by Ray Flynt
Brad scanned that side of the street for signs indicating a parking infraction but saw none. He couldn’t be guilty of a moving violation since he’d barely started the car. Somebody had reported his presence checking out the fire-damaged property.
Quite the neighborhood watch program.
He didn’t think it had been the neighbor with whom he’d spoken. Sitting in the heart of Howard Parson’s district, in front of a property ripe for redevelopment, this police stop wasn’t a coincidence.
The officer got out of his vehicle, lights still flashing, and approached, standing slightly behind and to the left of Brad’s shoulder.
“Good afternoon, Officer.”
“Your ID and insurance card please.”
“They’re in my wallet,” Brad announced before reaching for his pocket. He withdrew the requested items and handed them to the cop. There was always a chance the cop might recognize the private detective’s name.
“Bryn Mawr? You’re a little far from home. We received a report of trespassing at this property.” He gestured toward 6406 Springhurst, still holding Brad’s ID.
Brad aimed his thumb across the street. “I came to order takeout at Ming Lee’s…best Chinese in the city.” A truth stretch since he’d never eaten there, but Ming Lee wouldn’t object to the flattery. Brad counted on his Main Line address, and the fact he drove a Mercedes, to reinforce what he was about to say. “That’s when I spotted the condemned property. Never crossed the tape on the porch. I did walk around behind since the gate’s open. Front looks like an easy flip, but the damage is much more serious out back.” Brad shrugged. “Lost my interest in the place.”
If the cop had a pipeline to Councilman Parson, Brad’s story should allay concerns about a competing developer. Although, if his account got passed along, another person might connect his PI credentials.
“All right, you can go.” The officer handed back his ID cards.
As Brad pulled away from the curb, the officer stood next to the police cruiser—no doubt watching him. Brad had little choice but to circle into the strip mall for an order of Chinese takeout.
14
Oliver had an early breakfast meeting Friday morning with his boss, Kate Bignell, daughter of one of the founding partners. He told me Kate was in charge of the small group of attorneys who handled criminal work for the firm. Oliver suspected she might have been the insider responsible for landing me a position in Parson’s office. So far, Kate’s brother, Isaac, who served as the managing partner, had been the only name connected with my employment.
Oliver and I shared an umbrella in the light rain as we walked toward the restaurant. Signs of spring appeared everywhere in the form of tulips, forsythia, fresh buds on trees, and chirping birds. Despite the rain, it felt good to be outside. We discussed plans for the weekend, including a possible visit to Society Hill for lunch and shopping, before parting company a block from the office. He kissed me and handed over the umbrella, saying my hair needed it more than his. I didn’t argue.
I was already jealous of Oliver’s hair for its rich red color, close to a brilliant copper penny. Next to his, my auburn hair looked drab.
Armed with access codes for the elevator and a key to the Councilman’s office suite, I arrived shortly after 8 a.m.
The only light in the reception area spilled from the open doorway to Parson’s private office. I turned on the recessed ceiling lights, as well as the matching table lamps on the credenza behind Ellie’s desk. I fired up the Keurig, which sat on the same credenza, and filled the water reservoir at the sink in the neighboring lavatory.
Only one flavor of coffee, French Vanilla, was available in the rack, which didn’t seem right. Inside the cabinet, I found additional K-cups alongside industrial-sized plastic containers of mixed nuts and caramels that Ellie used to keep the dishes filled on her desk.
On the way back to the coffee maker, I paused in front of the open door and gazed at Parson’s desk. This provided a better perspective of what I’d observed through the peephole the previous day. His ornate-carved antique desk looked as if it might have once graced a monastery. Two upholstered club chairs sat in front, with only a phone, marble-based pen set, and a leather desk blotter on top. Just as well. The presence of paperwork would have tempted me to venture in and have a look.
Moments later, I carried a steaming mug of hazelnut-flavored coffee and placed it on a coaster at my desk in the next room.
