by Ray Flynt
His father lay silently, his thick gray hair combed straight back, and a blanket pulled up midway on his chest. His skin seemed more jaundiced, Brad thought, his cheeks sunken, and his eyes cloudy as they aimed at the ceiling.
Brad pulled up a chair next to the bed. He stroked his father’s hand where a needle inserted near his wrist connected him to a plastic bag of dextrose suspended from a rod attached to the bed. He grabbed his father’s other hand and gave it a light squeeze, but on this visit his dad didn’t squeeze back. It had always been his dad’s signal that he could hear, after he lost the ability to speak.
Brad spoke. “They spread fertilizer on the lawn the other day, Dad. The grass will soon need mowing twice a week. Oh, and that pear tree you planted out back of the kitchen is in full bloom.” Still no return squeezes so Brad released his dad’s hand and sank back into his chair.
Noting how thin he’d become it was hard to imagine his father charging down the gridiron, a junior letterman tackle. A football scholarship was how he’d put himself through college and got the education he needed, which eventually led to his successful business. Brad smiled as he remembered what an Eagles’ fan his father had become, bundling the family up on a crisp fall Sunday and taking them to his box at the old Veteran’s Stadium. His sister Lucy never cared for football, but she loved the attention she got from her dad at the games. As a child she had sat on his lap as he showed her off to friends in the adjoining boxes on the Club level. And he had doted on her, lavishing hot chocolate and cookie treats on his darling daughter. God, how Dad loved Lucy.
Late afternoon sun streamed through a sliding glass door opening onto a patio seating area. The steam-heated room felt warm and stuffy, and Brad got up and pushed a panel back allowing a rush of cool air into the room
Turning back, Brad spotted the Picasso hanging on the wall behind the bed, and another flood of memories came over him. The original had hung in his dad’s office, before he donated it to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. This was a reproduction. His dad called it a conversation opener, since visitors to his office couldn’t resist asking about it. Over the years, the story of how he acquired it got embellished, with his dad ultimately claiming he’d purchased it from Picasso himself—at his Paris studio. Brad’s mother had once shared the real story. They had seen Picasso in Paris during their honeymoon, from a distance of about fifty yards. A crowd had gathered across the street from their hotel at a small café, and when his dad inquired what caused the commotion, the hotel’s doorman explained, “C’est Picasso.” When his dad hadn’t understood, his mother clarified, “Pablo Picasso, the famous artist.” Later, during a business trip to New York, his dad purchased the signed print at a Fifth Avenue gallery as a birthday present for Brad’s mother. But she hated Picasso’s work, claiming it didn’t fit with her décor, so it ended up in his dad’s office.
With the room aired out, Brad closed the sliding glass door, returning to his dad’s bedside. Brad heard a hollow breathy sound as his dad exhaled from a half-opened mouth. Aunt Harriet had remarked about the shallow breathing, and it wasn’t getting any better, which worried him.
Studying the profile of his dad’s face, Brad thought about what Harriet had told him. His dad had led a full life. The family’s tragedy had struck as his dad approached retirement, whereas Brad was barely in his thirties at the time of the kidnapping. In some ways, his life seemed more focused since then. He’d developed a career to help bring justice and peace of mind to other people struck by tragedy, but that same peace eluded him. Like the trains that Brad loved so much, it often seemed as if his career sped along the Main Line, while his life had switched to a seldom-used siding. He thought about Aunt Harriet’s advice to live his own life, and about the twists and turns he had taken over the last eleven years. He knew she was right. But what should he do about it?
The door swung open and a nurse entered. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were here, Mr. Frame,” she said. “I was going to give him a sponge bath. I’ll come back later.”
She turned to leave, but Brad stopped her. “That’s all right, Karen. I was just about to leave. I’ll come back again on Friday.”
Brad stood beside the bed, and held his dad’s hand again. He bowed his head. Religion wasn’t a part of his life now, but he still believed in a Higher Power, and knew that his prayer—drawn from youthful experiences in church—would be heard. He wasn’t asking God for much—pain-free days for his dad and tranquility for himself. “I love you, Dad,” Brad said before gently placing his dad’s hand back on the bed, covering it with the blanket.
