy and Andrew—got to talking and the subject of Joedco buying Daddy’s business came up. Then Andrew talked to the Professor and he liked the idea.
“The Professor?” Brad looked puzzled.
“Your dad. That’s what everyone called him.”
“I knew he taught at Penn,” Brad said, “but I didn’t know the title had stuck.” The revelation reminded Brad how detached he had been from the family business. In the decade before his father’s stroke, he hadn’t visited the corporate headquarters once. His strong memories of visits dated to childhood, before he would have grasped the significance of the nickname professor.
“Daddy’s company wasn’t worth very much,” Diane continued. “They weren’t on the cutting edge of technology, but Andrew felt that they had some talented engineers. I think they paid $30 million, which was quite a bit of money back then. Daddy was happy with the agreement. He was ready to retire to Florida.”
“Is he still in Florida?” Brad walked over to the serving cart, selecting two more bite-sized sandwiches.
