by Ray Flynt
Perhaps it was time to raise the stakes. Brad could match bureaucracy speech syllable for syllable. He clicked reply and typed.
Dear Ms. Whiting:
Just to clarify, the photographs I sent you were still images captured from the porn site where Jeremy Young’s picture was found. In yet another connection to Maple Grove, we discovered images of Tim Shaw. While Tim was never in placement at your facility, his brother, Tony Damico, currently resides in Reflection Cottage.
While these ties to Maple Grove may be an anomaly, your staff’s careful—and timely—attention to the photographs, and a determination of whether they include any current or former students will be invaluable to our investigation.
Brad Frame
At 9:30 Sharon breezed through the office door dressed like a grease monkey in oil-stained coveralls. She planted her hands on her hips as she stood next to the desk, and said, “Sorry I’m late. The check oil light came on in my car last night. I found a leak, patched it, and need about ten more minutes to finish doing an oil change.”
As quickly as she arrived Sharon disappeared. And to think he’d been taking his Mercedes to Horst down at the dealership for routine oil change when Sharon could have done the job. Her diverse talents amazed him.
Twenty minutes later Sharon was back, dressed in khakis and a light blue sweater. She plopped into her chair and asked, “What’s on our schedule today?”
“I just forwarded you the response I got from Carolyn Whiting regarding the additional photos I sent her.”
“Will I be impressed?”
“Hardly. Where’d you learn how to do an oil change?”
Sharon grinned proudly. “My dad. It seemed like he spent half his life tinkering in the garage. I was twelve when he first showed me how to change the oil and filter. I can still hear him saying, ‘It’ll save you money, and you’ll know the job is done right’.” Sharon stared at the ceiling and mused, “If he’d had a son, I wonder if he would ever have taught me?”
Brad figured the dealership knew how to change his oil; it’s just that they always seemed to find other mechanical issues whenever he brought his car in for a tune-up, and ended up costing him several hundred dollars.
Sharon clicked a few keys on her computer, and muttered “Oh God” a few seconds later.
“I see you found the e-mail I sent you. If we don’t get a more complete response from Whiting by Monday, it’s time to arrange another meeting.”
“I agree,” Sharon said.
“When I was surfing XRatedSugarX.com,” Brad began, and noticed that Sharon bristled, “they had ads for other adult sites on the right hand side of their homepage. I’d like you to research the domain registration for that site, and for the other XXX sites. Maybe we can find a contact.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Sharon’s fingers began tapping on the keyboard.
“I can’t take credit either. Nick mentioned the idea, although he cautioned that we weren’t likely to find Enriqué’s last name and home phone number.”
Sharon’s fingers swirled over the keyboard and she muttered, “Interesting.” A few minutes later she announced, “That site is registered to a company in Hong Kong. Their address, phone number, and e-mail address—although it’s the weirdest e-mail address I’ve ever seen—are all listed.”
“How so?” Brad scratched his head.
“It reads more like a secure password than an e-mail contact.” Sharon looked back at the screen and read, “e97yhhsm2rejd.”
“Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue?”
“No, and I’m guessing that if you called the phone number you’d get voice mail,” she said. “Hold on.”
Brad heard more tapping on her keyboard.
“Curiously, all those other adult websites linked to their homepage have the exact same contact company in Hong Kong, with different phone numbers and e-mail addresses.”
“A company in China is creating porn videos in Pennsylvania?” Brad asked. “No wonder we have a trade deficit with the Chinese.”
“Hold on,” Sharon said again, “I think I’ve got this figured out. Yeah, this explains it… they are just the company through which the domain name is registered. They’re in the business of providing Internet privacy. It says here,” Sharon pointed at her computer screen, “that there are numerous sites like this that guarantee to keep your personal contact information private. For example, if you registered the domain name of BradFrame.com you’d provide your name, address, phone number and e-mail address, all of which would then be available online.”
“And result in me getting twice as much spam as I already get and thirty percent more junk mail.”