“Thanks for coming, Mr. Frame. I know he appreciates your visits.” Karen put her hand on his shoulder, but he was so choked up he couldn’t respond. As he returned to the hallway, he swiped the tears from his eyes.
Chapter Six
Brad punched the button on the answering machine and replayed the message that he first heard an hour earlier. Mr. Frame, this is Ron Allessi. I’m with Blankenship, Trawler and Ivanic. I plan to stop by your office at 1 p.m. today to pick up Mr. Wilkie’s Bible. In even tones, Mr. Allessi hadn’t asked if he could pay a visit; he was practically on his way.
An all-day soaker had invaded Philadelphia, creating the kind of day when the chill seemed to start from the inside and work its way out. Brad relished the warmth from the fire blazing in his office fireplace. Glancing up at the Regulator on his wall he realized it was about time for Allessi’s visit. He straightened a few papers on his desk, and centered Wilkie’s Bible on the leather writing pad in front of him.
Inching along using half steps, Sharon staggered into the office balancing an antique silver urn, about a fourth her size, on a tray in front of her.
“Here, let me help you with that,” Brad said, relieving her of the heavy silver tray and positioned the hot, coffee-laden urn on a table between two leather recliners.
Bringing the silver service was Sharon’s idea; she wanted to impress their guest. Brad, who didn’t feel hospitable, couldn’t have cared less. Sharon had already dragged out cups and saucers along with a matching creamer and sugar bowl from his mother’s Haviland collection. She lit a can of Sterno and placed it under the urn. Brad looked at Sharon, rolled his eyes, and asked, “Couldn’t he just stop at Starbucks?”
Sharon clicked her tongue. “Now… now.”
“By the way, Sharon, I plan to offer Mr. Allessi a seat near the fire.”
“Ah, the old hot seat?” she said with an evil grin.
“No,” Brad explained as he slipped Wilkie’s Bible into the top drawer of his desk, “I want to keep him as far away from this Bible as possible.”
Sharon nodded before heading back to the main foyer. She had volunteered to wait by the front door and greet Mr. Allessi, but Brad knew she wanted a head start in sizing him up.
Brad heard a car door slam, recognizing a solid sound indicative of luxury engineering. He looked out a front window of the office and spotted the tail end of a Lexus in his driveway. Less than a minute later Ronald Allessi abruptly entered the office ahead of Sharon. He slipped off his still-dripping Burberry raincoat, handing it to Sharon who held the coat at a distance to avoid getting wet and hung it on the office coat tree.
“Mr. Frame,” Allessi recited in professional tones, “I’m Ron Allessi,” as he headed toward Brad with an arm extended. Brad grasped his hand, felt an extra firm grip, and determined not to try and match his physical strength. Allessi had dark hair and an olive complexion. Impeccably groomed, Allessi sported the latest in fashion neckwear, a Cashmere coat, and a one-inch scar above his left eyebrow.
Their handshake ended, Allessi retrieved an engraved silver case from his inside breast pocket, and handed Brad a business card. Brad glanced at the card before laying it on his desk.
“Would you care for a cup of coffee?” Brad winked at Sharon as he asked. He directed the attorney—who he judged to be mid-thirties—to the leather chair nearest the fireplace.
“Yes, thank you, with cream
,” Allessi said.
Brad grabbed an empty cup, but Sharon snatched it from his hands and soon delivered the cup and saucer to Mr. Allessi. Brad sat in the other leather chair, while Sharon sat opposite them in her usual spot on the sofa. The picture of civility, Brad thought, the three of them clustered by a roaring fire, savoring aromatic logs, sipping coffee, and fighting off the dampness.
Allessi eyed his watch. “If you don't mind,” he began, “I'd like to get right to the purpose of my visit. I'm here to retrieve Frank Wilkie's Bible.”
Brad and Sharon exchanged glances. They knew as much from the attorney’s brief phone message.
“Giving me his Bible was Wilkie's dying wish,” Brad said. “You can speak with the prison’s chaplain for confirmation.”
