by Ray Flynt
Denisa shifted in her seat and smoothed the caftan on her legs. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“No. I’d like you to tell me about your son.”
Her eyes glistened. “It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t…” The words caught in her throat. “I’d been so eager to marry, but Joaquin was never cut out to be a father. I knew that.” She wrung her hands. “All I wanted was to escape my own situation. I couldn’t see the harsher realities waiting for me.”
“Such as?”
“I was married at seventeen and a single mom by the age of twenty. I never finished high school. Lived on public assistance. The state went after Joaquin for child support, but as the saying goes, you can’t get blood out of a turnip. When Joe was old enough to go to school I started working.” She covered her mouth with her hand to hide her sobs. “He was a latchkey kid far younger than I would have liked.”
Denisa sniffled. “Ironically, when Joaquin died, Joe was the beneficiary of $50,000 in life insurance through his father’s employer. I had no idea. They tracked us down. It eased our lives for a few years, although I still had a hard time keeping up with the bills.”
“What kind of work did your husband do?”
“Millwork at a lumberyard out in Chester County.”
“How did Joe make out in school?”
She grimaced. “Not well. He never expressed interest in any subject. Joe enjoyed track but his grades held him back from staying on the team. That’s when he started getting into trouble.”
This tidbit came as a surprise, since no criminal history appeared in the discovery information. Most juvenile records wouldn’t be made public.
“What kind of trouble?”
“Shoplifting mostly.”
Brad arched his brow. Mostly? It meant Joe had had more serious charges.
“Was he institutionalized for his crimes?”
Denisa shook her head. “No. He spent a year on probation when he was fourteen.” She let out a sigh. “But once marked as a delinquent, every couple of months the police stopped by to question him.”
“What else besides shoplifting?”
She avoided his gaze. “On his sixteenth birthday, Joe and a couple of his buddies broke into a warehouse. They entered through a skylight and busted open a vending machine, taking snacks and money. After that episode, I grounded him. He seldom left my sight.”
“Did he get additional probation time?”
She crossed herself. “Thankfully, no. The father of one of the other boys owned the warehouse and didn’t push the matter. From that point on, I made Joe walk the straight and narrow. That didn’t stop the police from suspecting him.”
Brad expected her to continue, but instead she turned silent.
Finally, she blurted, “One guy, in particular, kept coming here. Most of the time I kept enough of an eye on Joe that I served as his alibi for any accusation.” She laughed. “Then a car got stolen just down the street and this detective showed up. I was visiting my sister when the incident happened, but Joe swore to me that he had nothing to do with it. The cop didn’t believe him and kept coming back…trying to wear Joe down.” Denisa pounded the air with her fist. “Harassment’s what it was.”
“Did you report the officer?”
Denisa flashed an are-you-kidding expression. “I have to live here. Cross the police and they’ll make your life hell.”
Brad didn’t have that experience, but he understood how such beliefs held in inner city neighborhoods.
Denisa must’ve sensed Brad’s skepticism. She batted the air in a dismissive gesture. “Anyway, that’s when Joe had his first run-in with McCurdy.”
This changes everything.
Brad perked up. “So Joe knew Bennett McCurdy when he worked for the Philadelphia Police?”
Her head bobbed. “Nothing good would come with that man. I could tell back then.”
In spite of what she’d said earlier about her son not being a murderer, it seemed as if she’d just put her finger on a possible motive.
9
On Thursday, I began my third day of work in the law office of City Councilman Howard Parson. It felt like a week. I’d had my fill of spreadsheets. Boredom characterized most of my time. Dragon Lady, whose assistant I was supposed to be, never showed on Wednesday or clued me into her whereabouts. I still hadn’t met the councilman. Ms. Rainbow Hair at the reception desk warmed a bit during our second day together and consented to having lunch today at a restaurant two blocks from the office.
