by Ray Flynt
Brad consulted his notes. “You worked for Lyle Grundin.”
“Yeah. That’s the guy I mostly dealt with. Saw the other one…don’t know his name.”
“Did they closely supervise you?”
“Shit no. They weren’t even home. I entered the site through their neighbor’s backyard. They said it would be okay, and I never got hassled about it.”
Brad recalled the access path behind the restaurant at the end of the block.
“By Thursday afternoon, I had the posts in place and began installing backer rails. By the end of that day, I cut and placed the first pickets.” His vocal level intensified. “Then Friday morning the asshole next door comes out yelling about me makin’ too much noise—threatening to call the police.”
“You used a power saw.”
“Yup. Circular saw.”
“Approximately what time did he complain?”
“Going on eleven maybe.” Joe shrugged. “I said, ‘Hey man, I’m trying to make a living here.’ At first, he stood on his back porch, but then got right up in my face at the property line.”
Joe still didn’t admit his run-ins with McCurdy as a juvenile offender.
“One of the neighbors told police about your confrontation. Did you see her?”
Joe slouched in his seat. “Yeah, I seen her… two houses down from where I worked. I don’t care what that bitch said, I never threatened nobody. I didn’t dare. The guy had his hand on his gun. I ain’t dumb.”
“Where was the weapon?”
“Holstered on his belt.”
“Describe where his hand was.”
Joe pushed back his chair. “Uh…on top of it, like this.” He cupped his hand at his side, as if McCurdy had wrapped his fingers around the grip. “I don’t know shit about guns…except not to mess with somebody who’s got one.”
Seems like a sane observation.
“Do you think the neighbor lady would’ve seen the gun?”
“How the fuck would I know?” Joe rolled his head from side to side and stared at the floor.
“You said the guy next door was yelling. Did you shout at him?”
“Sure. At first…till I seen the gun.” Joe jabbed a finger at Brad. “He made a move, kinda shifted to his left so I’d be sure and see it.”
“How did the argument end?”
“Whad’ya mean?”
“Did he walk away? Did you bribe him with a twenty?”
Joe scoffed. “No. I left. I said, ‘Fuck this shit’ and left the yard. I walked to the fish and chips place down the block for an early lunch…hoping it would all blow over.”
Brad jotted in his notebook. “After the murder, your DNA was found in a Styrofoam container from Ralph’s—the fish and chips place. Did you bring it back with you?”
Joe’s expression soured. “Yeah, there were leftovers, and I planned to take them home but forgot and left it there.”
“When you returned from lunch to finish the job, you never saw the angry neighbor again?”
“Nope.”
It was a story Brad could work with except for one detail. Without a word, he stared across the table at Joe Hernandez.
Joe squirmed. “What?”
“When were you planning on telling me that you knew McCurdy from your days as a juvenile offender? Your mother told me that he used to harass you back then.”
Joe bolted upright in his chair. “You fuckin’ don’t believe me.” He stood, knocked on the door, and shouted for the guard.
Brad had hit a nerve. “I don’t have to believe you. What’s the jury going to think if we try to sell them on that story and the prosecution hauls out your juvenile record?”
Joe paced the room, held his hands against his head, and squeezed his eyelids shut. “Honest to God, I didn’t recognize him. That was a half-a-lifetime ago when he stopped by to question me. I saw him three…four times at most. Didn’t recognize him after all these years. The neighbor who yelled at me for making too much noise had a gray goatee. McCurdy didn’t have one back when he harassed me as a kid. I didn’t realize it was him until after the police arrested me.”
The corrections officer opened the door. “You finished?”
When Joe stayed silent, Brad spoke. “I’m not.”
The officer stared at Joe and aimed his finger in a ready-to-go-back gesture.
“I’ll stay for now.”
The guard sneered and pulled the door closed.
Brad flipped to a fresh page in his notebook. “Tell me what you did later that afternoon.”
Joe returned to his seat. “I promised to finish the fence by Friday. Those guys had a patio party planned for Saturday, which is why it couldn’t wait. My lunch break ate into my schedule. Lyle left work early ’cause I told him I’d be done around three. It was after five-thirty before I finished. He inspected the work, said it looked good, and gave me a check for the balance.”
“You had taken a deposit earlier?”
“Yeah, so I could buy supplies.”
“After getting paid, what did you do?”
“I went to the bank.”
“Did you drive your truck?” Brad already knew the answer, but wanted to hear Joe’s explanation for his movements on the night of the murder.
Joe shook his head. “No. I walked to a branch on Passyunk not far from the fence build.”
“Did you deposit or cash the check?”
“Deposited and had cash back.”
“That was your regular bank?”
“No. A branch. Not the one I usually go to. I’d used their ATM machine earlier in the week and knew they were close by.”
“Then where did you go?”
“I stopped at a nearby bar…Amigos I think it was called, before heading home.”
“You left your truck parked at the fence build site that entire time?”
“Yup.”
Every once in a while, the corner of Joe’s mouth twitched. A tell? Brad had to find out. “What time did you return to your truck that night?”
“Nine-thirty.”
“You spent three and a half hours at the bar?”