“I’ve done that,” Allessi said. “But neither the chaplain nor Mr. Wilkie had the legal right to dispose of property that Mr. Wilkie had already assigned to his legal team.”
“When?” Brad asked.
“About six weeks ago.”
“You negotiated,” Brad emphasized the word, “a property agreement with Frank?”
“Let's say I presented it to him…”
“Convenient,” Brad murmured.
“…And made certain he understood what it was,” Allessi concluded.
“What was the reason for having such an agreement with Frank?”
“I don't have to go into that with you, Mr. Frame. You're not a party at interest.”
“Oh, I'm very interested.” Brad found Allessi cold and off-putting beneath all the sartorial splendor and professional demeanor. He figured it was time for a good offense, as he stood and walked over to his desk. He fingered the attorney’s ivory-colored business card on the desk in front of him. “Blankenship, Trawler and Ivanic,” Brad read from the card. “Why is a firm that specializes in corporate law handling public defender duty for a condemned murderer?”
Allessi glanced at the floor, and sighed. “We're not his public defender. He dismissed his court-appointed attorney two years ago. That’s when I took on the case.” Allessi tugged at the cuff link on his left sleeve, showing off his French cuffs.
Sharon got up from her seat and crossed over to the smoldering fire, adding another log. Passing Allessi she remarked, “Another reason for delaying Wilkie’s appeals.”
Allessi shrugged.
Allessi’s cockiness angered him, and with his voice rising Brad asked, “Did you have a written agreement with Wilkie two years ago?”
“We had... understandings.”
Brad tried to soften his tone. “Did these understandings, by any chance, have anything to do with the $500,000 ransom my father paid for the safe return of my mother and sister?”
“I'm afraid we're getting off track,” Allessi said, shifting in his chair. It seemed to Brad as though the question may have cracked Allessi’s façade.
Brad pointed a finger at the attorney. “We're not off track at all.”
The newest log on the fire burst into full blaze with a whoosh that made Allessi jump.
Allessi pulled his monogrammed briefcase onto his lap, and rolled the combination lock into proper sequence before snapping open the case and shuffling through papers.
Brad kept on the pressure. “What's wrong with this picture? Your firm began representing Wilkie two years ago. I can check the record to be sure, but that coincides with the Governor's first signing of his death warrant. You represented Wilkie without any formal agreement until six weeks ago when he signed over rights to his estate including any personal effects from his stay in prison, which probably only includes a few magazines, a dime-store watch, maybe a Zippo lighter… it hardly seems worth the trouble. Unless...” Brad practically shouted the word, and paused before repeating it more softly. “Unless you know where Wilkie stashed his share of the ransom.”
Sharon chimed in. “Then, two weeks later you told Wilkie his appeals were exhausted. Bye, bye, Frank.” Sharon waggled her fingers. “We got your signed agreement. Have a great life, what's left of it.”
Allessi seemed flustered. “My firm knows nothing about any, uh, ransom money.” He retrieved a legal-sized sheet of paper from his opened briefcase. “Look, here's a copy of Mr. Wilkie’s signed and witnessed statement authorizing our firm to take possession of his personal effects.” He waved the document in the air. “You have his Bible, and we want it.”
Brad reached in his desk drawer and removed Wilkie's Bible. Holding the bound volume tightly, he walked over to where Allessi was seated and brought it within his grasp.
The lawyer's eyes got big, as if he had seen the Holy Grail.
“What's so special about this?” Brad drew the Bible back and thumbed casually through its pages. “I don't see anything extraordinary. It's not rare. Placed by the Gideons—there's got to be millions of those,” he said, with all the sarcasm he could muster. “There’s nothing missing. Starts with Genesis and concludes with Revelation. The Revised Standard Version—more austere than the King James, I have to admit, still I’ve always found it more poetic than some of the newer versions.”
