by Ray Flynt
The sunroom, draped in floral chintz, held a glass table and wicker chairs. “Just be your charming self. This’ll be perfect.” I glanced through the windows at the parking out front. No sign of Zalinski.
A buzzer sounded.
Rhonda announced, “That will be the detective.”
Nick looked comfortable in wool slacks and a rust-colored cardigan.
After introductions, he asked, “How’s everything going?”
Rhonda motioned us to a corner of the kitchen, opening a door to reveal a shelved storage area filled with baking supplies.
She pointed toward the baseboard. “There’s a cold air return between the pantry and the sunroom. If you stand in here, Detective, you’ll be able to hear.”
Nick offered a thumbs up. “Perfect.”
“I often listen to what people say when they’re deciding what cake to buy. If mother and daughter disagree, I can usually suggest a compromise.” Turning to Nick, she said, “I’ll make sure you get a sample of cake too.”
Nick rubbed his tummy, keeping things light. “That’s the only reason I came.”
I faced Rhonda. “I’m gonna grab a seat on the sun porch. When the doorbell rings, that’ll be Sal.”
“Ah, yes, your friend.”
I didn’t correct her.
I positioned myself with the best view of both the front door and the street. I pulled the bank envelope with $600 in it from my sport-jacket pocket and placed it on the table in front of me, teasing a few of the bills into the open. I glanced at the ornate fresh air grille on the wall behind me, happy to know Nick would have my back.
My watch showed 11:22 a.m.
The doorbell rang.
“Coming,” Rhonda trilled in the key of C, as she made her way from the kitchen to the front entrance. The door opened. Rhonda greeted him with a big smile, just as she had me. “Welcome. You must be Sal.”
If he had any apprehensions, her greeting would have dissipated them.
She ushered him into the sunroom. He wore a black suit and black shirt with an open collar. He hadn’t bothered to shave.
“Would you gentlemen like coffee? I just brewed a fresh pot.”
Sal sat opposite me. “Thanks. Cream and sugar.”
“None for me.”
When Rhonda was out of earshot, Sal said, “I heard you got fired.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear.”
“I don’t. This was a reliable source.”
“KYW news?”
He laughed.
Keeping up our banter might make him less suspicious. I waited until Rhonda returned with coffee for Sal and a silver tray with a selection of wedding treats.
She proudly described the slices of apricot cream with coconut icing, yellow cake with lemon curd, and Devil’s food. “There’s a hint of amaretto in the chocolate frosting.”
Sal’s eyes lit up as he dug into the generous-sized pieces.
I slid the envelope in his direction, prepared to spin my cover story for inviting him. “As I told you over the phone, I’m going out of town for a couple of days. But I have a client who has three days left in which to make a legal claim on her uncle’s estate.”
Sal shrugged. “What does she need to prove?”
“He died intestate. She was the product of a failed teen marriage, raised by her mother, but disowned by her father. Twenty years later he got married again, and his kids by the second wife are all over this inheritance, but she has to establish the earlier marriage to get her share. I’ve put the name of the uncle in the envelope with the retainer.”
It was a real name from a case I’d handled a few years earlier. With a little work, he’d be able to find a marriage certificate. The inheritance story was bogus.
Sal put a third piece of cake on his plate. This was definitely a good place to meet.
“I’ll handle it,” Sal mumbled between bites.
“Friday’s the deadline,” I repeated.
He nodded while sticking the envelope with the six one-hundred bills in his inside coat pocket. I’d never see that money again, but a good investment nonetheless.
As he shoveled another bite of Devil’s food into his mouth, I asked, “Who gave you the note that you delivered to Carlin Trambata’s office on September 28th?”
Sal put down his fork and brought his hand to his mouth like he might choke.
“Have a sip of coffee.”
Moments later, he swallowed without the benefit of coffee and glared at me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You were identified as the person who delivered a note to Herron Industries. I want to know who sent you.”
I sampled the lemon confection, which tasted yummy, but not as sweet as watching Sal Zalinski squirm.
“Is this the reason you invited me here?”
“You have your assignment, as promised. Hoped you’d be able to clear up that other little matter for me.”
“I got nothin’ to say to you.”
I raised my palm. “The Baltimore police have the note. Carlin gave it to them. Might have fingerprints on it...yours, for sure. Sooner or later a prosecutor will have the same question I’m asking.”
Zalinski pushed back his wicker chair. Time to bring down the second hammer before he bolted.
“Maybe September 28th was too long ago...you aren’t getting any younger...memory a little fuzzy,” I taunted. “Here’s an easy one for you.”
Sal’s eyes widened.
“It happened yesterday. Shouldn’t be too hard to remember. Why did you visit the Baltimore Railroad Museum?”
“You’re full of shit.”
I wanted an answer, but remembered what Nick said about finding out who Zalinski would run to after hearing my accusations.
I shook my head. “I’ve got a witness.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Shortly after two o’clock you arrived, parked your car and walked into the museum. You purchased a ticket, passed through the roundhouse out into the rail yard. Five minutes later you left. Care to tell me why you were there?”
“Fuck you.” Sal struggled to stand, at first falling back into the cushioned wicker chair.
