by Ray Flynt
CODE
ROJO
A Brad Frame Mystery
Ray Flynt
Copyright © 2019 Ray Flynt
All rights reserved.
Cover photo: Harold Stiver/Shutterstock.com
DEDICATION
April and Carl Rosendale
CODE
ROJO
A Brad Frame Mystery
1
Brad Frame stared at the cryptic text message Nick Argostino sent on Sunday night.
Coming to see you and Sharon in the morning. Important.
Nick, a Philadelphia police captain, left no hint of the reason why. He was the silent partner in the Frame Detective Agency and had muttered the word retirement more frequently over the past six months. Perhaps he’d finally decided to cut his ties with the police department and wanted to break the news in person.
A whiff of Old English greeted Brad as he walked into his office just before nine on Monday morning. The lemony scent and gleaming oak partners’ desk reminded him that the cleaning crew had worked over the weekend. The desk had once graced his father’s office. Footprints on the vacuumed wool rug led to a fireplace aglow with kindling. Sharon Porter, his associate, had already been there.
Brad’s two-story office and private gym connected to his Bryn Mawr estate via a breezeway. He peered out the window at the dusting of snow from a late-winter storm, which spruced up the landscape the way confectioners’ sugar enhances a cake. He glanced toward Sharon’s apartment, located above a three-car garage at the opposite end of the property, and saw no lights in her windows that gray morning.
Before sitting, Brad admired souvenirs of memorable cases displayed on the credenza and wall behind his desk, like the wax apple with the embedded spent bullet casing, harkening back to a South Carolina deputy sheriff, and his summons to Montgomery County jury duty from a few years earlier. His most recent addition: a framed Playbill from the Broadway opening of Gambit, a play by award-winning author Zane Scott Tilghman.
The door opened and Sharon, wearing a jacket over her camel-colored skirt and ivory blouse, entered along with a draft of cold air. She hoisted a carafe of coffee in salute. “You said Nick’s coming this morning. Figured I’d have the coffee ready.”
Brad laughed. “Yeah, he’s best when caffeinated.”
Hickory logs caught fire from the kindling, while Sharon placed the steaming pot onto a warming plate adjacent to the leather sofa. “What’s this all about?”
Brad shrugged. “No idea. Nick provided no details.”
Sharon sat on the opposite side of the desk and studied a sticky note Brad had left for her. “Does Nick know you got a new case last Friday?”
“Nope.”
“What time do you expect him?”
Brad slid a glass earth paperweight in front of him and hummed while his hands hovered over the orb like it was a crystal ball.
Sharon rolled her eyes. “Forget I asked. Did you remember to open the gate?”
“I did.” Brad pointed toward the window. “He’s here.”
Sharon, who had looked glum, craned her neck toward the cobblestone drive. “No. Nick drives a blue car.”
“Then someone else drove, ’cause Nick just got out of the passenger seat.”
Sharon jumped up, raced to the visitor’s entrance, and cracked opened the door in anticipation.
Brad’s first encounter with Nick Argostino had taken place during the kidnap and murder investigation of Edith and Lucy Frame, Brad’s mother and sister, nearly two decades earlier. Nick was the Philadelphia police detective assigned to their case. Sparks flew between them at first. Impatient to solve their murder, Brad had posted a reward and used the family fortune to loosen the tongues of snitches who led them to the killers. Later, he joined forces with Nick to form the agency where he could bring justice to others. Nick remained a trusted advisor.
“Hey, Sharon.” Nick gave her a big hug. Another man followed behind.
Nick hadn’t changed much over the years, although more salt joined the pepper in his moustache. He waived at Brad. “Sharon, Brad, I want you to meet Warren Tulverson, he’s with the State Attorney General’s office.”
Brad cast Nick a thanks-for-the-heads-up look and offered both men coffee, while Sharon hung up their coats on the nearby rack. After grabbing a notebook from the desk, he guided his visitors toward the sofas. “We’ll be more comfortable near the fireplace.”
