Embalmed (A Brad Frame Mystery Book 6)

by Ray Flynt

  EMBALMED

  A Brad Frame Mystery

  Ray Flynt

  Copyright © 2015 Ray Flynt

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1517198348

  ISBN-13: 978-1517198343

  Cover Image: Depiano/Shutterstock.com

  DEDICATION

  Kevin Harvey Filippelli

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The author acknowledges his writers’ groups for their valuable edits, critiques, and suggestions: David Bishop, Candace Carter, Judi Ciance, Jennifer Cook, Dallas Gorham, Zame Khan, James Newman, and William Speir. Thanks also to Mary Jeddore Blakney for her talents as a line editor.

  I appreciate the expertise of Kevin E. Ecker, Managing Mortician for McCully – Polyniak Funeral Home in Baltimore, Maryland. His assistance was invaluable.

  I am grateful to Sue Dirham, Nancy and Russ Heitman, Tom Kelly, Marjie Klein, Robert Martin, and David Matthews for offering useful comments on the completed manuscript.

  This is a work of fiction. Any errors or omissions are solely the responsibility of the author.

  EMBALMED

  A Brad Frame Mystery

  1

  Brad Frame figured he’d stepped in shit the minute his shoe squished into a soft mound in Nick Argostino’s front yard. Damn! I thought they only allowed Aloysius to run in the backyard.

  The sun had already set, and the air crackled with the first hints of autumn.

  He’d made the trip to the Mt. Airy section of Philadelphia dozens of times to visit his mentor and business partner. He needed Nick’s help in finding a missing person—a man with a distinctive tattoo. He couldn’t risk having Ruth kick him out for tracking doggie doo in their house.

  Brad smelled the air and bent down for a closer look. In the dim light from a flickering bulb at the front door, he spotted a glob of mud wedged at his heel. He removed his shoe and scraped it on the stone step. Brad sniffed again. Definitely mud.

  He slid the shoe back on his foot and scuffed it in the nearby grass.

  He rang the doorbell.

  Behind the sturdy oak door of the two-story Dutch Colonial, a dog’s bark echoed along with the chime. Finally, he heard approaching footsteps.

  “Brad, come in,” Ruth Argostino said, slightly out of breath when she opened the door. “I tied Aloysius out back.”

  Ruth smiled, but Brad found the usual sparkle missing from her eyes. Her face looked thinner than when he’d seen her last.

  Brad wrapped his arms around her.

  She hugged him tight and whispered, “Maybe you can find out what’s wrong. He won’t tell me.”

  He’d come to secure Nick’s help, but it looked like assistance might turn into a two-way street.

  After they’d unclenched, Ruth announced, in a louder than necessary voice, “Nick’s in his office. You know the way.” Tears welled in her eyes.

  He mouthed, “Don’t worry.”

  Brad took a few tentative steps before glancing back at the beige carpet. Relieved not to spot any telltale signs of dirt, he bounded up the stairs.

  The door to Nick’s office was slightly ajar. Brad tapped his knuckles to announce his presence. No answer. He poked his head into the room and spotted Nick, his back to him, staring out the window of his office.

  “Thanks for seeing me on short notice.”

  Nick Argostino sat unmoving in a wooden chair with casters, his fingers laced behind his head. A flat-screen monitor glowed on the desk next to him while a half-smoked cheroot smoldered in an ashtray. The scent of bourbon-laced tobacco clung to the air.

  Brad recalled the times a decade earlier when they had met in that same room to strategize the formation of Brad’s detective agency.

  Nick swiveled to face him. He grumbled, “What’d she say?”

  “Said I’d find you up here.”

  Nick flashed a surly scowl. “If one of my rookies lied to me like that, I’d have him on report. Don’t bullshit me. I heard her whispering. What did she tell you?”

  Brad couldn’t play games; they knew each other too well.

  “She warned me that if I marched up those stairs I’d find a grumpy old man stewing in his own juice. She wonders why you’re not sharing your problems with the woman you’ve loved these last eighteen years.”

