Unforgiving Shadows

by Ray Flynt

  Barbara Frame, her two children in tow, descended the curved grand staircase from the second floor. Barbara was about Sharon’s age, and looked younger with blonde hair falling to her shoulders rather than twisted into a French braid like it was for the funeral. Amazing, Brad thought, how much Andy’s trophy wife looked like Diane.

  Barbara smiled when she saw Brad and said, “Are we too late for breakfast?”

  Chad, age seven, who shared his dad’s eyes and intensity of spirit, tugged at the sleeve of her jacket. “I’m hungry,” he yelled.

  “Check in the dining room. The caterers had a pretty big spread laid out.” He checked his watch. “But that was about an hour and a half ago. You can find cereal and juice in the kitchen, I’m sure.”

  Erica, age three, and a miniature version of her mother began to cry.

  “You’ll excuse us,” Barbara said, picking up her daughter and carrying her. “I better get them something to eat.”

  Sharon was already waiting when Brad entered his newly refurbished office. The smell of fresh paint replaced the odor of smoke from the fire, and his feet plunged a little deeper into new beige wool carpeting laid on a thick bed of padding. All the furniture was new, except for the oak partner’s desk, which would remain at the furniture refinishing shop for at least another week. A plywood board placed across two wooden saw horses formed a temporary replacement.

  Brad eased into the leather executive chair behind his makeshift desk and gazed at two stacks of papers.

  “All the notes of condolence that have come in over the past several days are in the big pile,” Sharon explained. “And the smaller stack is letters from potential clients.”

  Brad pushed the papers aside and opened his laptop.

  “There’s an interesting letter from the Police Chief in Wilkes-Barre,” Sharon said. “He’d like your help with an internal affairs’ investigation of two police officers implicated in the shooting of a third officer.”

  Brad raised his eyebrows as he peered at Sharon over the top of his computer.

  “He’s offering you carte blanche to run the investigation however you’d like,” Sharon added.

  Brad shook his head. “I think we have enough to keep us busy. Give the chief a call for me, will you, and tell him we’ll pass; besides, it’s not exactly the kind of case I usually handle.”

  Sharon looked disappointed, but she nodded.

  “Hey, here’s an e-mail from Nick,” Brad said, scanning his computer screen. “He’s developed information about Eddie Baker from his contact at Graterford. Are you free if I invite him to stop over around 6 o’clock?

  “Sure. I’m taking the written section of the police exam this afternoon at two, but I should be back here by five at the latest.”

  Using the two-fingered hunt and peck method that he’d developed to type term papers in college, Brad dashed off a response to Nick Argostino.

  “Any luck on getting a copy of Wilkie and Baker’s trial transcript?” Brad asked.

  “Oh, I completely forgot to tell you. The clerk’s office said there was no way that we could get a transcript for at least six to eight weeks. But I had another idea. At the local library I could review microfiche of the Inquirer from the time of the kidnapping, the arrest, and the trial. Since I wasn’t involved back then, any interesting detail is likely to jump out at me. And I can print copies if I need them directly from the microfiche.”

  Once more Brad realized what a loss Sharon would be to his agency.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Sure,” he said, realizing he had to do a better job of maintaining his poker face. “Reviewing the Inquirer sounds like a great idea. Check the business section, too, and track items related to Joedco.” He paused, debating whether to ask her. “Sharon, when you have time, could you develop a job description? I mean, if I have to replace you, you have the best sense of what my associate does.”

  Lacking enthusiasm, Sharon said, “Yeah, I’ll take care of it. What’s on your schedule for today?”

  Brad left out his plans to contact Beth Montgomery to see if they could get together during his trip to New York City the following Tuesday. “I’m meeting Paula Thompson for lunch. I promised Aunt Harriet I would drive her to 30th Street Station, then I’ll meet Paula in the city. We’ve got our meeting with Nick early this evening, and I’m going to call and schedule a late afternoon appointment with Diane Panella-Frame,” Brad said, looking at his watch. “But she’s probably not up yet.”