Nick sat closest to the coffee with Tulverson next to him holding a leather portfolio in his lap. He looked to be fortyish, with a ruddy complexion, and dirty blonde hair cut short. His navy suit and red, white, and blue striped tie contrasted sharply with Nick’s casual jeans and cardigan.
Brad sat opposite them, next to Sharon. “What can we do for you?”
Nick gulped coffee before he spoke. “I’m just along for the ride. Let me kick this off, and then you’ll be dealing with Warren. He worked for me a few years back, but when he got a shot at working for the AG in the Emerald City he took it and escaped our little backwater town.”
Warren’s failure to react to the dig spoke volumes about how well he knew Nick.
“When Warren called me recently looking for help on a case, I recommended you.” Nick gestured toward Sharon, though Brad was sure he meant both of them.
Brad leaned forward in his seat. “Thanks for coming all the way from Harrisburg to see us.”
Warren handed each of them his business card, identifying him as an agent with the state’s Bureau of Criminal Investigations. “I’m not in the Emerald City, as Nick likes to call it. My office is in Norristown. We’re investigating a case of political corruption in the City of Philadelphia, and we’d like to use you, ma’am,” he pointed at Sharon, “inside the target’s organization.”
Sharon sputtered. “Um…I’m not sure…I’d like to know more.”
Warren turned his palm upward. “Obviously, I can’t compel you. Nick trusts you; so do I. In the event you decide not to tackle this assignment, the details I’m about to share never leave this room.”
Sharon blurted, “Of course.”
Brad nodded.
“Philadelphia has a seventeen member City Council. Seven are elected at-large, while each of the others represent a specific district of about 150,000 residents. Howard Parson is councilman for the 6th District, which hugs the Delaware River north of downtown. Philadelphia has a practice known as councilmanic prerogative, where the other members of City Council defer to the recommendations of the representative in whose district a development project is slated. Along these lines, the city sells vacant and abandoned properties. We have reason to believe Parson is conspiring with developers to purchase land at a bargain basement price—using his special influence—which will then be turned around and sold at a substantial profit to another developer.”
Brad glanced at Sharon. “Parson would then split the proceeds with the original developer?”
“Exactly.” Warren barely dipped his head.
Sharon raised her index finger. “You have reason to believe…what do you mean by that?”
“We got a tip. Howard Parson had a conversation recently in a private suite at a Flyers’ game suggesting such a scheme. The information is reliable enough for us to look deeper, but the source is already on probation for his own problems, including perjury in a Federal racketeering case. His motivation in sharing might be to help his own situation.”
“When you lie down with dogs,” Nick muttered, “you get up with fleas.”
Sharon scratched her head. “You mentioned my going inside his organization. Do you mean City Hall?”
“No. Although members of City Council earn a salary of nearly $150,000 per year, there is no prohibition against outside income. Howard remains a partner at Bignell, Watk
ins, and Clark. How much legal work he does is unclear.”
Nick glanced toward Warren. “Another scumbag lawyer. Imagine that.”
Sharon gasped. “That’s where Oliver works.”
“Yes, I spoke with Mr. Reynolds last Friday. He speaks very highly of you. He’s aware of our investigation and willing to assist.”
Sharon pouted. “But I saw Oliver over the weekend and he never mentioned anything.”
Sharon had first met Oliver Reynolds when they worked together at the Bucks County juvenile probation office. They’d been dating for several years, and Oliver had earned his law degree at the end of last year.
The Attorney General’s rep grinned. “Exactly why, with his discretion, he’s a good man to help.”
Sharon’s face flashed frustration. “But if you have him, I don’t understand why you need me.”
Warren paused and looked over at Nick. “Well, given his disability, it helps to have someone who can bring eyes and ears to the project.”
Sharon’s jaw tightened.
