by Ray Flynt
How much difference might four beers have made in Nick’s memory of events?
Matheson made notes on a yellow legal pad and when Nick had finished asked, “Have you met with Internal Affairs?”
“Not yet. They called on Friday to say they hoped to meet later this week.”
Matheson cocked an eyebrow. “I’m surprised they’d suspend you—on an issue like this—before completing their investigation.”
Nick explained, “City politics got me suspended. Let’s just say there’s lots of ass-covering happening. Fortunately, I’m on leave with pay.”
“I understand,” Matheson said. “When Internal Affairs schedules a time to talk with you, tell them you want your attorney present. Let me know and I’ll try to be available as quickly as possible.”
Nick nodded that he understood, but Brad didn’t think he looked happy.
“Tell me about your boss, the Deputy Commissioner.”
“His name is Curtis Franks. I got no gripe with him. You don’t get to be in his position without knowing how to play the game.”
“I know Curtis; I agree,” Matheson said. “How long have you worked with him?”
Brad wondered how Matheson knew Curtis Franks.
“Curtis made deputy two years ago. I’ve known him for ten…twelve years. We worked a crime scene together once.”
“What kind of case?”
“Kidnapping.”
“Any prior run-ins with Sanders or Barkow?”
Nick shrugged. “I passed over Sanders to give another guy a promotion.”
“And Barkow?”
“I don’t know if it’s relevant,” Nick began, “but a year, uh, maybe year and a half ago I disciplined Barkow over his handling of evidence.”
Brad hadn’t heard that story from Nick, and must have telegraphed his surprise.
Nick explained, “I just remembered it a day or two ago.”
Matheson looked up from his note taking. “What disciplinary measures did you take?”
“Suspension. Three days, I think.”
“What happened?”
Nick rubbed his temples. “Barkow had checked an evidence box out of storage and failed to keep it in his possession, so the chain of custody was lost and a judge freed the suspect. Come to think of it, his buddy Sanders ratted him out on that one.”
“Do you recall the name of the suspect?” Brad asked.
Nick squinted as he tried to remember. “Callahan, I think.”
“You think the suspension motivated him to set you up?” Matheson asked.
“That’s just it. Why would he wait so long if he wanted to get back at me?” Nick pursed his lips, as though to guard himself against saying more.
“Good question.” Matheson jotted a few more notes. “I’ll call Curtis and let him know I’m involved. I’ll also formally notify Internal Affairs that you have counsel. Funny thing about having a lawyer looking over your shoulder, it makes people dot ‘I’s and cross ‘T’s. There’ll be no rush to judgment.”
The lawyer stood to signal the end of their meeting.
“Thanks, Ken,” Brad said. “We’re working information at our end too. If I learn anything new, I’ll let you know.”
As he tuned his car radio to twenty-four-hour news, Brad asked Nick how he thought the meeting had gone.
Nick buckled his seat belt. “Okay, I guess.”
In the background, they heard the temperature had hit a high of sixty-seven degrees, and an overturned tractor trailer had closed northbound lanes of I-95 near the junction with the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
“Call me a cynic, but I’ve spent too much time in court with lawyers to get overly excited. I have more faith in you and Sharon helping me.”
I can’t disagree with him.
“Let’s just say we need as many players for our team on the field as we can get.”
Any further chitchat ended when the top story aired:
Philadelphia police made an arrest this morning in the gruesome embalming murders that have terrorized the city this past week. Maurice Wright, thirty-two, of Point Breeze is being held without bond.
Acting on a tip from neighbors who observed activity at the funeral home operated by Wright’s father for forty-five years, but which has been closed since his death late last year, police obtained a search warrant.
They reportedly found evidence of recent activity and seized chemicals and other equipment used in the embalming process. Blood stains at the scene will be DNA tested for a match with the victims.
Nick sighed.
Brad turned to him. “You look disappointed.”
“I was hoping Sanders and Barkow were the ones doing the embalming.”
