Yard Goat (A Brad Frame Mystery Book 7)

by Ray Flynt

  I glanced sideways at Joel. “All the comforts of home.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Joel threw up his hands.

  “When you first discussed our meeting, how much did you tell Megan about me?”

  He shrugged. “How we’d been friends since prep school, what happened to your mom and sister, and you becoming a detective. She knew about the detective work. I just filled in the details.”

  “At our lunch yesterday, you said ‘my name came up’ during your conversation with her about Carlin being missing. Did you raise it first or did she?”

  “Ah...not sure. She could have mentioned it first. I said she’d heard of you.”

  “Where’s Megan?”

  “She’s freshening up.”

  I didn’t bother to ask what time he’d arrived or why she needed to freshen up. “What kind of a game do you think you’re playing?”

  “Why...I...ah...”

  I aimed a finger at him. “A dangerous one. Thought you were smarter than that.”

  Joel pouted.

  I sipped coffee before spreading apricot jam on a croissant. “I understand you’re in love, but have you ever heard the phrase get a room? Better yet, divorce Cecilia, Megan divorces Carlin, and the two of you live happily ever after.”

  “Megan doesn’t want—”

  “Let me finish that for you...she doesn’t want to give up a shot at becoming a billionaire overnight.”

  “But....”

  I pressed the issue. “How smart is it for her to bring you home and conduct an affair with all the servants looking on? Think they’re clueless? How easy would it be for one of them to secure a nice bonus by telling the boss who she’s been screwing?”

  Joel put his elbows on the table and pressed his hands into his forehead.

  “With all Carlin’s dough, it’s not hard to imagine hidden cameras watching her every move.”

  Joel pounded his fist on the table. “Stop it.” A bird flitted from a nearby tree. “Megan doesn’t want to hurt Carlin.”

  I stared at him, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze. “Look, my friend, I don’t know her as well as you, but it’s clear the only person Megan doesn’t want to hurt is Megan. You’re too close to the situation. She has greater odds of success than buying lottery tickets. Carlin’s an old guy with Parkinson’s. She can wait him out and string you along until then.”

  Joel glared at me with fire in his eyes.

  “Did you tell Megan you were coming this morning?”

  He shook his head.

  “Think back to when she answered the door and saw you. Was there a look of happiness? I suspect not.”

  Joel resumed staring at the tablecloth.

  “She wants center stage. No bit players crowding her out.”

  He threw his napkin on the table and pushed back his chair. “I know what I’m doing.”

  Megan waltzed onto the patio. She placed her hand on Joel’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”

  “Uh, enjoying breakfast. Thank you for arranging it.”

  Joel went from intractable to milquetoast in a blink.

  Megan glided into the empty chair beside me rather than the one next to Joel. His eyes widened. The maid appeared with a crystal juice glass and a fancy tea cup. “Your chamomile, Madam.”

  “Thank you, Consuelo. Mr. Frame, would you like her to fix you anything—an omelet, French toast?”

  “This is quite hospitable, especially in light of the fact that I won’t be taking your case.”

  Megan dismissed Consuelo with a wave of her hand and regarded Joel with a you-knew-about-this-didn’t-you frown. The warmth left her voice. “Why not, Mr. Frame?”

  “First, if I’m to be successful finding your husband, I’d need the assistance of Herron Industries. Herron and my father’s company—of which I’m now Chair of the Board—locked horns a few years ago in a patent dispute. I’m not likely to get their cooperation, which makes me a liability as your investigator.”

  “You said, ‘first.’ There must be another reason.”

  I looked at Joel to gauge his reaction, but she’d brought him to heel and he stayed mute.

  “I’m not impressed with your honesty. You’ve withheld key details. If I can’t trust a client, it’s better not to do business with them.”

  Joel sputtered to life. “You don’t need to be so harsh.”

  I hadn’t been harsh, resisting a chant of liar, liar, pants on fire.