  Sharon rolled her eyes.

  “Oh, don’t forget to add that.”

  “Add what?” Sharon asked.

  Brad waggled a finger at her. “What you just did?”

  “Huh?” Sharon shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Add it to the job description—what you just did.” He winked. “You know, ‘Roll eyes at boss, regularly, to signal astonishment’.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Brad arrived at Susannah Foo’s fifteen minutes before his scheduled lunch with Paula Thompson. He had called for a reservation earlier that morning only to learn the restaurant was booked solid at lunchtime, but they agreed to put his name on a wait list. Within seconds of his arrival, the manager recognized him.

  “Ah, Mr. Frame,” she said, beckoning him forward from the reservation queue. “I have a table for you.” She escorted him to a table for two, and Brad slipped into the banquette leaving the chair for Thompson. A waitress promptly arrived asking if he’d like a drink, and Brad ordered iced tea.

  Awaiting her arrival, Brad studied the menu and watched the other patrons. The best advice he’d ever gotten from a criminology professor was to study human behavior most keenly when there was no urgent need, since it would only sharpen perceptions for those times when people are wearing their emotional masks. He glanced from table to table, eyeing customers, deciding if they were engaged in a business meeting, enjoying a cozy midday rendezvous, or just relaxing after a harrowing morning. How many others in the restaurant, he wondered, laughing to himself, would be swapping notes about a murder case.

  Thompson arrived precisely at twelve-thirty. She exhaled as she plopped down across from him, juggling a blue vinyl portfolio and wearing a green corduroy jumper over a tan blouse. “I’m here,” she announced, sounding out of breath. “I don’t have that many luncheon meetings and it threw off my morning routine. And then I took the wrong exit from the City Hall subway and had to walk a couple of extra blocks.”

  “I’m glad you made it,” Brad said.

  The waitress came by to tell them about the luncheon special—scallops and prawns in a lime-ginger sauce—and to take Thompson’s drink order.

  “Thanks for coming to my dad’s funeral,” Brad said when the waitress had left.

  “What do you have for me?” Thompson asked, getting down to business.

  “Our conversation still on background?”

  She nodded, looking annoyed. Brad scrutinized her face. She seemed easy to read, he thought. Guileless. The passion for her work oozed from her pores.

  Brad extracted a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. She studied it as he explained, “That is Wilkie’s final message to me.”

  “The superintendent sent you the list of Bible verses he found.”

  “No.” When Thompson looked perplexed, Brad explained, “In a tribute to our state’s great bureaucracy, he was ordered not to share that information. I can’t tell you how it came into my possession.”

  The waitress returned and they both ordered the lunch special, with Thompson selecting hot and sour while Brad chose wonton soup.

  Eyeing the paper Brad had given her, Thompson said, “Clearly you’d like to know who paid for the kidnapping?”

  A diner at the next table flashed Brad a look when Thompson said kidnapping.

  Circumspect in his response, Brad said, “I’m always anxious to find the truth.”

  Thompson frowned. “I’m not sure if my edit
or will let me use this.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t have independent confirmation of what you’ve told me. I need a second source.” Her eyes brightened, “I could request the list from the Corrections’ department under the state’s Freedom of Information Act,” Thompson said.

  “You’ll probably receive it in a couple months,” Brad said, knowing how slowly bureaucracy grinds. “But it’s only half of the information required to piece the message together—the rest are the pages from the Bible.”

  Studying her face, it looked to Brad like the wheels were turning in her brain.

  “I may hold off using this for a while,” she said, folding the note Brad had given her and sticking it into her portfolio.

  “I won’t mind,” Brad said. “I shared information with you like I promised. If what Wilkie’s message suggests is true—and this morning I was reminded he might only be jerking my chain—then I’ll keep working to find the person responsible. If you delay telling the world, it will give me more time.”