17
I settled in at the desk in the library. The two embalming deaths preyed on my mind. It gave me the willies to think about the horror those men had experienced in their final moments.
To take my mind off those gruesome thoughts, I called Patty Triola to see if she was free for lunch and wanted to celebrate Halloween a month early. When I assured her both events would be on my boss’s credit card, she readily agreed.
We arranged to meet for lunch at a Chinese restaurant in a strip mall in Doylestown not far from where Patty worked. Patty told me she planned to use an additional hour of comp time so we’d have plenty of time to catch up.
Per Brad’s instructions, I reached out to Hamilton Grayson by phone. I’d seen him at Grace Haller’s wake, but we hadn’t been formally introduced. All I wanted to do was find out if Grayson would be available to see Brad that afternoon. The minute I identified myself and mentioned working for Brad Frame, he launched into a rant about Rhonda Lounsbury. She’d shown up at his office early that morning with accusations that they—the Trust Department—had killed Sterling and were holding Grace Haller prisoner. She demanded answers. “Rhonda even said she’d written a letter to Mr. Frame seeking his help,” Grayson told me.
Although I knew about Rhonda’s letter, I acted dumb. “Oh, well, Brad would like to stop by your office this afternoon if you’ll be available say around three-thirty p.m.”
Grayson grumbled. “Could Mr. Frame make it three-forty-five p.m.?”
“Thanks. I’ll let him know.”
I sent a text message to Brad confirming the arrangement and reiterated how miserable Grayson sounded.
Even though I was thirty feet away, it was easier for me to send a text message than walk back over to the office and put myself in the middle of the Nick/Brad dynamic. I liked Nick but longed for the day when he’d be back at work at the police department. He could be a bit cantankerous in the best of circumstances, but the accusations and upheaval at his work made him even crankier.
Brad texted “thnx.”
He’s trying to be cool.
I replied, “Buy a dictionary.”
A few minutes before noon, I pulled into the parking lot in front of Best China Garden. I captured the last available spot close to the entry and tried to keep my distance from a blue Toyota next to me with its right front wheel cover peeled back like a sardine can.
I climbed out of my car just as the Toyota driver emerged from hers. “Patty,” I screamed. “Oh my God. Look at your car. That must be from the other night.”
We both stood staring at the damage, my tongue clucking in sympathy. A five-foot-long gash screwed up the front and rear doors of her sedan.
“Four thousand, three hundred seventy-five dollars to fix it.”
I gasped. “Well, thank goodness for insurance.”
She huffed. “Yeah, well…”
“Patty, please tell me you have insurance.”
“I’m good. The idiot who crashed into me doesn’t. So I have to file a claim with my insurance company and pay the five-hundred-dollar deductible. They’ll go after him and eventually—when I’m too old to drive—I might get my money back. ”
The pity party moved inside the restaurant quaintly decorated in bright shades of red and yellow. A woman wearing a Chi
nese-style jacket escorted us to a table in a quiet corner of the restaurant.
“You should order a glass of wine,” I suggested.
Patty looked at her watch. “I guess I could. I don’t have to be back until two.”
“Great. We’ll have lots of time to dish.”
A waitress, who looked like the daughter of the woman who’d escorted us to our seats, took our drink orders. We studied the menu until she brought two glasses of chardonnay. Luncheon specials included choice of soup and a spring roll along with the entree. I decided on Kung Pao chicken while Patty ordered crispy beef.
Patty draped a napkin over her lap. “Are you still seeing Oliver?”
I smiled. “I spent the weekend with him.”
“Sounds like things are getting serious.”
“We’re having fun and enjoying ourselves.” Maybe I’m trying to convince myself that’s all it is.
I enjoyed time with Oliver. We’re different enough to keep things interesting, but sufficiently similar to share a genuine attraction. I’d read once, “A man chases a woman until she catches him.” Oliver’s the one in hot pursuit right now. To underscore my ambivalence, I added, “He’s working full-time and going to law school, which keeps him busy.”
“Soooo,” Patty stretched out the word, “how’s the sex with Oliver?”