  Megan shot Joel a withering look, then turned to me with moist, pleading eyes. “I’ve told you everything. Maybe not right away, but you have it all. Please find C.J. for me, Mr. Frame.”

  “Why do you call him C.J. when his middle initial is W?”

  “He asked me to call him C.J.”

  With her husband missing, I had no means to check the veracity of her statement. Maybe the first trophy wife called him C.W., and he wanted to distinguish them.

  “You haven’t explained why you’re not working with his company to help find Carlin, and you never mentioned that the two of you spent time with my brother, Andrew, in Boca Raton just two weekends ago.”

  Megan pushed back in her chair. “Well, I guess we’re done here, Mr. Frame.” With an icy tone, she added, “Goodbye, Joel.”

  I headed for the door.

  When I reached my car, Joel was about to climb into his Lincoln. He looked back over his shoulder. I called out. “We’ll talk soon.”

  His face flushed. “Fuck you!”

  8

  I couldn’t blame Joel for being upset. As I arrived at home, I double-checked that he hadn’t followed me to duke it out in my driveway.

  Departing in a huff suited his style. Even as a teenager, Joel enjoyed the role of take-my-marbles- and-go-home. He knew Megan better than I, but her “Goodbye, Joel” had an air of finality about it. It would be a long drive to Baltimore reconciling his feelings for her with the cold dispatch she’d just delivered.

  “Better to have loved and lost,” probably wasn’t on the tip of his tongue. More likely, the lawyer in him considered how to throw himself on the mercy of Cecilia’s court.

  If I didn’t hear from him by Monday, I’d give a ring to see if we were still on speaking terms. Wondering if I was welcome at the Railroad Museum gala the following Saturday would give me an excuse to call.

  Right now, I had more important things to worry about, like bracing myself for Aunt Harriet’s visit.

  9

  Monday, September 24, 2001

  I’d had a late Sunday night waiting a few extra hours at the airport for Harriet’s delayed flight from LaGuardia, then going out to dinner with my aunt and Valerie, my current “fun-mate.” She coined the term defining our relationship.

  Valerie was two years older than I, but already twice divorced. “Another death sentence” as she described marriage, was the furthest thing from her mind. Our arrangement suited me fine. We had more enjoyment without the anticipation of commitment hanging over it, and she never nagged about her biological clock running out.

  My bedside phone rang early—before 8:30. I was awake but not dressed. I answered.

  “Mr. Frame, this is Todd Vicary. Your brother gave me this number. I work for Herron Industries and we would like you to come by our headquarters for a meeting at ten a.m.”

  It would take less than a half-hour to get there, but I’d promised Harriet that I would take her to see Dad.

  “Could we make it ten-thirty?”

  I heard indistinct whispered conversation.

  “Yes. Tell the receptionist you’re there for a meeting with Mr. Armstrong.”

  I grinned at the mention of the name. Armstrong lived three blocks from me. His parents saddled him with the name Ignatius, but everybody called him Iggy. I’d forgotten his connection as Herron’s chief operating officer.

  I quickly dressed and found Harriet in the kitchen pouring a cup of coffee.

  “Good morning, Bradford. We must speak about the young lady who joined us at dinn
er last night.”

  Her tone suggested unfavorable reactions ahead.

  “Valerie really liked you.” I lied; we hadn’t discussed her impressions. “You reminded her of that actress who played Jessica Fletcher in Murder, She Wrote.”

  Harriet’s face lit up, and she tilted her head in a pose worthy of the Queen Mother. “You mean Angela Lansbury? She had an apartment in New York down the block from me. I saw her at the neighborhood deli once.”

  “Except, Valerie thought you looked younger than Jessica Fletcher.”

  Might as well lay it on thick.

  Harriet blushed and adjusted the scarf at her neck.

  “We need to get going. I have an important meeting in Valley Forge.”