Over chicken crepes I learned that Ellie Padgett’s tenure as Parson’s secretary had begun only two weeks earlier. She acknowledged her status as the latest in a long line of clerical staff, implying that her standoffishness during my first two days resulted from fear I might be spying on behalf of Carmen Castillo.
I’m snooping, just not in the way she thinks.
She quizzed me on how I knew Carmen or the councilman, relieved at hearing I had no prior history with them.
Ellie came from Bury Saint Edmunds in the UK to study at Wharton, but finances forced her to find a job. When I asked if she worried about losing her visa status after dropping out of school, Ellie explained she was an American citizen. Her mother met her father while he was on a four-year-tour of duty at the Mildenhall Air Force Base. When his assignment took him to Incirlik in Turkey, her mother didn’t want to move. They eventually divorced.
Lunching together didn’t quite make us sorority sisters, but as the afternoon progressed we were less wary of each other and conducted more banter through the open door between our offices.
Around two o’clock, Ellie asked if I would deliver a package to Marshall Barstow’s office on the 14th floor. That’s where Oliver worked. I jumped at the chance even though circumspection would be required if I did spot him.
Package in hand, I took the elevator two floors down and consulted the directory for Barstow’s room number. He was one of the partners, which entitled him to a corner office at the far end of the hall. Alone in the hallway, I strolled past an open door revealing multiple cubicles. A man, who I didn’t know, stood as I glanced in. With more than a hundred and twenty attorneys spread over three floors, most Bignell, Watkins, and Clark employees shared office space.
As I approached Barstow’s office, the door across the hall swung open. Ron Needell, the law partner who lived in Oliver’s building and whom we’d seen at dinner two nights earlier, spotted me and hustled into the hallway—leering at my breasts. “Hi, Ms. Rojo. Looking for Oliver?”
Despite his creepy vibe, I smiled and waved my package. “No, making a delivery to Mr. Barstow.”
He cocked his head toward the opposite end of the hall. “Ah, I wondered, since Oliver’s office is down there.”
“Nope. This is a business trip.”
Did he just run his tongue across his lower lip?
He stared transfixed. “We should plan dinner together soon, you and me…and Oliver.”
Not if I have anything to do with it.
I flashed a non-committal grin, sidestepping Ron whose eyes were still glued to my chest, and pulled open the door to Barstow’s office.
The layout was just like Parson’s with a receptionist’s desk in the front and an open door leading to Barstow’s corner office. He had the exact same view—two floors lower—of Drexel University’s College of Nursing.
An African-American woman greeted me warmly. Colorful light from a stained-glass lamp on her desk reflected off her black. She also looked to be about eight months pregnant. “Hi. You must be Sharon. Ellie told me you’d be coming.”
“Here’s the package.” I handed it to her.
“Welcome to the firm, Sharon. I’m Bernice Johnson.”
“Thanks. Everyone’s been so nice.”
Her eyes gleamed. “Good luck working with Ms. Castillo.”
Her well-intentioned words struck me with a shiver. At the same time, I sensed a bonding into the sisterhood among support staff at Bignell, Watkins, and Clar
k, and decided to test my theory. “Thanks.” I cocked my head in the direction of the neighboring office and whispered, “What’s the deal with Ron Needell?”
Bernice shared a knowing grin and mouthed, “Pervert.”
“That’s what I figured.” I chuckled, and she joined in.
My assignment complete, I left the office and marched down the hall toward the elevator.
To my left, a door opened, and Oliver appeared. All I wanted to do was wrap my arms around him. I resisted, not knowing who might emerge from another office at any moment.
“Hi there.” I beamed. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“I smelled you coming.”
Oliver had remarkable powers, but my skepticism ruled. “Get outta here.”
He laughed. “I heard your voice in the hallway a few minutes ago, and when your footsteps headed this way, I figured I’d step out and say hello.”
“You’re very sweet. How’s your day going?”
“Good. Yours?”
“Quiet…a little boring, but I’m getting more comfortable.”