I felt my face flush. I looked at Patty with my can’t-believe-you-asked-that expression before pasting a big grin on my face.
Patty held up her hand. “Say no more. I can tell it’s pretty damned good. Give me the details on this Halloween party we’re going to,” Patty said.
“It’s more undercover work at Ruddigore’s, that bar I told you about. The owner is a Halloween nut and has scheduled costume parties every Tuesday between now and the end of October.”
“Will there be guys there?”
Patty had a way of cutting to the chase.
“Of course. The owner—Phil—is an ex-cop and caters to cops, firefighters, any type of first responder. I saw this cute guy playing pool when I was there last week. Nice butt, too.”
“Is he my type?” Patty inquired.
I’d never known Patty to be that fussy when it came to men, so I hardly understood her “type.” She’d had two husbands who fell by the wayside like hair curls in the rain. Most of her friends suggested she take a good look before leaping next time. I tried hard not to be judgmental.
“Well,” I hedged, “he’s probably young enough to be your son,” quickly adding, “but maybe he’s into cougars.”
Patty frowned and sipped her wine.
“But there’ll be lots of guys there…hunky…your type I’m sure.” I didn’t mention the chunky ones.
The waitress delivered our soup, won ton for me, sweet and sour for Patty.
Patty dropped her spoon and blurted, “Let’s go as Bonnie and Clyde!”
I grinned and showed teeth. “Do you have a burning desire to play Clyde?”
Patty pouted. “I thought you’d be Clyde.”
“That’s not gonna happen. First off,” I explained, “the party’s tomorrow night. We don’t have a lot of time. I might have a few hours in the morning to pick up items, but we need to think about what we have available to wear.”
“Do you still have that dark wig that makes you look like Cher?” Patty asked.
“Yes. But I wore it when I visited Ruddigore’s last week. There’s one cop in particular that knows I work with Brad. I don’t want him to realize I’m spying on him.”
The waitress brought the rest of our food—two heaping platters with more fried rice on one plate than I’d ever seen.
Patty reached for the spicy mustard to put on her spring roll. “We could go as ghosts with sheets draped over our heads.”
“Oh, Patty.” I slumped in my chair. “Where’s your creative spirit? You’re an actress, remember?”
“Don’t remind me,” Patty grumbled. “My theater days are over.”
“You were good. Just because the director didn’t recognize talent when he saw it….” My voice softened. “I mean, once a thespian, always a thespian.”
She laughed and gulped more wine.
It lightened the gloomy mood, which I’d probably initiated by reminding her of the damage to her car.
We dug into our food.
With her chopsticks in mid-air, Patty said, “I have a hoopskirt dress I once wore as a bridesmaid, would that work?”
“Maybe.” An idea began to percolate. “What color is it?”
“Pale pink edged with tiny roses. My friend Gail loved Gone with the Wind and decided she wanted a white lacy hoopskirt wedding gown. All the bridesmaids wore pastel shades of the same type dress.” Patty extended her arms like wings. “They were ginormous.”
“Do you have a curly blonde wig?” I asked.
“I have a long blonde one.” Her face brightened. “I could put curls in it.”
“Perfect. We can go as Glinda and Elphaba.”
Patty furrowed her brow. “Who?”
“What planet have you been living on? The two gals from the musical Wicked, that’s who. In the dress you described—with a blonde wig—you’d make an ideal Glinda.”
“Oh. Yeah. Them.”
Perhaps the wine prompted her one syllable reactions.
I had a black dress, and with a little extra black fabric could transform it into an Elphaba costume. Now, all I’d need was a cone-shaped witch’s hat and green makeup. Even Brad wouldn’t recognize me, let alone Skull Sanders.
Where the hell do I find green makeup? Maybe Patty will know.
“I think we have a plan. Patty, do you have any idea where I can buy green makeup?”
“Oh, sure. Philadelphia Theatrical Supply.” Patty pulled out her phone, did a quick search, and announced, “They’re between Race and Vine on North Twelfth Street.”