  Nick harrumphed.

  Brad pulled a chair from beside the desk, draped his parka over the back of it, and sat. “What’s going on?”

  Nick got up and pushed his office door shut. He slumped back into his chair sounding like a deflating tire. “I’ve been suspended.”

  “What! Why?”

  “Internal Affairs is investigating a complaint that I assaulted a fellow officer. I’m suspended—with pay, thank God. But if they sustain the charge, I’ll lose my job. I could even face criminal charges.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “The suspension was right before lunch, but the incident took place two weeks ago. Those assholes are just now getting around to filing a complaint.” Nick gestured with his middle finger.

  Brad was glad to see a flash of anger. “Which assholes are we talking about?”

  “Sanders and Barkow…Skull Sanders and Jack Barkow.”

  “Skull?”

  “His name’s Donald. Everybody calls him Skull.”

  Brad figured he could wait to learn the origin of the nickname. “These guys work for you?”

  “Not directly.” Nick shook his head. “They’re detectives in my division, a couple of layers down.”

  “Which one did you….” Brad corrected himself, “Which one claims you assaulted him?”

  “Skull.”

  Brad withdrew a small notebook from his pocket and started writing. Whether Nick wanted him to or not, he intended to investigate. “Did you?”

  Nick closed his eyes and pursed his lips. “It’s the damnedest thing. I never envisioned my career ending this way. I imagined keeling over from a heart attack while investigating a homicide at a fifth-floor walk-up. Or caught in the crossfire on a shootout.” Nick ran a hand through his wavy gray hair. “What the hell am I gonna do? I’m fifty-four years old. Police work has been my life ever since I got out of the Navy. Who’s going to hire an old fart like me whose only skill is solving murders?”

  Self-pity didn’t fit Nick very well.

  Perhaps it was from the stark light of the overhead fluorescent fixture. The lines around Nick’s eyes looked more deeply etched than Brad remembered. For the first time, he noticed more salt than pepper in Nick’s mustache. “Back to the assault. When did it allegedly happen?”

  “Two weeks ago…the night after Labor Day. I was pushing back a couple beers at Ruddigore’s Tavern on the South Side. I’d had a long day and arrested a suspect from a drug-related shooting. It was late. I was tired…but kind of pumped, if you know what I mean?”

  Brad nodded, recalling his emotional highs after successfully wrapping up a case.

  “I was ragging on Phil about all the Halloween shit he had up. I reminded him Halloween wasn’t for two more months.”

  “Did Sanders and Barkow go to Ruddigore’s with you?”

  “I went by myself and sat at the end of the bar.” Nick talked with his hands. “Phil knows I like to drink with no bullshit. He started on the force a few years before me, but he got out on disability ten, ah, maybe twelve years ago. Phil brought me a Pabst at room-temperature—the way I like it—and left me alone.”

  The window sash rattled as the Chestnut Hill commuter train rumbled behind Nick’s house. Through the office window, Brad caught a glimpse of red lights as the rear car faded from view.

  “You know anybody there other than the bartender?”

  Nick
shook his head. “A couple guys were playing pool, and two others sat at the opposite end of the bar. There were four college students at a table. I thought they might be underage, but I was off-duty and didn’t much care. The girls were giggling, and the guys had lust in their eyes.”

  Brad was glad to see Nick smile.

  Nick continued, “There might have been two other tables with couples at them.”

  “So Skull and Jack weren’t there when you arrived?”

  “They showed up as I was ready to leave. Another guy was with them.”

  “A cop?”

  “I don’t know.” Nick shrugged. “I didn’t recognize him.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Mid-forties…close to your age…tall, beefy, buzz cut. Yeah, I guess he might’ve been a cop.”

  Brad scribbled a few more notes. “Go on.”

  “I didn’t see them come in. I plunked the money down to pay my tab and was getting ready to visit the head when Phil brought me another beer. I waved him off, but he pointed toward a table behind me and said, ‘Thank those guys.’ After my feet hit the floor, I felt unsteady. Took me a few seconds to focus. The place was damn dark.”