“I guess.”
“You did or you didn’t.”
“Yeah. Fuck yeah.” Joe spat the words.
“You know anyone there? Wait… let me put it this way, did you get to know anyone while you were there?”
“Not really.”
“Sounds like you had.”
Joe sighed, and the twitch appeared again.
“Who was she?”
Joe met Brad’s gaze. “She said to call her Angel.”
“Did Angel have a last name?”
Joe snorted. “Not that she told me, although I tried.”
“How many drinks did you buy her?”
“Three, I think. Not sure. I had that many and more.”
“Beer? Whiskey?”
“Beer.”
“Were you sitting at the bar?”
“Yeah, at first. She came and sat on the stool next to me. Maybe because I was younger than most of the guys hanging out there. Later we moved to an out-of-the-way table for two.”
“So, you’re talking to Angel, hoping she’d take you home with her.”
Joe grinned. “Yeah.”
“What happened?”
“She disappeared.” He snickered. “Made a trip to the head and never came back.”
“How long after you realized she wasn’t coming back before you left Amigos?”
“Five minutes or less.”
The medical examiner estimated the time of McCurdy’s death between 9 p.m. and 11 p.m. If Brad could confirm Joe’s presence at the bar, it would button up part of that window but hardly give him an alibi.
“When you returned to your truck shortly after nine-thirty, did you see or hear anything significant in the vicinity of McCurdy’s row house?”
“Nah.”
“Were the lights on in his place?”
“Didn’t give a fuck whose lights were on.”
<
br /> That might be his most honest answer yet.
“Then where did you go?”
“Home.”
His mother’s statement to the police about that night reported that he wasn’t there when she went to bed at midnight. Brad grimaced. “Really? Think again.”
Confusion flushed on Joe’s face. He rubbed his eyes with both hands. “Oh, yeah. That was the night I drove out to my old girlfriend’s place.”
“What’s her name?”
“Chantelle Arcuri.”
“She can vouch for you?”
Joe looked away before whispering, “No.”
“Why not?”
“I sat in my car in front of her house for more than an hour. Couldn’t find the courage to knock on her door.”
His story sounded like a letter to Dear Abby, which wouldn’t help his defense. Even before making McCurdy’s connection to a contentious relationship with Hernandez as a juvenile offender, the police theorized Joe’s murder was premeditated. In their view: Propelled by anger over the backyard confrontation, Joe had returned to the row house after dark, lured McCurdy into the backyard, and bludgeoned him to death.
In Brad’s experience, deliberate killers plan better alibis.
11
Before heading home, Brad stopped at a 7-Eleven on Frankford Avenue to re-fuel his car. Orange cones blocked off a bank of pumps resulting in a line. As he waited for gas, Brad wondered how Sharon was making out on her assignment for the State Attorney General’s office, which lead to the realization that he sat squarely in the middle of Councilman Parson’s district. Brad sent a text advising Sharon of his location.
A problem while using his credit card at the pump sent him inside to the cashier. Brad suspected management intentionally disabled the card readers to force patrons into the store where drinks and snacks beckoned for additional purchase. In his case, the strategy worked, as Brad left with a can of soda and share-size bag of M&Ms.
Share? Yeah, right.
He’d need an extra fifteen minutes on the treadmill, but the snacks tasted good.
After returning to his Mercedes, Brad’s phone dinged with a reply from Sharon.
Since you’re in the area checkout 6406 Springhurst.
Brad input the address on his GPS, found it less than two miles from the 7-Eleven, and texted her that he was on his way.
Mobile phone apps took the guesswork out of finding addresses. Brad didn’t miss the old days when he stuffed county road atlases under the seat of his car for the same purpose. Despite a four-digit house number, Springhurst stretched for only two blocks. The neighborhood felt transitional, with a strip mall across the street featuring a UPS store, drycleaners, sub shop, and a Chinese take-out restaurant specializing in Cantonese. Parking spaces next to the businesses were full, resulting in cars inching through the lot waiting for the next available opening.
The residential side of the street consisted of gable-style duplexes, clad in stucco, which had seen better days. Except for the unit at the corner of Springhurst and Tuttle, all of the homes needed fresh paint, repairs to soffits and porches, and attention to overgrown shrubs and weed-dotted yards.
It might have been a beautiful area at one time, especially due to the generous space between buildings compared with a typical block of continuous row houses. Aging, rusted, and damaged cars along the curb underscored the decline.
6406 Springhurst stood out in a negative way. Partly because it sat next to the best-looking one at the corner. Even more notable was the clash of garish paint colors—purple and school-bus yellow—between 6406 and its sister unit, 6408. Brad slowed to a stop.
The building suffered from fire damage. Graffiti-marred plywood covered the windows, black soot stained the stucco, and a three-foot hole gaped in the roof. Icicle-style holiday lights still hung from the front porch, its railing wrapped with yellow and black NO TRESPASSING tape. A satellite dish dangled precariously from the porch roof. Brad read the word CONDEMNED on a notice tacked to the front door without leaving his car.
This must be one of the properties under consideration by the councilman for re-development, making it clear why Sharon had asked him to visit.