“Great.” His mouth hung open like he wanted to say more. “I should let you go. See you tonight.”
I checked my surroundings and gave him a quick buss on the cheek. “Can’t wait.”
Running into Oliver made my day. I hadn’t been gone more than ten minutes, but on my return Ellie looked uptight, and the door to the councilman’s office was closed.
“What’s going on?”
Ellie gave a quick glance over her shoulder and spoke in hushed tones. “He’s meeting with a developer. Carmen wanted to know where you were. She’s pissed. I should’ve never asked you to make that delivery.”
I batted the air to allay her fears then pointed toward the door. “Is she also in with the councilman?”
Ellie nodded.
“No worries.”
I returned to my office, the one shared with Carmen Castillo, and closed the door behind me. Ellie wouldn’t be in a bantering mood, and I wanted privacy to eavesdrop on conversations in Parson’s office. I dropped my purse next to the computer, grabbed a small notebook, pen, and a folder with two completed spreadsheets. After laying the file on Carmen’s desk, I inched my way toward the connecting door. Unable to hear anything more than muffled conversation, I pressed my ear against the crack separating the door from the jamb.
While pivoting for better placement of the pen and notebook, my hip brushed against the door handle. I froze at the resulting sound, hoping I hadn’t triggered alarm in the other room.
Two male voices dominated the conversation. I scribbled what I heard:
M#1: When can you have the proposal ready?
M#2: Ummm, Wednesday.
M#1: That’s cutting it close. Meeting’s on Thursday.
M#2: Maybe Tuesday, if I can get Scott’s numbers by then.
M#1: Is he onboard?
M#2: Sure.
M#1: You don’t sound sure.
M#2: No…I am…it’s just. He’s gotta lot of shit going on with his life right now.
M#1: Join the club.
M#2: I know.
Conversation stopped. Although I couldn’t be positive, M#1 sounded like a politician used to public speaking. As I waited for them to resume, I spotted the peephole in the door, evidently installed so Carmen could keep an eye on goings-on in Parson’s office.
Damn.
A brass plate, painted to match the dark chocolate color of walnut wood, covered the hole. I pushed it aside and peered into the room. Normally designed to reveal a person standing just outside a front door, in this instance the fisheye lens distorted the view of the people at Parson’s desk, twenty feet away.
My first look at Howard Parson revealed a clean-shaven, fortyish man with a full head of sandy-colored hair. Carmen looked menacing, her black hair seemingly exploding toward the left. The head of the guy they were meeting with resembled a cue ball.
Parson tapped on his phone screen before resuming their conversation.
M#1: Has Scott looked at the property on Springhurst?
M#2: Yes.
M#1: Will our idea work?
No verbal response. Maybe #2 guy nodded his head.
Carmen: What’s the house number?
M#1: 6406.
M#2: That’s right.
M#1: I need time to make sure my colleagues won’t raise any objections. Carmen, see if you can arrange dinner for me at the club with Overlander and Morris in the next few days.
Carmen: Together or separately?
M#1: Either way. Whatever works for them…and Bruno, tell Scott I need those numbers ASAP.
M#2: I will.
M#1: Have him text me to confirm after you get back.
The sound of the latch turning startled me. I spun away from the door in a combination pirouette and tour jeté to disguise that I’d been listening. Such graceful moves would have confounded my eighth-grade ballet teacher.
Carmen Castillo let out an extra breath as she pushed on the door then gasped at the sight of me standing there. Her eyes burned into me. “What are you doing at my desk?”
My heart pounded, but I had to keep my wits about me and throw off her suspicions.
I clutched at my chest with my right hand while holding the notebook at my side. “Gosh you scared me.” After a deep breath, I tapped the file. “Just delivered a couple of those spreadsheets you wanted.”
She stared at the folder and her face became more placid.
At that moment my phone, still in my purse on the desk, chimed with a text.
