by Ray Flynt
Brad stood and stepped out to the end of the row of chairs where he motioned for Sharon to join him.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“I assume that Carol—or one of the other caregivers—will be accompanying Grace to the funeral service tomorrow. Volunteer to housesit while they’re at the church and cemetery. I’ll explain later.”
“Sure thing.”
Sharon returned to Grace. Brad once more sat next to Irene and waited for her to compose herself.
After a few minutes, Brad said, “What can you tell me about Rhonda Lounsbury?”
Irene’s sniffling stopped and she turned up her nose at Rhonda’s name.
“Did she call you? She won’t stop bugging me.”
“I didn’t get a call,” Brad answered truthfully.
“I like Rhonda—don’t get me wrong—but she is hung up on Sterling. She tried to go after him years ago. Got Grace to set them up on a date when we were all working for your dad. I think they went out a few times. Obviously, there were no sparks at his end, but she won’t let go.” Irene looked around to see if anyone was listening before she said, “I’m surprised she’s not here right now throwing herself at his coffin.”
Irene drew her hand in front of her mouth. “I had no business saying that.” She looked heavenward and crossed herself. “God forgive me.”
“If you’re free next week,” Brad began, “Let’s get together for lunch. I’d enjoy hearing you reminisce about your work with Grace and Rhonda.”
She grabbed his hand with both of hers. “That would be very nice.”
Brad decided it was time to collect Sharon and return to Bryn Mawr.
He noticed more visitors now formed a line to be greeted by Kip Murray, who had moved to the head of the casket. Brad suspected—based on their business attire—that these new arrivals were associates from The Burnham Group stopping by after a long day in the office. He noticed that, after exchanging a few words, Kip would direct visitors to offer their condolences to Grace Haller. She seemed befuddled by each greeting, and none of them lingered for very long.
He caught Sharon’s attention and motioned toward the exit. As he prepared to leave, Brad spotted Hamilton Grayson entering the viewing parlor. Brad approached, and over Grayson’s shoulder he saw a young man hanging his trench coat on the rack in the foyer. Brad presumed the young man was Riley Truit. The man wore tan dress pants, a button-down shirt with no tie, and a tweed sports jacket. Although the obituary indicated that Riley was a nephew of the deceased, Brad couldn’t help but notice how much he looked like a duplicate of Sterling Haller from that 1986 Atlantic City photograph, complete with a full head of dark hair, dimpled chin, and a crooked smile.
Grayson greeted Brad warmly. “Thanks for coming. I want you to meet Sterling’s nephew, Riley Truit.” He looked back and saw that Truit was detained chatting with a well-wisher in the lobby.
As they waited, Brad said, “Funny, he looks a lot like a photograph I saw of a young Sterling—”
Panic arose in Grayson’s eyes and he grabbed Brad’s arm. If it weren’t for his suit coat, Brad might have felt fingernails dig into his skin. “Don’t say that,” Grayson growled before Riley Truit reached them.
6
Brad woke early and couldn’t get back to sleep. He decided to go to his office. As he sat at his desk, the Regulator struck 6:00 a.m. He found himself unnerved by Hamilton Grayson’s reaction the previous evening when he’d tried to compare Riley Truit’s appearance to a young Sterling Haller. What began as a missing person case, then turned into a tragic murder, had suddenly become filled with intrigue—unskilled embalmers, accusatory letters, issues of inheritance, and questions of parentage.
Fortunately, Grayson’s distress had quickly dissipated, and he released his painful grip on Brad’s arm. Grayson even managed to turn on the charm while introducing Riley.
Brad found Truit a soft-spoken but self-assured young man whom he guessed to be in his late twenties. Grayson had introduced Brad as a “person who’d done work” for the Trust Department, omitting the fact that he was a private detective. Their brief conversation included the usual condolences and Brad’s offer to be of service in any way that he could.
Brad opened his computer’s search engine and hunted for “Riley Truit + Chicago.”
