by Ray Flynt
Across the cabin, Jackson stood and strapped the holster around his waist, before slipping on his suit coat.
When the cabin door opened, a plainclothes detective greeted us on the tarmac. “Detective Brian Eli from District Seven.” Given the bulge inside his jacket, he probably carried a weapon.
We swapped introductions before getting into his waiting car. Fortunately, it was unmarked, although in Carlin’s corner of Boca any vehicle that wasn’t a Bentley, Porsche, or Ferrari would stick out. I shook my head, envisioning what kind of rental car Nick would be driving.
Detective Jackson rode shotgun, while I sat in the back. Jackson did a good job summarizing Joel’s murder, the investigation that led to Carlin Trambata’s arrest, and the circumstances resulting in his release on bail. I recounted Sal Zalinski’s actions, which appeared as framing Trambata, and the likelihood that Rosario Hébert was Joel’s killer. It was a lot of ground to cover on what would have been a short drive, were it not for our stopping at a raised drawbridge over the Intracoastal Waterway.
The local cop looked over at Jackson. “What do you want to achieve tonight?”
“I’d like to question Rosario about his actions on the night of the murder. We’ve got a witness who puts him at the scene, and circumstantial evidence, but not enough to secure an arrest warrant. It’s possible that Zalinski and Hébert are working together, and we want to prevent them from leaving the country.”
Armed with specifics on our concerns, Detective Eli radioed his central office to have them alert the Coast Guard regarding the Island Temptress.
Eli turned off highway A1A and swung his car to the curb. “Trambata’s place is at the end of the next street. There are only a couple of homes on his block.”
Detective Eli had pulled behind a white Chevy Blazer. I wondered if that was Nick’s rental.
The three of us walked silently and then turned the corner. I pointed to the white mansion at the end of the street, whispering, “That’s Casa de Antigua.”
A light breeze carried the scent of Nick’s cheroot to my nostrils. He couldn’t be far away.
We advanced, getting a general feel for the neighborhood and whether anyone might still be awake. I could easily make out the stars in Orion’s belt. Bluish light filtering from an upstairs window to our right was probably from a TV. A motion sensor activated a light above a nearby garage.
“What took you so long?” a voice rasped. I turned to see Nick sitting cross-legged next to a trash receptacle on the strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street, puffing on his cigar.
The three of us crouched next to him. I made whispered introductions.
“Not only do they have fat-ass cars here in Boca,” Nick spoke softly, “they’ve got the biggest trash cans I’ve ever seen—on wheels no less. Figured it’d gimme good cover.”
I nodded.
“That was before the sprinkler went off behind me,” Nick continued. “My back is soaked.”
Jackson and Eli snickered.
Nick scowled. “HOA security stopped me right after I arrived. I showed off my badge. Didn’t give ’em enough time to see Philly on it. They’ll be back around.”
I turned my head toward the estate. “What’s happening?”
Nick held up a pair of binoculars. “Hotel gift shop...expense account,” he directed at me. “The brothers are on the yacht. I heard music and voices. They might be drinking.”
I peered through the lenses in the direction of the Island Temptress and saw the tops of two heads. I handed the binoculars to Jackson who, without warning, dashed fifty feet ahead to survey the yacht from the edge of the tennis courts.
Nick stood. “We might as well join him.”
From our new vantage point, we had a better view along with the beat of Latin music. We took turns witnessing the Hébert brothers wearing shorts with no shirts. Thanks to magnification, we even knew their brand of beer—Modelo.
I turned my attention to the front of Trambata’s estate. “There’re blue and yellow bins next to the trash in the driveway.”
“Recycling,” Eli said. “Yellow for paper, blue is plastic and cans.”
Jackson ran his hand through his hair. “I’m nervous with those guys on the boat. If we tip our hand, they may run for it.”
I peeked around the end of the tennis court. “We need a diversion.”
Nick raised his hand, like a fourth grader seeking the teacher’s attention. “I got an idea.” He shared it with us.