Nothing had changed overnight. The note and spreadsheet I’d left on Carmen’s desk remained undisturbed. Outside, clouds cleared, and sun glinted off the gold cross atop the dome of the Cathedral Basilica of Saints Peter and Paul.
My desk offered a direct view of Ellie’s in the reception area, but I couldn’t see the entry to the suite. Around 8:15 a.m., a full forty-five minutes before the start of office hours, the door creaked open. When I didn’t immediately see anyone, I called out, “Good morning. May I help you?”
Howard Parson came into my view, pausing in front of Ellie’s desk. He wore khakis and a sweater. No one mentioned casual Fridays. He glanced at me, then pointed at Ellie’s chair. “Where is she?”
“It’s a little early. She’s not expected before nine.”
He frowned, stared at the mug in my hand, and muttered, “Could I get a coffee.” It was an order, not a question.
He ambled into his office while I bit my lower lip to avoid speaking my peace.
Why do men do this?
It can’t be from a sense of entitlement locked into their Y chromosome. My blind boyfriend never relied on anyone to fix him coffee. Brad was perfectly capable of looking after himself. Hard to imagine that Howard’s mother imbued him with a wait-on-me attitude. Surely five years of law school wasn’t the culprit.
I dutifully returned to the Keurig, grabbed a giant-sized red cup labeled “The Boss,” then ducked my head into his office. “Would you like hazelnut cream, French vanilla, or Colombian blend?”
“Colombian.”
“Creamer or sugar?”
“Both.” He snarled, as if I should’ve read his mind.
The cup filled with dark brew, before I added creamer and an extra helping of sugar to sweeten his mood. I carried it to his desk, placing it on the blotter in front of him.
I paused, thinking a thank you might be in order. None came. Instead he sipped coffee, closed his eyes, and swished it around his mouth before swallowing.
Before he could offer a critique, I thrust my hand toward him. “By the way, I’m Sharon Rojo, Ms. Castillo’s new assistant. An honor to be working here.” I lied—better than saying what was on my mind.
He gave my hand a polite shake, instantly transforming from grumpy boss to silver-tongued politician. “Thank you. We’re glad to have you on our team.”
I beamed, without explaining that I didn’t live in his district so couldn’t even vote for him.
Great. Stay like that the rest of the day, asshole.
Back at my desk, I prioritized work on the next set of spreadsheets and kept checking my phone for feedback from Tulverson.
Parson shouted, “Come here.”
With Ellie still not at her desk, he meant me.
I stepped into the reception area.
He held up his coffee cup.
Gimme a break.
I had two choices: Grin and bear it, or nah…make that one choice.
After placing Parson’s second cup on the desk blotter, I inquired, “Is there anything else you’d like me to get for you?”
“Where’s Ellie?”
“I still expect her by nine.”
He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Have you heard from Carmen? Will she be in today?”
A trick question?
Carmen materialized on her own schedule, none of which she shared with me. If I answered truthfully, he could use it against me with her. I smiled. “I’m sure she will.”
He dismissed me with a wave of his hand, and I returned to my Excel program. One of three
buttons lit on my desk phone, indicating Parson making a call. Seconds later the light went out. I tried to work on my computer while keeping an eye on phone activity. The light lit again. From the other room, Parson’s indistinct voice wafted toward me.
Thinking his call might be important to Tulverson’s investigation, I grabbed my notebook and crept toward the credenza—easy to do on the deep pile carpet. If anyone entered the office, it would appear as if I was refilling my mug. From that vantage point, I jotted down Parson’s end of the conversation.
Parson: I’m getting pushback. Morris doesn’t want to meet, and Overlander tells us he isn’t available until after the council’s decision, which is bullshit.
Parson: No, Zanick’s good. She owes me. It’s Morris I’m worried about. He keeps dropping the E-word.
Parson: Ethics, you idiot.
Parson: Yeah, I know, but the Inquirer article was what…eight, nine months ago? Haven’t you heard of the daily news cycle? The pressure should be off by now.
Parson: I don’t give a fuck. You’re in charge of fixing this mess.
Parson: No excuses. Get this done.