Brad sensed she was about to erupt. Her temper could blaze brighter than her amber curls. Blind since birth, Oliver had honed his other senses and been invaluable on a couple of their cases.
Sharon’s hand batted the air. “Forget it. You don’t need me. He can see better without eyesight than most people with 20/20 vision.”
“I’m not downplaying Oliver’s skills,” Warren responded. “Otherwise he wouldn’t be working at a law office. If you find documentary evidence, you’d be able to detect its value in a shorter period of time. There will be occasions during this assignment when time is of the essence. The two of you would still be working together.”
Sharon settled back, her mouth an unreadable flat line. “It’s still not clear to me exactly what I’d be doing. I’m not a lawyer. Couldn’t pass myself off as one. You want me to wear a wire?”
Warren shook his head. “Nothing like that. We have another insider at the firm, whose name I can’t divulge. In a few days’ time, with your consent, we’ll arrange for your employment under an assumed name in an administrative capacity. It’s a large firm with more than a hundred and twenty employees, so you should be able to blend in. You’ll have routine duties you’re fully capable of performing. Keep your eyes and ears open, monitor Mr. Parson’s comings and goings, as well as the identity of people who might visit him. I’ve been assured that your work station will be in proximity to his office.”
Nick reached to pour himself more coffee.
Sharon pivoted in Brad’s direction, as if soliciting his advice.
Brad pressed his palms together. “What kinds of risk do you see with this assignment?”
“Probably no more than what you’re doing now.” Warren addressed Sharon. “We never know what the bad guys will do when they feel cornered. This guy is into greed, not mayhem.”
Brad narrowed his eyes. “Will you be her point-of-contact?”
“Yes.”
Brad gazed at Sharon, who seemed satisfied with his contributions to the discussion. “Is there anything you’d like me to do? I just picked up a new assignment from Archie Greer last week.”
Nick scowled and grumbled. “Speaking of scumbags.”
Brad acted like he hadn’t heard the dig, but Nick pressed the point. “It’s not the Hernandez case is it? That’s a slam dunk.”
“Sorry. Confidentiality.”
Nick set down his coffee cup, pushed forward in his seat, and jabbed a finger in Brad’s direction. “Don’t do this. I’ve seen Greer’s mumbo jumbo in front of a jury where he makes left seem like right. He’ll scream reasonable doubt till they don’t know up from down. Don’t fucking sully your reputation for the sake of a cocky, streetwise punk for whom a needle at Rockview would be a blessing.”
Warren clapped his hand on Nick’s shoulder. “I’m sure you guys can debate this later.”
Nick sat with taut lips. His arms folded across his chest.
“To answer your question, Mr. Frame, Sharon can feel free to solicit your advice. Nothing is required of you but your discretion on the details we’ve discussed.” Warren turned toward her. “If you’d like more time to think, I can return in a day or two.”
After staring at the floor, Sharon cleared her throat. “What about non-office hours? Am I supposed to follow this guy?”
“You’re not carrying the entire investigation. I can’t discuss all of the operational details, but the Attorney General’s office is committed to rooting out political corruption. You and Oliver will act as sounding boards where Parson works. Besides, word is this guy can’t manage to tackle much more than showing up on his own. On the home front, there’re his wife and five kids under the age of thirteen. We think his office, where he’s surrounded by support staff, will be a prime locus for any acts of conspiracy.”
Sharon leaned forward with her elbows balanced on her knees. “If I have a hunch, can I follow him?”
“After you check with me.” Silence followed, until Warren asked, “You’re in?”
“Yes.” Sharon bobbed her head.
Nick stood, his expression still sour. “I’ll see you at the car.” He grabbed his coat and left, slamming the door behind him. A blast of cold air sent a tornado of sparks up the fireplace chimney.
Warren apologized. “Nick gets passionate. I’ll talk to him.”
Brad held up his palm. “We’ve had run-ins before. I’ll deal with it.”