“Worth a shot,” Jackson said.
Detective Eli bobbed his head.
We redeployed. My assignment put me at the foot of the walkway from the front door. Jackson and Eli moved closer to the pathway coming from the dock for the Island Temptress.
Nick crept toward the driveway. He reached into the yellow bin and crumpled newspaper, mounding them at the top, then lit a match. Nothing happened. He grabbed for one of the clumps of paper and used it as a fan to incite the embers to flames. Black smoke billowed for a few seconds before fire rose from the bin.
Nick held up his index finger in my direction—a signal to wait—then waved it toward the two detectives. He circled the bin a few times, fanning the fire with his hands until it seemed like it would not easily go out. He cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled, “Fire!”
I joined in bellowing “Fire,” followed by Jackson.
Lights came on in two of the neighbor’s homes, then finally inside Trambata’s.
Detective Eli raised his arm, waving it in a circling motion—a signal that the brothers had been roused from the boat—headed our way.
Seconds later, they rounded the corner, barefoot and defenseless, a couple beers past the point of fully appreciating what was happening. Jackson stepped into Rosario’s path and identified himself as with the Baltimore police. Rosario raised his hands. Enrico blurted, “We don’t want no trouble.”
More light appeared behind the frosted glass of the estate’s front door.
The detectives guided the brothers to a wrought iron bench adjacent to the garage, where Jackson announced, “We’ve got questions for you about the murder of Joel Driscoll.”
Illuminated by the fire in the recycle bin, Enrico appeared in a stupor, but defeat registered in Rosario’s eyes.
In the distance, a siren. That hadn’t been part of our plan.
The front door flung open and Sal Zalinski stepped out wearing a terrycloth bathrobe. No doubt a guest amenity, since I couldn’t picture him owning such a robe. He limped down the sidewalk, his attention drawn to the fire, until he spotted me.
I took a couple of steps toward him and drew Zalinski’s attention to Rosario and Enrico. “The police are questioning them in connection with the Driscoll murder. They’ll want to talk with you too.”
Zalinski’s eyes widened, his hands balled into fists. He couldn’t run.
The garage door ground open to reveal an expensive sports car and Carlin Trambata in a pair of flannel pajamas. Flannel in Florida! His eyes darted between the fire, his two yacht handlers in custody, and me talking to Zalinski.
The siren sounded closer.
I looked Sal in the eye. “Did Rosario ask you to deliver the note to Trambata? Plant the knives in the rail car?”
Sal glanced in Carlin’s direction. Megan rushed into the garage in a skimpy pink negligee.
I heard the rumble of the fire truck, and the pulse of red lights bounced off the homes.
Zalinski pointed at Carlin. “He asked me to deliver the note and plant the knives.”
The fire truck blasted its siren as it pulled behind me. Detective Eli, holding up his badge, headed for the driver to offer an explanation.
Carlin moved closer, shouting at Zalinski. “Shut up.”
Sal spoke louder to be heard over the sound of the fire truck. “It was all Carlin’s idea. He paid Russ to kill Driscoll and wanted my help in framing himself since he figured they’d never—”
Carlin once again shrieked, “Shut up.”
Shock registered on Megan’s face as she heard Sal.
That’s when I saw the gun—an automatic. Carlin raised it from his side, aiming at Zalinski. Sal saw it too. His voice quivered, and his eyes darted in my direction pleading for help.
The shot deafened me. Sal’s face went white and he crumpled. I caught him before he fell to the pavement. I expected to see blood all over my suit.
Megan screamed.
Carlin lay on the floor of the garage, blood oozing from his chest. I glanced at Jackson as he holstered his Glock.
I helped Sal to a seat on a flower bed wall and rushed to Carlin’s side. Megan sobbed as she cradled his head in her hands. “Why?” she pleaded with him.
He wheezed. “I didn’t want to lose you.”
They were his last words.