  “My editor agreed to let me do a series on the death penalty in Pennsylvania,” Thompson said.

  “With a pro slant, I’m sure.” Brad smiled.

  The waitress delivered their meals on sizzling metal serving dishes, the citrus and ginger aromas floating to their nostrils.

  After she’d taken a few bites of food, Thompson stared across the table. “I know we disagree on the death penalty. I think it’s a barbaric ritual unworthy of people who call themselves civilized.”

  Brad shook his head. “Don’t assume we disagree. Sometimes I think the only one who got any peace of mind from Wilkie’s execution was Frank Wilkie. Lethal injection is one form of punishment—irreversible to be sure—but is the alternative of another forty-five or fifty years locked away in a forty-five square foot cell any less barbaric? Unless you don’t believe in punishment for crime, in which case we definitely disagree.”

  “Would you agree that sometimes the innocent are executed?” Thompson asked.

  “You’re not suggesting Wilkie was innocent?”

  Brushing droopy curls away from her eyes, Thompson said, “Let me ask you a question for an on-the-record response?”

  “Sure, as long as no comment can count as my response.”

  “Can you ever forgive Frank Wilkie?” she asked.

  The question stung, like Merthiolate applied to an open wound. Brad had asked himself the same question, too often. “My spiritual and family upbringing taught me forgiveness, and I never knew anyone more forgiving than my mother.” Brad said. “I guess it’s the left side of my brain that can understand the warped behavior of a sociopath or even a psychopath and forgive him.” Brad paused. Knowing she would quote him, he wanted to make sure the words came out right. “Honestly, there are places inside of me untouched by any left-brain logic or my mother’s spirit of forgiveness—the unforgiving shadows of my soul.”

  Brad smiled. He’d just hung up the phone from talking with Beth Montgomery, and had arranged a lunch meeting with her during his trip to New York City the following Tuesday for the Joedco annual stockholder’s meeting. Brad had wished for more time with her, initially offering Beth dinner and a Broadway show, but her work took her on a trip to Cleveland later that day so he had to settle for lunch. He’d just entered her cell phone number into his smart phone from the scribbled notation on his desktop when Sharon dashed into the office.

  “How did your test go,” he asked.

  “Okay, I guess,” she replied, hurriedly, before changing the subject. “Earlier today, after you left, I came over here to do a workout.” Sharon pointed toward the spiral staircase in the office that led to a fully equipped gym on the second floor. “I’d just finished on the treadmill and started using free weights when I heard a noise down here in the office.”

  Brad sat forward in his chair.

  “Then I heard your brother on the phone.”

  “Yeah, I told him he could use the office. Not a problem.”

  “But I think he was talking with Ron Allessi,” Sharon said, concern etched on her face.

  Brad digested the information, sensing that it muddied an already cloudy picture forming in his mind.

  “Your brother wasn’t talking very much,” Sharon continued. “I heard him say, ‘Yes, Mr. Allessi,’ twice. And he definitely mentioned ‘Diane’ a couple of times. After that conversation, he made a bunch of calls—five or six—a couple to his office, I think.”

  Brad pulled the phone in front of him, studied the digital display screen, and said, “Let’s find out.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Brad lit paper and kindling in the fireplace, enough to set a sturdy oak log ablaze and take the chill out of the office before their scheduled meeting with Nick Argostino. He gazed out the patio door at the sapphire blue sky in the last moments of twilight. Decorative outdoor lighting illuminated the edge of the patio and low-voltage spotlights brought the trees that edged his backyard into focus against the deep blue sky.

  He heard a rustling in the hallway and turned, expecting to see Sharon. Instead, Andy swaggered into the office, and thrust a sheet of paper into his hands. “The corporate communications’ office e-mailed me this. Let me know what you think.”

  Andy rocked on his heels with his hands clasped behind his back. Brad knew he didn’t enjoy waiting on other people.