From a LinkedIn profile he learned that Truit was a “native” of Philadelphia, graduated from the Temple School of Business, and met his “lovely wife, Christine” while apprenticing at Seralago Realtors in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. He currently worked as an associate with Alexander Realty in the Village of Oak Park, west of Chicago. Truit’s bio described him as “Happy to help people relocate to the community where he lives and works.”
During the past year, Brad had visited Oak Park when Beth Montgomery, his fiancée, attended an architectural conference. The community was notable as the place where Frank Lloyd Wright lived and designed his famous Unity Temple as well as many private homes. Brad had joined Beth on a conference-related walking tour including several of those homes.
If he can afford to live in Oak Park, he either married well or is successful in real estate. Maybe both.
Brad checked for Riley Truit’s Facebook presence. He had a page, but it appeared related to his real estate work, including periodic endorsements from satisfied customers—the most recent from six weeks earlier. In the display of friends’ photos, Brad spotted Christine Seralago Truit and clicked on it.
Her cover photo was a nighttime skyline of Chicago while her profile picture showed a round face with sparkling hazel eyes. Christine’s hair was similar in style but a shade or two lighter than Sharon’s, which he always referred to as auburn.
Brad scanned Christine’s Facebook page, occasionally checking out other pages that appeared to have a close connection to the family.
Brad found Mark and Victor Seralago among her list of 483 friends and noted that they lived in Delaware and worked in real estate. Based on their ages, he assumed they were her brothers. It seemed as if Riley had married the boss’s daughter from his apprenticeship days at Seralago Realty.
Christine averaged a dozen status messages a day, featuring photos, amusing quotes, shared messages from friends, and updates on hobbies, including yoga, tennis, and golf. Her postings made Christine’s life an open book. On the previous day she had posted to a friend, “Riley left for Philly to attend an uncle’s funeral.” In an earlier posting, she commented, “Due date in four weeks.”
A pregnancy would explain why she hadn’t come along.
On one hand, social media gave Brad valuable insights into Riley Truit’s life, but he marveled at how openly Christine shared information many people would consider private. He chuckled to himself that sites like Facebook might soon eliminate the need for private detectives.
Brad turned his attention to research on Sterling Haller’s tattoo. He thought perhaps it was unique, indicating him as a member of a cult, but as he searched for Chinese dragon tattoos he discovered page after page of images and similar designs.
Time got away from him, and he was surprised when Sharon strolled into the office. It was already 8:30 a.m.
“Do you use Facebook?” he asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
He recounted the details of his morning search, then asked, “Could I learn as much about you online as I did about Christine Truit?”
“If you mean those posts where I described you as a son-of-a-bitch to work for, don’t worry. With my privacy settings only my closest friends will ever know.”
Brad peered at her over the top of the reading glasses he’d recently begun using to see the computer screen better. It wasn’t until she broke into a smile that he knew she was kidding.
“Well, Christine could use better privacy settings, in my humble opinion.”
The phone on the desk jangled, and it took two rings before Brad realized what it was. He used his cell more often and couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d answered the
landline.
“Hello.”
“Brad, it’s Ruth.” She sounded breathless. “You have to do something. Nick is driving me crazy.”
“Hold on. Sharon’s here. Let me put you on speakerphone.” He punched a few buttons. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” Ruth said, amidst traffic noises in the background.
“Tell me what’s happening?”
“I’ve never seen Nick like this. These accusations are eating him up. For thirty years, he’s been getting up early and going to work. He can’t stand the inactivity. Now he’s treating Randy like one of his recruits, and Randy’s asking me if he can stay at a friend’s house. Nick keeps wanting to know what I’m doing, like every minute of the day.”
Brad heard a car alarm blaring. “Ruth, where are you?”
“I’m at the Acme market on Germantown Road. I couldn’t call you from home. When I told Nick I had to pick up a few items at the store, he offered to come along. I said I wasn’t letting him near the candy aisle, and he decided to stay at home.”
Based on his recent meeting with Nick, Brad could appreciate what she was going through.