  Brad wondered how much Nick had drunk that night. He worried what impact that would have on an internal affairs investigator’s perceptions of his story.

  “I didn’t recognize them at first,” Nick continued. “Skull’s had it in for me for a long time, and I wouldn’t have expected him to—”

  A knock sounded at the door. Ruth entered carrying a plate of sandwiches. Brad watched as she established eye contact with her husband. Neither of their faces betrayed the silent communication that passes between people who’ve lived together for years.

  “You didn’t eat much supper.”

  Nick remained silent.

  Turning to Brad, she continued, “I thought he might like a ham and cheese sandwich. There’s enough for you, too.” She handed the plate to Brad.

  “Thanks.” Brad took a triangle of soft wheat bread and sank his teeth into the sandwich flavored with spicy brown mustard. He heard three sharp barks from the Argostino’s Border Collie.

  Ruth rolled her eyes. “Oh, that dog!”

  “He knows sandwiches are being served,” Brad said.

  Ruth grinned.

  Brad shoved the plate of sandwiches in Nick’s direction.

  Nick muttered thanks in Ruth’s direction before she left the office.

  “I’m a lucky guy,” Nick said after she left. “Nobody could ask for a wife better than Ruth. Let me tell you, after that first marriage to Leah…” Nick set the plate on the desk without taking one.

  Nick’s mind appeared to have wandered to a different place, and Brad was determined to bring him back to the subject at hand.

  “I don’t want to hear about Leah,” Brad barked. “You’ve crabbed about her plenty over the years. Now, have one of those sandwiches and finish telling me what happened at Ruddigore’s.”

  A crooked grin appeared on Nick’s face, perhaps from conducting enough interviews to appreciate Brad’s intentions.

  Nick took a few bites, nodded in satisfaction, and resumed his story. “I shouted thanks in the direction of the table Phil had pointed out. Then I visited the men’s room as I’d planned. Like I told you, I didn’t immediately recognize them since it was so dark. Finally, it dawned on me that Skull was one of the guys. I figured Jack Barkow was with him, since they were partners.

  “These are good.” Nick waved the half-eaten sandwich in the air. “I couldn’t imagine why Skull would buy me a beer. Six months ago I promoted Amos Robertson to shift supervisor instead of him. Word had filtered back that Skull bad-mouthed me with racial insults.”

  “Skull is black?” Brad feared an inquiry divided along on the fault line of race.

  “No. Amos is black. I know people aren’t color-blind. But you’d think that folks would act a little smarter about where they mouth off. Hell, my boss is black, like a lot of leadership in the department. We’re a diverse city. I picked Amos because he was the best qualified.”

  Nick didn’t have to convince Brad. He’d known his mentor and friend for more than fifteen years.

  Brad copied Amos Robertson’s name into his notebook. “Is race what prompted your assault?”

  “Who said I assaulted anyone?”

  “I thought the suspension—”

  “Alleged assault,” Nick snapped. He seemed in a fighting mood, which encouraged Brad.

  Nick leaned toward him. “I want you to get this straight. Those guys set me up.”

  Nick retrieved the half-smoked cheroot from the ashtray and lit it with a match. “And damn it, so far they’re succeeding.” He took a puff, then exhaled. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I’m vested but too young to retire. I came home today and paced like a cat. Ruth’s been bugging me to fix the bare spots in our yard. So I drove over to Home Depot and picked up a bag of topsoil and grass seed. Then I took my frustrations out in the yard.”

  Nick’s lawn project explained the mud in the front yard.

  “Let’s get back to the assault. What happened when you returned from the restroom?” Brad asked.

  “I was ready to leave but didn’t want to insult the guys who had bought me a beer. I stood at the bar, drank a few swigs, then turned and said, ‘Thanks again fellas.’

  “I told Phil to have a good night. He gave me a two-fingered salute. The next thing I knew, Skull stood in front of me. My back was to the bar, and Jack moved beside me.”

  “What was Jack up to?”