Once again the attorney shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Don't play with me, Mr. Frame.” The now roaring fire hadn’t melted the ice in his voice. “I'm not some wet-behind-the-ears-kid just out of law school. I didn't spend my life in a cocoon. I grew up in Camden. I saw two of my older brothers buried before I was in second grade. When I was eleven, I joined a gang—to survive. When I was thirteen, I got this.” Allessi pointed to the scar over his left eye. “The guy who gave it to me wasn’t so lucky.” He shrugged. “Thanks to our parish priest, my parents got a stipend to send me away to a private school.” He loosened his silk tie. “If I hadn't gone, the courts would have found someplace for me. At St. Ignatius Academy, Sister Mary Paul changed my life. I knew how to survive; she made me want to survive. I don't need sarcasm from you for trying to do my job.”
“I'm glad you told me that story,” Brad said, “because you just proved you can understand what it was like to be in Wilkie's shoes.”
“Frank doesn't have any shoes. We have them,” Allessi responded coldly.
Brad returned to his desk, feeling Allessi’s gaze glued on the Bible. Brad laid it on the corner of the desktop then returned to his chair and waited silently until Allessi’s gaze finally met his. “Did you ever play poker in Camden?” Brad asked.
“Sure,” Allessi replied. “I don't see what that's got—”
“Before I hand you all the chips, I'd like to see more cards. You come here boasting about your agreement with Frank Wilkie—an agreement that predates his possession of the Bible. You turn over one ace, and expect me to just hand over the Bible?”
“As a licensed detective, you wouldn't want to violate a legal agreement,” the attorney said. “If you don’t want to cooperate, we can always get a court order.”
Brad shook his head. “You've got to do better than that. What does Wilkie’s property agreement have to do with the missing ransom money?”
Allessi pursed his lips, looking exasperated. “Nothing.”
“Then tell me why you need this Bible… this particular Bible.”
Allessi closed his briefcase and crossed his arms in front of him. “I'm... I'm not authorized to provide that information.”
“Then who is?” In their verbal poker game Brad decided to raise him one and call. “Get him over here. I'm willing to cooperate with you, but not before I get some answers.”
Silence. Allessi stroked his index finger across his upper lip, apparently thinking, but then Sharon laughed. Brad didn’t know why. Maybe a release of nervous energy, but nothing incenses a guy more than thinking a woman is laughing at him. Brad could almost feel the heat behind the stare Allessi flashed in Sharon’s direction. Finally, Allessi said, “I can't give you specifics, but it has something to do with a book deal.”
Brad felt the anger rising in him. He wanted to shout, but managed to keep it to a growl. “Are you serious? A book about Wilkie?”
Brad slammed his fist on the table between them, rattling the cups and saucers and prompting a distressed look from Sharon. “Damn it.” Brad jumped up from his seat and paced in front of Allessi. “Only the book won’t be about him as much as about his crimes. And that means it'll be about my family. I asked you to show me your cards and you just turned over a couple of jokers.”
“Mr. Frame, I cannot confirm—”
“Let me lay my cards on the table.” Brad leaned into him as he spoke, and balled his right hand into a fist.
“Brad!”
At the sound of Sharon’s voice he relaxed his hand, but continued questioning Allessi. “You were scheduled to witness the execution. Why didn't you?”
“Who said I was supposed to be there?” Sounding innocent, Brad knew Allessi was toying with him.
“The warden told me another of Wilkie’s witnesses had cancelled. All his family is dead. Who else but you? You hadn't been to visit Frank in over a month.”
“Something came up.”
Sharon jumped into the fray. “What might that have been? Another prison property agreement.” Sharon happily mocked him, but Brad suspected she wanted to give him time to cool down.
Brad didn’t want to cool down and fired his own question. “If you're gonna write a book about Frank Wilkie, you should've been there to research the final chapter. What do the people who pull your strings think of the list of Bible verses Frank left? Have they figured out Frank's code?”
“Forget it!” Allessi came roaring out of his chair. Brad sensed that his question had hit close to the mark. “I'm tired of playing games, and getting shit on for my trouble.” His Camden upbringing showed. “I came here—politely I might add—to get Frank's Bible. If you won't give it to me voluntarily, then I'll see you in court.” Ron Allessi took a quick survey of the room, as if fixing his bearings for the exit. “Now, if you'll get my coat.”
Sharon pointed at the coat tree. Allessi snatched his coat and threw it over his arm, then raced down the hall. Sharon ran out of the office to catch up with him.