“Has he met with Ken Matheson yet?”
“Who’s that?” Ruth asked.
Not a good sign.
“An attorney I contacted on his behalf to help him fight his suspension.”
“I don’t recognize the name. I’ve heard him say he needs to call the FOP, but the only thing he seems to be doing at the moment is driving us crazy.”
It had been three days since Nick’s suspension. Based on what he was hearing from Ruth, it sounded like Nick was still in denial.
Brad looked at Sharon as he spoke. “I’ll give Nick a call and ask him to come work here. After all, he is a partner.” Sharon bobbed her head in concurrence. “That will at least get him out of your hair.” And I’ll make sure he gets focused.
The sound of jostling shopping carts replaced traffic noises. “I hated to bother you with this,” Ruth said, “but I didn’t know where else to turn.”
“Any time,” Brad said.
“Hi, Ruth,” Sharon chimed in. “We’re always happy to help.”
“Thanks, you two.”
Brad hung up the phone. “I’ll let Nick use my side of the desk. I can work from the library. You won’t mind?”
Sharon shook her head. “What exactly is it you want me to do during my funeral-sitting experience at Grace Haller’s place?”
Brad reached into a desk drawer and retrieved a thumb drive. “I want you to download files from Sterling Haller’s computer and review his Internet search history.” He tried to hand the memory stick to her, but she wasn’t reaching for it and wore a skeptical look.
“Aren’t we done with this case? Haller’s no longer a missing person and the police are in charge of finding his killer. Not us.”
“True. But my curiosity is piqued, and I haven’t been paid yet, so we’re technically not officially discharged. Maybe with Nick’s help we can solve this murder and give him brownie points toward his getting reinstated.”
Sharon folded her arms across her chest and didn’t look eager for the assignment.
“I should have done it myself when I first visited last week,” Brad explained. “I looked at his e-mail account thinking I might find a valuable clue. Which reminds me.” Brad grabbed a piece of paper and wrote a few letters and numbers. He slid it and the thumb drive closer to Sharon. “This is his computer’s password. Notice anything interesting?”
He knew that would pique her curiosity.
Sharon studied the combination of upper and lower case letters and numbers. 5161tIUrTyelIr
“I’m not sure about the number, but that’s Riley Truit spelled backward.”
“Bingo. One more indication to me that Riley is Sterling Haller’s son. The number is the house address backward.”
Sharon deposited the memory stick and password in her purse before asking, “Anything particular on his Internet searches you’re interested in?”
“From what the funeral director described, Haller’s killer got close enough to disable him and keep him from putting up a fight. He either knew his assailant or had willingly arranged a meeting—perhaps through an Internet chat room. See what you can find.”
Sharon stood. “I’d better get going, or they’ll have left for the funeral before I get there.”
“I’ll catch up with you later,” Brad said, “when I get back from Haller’s funeral.”
7
I found a parking spot directly in front of Grace Haller’s residence. I didn’t mind “housesitting” while Grace and Carol Forrester attended the funeral. There’d been too many instances where houses were burglarized under those circumstances. So it made sense from the standpoint of crime prevention. But I thought Brad was barking up the wrong tree in continuing an investigation into Sterling Haller’s death.
Let the police handle it.
His thinking Nick’s reinstatement would be easier if he solved the case wouldn’t fly. I knew. My dad was a cop. Ken Porter, my former husband, was a cop. The Department would resent meddling, which could make things worse.
I bet Nick would shoot down the idea—if Brad ever presented it. Maybe Brad had floated the scheme just to ensure my cooperation in searching Haller’s computer.
I climbed the stairs to Grace Haller’s front door and rang the bell.
A few moments later a strange lady answered the door.
“Ah, hi,” I stammered. “I’m Sharon Porter. I was expecting Ms. Forrester to be here.”
“Please come it. I’m Phyllis Santiago. Carol told me to expect you. She had a family medical emergency, and I came in to cover for her.”
I stepped inside. “I understand your work here will be done tomorrow.”
