Code Rojo

by Ray Flynt

  She returned moments later carrying her cape. “If my phone rings, Ms. Padgett will answer. I should return after lunch. Any questions?”

  I settled into the chair behind my new desk. “No. I’ll get started on that spreadsheet.”

  Carmen paused on her way out. “Oh, and Ms. Rojo….”

  I glanced over at her. “Yes.”

  “Isaac may have gotten you into this job. How long you stay is entirely up to me. Understand?”

  Following Oliver’s advice, I hid my true thoughts behind a smile. “Of course, Ms. Castillo.”

  If my assignment played out the way I expected, she’d be cursing my name for years to come.

  6

  I let myself into Oliver’s apartment and collapsed on the sofa with my head cradled in his lap. “That felt like the longest workday I’ve ever had.”

  While I stared at the ceiling, Oliver kneaded his fingers into my shoulders. “What happened?”

  I spent the next twenty minutes recapping my day, including the abbreviated interview with Carmen Castillo and the wrestling match with estate figures on Excel. “You wouldn’t believe the terms of Zandor’s will, leaving miniscule percentages to long lists of charities, with numbers out to eight decimal places.”

  “I was a bit worried when you didn’t respond to my text after lunch.”

  I sighed. “Honestly, I was drowning in spreadsheet formulas. Hope the man has a lot of money, because if that was my estate, each charity would be lucky to get half-a-cent.”

  Oliver drew his finger along the nape of my neck eliciting shudders. “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes.”

  “I could make pasta primavera.”

  An amazing cook, Oliver bested my kitchen skills, but I wanted to eat out.

  “Let’s visit the bistro around the corner. I’ve been cooped up in an office and eager for fresh air and a change of scenery.”

  “Works for me.”

  Two glasses of chardonnay later I felt more relaxed, but couldn’t stop talking about my day. “Carmen never returned to the office. Not sure what’s up with that. I propped the door open for a view to Ellie’s desk and so that she could attest to my keeping busy. But every time I glanced at her hair, I pictured Kermit the Frog singing Rainbow Connection.”

  Oliver laughed. “I think Carmen might have been at a budget meeting on my floor.”

  “How so?”

  “My boss stopped in just before 5:30 p.m. with a message about a conference call tomorrow morning. Making conversation, I asked how her afternoon went. She muttered, ‘Not bad except for Dragon Lady.’ There’s no love lost between them.”

  I shared Carmen’s comment about how Isaac may have gotten me the job, but my staying would be up to her.

  Oliver raised an eyebrow. “Not surprising given her reputation.”

  The server arrived bearing our food: salmon and couscous for me; a medium filet and baked potato for Oliver. We were both hungry, and conversation stopped while we dined.

  Between bites my phone dinged with a text from Warren Tulverson inquiring how my day had gone. I dashed off a quick reply. “Eating dinner. TTYL.” Truth was I didn’t have much to report. Later, I would send him an email highlighting my great proximity to their target. However, Howard Parson never had made an appearance. Perhaps they misjudged how crucial his law office was for their investigation.

  A few minutes later, Oliver pushed back his chair and groaned while holding his tummy. Still, when the server asked if we wanted to see dessert menus, he blurted, “I’m game.”

  When she returned, I read him the choices.

  “What are you having?”

  “I’ll have a bite of yours.”

  Oliver grinned. “If you had to pick between a bite of crème brûlée and tiramisu, which would you choose?”

  “Tiramisu.” I motioned for the server, added an order of cappuccino, and moments later she set the items in front of us.

  Oliver reached for my hand. “I’m glad you’re staying with me. It’s nice to have such beautiful company.”

  “You’ll think differently when all my lotions and creams crowd out the sink in your bathroom.”

  He laughed.

  Our relationship had grown more serious—in a steady fashion—over the past couple of years. Oliver often hinted about making it more permanent. Every time he did, I managed a quip explaining why it wouldn’t work. He always laughed, undeterred till the next time he brought up the subject.