Warren opened his portfolio and handed two items to Sharon. “Here’s the résumé for your job application, and a new State-issued driver’s license. Oliver told us about your Instagram account and we found that picture.”
Sharon gawked. “Oh my God, my Little Orphan Annie look.”
Brad recalled the time when a home perm resulted in her having tight curls. He noticed the new name on her photo ID. “Sharon Rojo.”
2
Brad stood next to the office window and watched as Tulverson’s car left the driveway.
Sharon tapped out a text on her phone, then sat at the desk studying the résumé Warren Tulverson had given her. “What the hell just happened?’
“Sounds like you have a budding new career.”
“Not me.” She wrinkled her mouth. “What’s going on with you and Nick?”
Brad filled his cup with coffee before settling into his own chair. “I’m not sure. He’s been pissed at me before. This feels different.”
“You said he didn’t know about our new case. It sure raised his ire fast enough.”
Brad gazed in the direction of the spiral stairs leading to the workout room. “No. He didn’t…but I mentioned to him last week that I’d be meeting with Archie Greer, which prompted a chilly reception on Nick’s part.”
Archibald “Archie” Greer had a reputation as Philadelphia’s most effective criminal defense attorney, earned while representing high-profile clients, like a former mayor, an Eagles’ running back, several corporate CEOs, and an Episcopal bishop. The man also handled prominent cases as a court-appointed public defender if it kept his name in the headlines. Despite his showboating nature, most of the time Greer got the job done.
“It’s funny,” Brad continued, “I’ve heard Nick wax eloquent on every person’s right to a fair trial. He’s reminded me that police holler the loudest for justice if they’re accused. This Hernandez case is sticking in his craw.”
“Maybe he’s not as confident about the evidence as he claims.”
Brad swiveled in Sharon’s direction. “You may have put your finger on the issue. Perhaps Nick found flaws in the procedures used by the investigating officers. Greer says his client claims to be innocent.”
Sharon did an eye roll. “Don’t they all?”
“I’m not in the jury pool, so he doesn’t have to convince me. His instruction: Go where the evidence leads. He’s having copies of discovery materials couriered here later this morning. After we review them, I thought we’d visit the crime scene, unless you need time to prepare
for your assignment with the AG’s office, or conjure up those Orphan Annie curls.”
“Shit.” Sharon ran fingers through her hair. “It might be worth trying that look again, just to minimize anyone recognizing me while I’m on this assignment.”
“Did you alert Oliver about the visit from the AG’s office?”
“I sent him a message. I can’t be too explicit, since I never know who might be around when he listens to his text to voice.” Sharon laughed. “This week he has it set up as an Australian female. Just imagine hearing, ‘Have I got news for you,’ in a down-under accent.”
Brad grinned. “Next time Oliver’s here I want a demonstration.”
“Sure.” Sharon opened her laptop on the desk in front of her. “Warren said it would be a couple of days before they’re ready for me, so I can visit the crime scene with you. Give me the basics on the Hernandez case. I’ll do a quick media search.”
Brad consulted his spiral pocket notebook. “Joaquin Hernandez. Thirty-two. Goes by Joe. Accused of bludgeoning Ben McCurdy, 58, in the backyard of his home on South 13th Street in East Passyunk.”
“South Philly.”
“Yup. According to Greer, McCurdy’s blood was found on Hernandez’s clothing and in his vehicle, and a food container at the scene contained the suspect’s DNA.”
“How did they know each other? What’s the alleged motive?”
“Greer says they didn’t know each other. Hernandez got laid off from a warehouse job in North Philly last summer. Since then, he relied on odd jobs—painting, hauling trash, small home repairs—to support himself. At the time of the murder, he was building a new fence for McCurdy’s next door neighbor.”
Sharon typed on her laptop, while Brad continued reciting what he knew. “Apparently, there was a run-in over too much noise made by a power saw. McCurdy complained, threatened to call the cops, and Hernandez uttered a few expletives in return.”