  “Jack’s a big guy,” Nick continued, “maybe two ten…two fifteen. It was chilly that night. He wore one of those puffy down vests, which made him look like a friggin’ billboard. Where Jack stood prevented most of the people in the bar from seeing what I was doing. You get the picture?”

  “No reliable witnesses,” Brad said.

  “Exactly. A setup.”

  “How many beers did you have?”

  Nick looked hurt. “You think I was drunk?”

  “Fact: The incident took place in a bar. Fact: You were drinking. The accusers will surely say that you were drunk. I’m asking how many beers you had.”

  “Three.” Nick leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Hey, I’m in your corner. Don’t clam up on me. Tell me about the alleged assault.”

  “After those guys cornered me, Skull said, ‘You’re too good to finish our beer?’ He said it soft so nobody else could hear. And every time Skull spoke, Jack would heckle me, usually repeating what Skull had just said. They pissed me off, and I told ‘em to quit raggin’ on me.”

  Brad was beginning to understand. Nick had fallen into the trap. While their taunts to him had been whispered, his responses were most likely shouted.

  “Do you remember your exact words?”

  Nick shook his head.

  “But you might have told them to fuck off?”

  “Maybe.” Nick smiled. “Skull poked his finger in my chest. I parried his hand away. Jack staggered backward and shouted, ‘Hey, watch it.’ I know I didn’t hit him.”

  Brad tried to copy Nick’s story verbatim into his notebook.

  Nick held up his hand. “Wait, it gets better. The next thing I know, Skull toppled backward onto the floor. Jack grabbed my arm and yelled, ‘Now look what you did.’ I shrugged him off and walked out. I practically forgot about the incident until the Deputy Commissioner called me into his office at eleven-thirty this morning.”

  Nick snubbed the cheroot in the ashtray.

  “I’m surprised they suspended you before making a determination,” Brad said.

  “Remember that high-profile case of the captain charged with extortion?”

  Brad nodded. The local media had made it the scandal-du-jour for three weeks.

  “I’m a captain in homicide. They don’t want to risk the publicity. Deputy Commissioner said they’d try to keep this under wraps.” Nick huffed. “I’m not ho
lding my breath.”

  “You’ll need to tell Ruth,” Brad said. “You don’t want her blindsided by a call from a reporter.”

  “I know.” Brad saw a tear at the corner of Nick’s left eye.

  “Do you have an attorney?”

  “No. I need to call the FOP.”

  “I’ll ask Ken Matheson to give you a call. He owes me a favor.” Nick held up his palm, but Brad continued, “And with your permission, Sharon and I will investigate.”

  “Don’t go to any trouble.” The fighting spirit Nick had exhibited earlier had left him, as he shifted uneasily in his chair.

  Brad recalled all the times Nick had gone the extra mile for him. “It’s no trouble.”

  Nick muttered, “Okay.”

  “Besides, helping you will appeal to Sharon more than the case we’re handling now.”

  “Damn.” Nick stood. “I got so wrapped up in my problems I forgot that you came here to discuss a case with me.”

  “We can talk about it later,” Brad said.

  “No. Forget me for a minute.” Nick started to pace. “How can I help? If you need information from the department, I’ll make a few calls.”

  “Sterling Haller is missing,” Brad began. “He lives off South 3rd in Society Hill.”

  “I know the area.”

  “Grace Haller, his sister, used to work for my dad. Another former employee in the family business asked me to get involved. You see, Grace has Alzheimer’s. Sterling is her caregiver.”

  “How old is this guy?”

  “Fifty-two. He’s retired but maintains a part-time job downtown. The first thing I did was contact Federated Trust—which held his power of attorney—to ensure her care until we can find her brother. Grace has lucid moments, but at other times she comes across as a nut case. She tried to report her brother as a missing person. He’s not a minor so they couldn’t issue an Amber Alert.”

  “Hell, we’ll tell ‘em the brother has Alzheimer’s—based on the family medical history. We’ll generate a bulletin for the patrol units, and the Department will issue a press release.”