44
Friday, October 12, 2001
Andy called the next morning. “Just read about Trambata in the Wall Street Journal.” He boasted. “Frame Detective Agency got a nice mention.”
Our citation in the Journal seemed to give him grudging respect for my detective career. It wouldn’t last. Jackson, Detective Eli, and Nick all deserved more credit than me for the closing act in the Driscoll case. Although I’d put a few of the pieces together, Zalinski had suckered me from the beginning. I’d misjudged Carlin. Through all of it, I developed an appreciation of Nick’s mentoring skills. He seldom prescribed what I should do, but offered great lessons in the process.
Andy continued, “Sounded exciting.”
He was fishing for details, which I wasn’t about to give him. “With Carlin gone, you might be able to re-start talks on acquiring their Houston subsidiary.”
“My wheels have already been turning.”
Good for you.
“Andy, I gotta run. I have a date.”
I didn’t tell him it was with Dad.
Driving with Dad to Bryn Mawr felt like days gone by. From the time I first got my learner’s permit, he’d ride shotgun and let me drive. It made me a big shot.
Since his stroke, Dad could stand long enough to hold on and transfer from his wheelchair, but he couldn’t walk. As I glanced over, it brought back memories of those days before the rolling chair had become his constant companion.
Dad reveled in the fall scenery during our drive from the Bairnes Care Center, pointing out the homes of friends, or reminiscing when we passed the cemetery where Mom and Lucy were buried. He focused on good memories, and we laughed a time or two.
I regaled him with our success in Boca Raton and how Nick and I would share a reward offered by Herron Industries. When he heard about the arrest of the man he’d known as Russ Hébert, he turned to me. “I think they call that karma.”
As I drove over the cobblestone drive, he pointed at the new office addition. “Looks good, son. Like it’s always been here.”
I retrieved Dad’s wheelchair from the trunk and rolled it next to the passenger door before locking the wheels. He swiveled and planted his feet on the pavement. I grasped him by the arms and helped bring him to his feet. Dad lined himself up with the edge of the chair and dropped into the seat.
I rolled him to the breezeway connecting the main house with the office. Once inside, I parked the chair so he could take it all in: the green wool carpet, fireplace, leather sofa and chairs.
He pointed at the spiral staircase. “What’s up there?”
“A gym, Dad. Treadmill. Weights. Stair-stepper. I even installed a shower. Do you recognize the desk?”
He looked in that direction and his eyes lit up. “Is that my old partner’s desk?”
I nodded. “Refinishers said it’s heavy as hell.”
“Solid oak. I paid $400 for it thirty years ago. Can’t imagine what it would cost today.”
A manila envelope on the top of the desk had a note attached: Mr. Frame. We found the enclosed stuck in the back of one of the drawers.
Inside was a photo of Andy, Lucy and me as kids. I looked about ten years old, the age when I received the train set. I had forgotten my freckles from back then. Tears welled in Dad’s eyes when I showed it to him.
“I’ll have copies made so we can all have one.”
Dad swiped his hand across his eyes. “Did Nick say what he would do with his share of the reward?”
“Save for their son’s college education.”
Dad hadn’t asked about my share. Guess he figured I’d put it to good use. Between a bequest from my maternal grandmother and stock holdings, I was fortunate—didn’t really need it. Seeing that picture of us gave me an idea. I’d speak with Mike McMillan about setting up a tuition fund for Adam and Annie Driscoll.
Joel would be pleased.
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author acknowledges his writers’ groups for their valuable edits, critiques, and suggestions: David Bishop, Judi Ciance, James Newman, Mark Pryor, and William Speir.
I am grateful to Sue Dirham, Russ Heitman, Tom Kelly, Marjie Styer Klein, Robert Martin, and David Matthews for offering to read and comment on the completed manuscript. My thanks to Nancy Heitman for her line editing talents.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Any errors or omissions are solely the responsibility of the author.