“Exactly,” Sharon said, “and these porn sites are registered off-shore to make it more difficult to get information.”
Brad laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair. There was money to be made from such a service, he was sure.
“This is interesting,” Sharon announced. “XRatedSugarX.com was first recorded on June 8th of this year, and their registration is good until June 8, 2016. Those other Hong Kong registered sites all have different registration dates, some as early as 2003.”
“June? That’s only weeks before Jeremy disappeared from Maple Grove. I think the timing is significant.” Brad glanced at his watch. “Keep looking and see what you can find. I need to head into town for a meeting with my lawyer, and then I’m having lunch with the head of the Philadelphia Orchestra’s Board of Directors. I think he wants to hit me up for a contribution.” Brad stood, and then turned back to Sharon. “What time do you leave for your date?”
Sharon flashed an oh-don’t-remind-me look. “Our dinner reservation is at six-thirty, so I thought I’d leave here at five-thirty to pick him up.” Sharon laughed. “He better not keep me waiting.”
“In the late afternoon I’ll be here in the office. Please stop and see me before you leave.”
“Will do. By the way, your living room looks great.”
Brad scowled. “We’re not supposed to look.”
“No. You’re not supposed to look. I was peeking through the window on my way over here and Rebecca motioned me in for a quick tour. Very nice.”
Brad gave an exaggerated sigh. “Why am I always the last to know?”
I stood in front of the full length mirror in my bedroom alternating blouses in front of me, trying to decide between the beige polished cotton or the pale green silk. Either would work with the tweed plaid Pendleton jacket I planned to wear. Shit. Who was I trying to impress? I felt so shallow. Why did I care? After all, Oliver wouldn’t even see it.
After a quick chant of eenie, meenie, miney, moe, I settled on the green silk.
I’d put myself through these mind games before; time to stop over-thinking everything. It had been at least two years since I’d had a significant relationship, and all the guys I’ve seen since haven’t gotten past second base, and I don’t mean sexually. After a few good times together it just seemed obvious we had nowhere to build emotionally. Hell, if it was only about sex, I’m sure I could find a buddy from my college days willing to serve as the proverbial friend with benefits.
My friend Lisa says, “Sharon, relax and when you’re not looking the right guy will come along.” Easy for her to say; she’s my age and on husband number three. She’s the type that should have looked a lot more closely the first time. I wish I had.
I glanced at the time, finished getting dressed and scanned the tray of perfumes on top of my dresser. If I’m going to make an impression on Oliver it wouldn’t be with what I’m wearing, but perhaps a lingering scent. I rejected a floral perfume, since that might remind him of his grandmother. A whiff of citrus? Nah, I didn’t want him to confuse me with the garnish on his dinner plate. I settled on Cinnabar—with its woody/spicy aroma—dabbing just a little behind my ears.
I walked the short distance to Brad’s office where I found him sitting at his computer, but he stood when I entered. “You wanted to se
e me before I left?”
“Yeah,” he said, seemingly distracted as he reached for his cell phone and punched in a few numbers. He sized me up from head to toe. “You look nice.” Brad pressed the cell phone to his ears and spoke, “Now would be a great time,” before holstering it on his belt.
“Were you talking to Beth?” I asked.
“No. But she’ll be in Haverford tomorrow afternoon for a family event, and I’ll get to spend time with her on Sunday.”
“Why did you want to see me?” I repeated.
“I hope you have fun tonight, tell Oliver I said, ‘Hi,’ and,” Brad paused, looked past me out the office window, and as a broad smile lit up his face, “to point out that your carriage waits.” He aimed a finger out the window.
I turned and discovered a silver stretch limousine pulling into the driveway. “For me?”
“Yep, with a chauffeur. He’ll take you anywhere you want. Just be sure to be back by midnight, ‘cause otherwise it turns into a slightly rusty 1997 Datsun.”
“Very funny.” It was nice of Brad to remember the car I drove when I first came to work for him.