  A short, rotund man entered the restaurant. While waiting to be seated, he glanced in the direction of our table then held his gaze. Although Oliver’s facial features didn’t broadcast his blindness, his white cane often elicited stares in public places. I figured that was the case until the man strode toward our table.

  “Hi, Oliver.”

  Oliver pivoted toward him. “Hey, Ron. How’s it going?”

  This must be the guy from the office who lives in his building.

  Ron tossed a curious glance at me. “Good. Unlike you, I’m dining alone tonight. Who’s the lucky lady?”

  “Oh, Ron Needell, meet Sharon—”

  “Rojo.” I thrust out my hand. “Sharon Rojo.” Oliver has no guile. His what-you-see-is-what-you-get persona is great for a relationship, but I couldn’t risk jeopardizing my clandestine assignment in case he happened to say my real last name.

  Ron eagerly reached to shake, followed by a look of recognition in his eyes. “Ah, Ms. Castillo’s new assistant.” His grip wilted and he withdrew his hand.

  I didn’t expect my presence to be tainted by my association with the Dragon Lady and tried to make the best of it. “Good news travels fast.”

  He offered a broad smile. “Welcome to the firm.”

  “Thanks.”

  Oliver piped up. “Would you like to join us?”

  I nudged his foot under the table.

  “I mean, if you have time,” he added.

  Ron shot me a dare-I-risk-it expression. “Uh, you guys are already working on your dessert. I’ll sit and nurse a Scotch while I decide. Thanks anyway.”

  “Good to talk with you, Ron.” Oliver waved as Ron trundled toward the bar.

  When he was out of hearing range, I asked, “Is that your downstairs neighbor?”

  “Uh, huh.” Oliver bobbed his head.

  “What’s he do at the firm?”

  “He’s the partner in charge of the medical malpractice division.”

  “So if your boss was in a budget session, maybe Ron was at the same meeting.”

  Oliver licked the spoon from the last of his tiramisu. “Makes sense.”

  “Based on his reaction toward me, Ron must’ve also had a tough time with Carmen. But why was she there? She’s not a partner.”

  Oliver leaned toward me and whispered. “From what I hear, because of his political status Howard Parson is a rainmaker for the firm. He attracts a large percentage of their business. He’s one of the partners, and they tolerate him poking his head into whatever he wants.”

  Based on my few minutes with Dragon Lady, I could see how she enjoyed acting as Parson’s eyes, ears, and big mouth.

  7

  Brad waited patiently in a Windsor chair in Archie Greer’s outer office, presided over by a gray-haired gatekeeper who looked like she might have come with the lease. The lawyer’s modest quarters were located on the ground floor of a brick townhouse in the Historic District, within sight of Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell. The room featured waxed plank floors, rough-plastered walls, and Colonial-style furniture. A visitor wandering in off the street might conclude they’d arrived at Betsy Ross’s house. The quaint atmosphere belied Greer’s $1,250 billable hour charge.

  Greer had cultivated his public persona as the master of ten-second soundbites the media gobbled up like candy on Halloween. He’d step in front of a bank of cameras wearing his trademark three-piece gray suit and burgundy bow tie, pause long enough to ensure reporters hung on his every word, and make his pronouncement in a
resonant baritone James Earl Jones might envy. Then he took questions—no more than three—smiled, waved, and departed.

  “Mr. Greer will see you now.” The gatekeeper tapped a pen on her desk to shake him from his thoughts. “Ah, Mr. Frame.”

  Brad stood. “Thank you.” He pushed open the door to the inner office to find Archie with his shirtsleeves rolled up.

  Archie’s tie lay in a heap on the corner of his desk, while coat and vest hung on 18th Century wall pegs. With his phone’s receiver pressed against his ear, he motioned toward a seat and covered the mouthpiece with his free hand. “Come in, Brad. I need another minute.”

  The second Windsor chair of the morning had a cushion, which made the wait more bearable. Watching the pendulum swing on the antique case clock created an hypnotic effect. While the attorney focused on finishing his phone call, Brad fixed his eyes on a framed picture of an editorial cartoon depicting Archie Greer, with a larger-than-life toothy grin and outsized bow tie, standing next to a stoic Alex Nagel, drawn in combat fatigues. The case had transformed Greer’s career from defender of the high-and-mighty to champion of the little guy and also marked Brad’s first time working with him.