AUTHOR’S BIO
Ray Flynt authors Brad Frame mysteries, as well as standalone suspense novels. A native of Pennsylvania, Ray has written and performs a one-man play based on the life of Ben Franklin. Ray is a member of Mystery Writers of America and active with their Florida Chapter. He is also a life member of the Florida Writers Association. Ray retired from a diverse career in criminal justice, education, the arts, and human services. More information is available at www.rayflynt.com. You can also sign up to receive the author’s periodic newsletter.
BRAD FRAME MYSTERY SERIES
#1 – UNFORGIVING SHADOWS
#2 – TRANSPLANTED DEATH
#3 – BLOOD PORN
#4 – LADY ON THE EDGE
#5 – FINAL JUROR
#6 – EMBALMED
#7 – YARD GOAT
#8 – FATAL GAMBIT (Summer 2018)
SUSPENSE NOVELS
KISSES OF AN ENEMY
COLD OATH
ANCHOR ON MY SOUL (Winter 2019)
UNFORGIVING SHADOWS – A Brad Frame Mystery #1
Brad Frame is invited to the execution by lethal injection of Frank Wilkie, one of two men responsible for the death of his mother and sister. Afterward the prison chaplain thrusts the condemned man’s Bible into Brad’s hands. Within hours another man is anxious to get his hands on Wilkie’s Bible and Brad suspects the motivation could involve the still missing ransom money from the kidnapping. Brad’s world is once again turned upside down as he and Sharon unravel an eleven-year-old mystery.
TRANSPLANTED DEATH – A Brad Frame Mystery #2
A cold-blooded killer is murdering transplant patients at Philadelphia’s Strickland Memorial Hospital while the biggest snow storm of the century strands medical personnel and strains their ability to deal with the crisis. Philadelphia private detective Brad Frame and his assistant Sharon Porter lock horns with the hospital’s security chief while the administrator seems more interested in positive PR than the safety of her patients.
BLOOD PORN – A Brad Frame Mystery #3
In this riveting tale of porn-making gone awry, Brad Frame is trying to find Jeremy Young. He’s a runaway from Maple Grove, an institution for juvenile delinquents, and was last seen “starring” in an adult video. During the search it becomes apparent that other under-age young men have been recruited from Maple Grove to do porn. When things turn deadly it is clear that the pornographers will stop at nothing to keep their illicit operation from being discovered.
LADY ON THE EDGE – A Brad Frame Mystery #4
South Carolina ceramic artist Amanda Carothers interrupts Brad Frame’s vacation to ask for his help in investigating her son Dana’s death from five years earlier. Although his death was ruled a suicide, Amanda believes Dana was murdered. Reactions to Dana’s death tore her family apart, and a fresh investigation threatens to make those rifts permanent.
FINAL JUROR – A Brad Frame Mystery #5
Rachel Tetlow asks Brad Frame to investigate the unsolved murder of her father, who served on a jury in a racketeering case against a Philadelphia-area drug kingpin. Her father’s death resulted in a mistrial. As his investigation into the Tetlow case gets underway, Frame is summoned to jury duty on a sensational local murder that appears to have captured everyone’s attention except his.
EMBALMED – A Brad Frame Mystery #6
Brad Frame turns to his friend, Nick Argostino, for help in solving one of his most baffling cases where murder victims are found already embalmed. Brad finds that Nick is knee deep in his own problems, as forces within the police department seem bent on ruining his career and costing him his livelihood.
KISSES OF AN ENEMY – A Novel of Suspense
Dave O’Brien is salivating at his prospects for advancement in the wake of a tragic plane crash that has opened the way for his boss, Congressman Noah Sebring, to become chair of the powerful House Appropriations Committee. But Dave has a problem: he’s received a threatening email accompanied by a photo of a young intern, bound and gagged.
The missing girl’s father hires a reporter, Nick DaPrato, to go to Washington and “shake things up.” As the battle for the chairmanship heats up, Dave tries to protect his job, while Nick struggles to keep the search for the intern on the front burner in this epic tale of duplicity and deceit in the nation’s capital.