Parson: Okay…call me after lunch. Listen…we gotta get this wrapped up. A fat cat from Bryn Mawr was sniffin’ around the Springhurst property yesterday. Could be nothing, but we can’t take that chance. All right. Later.
Shit. He’s talking about Brad. I never should’ve asked him to visit.
I emailed Tulverson a succinct summary of Parson’s conversation and texted Brad with a heads up. I promised both men fuller updates by the end of the day.
Nine o’clock came and went with no sign of Ellie or Ms. Castillo.
Carmen arrived first about ten after the hour. She glided through the reception area, like Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada, and ignored me before slamming the door to the councilman’s private office.
A few minutes later Ellie dashed in, looking harried, and plopped her purse on the desk. She glanced toward Parson’s office and then turned to me and mouthed, “Is Carmen here?”
I bobbed my head.
Ellie cursed and sank into her chair muttering about the Market-Frankford line running late.
I heard the door to the private office open and Carmen’s chilling voice. “Finally here, I see.”
Carmen’s condescending tone conjured up an image of Cruella de Vil.
Ellie cringed. “I’m sorry Ms. Castillo. The subway—”
“No excuses.” Carmen came into my view menacing at the end of Ellie’s desk, arms folded across her chest. “You were warned. Pack your things. You’re finished.”
Carmen remained stone-faced when Ellie began to sob. I couldn’t look away. My blood boiled at the lack of sensitivity, though for the sake of my own future in the office I maintained a placid expression.
Ellie rose from her chair, blotted her nose with a tissue, and grabbed her purse. Carmen watched as the young lady trudged toward the exit.
Dragon Lady pivoted and aimed a red-polished fingernail in my direction, announcing with a smirk, “Ms. Rojo, come out here.”
15
I swallowed the lump in my throat and snapped to attention at my desk.
“Get out here now,” Carmen Castillo repeated.
I grabbed a small notebook and pen from my desk—ready to receive instructions—but feared getting the boot just like Ellie. If Carmen was quick about it, I could catch up with Ms. Padgett and offer to commiserate with her at the corner bar.
After hustling to the outer office, I lingered next to the receptionist’s desk with pen poised. Howard Parson remained secreted in his office.
Carmen regarded me with a mix of aloofness and a bet-you-can’t-guess-what’s-up-my-sleeve smirk. I kept my expression as placid as possible, hoping she couldn’t hear the sound of my heart pounding in my chest. She rolled Ellie’s chair away from the desk and gestured. “Have a seat.”
I eased myself into it, no longer able to see Carmen.
I swear I can feel her dragon’s breath.
“Comfortable?” Carmen inquired.
It seemed like a trick question, while an honest answer depended on how long she expected me to sit with her breathing down my neck. “Uh, my feet don’t touch the floor.”
“I’m sure you can make adjustments. This is your chair now. You’re Mr. Parson’s new secretary.”
A dozen thoughts flitted through my brain: mostly how advantageous the promotion would be for Tulverson’s investigation.
Before I could react, Carmen continued. “You’ll also assist me until we find your replacement.”
“That’s not a problem.”
She glared at me, as if ready to change her mind. “Of course, the jury’s still out on your clerical skills.” She stood planted with her hands on her hips. “But Howard said you make a great cup of coffee, so you’re hired—for the moment.”
She emphasized those last three words, as if to remind me I could be kicked to the curb just as quickly as Ellie.
“Thank you for the opportunity.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You could be gone by lunchtime.”
She loves maintaining a short leash.
I smiled. “Is there a specific project the councilman would like me to work on?”
Carmen tossed her hair in the direction of Parson’s office. “He’ll keep you posted. I’d suggest filling water in the Keurig. I have a meeting in Society Hill followed by the dentist.” She made a sour face. “Not sure when I’ll be back.”
She strode toward the door and opened it before pivoting back to me. “Oh, and Ms. Rojo…”
“Yes.”
“Be punctual.”
I gulped and flashed a thumbs up.
The door clacked shut behind her. I could finally breathe.