In my excitement, I blurted out, “Wait till Oliver…” before I realized my mistake.
Brad must have sensed my discomfort because he said, “What’s wrong?”
I shook my head, irritated with myself. “It’s just… I started to say the ‘S’ word.”
“We’ve all heard you say shit, it’s no big deal.”
I could tell from the grin on the Brad’s face that he was two steps ahead of me. He knew I’d almost said, ‘Wait till Oliver sees this limo.’ Except Oliver can’t see.
Brad placed a hand on my shoulder. “You won’t be the first person to use that word in Oliver’s presence. Remember, he was born with his condition and has learned how to illuminate an otherwise dark world with all the rest of his senses. With any luck, you’ll bring even more light into his life. Relax and have fun.”
I gave Brad a quick hug, mostly so he couldn’t see the tears brimming in my eyes. There were days when I couldn’t thank him enough for what he’d done for me. This was one of them.
There were so many things right about our evening, until Oliver’s cell phone went off.
The restaurant he chose in West Chester served contemporary French cuisine, and I selected duck à l’orange for my entrée, while Oliver ordered poached salmon in a creamy truffle sauce. I lost my sense of discomfort somewhere between the salad course and when our dinners arrived. The first thing I noticed was that Oliver used the ‘S’ word—see—as much as I did. The waiter handed him a menu in braille, and it was fascinating to watch his fingers race across the page. “I see they offer desserts for sharing,” he said, and smiled in my direction.
I also ordered a glass of cabernet, silently thanking Brad Frame that I didn’t have to be the designated driver.
I’d known so many guys who used a first date as a chance to tell me their life story, complete with how many sports trophies they’d won in high school. Like who really cares when you’ve reached your thirties! Or they’d contrast me—always favorably—to the last girl they dumped, which always made me wonder what they’d say about me to the next woman they dated. Oliver seemed sincerely interested in hearing about my life, which I freely shared, but realized when the waiter came to offer espresso and dessert that he remained a man of mystery. Probably all part of his master plan.
We shared a plate of French pastries, and when the bill arrived, Oliver handed the waiter his credit card with instructions to add a 20% tip. I’d waitressed my way through college, and appreciated anybody who took good care of the wait staff.
“How do you know the bill is accurate,” I asked, “since you can’t look at it.”
“Tomorrow I can check my credit card account online and hear an audible update,” he explained. “If I think there’s a problem, I’ll call them.”
The evening felt crisp and the sky was clear. Odors from the restaurant’s kitchen hung in the air. I took Oliver’s hand in mine as we walked toward the car and found Antonio, our limo driver patiently waiting for us, and I watched him dog-ear a page in a paperback edition of Robert Crais’ Two Minute Rule as we climbed into the back seat.
It wasn’t my imagination that Oliver sat a little closer to me than he had on our way to the restaurant.
“I think you’re going to love this concert. I scored seats in the second row,” Oliver said, just as his cell began to chirp.
He frowned and said, “Sorry about that, but I’m on call. I didn’t say anything earlier because the last two times I did this there weren’t any calls. It figures,” he said, looking miffed as he pressed the phone to his ear and said, “Hello.”
I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but my left ear was less than a foot away from his phone and I couldn’t help it. I didn’t hear every word, but the gist was that the State Police were calling to say they had found a body of a young man, with no identification, in Nockamixon State Park, which I knew from my days working in Bucks County. All they found was a slip of paper in his pocket that said Jeremy Young, and then searched the name and discovered the report of him as a runaway juvenile probationer. They were calling to see if Oliver could come and identify him.
Oliver sputtered as he tried to speak, and I could sense his frustration as he was about to tell the officer the reason why he’d be unable to identify Jeremy.
“I know what he looks like,” I assured him. “We can go.” After all, I’d seen Jeremy’s video with close ups of his face, as well as meeting his brother with whom he had a distinct resemblance.