I wondered what Nick thought as he listened from the other side of the wall.
Dishes on the table clattered as he brushed against it before finally gaining his footing and limping toward the exit.
The front door slammed.
Rhonda entered the sunroom carrying another tray of desserts. “Your friend left in a hurry.”
“He has a meeting in the city at one.” I knew otherwise.
I walked into the room with the display cases, giving me a better view as Zalinski hobbled down the stairs holding both railings, shuffled along the sidewalk, and climbed into his car, a 1995 or ‘96 dark blue Buick. Sal no sooner buckled up when he shifted into reverse, stopping when a speeding car threatened to shear off his bumper. He headed east toward Philly.
After he’d disappeared from sight, I expected Nick’s car to circle the block in hot pursuit.
Nick sauntered into the room and stood next to me.
“Why aren’t you following him?”
“I don’t have to. During your meeting, I attached an electronic monitoring device to the right wheel well. I’ll know where he’s headed soon enough.”
“What if he finds the bug?”
“It’s a chance we have to take. I imagine he’s already looking in the rearview mirror suspecting a tail.” Nick patted me on the back. “You sure spooked him. I’m guessing he’s hunting for a convenient pay phone.”
I must’ve looked nervous.
“Don’t worry. I’ll catch up to him.”
40
Nick exited the bakery via the kitchen door.
I thanked Rhonda for all her help. “If I ever get married, I’ll know where to buy the wedding cake.”
Rhonda beamed. Valerie would soon hear all the details.
I climbed into my car for the two-hour trip to Baltimore, anxi
ous to hear where Sal was headed or who he might contact.
A couple of the suspects in Joel’s murder lived in “Charm City,” so it might only be a matter of time before Zalinski and Nick were following me down I-95. It would make an odd caravan.
By one o’clock, I crossed the Maryland line. Having not heard from Nick, I made a pit stop at the Chesapeake House travel plaza and called him.
“What’s up?” Nick answered.
“That’s what I want to know from you.”
“Zalinski visited a pay phone outside a strip mall on Lancaster Avenue about three miles from Rhonda’s. He didn’t stay long. When I reached that location, I saw why. The doors were ripped off the booth and the receiver had been cut—”
Nick’s voice dropped off.
“Hello. Can you hear me?”
I made out an occasional word interspersed with hissing. More frustration when a dial tone replaced the static.
Shit. Not now.
My cell rang again. Nick picked up his conversation thread. “Like I was saying, Sal drove another two miles before stopping at a gas station. I caught up with him and watched from a Dunkin Donuts across the street, while he made a call.”
“Hope Sal didn’t see you.”
“Nah. He was too busy scribbling notes.”
“Could you hear what he said?”
“Didn’t you understand? I was across the fuckin’ street.”
“Sorry. Anxious to know what’s happening.”
“Then shut up and listen.”
The last thing I needed was to piss him off. I held my tongue, and Nick resumed a few moments later. “Then Sal drove home. I’m watching the entrance to his apartment right now. If he doesn’t leave within the hour, I’ll continue to track his movements electronically. He may be waiting on a visitor. When I know something, you’ll know.”
Nick disconnected leaving no chance for me to comment.
During the remainder of my journey to Baltimore, there were no phone calls. After pulling into the parking lot across from the police station, I once again checked for messages. None. I gritted my teeth. Dropped cell calls happened routinely, but not hearing from Nick—especially after him chewing me out—added to my frustration. Maybe Nick decided to pursue the Zalinski angle on his own. Damn.
Worrying about Zalinski’s movements left little time to fret about the kind of welcome I’d receive from Jackson. My stomach churned as I walked up the steps and entered police headquarters.
I handed the civilian receptionist a business card. “Brad Frame for Detective Jackson.”
During my previous visit, I was instructed to have a seat. Today, while I stood at the desk, he picked up the receiver, punched three digits, and announced, “There’s a Brad Frame to see you.”
I heard Jackson’s baritone, “Tell him I’m out.”
The receptionist glanced up. I smirked so he would appreciate I’d recognized Jackson’s voice.
He gulped. “Uh...grab a seat over there.”
When I looked back from the comfort of a leather armchair, the receptionist had covered the receiver with his hand and engaged in animated conversation. After hanging up, he waved me over to the desk. “Jackson says you know where his office is.”
Nodding, I walked down the hallway. At the doorway, I found Jackson on his phone.
He motioned for me to have a seat. I closed the door and dropped into the same wooden club chair as before.
Jackson scratched his eyebrow. “Listen, Glenn, I gotta go.” For my benefit, he added, “Yeah, there’s a guy waiting to make my life more miserable.”
The detective dropped the receiver onto its cradle and glowered. “You got five minutes.”
A deep breath. “I have information you’ll find helpful, and a few questions to ask.”
“Ha. Good luck with that.”
“You told me about the note, allegedly from Joel, which asked Trambata to come to Baltimore.”
Jackson remained stone-faced.
“Working with security at Herron Industries, I watched a video of the guy who delivered the note—a Philadelphia-based private detective by the name of Sal Zalinski.” Saying that I was working with Herron’s security department was accurate but didn’t reflect the unwitting nature of their cooperation.