I wrote the information, stuffed it in my purse, and decided I could detour through the city on my way back from lunch.
“Thanks. As I told you, once a thespian always a thespian.”
After a few more bites of food, Patty said, “Aside from looking fabulous, what is it we’re going to do there?”
The restaurant had filled up from when we’d first arrived, and a young couple now sat within three feet of us. I lowered my voice as I explained what had happened to Nick, and how Ruddigore’s appeared to be a hangout for the guys responsible. “We’ll be keeping our eyes and ears open and hoping one of them slips up and confesses to setting Nick up. I’ll point out the ones that we’re keeping a close eye on.”
Patty looked confused and her eyes darted to see who might be watching. “These are police officers, right?”
“Oh, yeah. Well-built specimens—even if they are making Nick’s life miserable.”
Patty smiled. “Tell me again about the guy who’s young enough to be my son.”
18
They had spent less than an hour with Ken Matheson. The lawyer had said all the right things, Brad thought, but in a rather low-key fashion. Nick might have felt more reassured if Matheson’s message had been punctuated with fireworks and dramatic music.
As he pulled into a parking garage adjacent to the trust office, Brad turned to Nick. “Our meeting isn’t until three-forty-five p.m. I’m expecting a few documents from my brother’s office I’d like to review before our meeting.” He held up his smartphone. “Do you want to stretch your legs and meet me inside? Or you can wait here. What’s your pleasure?”
“I’ll stretch,” Nick said and opened the car door. “Ruth wanted me to call her after the meeting.”
After making sure Nick knew where they were headed, Brad turned his attention to his phone. He first wanted to learn more about the arrest of Maurice Wright in the embalming murders. Specifically, he wondered what connection—if any—Wright had to the victims.
Two news sites had no additional information on the arrest from what he’d heard a few minutes earlier.
He searched Wright’s name and
found the obituary for his father. Maurice, it seemed, was a junior. The senior Wright earned his mortuary science degree from Mercer County Community College in New Jersey and opened his funeral home in the late 60s. He had died in December of the previous year following “a lingering illness.” His wife, Beatrice, had passed in 2005, and Maurice Junior appeared to be an only child. Brad spotted several additional articles connected with Mr. Wright’s death, all praising him as a leader in the community and an active member of St. Simon’s Episcopal Church.
The only article he found about the younger Wright told of his qualifying in a ten-thousand-meter event at East Stroudsburg University. The three-year-old story identified Maurice as a junior majoring in business. Brad wondered if Maurice might have interned—or possibly worked for—The Burnham Group, Sterling Haller’s company. If so, had the experience resulted in a motive for murder?
Of course, death by embalming was weird enough; the usual motives for murder needn’t apply. And he couldn’t ignore the possibility that Maurice had no motive other than to be paid to commit the killings.
While he could easily dismiss the killer as a twisted psychopath, Brad saw connections between the two victims and Joedco. The police had seen it too—questioning Brad about Henry Lucas’ murder—before they’d arrested Maurice Wright. Those associations hardly seemed like happenstance.
Brad opened an e-mail from Joedco’s HR director with PDF files containing personnel records for Irene Del Greco, Rhonda Lounsbury, and Henry Lucas.
He expected an earful from Hamilton Grayson about Rhonda Lounsbury, so he started by reviewing her information.
Brad placed the phone in landscape mode. Frustrated by the decline in his vision, he used his fingertips to enlarge the typeface to a more readable size.
In Rhonda’s letter to him she’d mentioned working for Gertrude Lindstrom, and indeed the personnel records documented an administrative assistant position, which lasted about two years. Gertie had helped bankroll his dad’s business and spent thirty years sitting at the partners’ desk as Vice President for Finance. They were a team. When Andrew took over day-to-day operations following his dad’s stroke, his constant tirades—along with a degenerative spinal condition—forced Gertie into retirement. Brad had been sorry to learn of Gertie’s death earlier in the year. She’d been like an aunt to him.