  Alex Nagel, a young Army lieutenant, had returned to Philadelphia after his third tour of duty in Afghanistan only to find his wife in bed with at-large Councilman Calvin Morrissey, Jr. Nagel shot and killed them both.

  Despite overwhelming evidence, including a blurted admission of guilt by Nagel to the police, Greer managed to secure an acquittal, further burnishing his credentials as Philadelphia’s best criminal defense attorney.

  Greer hung up the phone. “Sorry about that. Did you look through the discovery materials I sent you on the Joaquin Hernandez case?”

  “I did. My associate and I also visited McCurdy’s home.”

  The lawyer leaned back in his chair. “Thoughts?”

  “I can’t figure out Hernandez’s motive for the crime.”

  Greer arched an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Did you read the neighbor’s account of the argument Hernandez had with McCurdy?”

  “Sure, but there’s no indication that anything came from it. Hernandez’s power tools woke McCurdy, who worked a night job, and he made a few threats. Hernandez ignored them, finished the fence, and got paid.”

  “You think the neighbor lady exaggerated her story?”

  Brad shrugged. “Not sure. It’s probably the same woman Sharon and I saw giving us the evil eye when we surveyed McCurdy’s backyard the other day. From what she described in her statement, I can picture McCurdy letting off steam after being awakened. It hardly seems like anything that would spur someone to murder.”

  Greer smiled. “That’s a point I can argue in front of the jury. It wasn’t like McCurdy deprived Hernandez of his livelihood. But maybe you can explain a detail to me.”

  Brad sensed a landmine. “Sure.”

  “Why’d he stick around McCurdy’s place after finishing the fence? His truck parked there for hours after getting paid. Why didn’t he go home?”

  Brad stroked his chin. “I have a theory.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “From what I’ve seen, Hernandez is a creature of habit. He ate at the same fish and chips place each day he worked on the fence. When he collected his check, he visited the nearest bank to cash it, then stopped into an adjacent bar to celebrate the fruits of his labor. After all, the guy lived with his mother. He’s in his early thirties, right?”

  Greer opened a file folder on his desk and scanned a piece of paper. “Thirty-two.”

  “Not much incentive for a guy like that to hurry home to Mom.”

  Greer nodded. “What’s next on your schedule?”

  “I’d like to talk with Hernandez.”

  “No problem. I’ll call and make sure your name is on the list for court-related visitation.”

  “When do you see him next?” Brad asked.

  “Next Monday. I have a conference with the DA next week to discuss pre-trial motions and need to see Hernandez before then.”

  Brad scooted forward in his chair. “I also want to chat with his mother and canvas the neighborhood, maybe talk directly with the woman who witnessed McCurdy’s argument with Hernandez. Do you have a trial date?”

  “They’re talking late-April, after Easter. If you have any revelations before I see the DA, let me know.”

  “I’ll be in touch.” Brad aimed his finger at the framed editorial cartoon. “Hernandez isn’t going to attract the jury’s sympathy the way Alex Nagel did.”

  “He’s no war hero, that’s for sure.” Greer pushed back his chair as if preparing to escort Brad from the office.

  “There’s another matter I’d like to discuss.”

  The attorney waved a go-ahead gesture.

  “Nick Argostino, the silent partner in my detective business, strenuously objects to my working on this case.”

  Greer frowned.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not bailing out on you. You never mentioned that McCurdy was an ex-cop.”

  He cocked his head then rustled through a file folder on his desk. “Don’t think I knew it.”

  “Sharon spotted it on McCurdy’s obituary. I have to find out if Nick’s concern goes deeper than me working on behalf of an accused killer of an ex-cop.”

  Greer laced his fingers behind his head. “An interesting point we could use to our advantage. Maybe the real killer had a beef with McCurdy from his days on the police force. Check if any cons he helped put away recently got out of prison. If so, I could use it to put forth an alternate theory to raise reasonable doubt with the jury.”