Brad stepped out of the car, pulled out his phone, and began to take photographs. A gate off its hinges lead to a side yard, and he ventured further to capture more images. Fire had completely engulfed the back of the structure, exposing two-by-fours blackened like alligator skin.
He hadn’t noticed an older man sitting on the patio of the neighboring duplex until the man shouted. “You buying the place?”
Brad shook his head. “Taking pictures for a friend.”
“Guess that means someone’s gonna buy it,” he called out.
Brad approached, then spotted the Pomeranian resting between the man’s feet. “I’m curious. What have you heard?”
The dog growled.
“Killer, hush.” The man reached to scratch the dog’s ears. “City condemned the place. It’s gonna get sold. Hope the new owner fixes it up. Right now, it’s driving down my property value.”
Brad grinned. Numerous features of the man’s home took care of that all by themselves, though having a fire-damaged structure next door didn’t help.
“How long ago was the fire?”
“Last Christmas Eve.”
“Anybody hurt?”
The man shook his head. “Nah. Everybody got out. Family in the attached unit weren’t home. They spent the holidays in Florida and returned home to the bad news. Helluva thing.”
“You should buy it.”
The man scoffed. “On my social security? Ain’t likely.”
Brad returned to his car and texted Sharon one of the photos along with a message, “More info later.”
He stepped on the brake and pushed the button to start his car. That’s when Brad noticed the flashing red lights of a police cruiser in his rearview mirror.
12
I kept telling myself that Carmen traded in intimidation, all the while trying to breathe normally as her eyes pierced like lasers. Even partners in the firm quaked at her antics. Was it simply the result of her close association with the most public member of the firm? Or could blackmail be the source of her powers?
Not in my nature to back down from a fight, I resisted a confrontation for the sake of Warren Tulverson’s investigation.
Look demure. Act innocent.
Carmen picked up the spreadsheets on her desk and studied them.
She’d scowled when my phone dinged with a text. It would ring a reminder in less than two minutes unless I could get to the phone.
I dashed toward my desk. “Um, I have a question on another spreadsheet.” I used my body to shield the act of muting sound on the iPhone, and then held aloft an Excel worksheet. “You’ll know how to handle this.” Honestly, I didn’t have a clue what question to ask, as I made up shit on the fly.
Carmen’s hand signaled not-now. “Leave me a note. I must get back into this meeting.” She unlocked the top drawer of her desk, withdrew a thick manila envelope, and left to return to Councilman Parson’s private office.
After a deep breath and a silent primal scream, I opened the connecting door between my office and the reception area. Ellie, busy at her computer, flashed a smile. Back at my desk, I finally checked Brad’s message.
The timing of his presence in the councilman’s district seemed like an omen. I texted Brad with the address overheard in the meeting and asked him to check it out. Before I could set down my phone he promised to go visit.
In the meantime, I collapsed into my chair and studied the spreadsheet for which I’d claimed to need Carmen’s help. My ruse resulted in a headache, since any question I might ask on an otherwise perfect form would make me appear like a blooming idiot.
With elbows propped on the desk, I massaged my temples.
Ellie appeared in the doorway between our offices. “Would you like a cup of tea? I have a hot water pot.”
How can I turn down an E
nglish-accented offer for tea?
“Sure. Maybe it’ll inspire me.”
Her head bobbed. “You look stressed.”
For fear of permanent face wrinkles, I have to figure this out.
Ellie returned with a porcelain cup and saucer adorned with roses. “Chamomile does wonders.”
A few sips soothed my throat and disposition. By the time I finished drinking the tea, an idea of how to handle the errant spreadsheet popped into my head.
Just then, an entourage consisting of the councilman, Carmen Castillo, and the developer trooped through Ellie’s office on the way out. I still hadn’t been formally introduced to Parson. A better glimpse of the bald-headed developer showed him to have a bulbous nose, bushy eyebrows, and bulldog expression. Parson called him Bruno. Hopefully, Tulverson could determine the developer’s last name. Carmen never even cast a glance in my direction.
She’s mercurial to say the least.
With her out of the office, I relaxed and penned a note blaming an inaccurate formula for screwing up the original data. In truth, I hadn’t changed a thing, but she wouldn’t know that. I smiled as I lay the note and spreadsheet on the middle of her desk.
Back at my workstation, my iPhone vibrated from an incoming text. Brad had sent a photograph of a fire-damaged duplex at the Springhurst address I’d given him. Wow.
After three days of surreptitious work, I finally had information to report to Warren Tulverson. That fact warmed my heart as much as the Chamomile.
Oliver had warned me that Bignell, Watkins, and Clark tracked all in-house computer usage. I used my phone’s Gmail account to transmit what I’d learned about 6406 Springhurst, Brad’s photo, and a description of the developer.
Two minutes later, Tulverson responded with a thumbs up emoji.
13
Brad lowered the driver’s side window and placed his hands on the steering wheel, all the while keeping an eye on the cop in the rearview mirror, who seemed in no hurry to get out of his vehicle. Probably running the license plate to check for outstanding warrants or unpaid tickets.