It was nerve-racking not knowing when Councilman Parson might fling open his door and summon me. I followed Carmen’s advice and re-filled the water receptacle on the Keurig.
Finding the height adjustment for the ergonomic desk chair proved even easier. With my feet on the floor, I oriented myself to the new workspace and computer.
The phone startled me. Its blinking light indicated an incoming call on Carmen’s line. “Good morning, Ms. Castillo’s office.”
Dead air. Whoever called had hung up.
Unlike the phone on my desk in the neighboring office, this one had an electronic display for incoming calls—similar to what I was familiar with at Brad’s office. This feature would come in handy tracking anyone who tried to reach the councilman.
Parson’s private line lit up. The walls weren’t soundproof, and I could hear his voice even though I couldn’t make out the words.
I texted Tulverson and Brad about my status change in the councilman’s office. Brad sent a snarky response within five minutes—nothing from Tulverson.
While Parson made his call, I visited the restroom. When I returned to my desk, he remained on the line. Curiosity spawned an idea. At Brad’s office, he would sometimes ask me to listen in on conversations by pressing the mute button before lifting the receiver. With no one around, it was worth a shot. If anyone entered the suite, I’d replace the handset as if just ending a call.
From what Carmen had said, it didn’t seem like she would return anytime soon. I decided to chance it.
I recognized Bruno’s voice, the developer Parson met with the day before. Their conversation seemed a rehash about 6406 Springhurst with Bruno making excuses and the councilman growing heated in his responses. Name calling escalated until Parson yelled, “Go fuck yourself.”
A dial tone sounded in my ear.
I replaced the receiver and turned off the mute button, expecting Parson to charge through his door at any moment. In a best-case scenario, he might want more coffee or, more likely, take out his frustrations on the new secretary.
The councilman’s private line rang. I let it go, thinking he might pick up. Finally, I answered in my most perky manner. “Good morning, Councilman Parson’s office.”
&nbs
p; A familiar voice barked, “Yeah this is Bruno Tomasi for Howard.”
“Please hold.”
I scribbled the name and pressed the intercom button. “There’s a Mr. Tomasi for you on line one.”
Silence at first, followed by his lengthy sigh. “Tell him he can…ah, never mind,” Parson grumbled, “I’ll take it.”
A digital screen provided a readout of the incoming phone number, which I jotted next to his name in my notebook. Moments later, I muted sound and resumed listening. In a more civil tone, their conversation turned to a property at 2103 Tuttle Way.
I map-searched on the computer and saw it intersected with Springhurst. In fact, the backyard of the Tuttle house abutted with a portion of the 6406 address.
PARSON: It’s a single-family unit, right?
BRUNO: Yup.
PARSON: There’s a tax lien of $6,300. You should be able to make an offer on it at the same time as the other one.
BRUNO: It’ll draw too much attention?
PARSON: Not if we work it right. I finally persuaded Overlander to meet me for a drink after work today.
BRUNO: Nice.
PARSON: Carmen clued me in to the fact that he’s hunting for a city job for his mistress. I don’t know where she digs this stuff up. As chair of the public works committee, I can make that happen and keep his fingerprints far away from it…provided he doesn’t throw any obstacles in our way.
Bruno erupted in a guttural laugh. Their conversation returned to the contentious Springhurst property:
PARSON: When’s Scott going to have numbers for me?
BRUNO: Not sure. He knows you’re anxious.
PARSON: Anxious? The passengers on the Titanic were anxious. We’ve got a potential gold mine ahead of us. I need those numbers.
BRUNO: What about 6402?
PARSON: No need to worry. I’ll take care of her when the rest of this deal falls into place. I just need those fucking numbers.
Engrossed in their conversation, I didn’t hear the door open to our office suite. Bernice Johnson, my counterpart in Marshall Barstow’s office, now stood in front of my desk. If possible, she looked even more pregnant than from a day or two earlier. My thoughts couldn’t connect with actions fast enough as I scrambled to cover being on the phone. “Um, that’s right. I’ll have him give you a call when he’s finished.”