  It wasn’t what Brad had in mind. He suspected a complicated history between Nick and Bennett McCurdy. “If nothing else, maybe Nick can tell me how McCurdy acquired the nickname Bend.”

  “I’ll tell you how,” Greer scoffed. “Because he bent the rules in dealing with suspects. He earned the name while on the force, and years later it got him killed.”

  Greer was already practicing his summation for the jury.

  8

  That afternoon Brad traveled to South Philly to meet with Denisa Hernandez, mother of the accused. She lived in a two-story row house on S. Lambert Street in the Girard Estates section of the city. “Estates” conjured too fancy an image for the tree-lined neighborhood, which looked like most row house-packed streets throughout Philadelphia. However, her façade featured Formstone, a masonry product applied in panels and designed to imitate stone. Brad gripped the wrought-iron railing and climbed five steps to knock on the door.

  Ms. Hernandez should be expecting him since he’d called ahead, but no one answered his repeated knocks.

  Brad pulled out his cell and punched in the same number where he’d spoken with her an hour earlier. Denisa answered after three rings.

  “Ms. Hernandez, this is Brad Frame. I’ve been knocking on your front door.”

  “Oh…I’m in the basement doing laundry. Didn’t hear you. I’ll be right there.”

  Half a minute later, the front door swung open revealing Denisa’s grin and sputtered apologies. She pushed back a lock of hair dangling in front of her eyes and invited Brad in.

  Coming from bright sunshine into a darkened space, it took a moment to adjust his vision. Like his visit to McCurdy’s row house, a set of wooden stairs to the second floor lined the sidewall, while a red-curtained archway hid what lay beyond the living room. A whiff of incense teased his nostrils. Heavy drapes blocked the natural light, navy blue throws covered the furniture, while religious objects dotted the room. A two-foot ceramic statue of the Virgin Mary sat on a marble-topped table in front of the window, behind an unlit votive candle. A Bible lay on the coffee table splayed open, bookmarked by a string of rosary beads. A wooden crucifix hung on the wall with dried palm fronds tucked behind.

  Denisa, wearing a tie-dyed caftan, looked younger than he’d expected. She pointed at a sofa and eased her ample proportions into
an adjacent chair. She leaned toward him. “You have news of my son?”

  Brad handed her his card. “As I explained on the phone, I’m an investigator for his attorney, Archibald Greer. I’m hoping you might have information that would help with your son’s defense.”

  He sat back and waited for her to react. Open-ended conversation tended to yield better results than posing specific questions. In her statement to the police about the night of the murder, Joaquin did not return home until after midnight. That’s when she went to bed and he hadn’t arrived home.

  “My son is not a murderer.”

  Brad nodded sympathetically. “Tell me about Joaquin.”

  She winced. “He goes by Joe. Joaquin was his father’s name.”

  “Is his father still around?”

  She shook her head.

  “Do you have other children?

  “No. Joaquin abandoned me about two years after Joe was born. He insisted naming the baby after him, but aside from bragging rights, didn’t take an active role.”

  “Do you ever hear from him?”

  “He died when Joe was eight. They had very little contact. As far as Joe’s concerned, his father never mattered.”

  “You didn’t remarry.”

  Her expression turned rueful, as if there might have once been a prospect, then shook her head.

  “I know he lived elsewhere, how long had he been living with you before his arrest?”

  “Six or seven months.”

  “Where had he lived and what prompted him to move back in with you?”

  Denisa sighed. “He stayed with his girlfriend in Manayunk. They broke up.”

  Brad pulled out his notebook. “What’s her name?”

  She shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  Brad eyed her skeptically.

  She added, “They weren’t that close.”

  Close enough to be living together.

  Was her response a mother’s distrust of another woman in her son’s life? Brad found himself asking more questions than he’d hoped. He stared at her, hoping silence might provoke a reaction. Beyond the curtained archway to the kitchen, a cuckoo chimed two o’clock.