  Brad glanced at the paper and said, “That looks fine.”

  “But you didn’t even read it.”

  “Yes, I did. It’s the press release announcing our intention to seek Board approval to name you Chairman and CEO of Joedco. It works for me. I have papers I’d like you to read.” Brad reached into a nearby box and retrieved a brown accordion portfolio. After untying the string from the bulging folder, he extracted a document several pages thick attached to a blue cover. “It’s from Mother’s will.” Brad handed the yellowed pages to his brother, pointing to a section near the end of the document. “What do you make of that?”

  Andy read silently, pulling his suit coat back and tucking his thumb inside his belt. “I never knew about any of this. According to this, if Mom predeceases Dad—which she did—then Gertrude Cole becomes her sole beneficiary. Is that Gertie Lindstrom?”

  Brad sat at his makeshift desk. “I believe it is.”

  Andy snickered, and Brad scowled.

  “Take a look at codicil number one of the will,” Brad said. “When she established trust funds for each of us, it replaced the earlier provision.”

  Andy flipped through his mother’s will, nodding as his eyes moved methodically across the page while his index finger marked progress down the length of the document. “It must have something to do with Gertie lending them the money to start the business.”

  “Do you have a copy of their agreement at the office?” Brad asked.

  “I’m sure the legal department can locate one.”

  “Send it to me.”

  As Andy took out a small appointment book from his inside coat pocket and scribbled a note of reminder, Brad continued, “I need additional information.”

  “Shoot,” Andy said, pencil still poised above the book.

  “Get me a list of all the Joedco stock transactions for ten days before Mom and Lucy were kidnapped and ten days afterward.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m following up on a lead you gave me this morning when you talked about how much Joedco stock had dropped after news of Mom’s kidnapping and death.”

  “Yeah, that’s a hell of a good idea.” Andy folded the press release, returning it to his coat pocket along with the appointment book, then turned to leave. “Well, I’m off to a meeting. Barbara and the kids are visiting her parents tonight.”

  Brad stopped him. “Why do you have such a low opinion of Gertie Lindstrom?”

  Andy turned back to him and scowled. “Because she was an anachronistic old fusspot. She made my work twice as difficult. I don’t know how Dad could stand her all those years. He should’ve just boug
ht out her interest and let her go. Gertie would write three-page memos asking for detailed justification on travel expenditures. She questioned every sole-source contract I ever wanted to write, in spite of the fact that because of patent restrictions on technology, most of the suppliers we dealt with were the only source available for our satellite components. She even demanded receipts for items that cost less than two bucks. The company was paying me to do far more important things than jump through her hoops.”

  Brad pushed back his chair and swiveled to watch Andy. “I’d like to hear more about those threatening notes you mentioned this morning.”

  Andy froze in mid-step. “What?”

  “You heard me. What were you doing fifteen years ago that would make an anonymous person warn you that you wouldn’t get away with it?”

  Andy made eye contact with Brad.

  “I was building a successful company, that’s what I was doing. Fifteen years ago we weren’t even on the Fortune 1000 list.” Andy drew in a breath. “That’s what I was doing.”

  “Did you fire somebody?” Brad asked.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Did you fire anybody that might then send you threatening notes?”

  “No. Not that I can recall.” Andy threw his hands up in the air.

  Brad folded his arms across his chest. “Were you fooling around with somebody’s wife? Or, maybe somebody’s wife was fooling around with you. Is that a better way to ask it?”

  Andy erupted. “That’s none of your damn business.” His right hand curled into a fist.

  “Your marriage to Diane was on the rocks long before Mom and Lucy were killed, wasn’t it?”

  “I plead my rights under the Fifth Amendment.”

  The phone rang. Brad let it ring three times before answering, then recognized his detective mentor on the other end of the line. “Hey, Nick.”

  “About our meeting tonight,” he heard Nick Argostino say.