Carmen glowered, as if such an intrusion constituted a capital offense.
I recognized the ring tone I’d assigned for texts from Brad and hoped she wouldn’t ask me to hand over my phone.
10
Thursday morning, Brad prepped for an upcoming Monday meeting with the Executive Committee of Joedco. His father, Joseph, and mother, Edith, had founded the electronics company that bore their names. Brad’s brother, Andrew, served as the Chairman and CEO of Joedco, and a few years earlier had moved its headquarters to the Houston area for space-related and military contract opportunities. Brad was not involved in day-to-day operations. However, in a show of family unity, Andrew had named him chair of the executive committee. Brad couldn’t afford to go into the meeting unprepared. Especially since the Board would be considering a proposal to open facilities in Prague, hoping to expand into the lucrative EU market.
Brad’s morning of research and reflection resulted in a lengthy email to his brother with a dozen questions he wanted answered before agreeing to the proposal.
After lunch, Brad headed for a meeting with Joe Hernandez at the city’s correctional detention facility, located between I-95 and the Delaware River in the Holmesburg section of Philadelphia. Several correctional centers were clustered along State Road. He aimed for the one housing pre-trial detainees unable to post bond. Hernandez, charged with murder, didn’t qualify for bail.
Because Brad worked with the defense team, visits were possible Monday through Friday. Family visitation occurred one day per week depending on the first letter of the prisoner’s last name. D through H visits happened on Tuesday.
Brad presented himself and furnished ID. The guard checked his name against a roster of permissible visitors. After stowing his belongings—including iPhone—in a locker, and passing through a magnetometer similar to airport screening, he was escorted to a small, painted concrete-block room where he sat at a table with two metal chairs. Moments later a guard ushered Hernandez into the room.
“Who the hell are you? They told me my lawyer was here.”
“I’m Brad Frame, an investigator working with Mr. Greer.”
Hernandez glanced between the guard and Brad before finally settling into the seat across from him. Joe folded his arms across his chest and scowled. “At least you’re a change of scenery.”
“I met with your mother the other day.”
Joe laughed. “Did she tell you how often she�
�s visited me?’
“No.”
Joe formed a zero with his thumb and index finger.
“She doesn’t have a car, and the family visitation schedule is restrictive.”
Joe leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, I can tell you’ve talked to dear old mom. Her pity-me, raised-him-as-a-single-mom routine gets old.”
There’d be plenty of time to consider mother-son dynamics, but that wasn’t the reason for Brad’s visit.
“Let’s talk about your case.”
Hernandez threw up his hands. “I already explained everything to Greer.”
“Yes, and he told me—most of it I’m sure. Greer spends his time in two places: his office and the courthouse. I’m the guy out looking at the scene, talking to witnesses, trying to find a detail the police overlooked that will exonerate you.” Brad glanced toward the door leading to the cellblock. “Unless you’ve got a quilting class to go to, I’d appreciate if you’d tell me your story directly.”
Joe heaved a sigh, unfolded his arms from his chest, and leaned into the table. “Ever since I got laid off, I’ve taken on small handyman jobs. I left a stack of homemade business cards at a local hardware store, and it wasn’t long before calls came in. Most of them didn’t amount to much…a couple of hours work…fifty or a hundred bucks if I was lucky. At least I could help Mom buy groceries. Then I get a call from this guy wanting to know if I could put a fence around his backyard.”
Brad pulled out his notebook, surprised at where Joe chose to begin the story that would lead to his arrest for murder.
“I visited, measured, asked them what kind of fence they wanted.”
“They?”
“Two guys. Gay, I think.” He shrugged. “Didn’t ask, they didn’t tell. I had a good idea of what the materials would cost and gave them an estimate higher than I needed…wanted to give myself room to dicker. They didn’t complain about the price. Asked me to start the following week. I picked up supplies on a Wednesday morning and got to work that day digging holes for the posts.”