Jackson looked at his watch. “You’re down to four minutes.”
“Yesterday afternoon, I visited the railroad museum. While sitting in their parking lot, I observed Zalinski arrive and enter the museum. Five minutes later he left. Talking with museum staff, I learned that he bought a full-price ticket and walked out into the rail yard, where he stayed for only a few minutes. These aren’t coincidence, Detective. I don’t know who put him up to it, but Zalinski set up Trambata.”
Jackson stared at me as if to ask what-else-ya-got?
“This morning, I confronted Sal Zalinski about his delivery of the note and the museum visit. After denying the incidents, he became enraged and left. My associate followed him. We suspect he’s going to contact the person who’s framing Mr. Trambata.”
Jackson held his chin in his hand. “Have you heard anything?”
“Only that Zalinski stopped at a pay phone and made a call before heading home.”
Detective Jackson appeared deep in thought, perhaps wrestling with whether to trust me.
I jumped in with my question. “You have the envelope he delivered to Trambata. Zalinski’s left-handed. Was it addressed by a lefty?”
Jackson pressed an intercom button.
“What do you need?” crackled through the speaker.
“Bring me the evidence box in the Driscoll murder.”
Joel’s last name brought it all home. I winced.
The detective leaned back in his seat. “There may be truth in what you’re telling me. The murder weapon had an embossed Haupt logo. They specialize in high-end chef’s knives. The manufacturer was able to tell us this particular knife is included with a 4-, 8-, or 12-piece set.”
I nodded.
“This morning, we received an anonymous phone tip that matching knives would be found tucked next to an upholstered seat in the Pullman dining car at the museum.”
Wow!
“What time did the call come in?”
“Shortly after eleven-thirty.”
I frowned. “Can’t have been Zalinski. He was with me at that time.”
Jackson laced his fingers behind his head. “No. But it could explain his visit to the museum yesterday and underscore that he’s working with at least one other person.”
“Did you find the knives?”
“One of my detectives did—a leather knife roll containing three other knives. Before you arrived, the lab called to confirm finding Carlin’s thumbprint on it.”
A knock at the door.
Jackson barked, “Come in.”
A uniformed sergeant entered carrying a bankers-style storage box. Detective Jackson signed the chain of custody, and the sergeant initialed his signature.
Jackson stood, removed the lid, and rummaged through the box. He pulled out a plastic sleeve containing the envelope, with CARLIN TRAMBATA printed in uppercase with a black Sharpie. “I’m no expert in handwriting analysis, but this has a definite slant to the left.” He dangled the envelope in front of me.
I agreed. Dad wrote with his left hand since his stroke. I could tell the difference.
My cell rang. I jumped, quickly answering.
“Hi, Honey. Rhonda had a great time this morning—compared it to starring in her own episode of Murder, She Wrote.”
“Hi, Sweetie.” I flashed a not-the-call-I-expected smile at the detective. “Can I call you back? I’m meeting with a Baltimore police detective.”
“Sure. Sorry.”
I disconnected and apologized to Jackson. “I was hoping for word on Zalinski’s movements.”
Jackson glanced at his watch. “I have a meeting to attend. You know my cell number?”
“Yes.”
He dismissed me. “
Call with anything significant on Zalinski.”
41
Still anxious to learn what Zalinski was up to, but vowing to be patient, I didn’t call Nick following my meeting with Detective Jackson. The last thing I wanted was to rupture my working relationship with Nick.
My hotel near Baltimore’s Inner Harbor welcomed me back with open arms, after I presented them with my photo ID and American Express card.
I set up my laptop on the desk in the room, checked email, and opened notes about the case. I skimmed the information, then added specifics about the knife used to kill Joel and the likelihood that Zalinski planted the chef’s knives in the Pullman car. Sal was either a killer or knew the person responsible.
More slowly this time, I reread the case notes.
What am I missing?
My gaze landed on the words “plastic fork” in the list of items observed at the crime scene. Food served on the night of the fundraiser came in a red and white paper tray with a black plastic fork. Joel’s autopsy revealed he’d eaten chicken shortly before his death, and I recalled speculating with the detective that the killer had diverted Joel’s attention with a food offering before stabbing him.
Several chicken dishes had been served that evening. I’d bet on the chicken satay.
My souvenir program from the event was sitting on the nightstand in the Bryn Mawr master bedroom. I checked my watch—just after four—and called the railroad museum.
“You have reached the museum after visiting hours. If you know your party’s extension you may dial it at any time.”
I pressed zero hoping to bypass the message and get to a real person. “Sorry. Your selection is not a valid option. Goodbye.”
Shit.
For a second time, I called and listened to the entirety of the message. After hearing a dozen names, finally, “to reach our director, Jeremy Nulph, dial extension 4081.”
After seven rings, a breathless voice answered. “Hello.”
“Jeremy?”
“Yes.”
“This is Brad Frame.”
“Ah...hi.” He seemed distracted.
I ignored his frame of mind and jumped right in. “Do you know the vendor who served chicken satay at the museum’s fundraiser?”