  Harriet finished her coffee, while I knotted my tie at the foyer mirror. I’d managed to avoid her treatise on Valerie’s marital eligibility—for now. Harriet’s mission in life focused on marrying off her favorite nephew.

  Herron’s corporate headquarters—a blue glass monstrosity—stood on the banks of the Schuylkill River. From the eighth-floor reception area I had a spectacular view of the Valley Forge historic site its grass and trees still a lush green.

  A tall man, younger than me, approached. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Frame. I’m Todd Vicary. Follow me.”

  He led me to a small conference room around the corner. Iggy Armstrong sat at the head of the table and gestured for me to sit next to him.

  Addressing Todd, Iggy spoke like we were longtime friends. “Brad and I are neighbors.”

  Todd sat opposite me. “Tanesha will be with us shortly.”

  Iggy cleared his throat. “I’m going to come right to the point. Carlin Trambata, our CEO, is missing. He went to Washington for meetings with Pentagon officials twelve days ago. This office has not heard from him since Tuesday the 18th.”

  That would have been the day Joel first called me.

  “The hotel where he was staying informed us he checked out on the morning of the 16th. Efforts to contact Mr. Trambata by phone have been futile.”

  Todd spoke. “Your brother gave me a heads-up on his difficulty reaching Carlin, and told me you’d been contacted by Megan Trambata. Apparently, she’d expressed fears for her husband’s safety.”

  Unsure why they were talking with me, I nodded, although the entirety of the story was more complicated. I hadn’t heard any more pleadings from Joel about helping Megan since his unceremonious dismissal of me in front of Trambata’s mansion.

  Iggy shoved an envelope toward me. “We want you to find Mr. Trambata.”

  I pulled a notebook from my pocket. “Let me hear what you have to say and I’ll decide.”

  Todd kept glancing toward the door. “Your familiarity with the corporate world is what drew us to engage you for this sensitive assignment. Your brother also spoke very highly of your skills.”

  That was a “breaking news” bulletin, which would never find its way onto CNN. Andy had described Todd as his new best friend, and he must’ve had an ulterior motive for praising me.

  Iggy tapped the envelope. “Here’s a retainer—a certified check for $25,000.”

  I could picture the smile on Nick Argostino’s face, reason enough to take the case.

  The conference room door opened and a woman entered. Her beige suit and cream-colored blouse contrasted with bronze skin and peach-colored lip gloss, while shiny black hair braided into a coil at the back of her head.

  Iggy jumped up. “You two carry on. I have another meeting. Keep Todd posted on what you find, Brad, but I left my private number with the check. Don’t hesitate to call.”

  “Mr. Frame, this is Tanesha Goodling, Mr. Trambata’s executive assistant.”

  I extended my hand.

  She eyed me cautiously, but gripped my fingers like a drill sergeant and declared in a deep, resonant voice. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Frame.”

  Todd directed her to the chair Iggy had just vacated.

  “Call me Brad.”

  “Tanesha has worked with Mr. Trambata for the last fifteen years,” Todd explained. “While several people in the executive suite knew of his trip, she’s the one most familiar. Be assured of her full cooperation.”

  I opened the notebook, prepared to record details. “When did Mr. Trambata decide to travel to Washington, DC?”

  “He received a call from Secretary Rumsfeld’s office shortly before three on the afternoon of September 11th. We’d watched the events unfold on TV throughout the day. My boss was surprised to hear from him, especially after the plane crashed into the Pentagon.”

  “Did the Defense Secretary call directly or his assistant?”

  “His secretary initiated, but after I alerted Mr. Trambata to the call, I heard him say, ‘Don, what can I do for you?’ Their call didn’t last long.”

  Tanesha spoke with a flat mid-western accent. Chicago, perhaps?

  “What happened next?”

  “He buzzed me into his office and requested transportation to Washington and a hotel room for the following day.”

  “Just a one-night stay?”

  She shook her head. “He wanted me to arrange for an open-ended stay, saying he would need several nights and might have to extend.”