Oliver turned toward me with an arched eyebrow, as if to say are-you-sure. I nodded, until it dawned on me that he couldn’t read my non-verbal signals, and I finally said, “Yes.”
“We’ll be there,” Oliver confirmed. “Where exactly is he?”
I heard the officer tell him the Buck’s County Coroner’s office in Warminster, and Oliver said, “I know where that is. We should be there in less than an hour.”
We explained the situation to Antonio, who entered the information in his GPS and we were off. Brad had said the chauffer would take us wherever we wanted to go, though I doubt he imagined this development.
I called Brad with an update, and shortly after 9:30 p.m. we arrived at the new Bucks County Forensic center. I’d had first dates before that felt morbid, but this one was breaking new ground.
I offered to guide Oliver to the door, as I’d done at the restaurant, but he insisted on bringing his cane. The State trooper met us at the door, took one look at Oliver and apologized. “I had no idea.”
“It’s okay,” Oliver said, and introduced me. “This is Sharon Porter.” Without explaining, he added, “She knows what Jeremy Young looks like.”
The trooper led us down the hall and into a well lit room, at the center of which lay a sheet-covered body on a metal table. Blood, already turning a rusty brown, had wicked onto the sheet in long streaks on the chest area that looked like they came from knife wounds. “It’s a little gruesome,” the trooper cautioned me before he pulled back the sheet uncovering the head.
“Oh my God,” I yelped. “That’s not Jeremy. It’s Tim Shaw.”
Chapter Fourteen
Word of Tim Shaw’s murder had disturbed Brad, and he’d slept fitfully. All he knew at that point was that Sharon and Oliver had gone to the Bucks County morgue to identify the body of a man believed to be Jeremy Young, but who turned out to be Tim Shaw, brutally murdered. The slam of a car door startled him awake. He heard the rumble of tires across the cobblestone drive. Aiming one eye at his bedside clock he noted the time as 1:33 a.m. He sat up in a groggy daze thinking Sharon might call him, but when she didn’t he drifted back to sleep.
Shortly after four, Brad rose and browsed his bedroom computer for information on the murder. Although news traveled fast these days, including live video of governments being overthrown half-a-world away, CNN reporters weren’t stationed outside the morgue, nor c
ameras parked at the murder scene. Local news traveled as quickly across back yard fences as on the Internet, and he’d have to be patient. He wondered if they’d even do an autopsy on a Saturday, or if it would wait until Monday? The fact that Jeremy’s name had been found on a slip of paper in the pocket of Tim Shaw, and since porn videos were—as far as he knew—their only common endeavor, Brad was convinced Tim’s death related to the porn. But how?
Brad showered, dressed and arrived at the kitchen before six, hoping Sharon might already be sitting at the banquette eager to bring him up to speed. She wasn’t. He fixed a pot of coffee, sat at the breakfast table and started reading the Philadelphia Inquirer.
On the front page, above the fold, was a story of the case Nick Argostino had told him about. The lead said it all:
Alex Nagel, 25, after three tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan killed more people in one night in Philadelphia than the last three years combined.
The bodies of Calvin Morrissey, Jr., 43, three-term Philadelphia councilman-at-large, and Casey Lopes-Nagel, 23, are awaiting an autopsy in the city morgue. Alex is sitting in the Philadelphia jail.
He turned himself in to police on Thursday for allegedly killing his wife and the councilman after finding them together in bed at his West Philadelphia townhouse.
‘Something must have snapped,’ Paul Nagel, the accused’s brother, told the Inquirer. ‘I think the stress of the war got to him.’
Indeed.
Below the fold, Brad noticed an article about the 2012 Republican presidential contenders, and recalled Nick’s observation that the sensational murder case would overtake presidential politics in the media during the coming year. It was certainly starting off that way.
Outside the bay window, fog shrouded the garden landscaping lights and provided a ghostlike glow at the edge of the yard. When Sharon wandered in an hour later, Brad had finished the paper and half the carafe of coffee.