“It’s probably for the best,” Phyllis said with an air of resignation. “Serenity Point will be good for her. I don’t know how much interaction you’ve had with Grace, but all this is going to come as a surprise to her.”
“Yes, I know. I was with her and Carol for about an hour last evening at the funeral home.”
Phyllis looked at her watch. “Speaking of which, we better get a move on.”
Over the next few minutes, Phyllis escorted Grace from her bedroom. She wore the same black dress I’d seen her in the previous evening. A taxi tooted its horn out front, and they left me behind to engage in Brad’s mischief. I mean burglary prevention.
Sterling Haller’s “office” was tucked behind the staircase and consisted of a table, a chair, and a wide-screen notebook. The computer was propped open and a wireless mouse sat to the left of the keyboard. Sterling must have been a lefty. I noticed that the power supply cord was attached and plugged into a nearby wall socket.
I turned on the computer and entered the password Brad had given me. I had inserted the memory stick into a USB port when the doorbell startled me.
Perhaps a burglar has arrived and is ringing to verify no one is at home. I decided to answer it.
I peered through the peephole and saw a short, middle-aged woman with mousy brown hair.
I opened the door. “Can I help you?”
The woman’s eyes grew large, and she looked first right and then left as if she might have rung the wrong doorbell. “I was…looking for…Grace.”
“She’s not here right now. I don’t expect her back for a few hours.”
“Who are you?” the woman asked, in a tone that suggested I might be a burglar.
Not in the mood for twenty questions. “I’m housesitting while she’s at her brother’s funeral.”
“Oh, no.” Her words dissolved into a yowl. Clearly she hadn’t yet heard the news about Sterling Haller. She covered her mouth with her hands and tears welled in her eyes.
I felt sorry for the woman, and might have invited her in, except I had work to do before Grace and Carol returned.
“I’m not really authorized to let anyone in.” It sounded lame, even as the words passed my lips
.
Between sobs she blurted, “It’s…okay…I’ll come…back.”
In a more sympathetic tone, I said, “May I tell Ms. Haller who stopped?”
“Tell her Rhonda.” With that she turned and staggered down the sidewalk, then gripped the handrail as she descended the concrete stairs. Rhonda Lounsbury. The woman who sent that letter to Brad.
This was not the time to second-guess myself. If I’d known who she was to begin with I might have welcomed her and tried to find out more. I returned to my work.
The directory on the notebook computer was easy enough to find and then search for files to transfer to the thumb drive. There weren’t any. I’d expected to find a ton of documents and spreadsheets and checked to see if he might have hidden documents in system directories, but that was not the case.
I knew this was the computer on which Brad had searched e-mails since he’d described the location. Sterling Haller either had another computer on which he kept files or, perhaps, maintained documents in the cloud. Or both.
I disconnected the portable drive and went exploring. On the second floor, I passed Grace’s bedroom where a few days earlier I’d retrieved the photograph of Sterling Haller to give to the police. I opened the door at the end of the hallway to reveal Sterling Haller’s bedroom.
Haller hadn’t been living with his sister for too long, so it didn’t surprise me to find floral paper on the walls and chintz coverings on the four-poster bed and adjacent chair—reminiscent of fabrics Mamie Eisenhower might have liked.
The room felt spacious. There was a wooden table with a tufted chair but no computer in sight.
In the bedroom closet sat a canvas laptop bag tucked away next to shoe boxes and a couple of suitcases. I unpacked the computer and placed it on the nearby table. The laptop was older, heavier and with not nearly as large a screen as the one downstairs. After powering it on, a password box popped up on the screen. The one Brad gave me produced an error message. Shit. I rummaged through the bag to see if there might be a scrap of paper with the password. Nothing. In an outside pocket I found Riley Truit’s business card—not from Chicago but dating back to the Seralago agency in Rehoboth Beach. Since the computer was older, perhaps Haller had used a simpler password. Typing “RileyTruit” produced an error message. Finally, I typed “rileytruit” and the computer’s program icons materialized.