  “What hotel did you contact?”

  “The Hay-Adams. At first they couldn’t accommodate us, but during my call they said there had been a cancellation.”

  That made sense since air traffic had been grounded, and many with reservations wouldn’t make it to the city.

  “Your boss took the train to DC?”

  She bobbed her head. “The new high speed Acela. It left Philadelphia at seven-fifteen and got him there before nine o’clock.”

  “He called you when he arrived?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many other times did you hear from him?”

  Tanesha glanced toward Todd. “I’m not sure. There were a couple of emails and one phone call that I remember.”

  “Did he sound distressed? Anything unusual about the call?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Did he explain what he was doing in Washington or why the Defense Secretary had summoned him?”

  “No.”

  After a tap on the door, Iggy opened it and peeked in. “Todd, I need you for a minute.”

  Todd excused himself.

  I used his absence to ask about Megan. “Mrs. Trambata contacted you a week ago inquiring about her husband’s whereabouts.”

  Tanesha folded her arms in front of her. “She did.”

  “I understand you rebuffed her questions.”

  Her facial expression tightened and she exhaled. “Mr. Trambata made it abundantly clear to me over the years, during both of his marriages, who I work for and that I’m solely accountable to him.”

  “I see.”

  “Mr. Frame, I take it you’ve never met my boss?”

  “No, and it’s Brad.”

  “He’s a complex man. Brilliant, ornery, stubborn, thoughtful, and can alternate between caring and, uh, cutthroat.” She snapped her fingers. “Just as easily as he shifted demeanor, Mr. Trambata compartmentalized his life. He often referred to me as his office wife.”

  I must’ve shown a facial tick.

  “It’s not what you’re thinking. There’s nothing romantic between us. It was his way of distinguishing between here and home.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “On the subject of compartmentalizing, would you know if he were having an affair?”

  She glanced at the conference room door. “No, he wasn’t. Todd told me to be open with you, so I guess I can tell you this. Mr. Trambata confided to me that he is impotent.”

  Her pained expression showed how much she cared, even if, as she claimed, there weren’t any romantic links between her and Carlin. I debated whether to ask, but figured she knew. “You’re aware of his Parkinson’s?”

  Tanesha’s voice cracked when she tried to speak. She nodded, then reached for a tissue from the adjacent credenza.

>   I heard the conference room door handle turn. “I appreciate your assistance, Tanesha. You’ve been quite helpful.”

  As Todd returned to his former seat, Tanesha stood. He thanked her as well and she hurried from the room.

  I stared across the table at Todd. “Can you think of anyone who might want to harm Mr. Trambata? Has the company received any threats?”

  “None that I’m aware of, which is why his disappearance is a mystery, unless it’s related to his assignment for the government—about which we know nothing.”

  I pushed back my chair. “I’ll make plans tonight and leave for DC tomorrow.”

  Todd pointed at the envelope still on the table in front of me. His voice turned serious. “Along with the check, you’ll find a paper outlining the conditions of your engagement with us. Endorsing the check will constitute your agreement of those terms.”

  “I’ll take a moment now to review it.” I reached for the envelope.

  “Not necessary. It limits communications about your findings to myself, Mr. Armstrong, and Ms. Goodling.”

  “What about Megan Trambata?”

  A smirk crept across his face. “As I said, myself, Mr. Armstrong, and Ms. Goodling.”

  10

  Before departing Herron Industries, I stopped by Tanesha Goodling’s office. As I contemplated the task at hand, I had a few more questions.

  She smiled and looked more relaxed than earlier in the conference room.

  “When Mr. Trambata took the Acela to Washington, did he have a ticket for First Class?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could I see his email communications from Washington?”

  “Let me find them and make copies.”

  The framed photo of the Windy City skyline, September calendar page featuring Frank Lloyd Wright’s Unity Temple, and a White Sox bobblehead on her credenza confirmed her roots. “I see you’re from Chicago.”