Code Rojo

by Ray Flynt

  His partner waved. “Nice to meet you.”

  Norcross excused himself and the two men left.

  With Norcross out of the room, I texted Tulverson. “How much can I tell the police about our investigation? Can I reveal the existence of the video camera?”

  I hoped he would reply before the detective returned. No such luck.

  It felt like an eternity. In reality, probably five minutes passed before Norcross once again sat opposite me and announced, “You were right.”

  “About what?”

  “Three stab wounds to her chest.”

  I pursed my lips.

  “Now, who do you think would want to kill Ms. Castillo?”

  I chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “The honest answer: Anyone who ever met her. Carmen had a notorious reputation. Everyone at the firm referred to her as Dragon Lady.”

  “Why?”

  “She functioned as Parson’s enforcer, including firing his last three secretaries. At a recent meeting, one of the partners, Marshall Barstow, tried to call out Parson on her take-no-prisoners style, suggesting it reflected badly on the reputation of the firm.”

  Norcross scribbled Barstow’s name in his notebook. “How did you get along with her?”

  “Like I might deal with a tarantula. Kept my eyes on her when possible; never turned my back. If it had been up to Carmen, I wouldn’t have lasted more than two days.”

  The detective looked up from his note taking, imploring more of an explanation.

  “I was initially hired as Carmen’s assistant. Due to my coffee-making skills, I moved up to work for Parson when the last secretary, Ellie, got fired.”

  “What’s Ellie’s last name?”

  “Padgett.”

  Norcross scribbled in his notebook. “Do you know how to contact her?”

  No, but Ron Needell might.

  I suppressed a giggle over Ron’s failed attempts at seducing Ellie. “I’m sure HR would have her contact information.”

  “When did you last see Ms. Castillo alive?”

  “Yesterday, around noon. She was prepping for a meeting with Scott McQuillen, a developer Mr. Parson works with. McQuillen also happens to be her ex-husband.”

  My phone rang. I had barely answered before Tulverson blurted, “It’s Warren. Are you still with the detective?”

  Norcross rolled his eyes, signaling he could hear the response.

  “Yes.”

  Like he did earlier, the AG’s investigator instructed me to hand my phone to the detective.

  Tired of being left out of the loop, I announced, “I’ll put you on speaker.”

  I laid the phone between us.

  Tulverson sighed, while Norcross smirked at my act of defiance.

  “Detective, we obtained a warrant to do video surveillance of Councilman Parson’s office. Sharon installed the device in a wall switch on Monday of this week.

  Norcross’ eyes widened, and I nodded confirmation.

  The detective leaned forward in his chair. “Obviously we’ll be interested in seeing those recordings.”

  “I’m sure, but there’s a problem. Video is activated by motion sensor. We’ve got no images between the conclusion of Ms. Castillo’s meeting yesterday afternoon, and Ms. Rojo’s entry into Parson’s office this morning.”

  I recalled the blinking digital clock on my credenza and jumped into the conversation. “The killer turned off the power.” I explained how the digital clock behind my desk was blinking 1:32 when I arrived at the office that morning. “After an electrical outage, the clock automatically resets to 12:00, which means that the power was restored either an hour and a half before my arrival or, more likely, given the degree of blood coagulation, thirteen and a half hours earlier.”

  Norcross made notes. “Which would put the time of the murder before seven-thirty last evening. Warren, can we see the video from her meeting yesterday afternoon?”

  Tulverson hemmed and hawed. “Uh, you can drop by our Norristown office to take a look. Frankly, I don’t think you’ll find anything of value.”

  Norcross tapped his pen on the table. “Let us be the judge.”

  Skepticism edged into Tulverson’s voice. “Sure. I hope you like porn.”

  Norcross and I swapped glances.

  “It’s mostly a two-hour sex video.”

  27

  I hung around as long as I could after my interview with the detective. It enabled me to watch the comings and goings and pick up a few tidbits about the murder investigation. Damn few, actually.

  Norcross and his partner, Kevin Gilchrist, took turns questioning staff on the 16th floor. It sounded like they planned to eventually question all of the firm’s partners.

  Around 11:30 a.m. the ME’s office wheeled the gurney with Carmen’s body onto the elevator.

  Not long after, a bedraggled-looking Howard Parson emerged from his interview with Detective Norcross. The councilman spotted me as he staggered toward the elevator. He told me I didn’t have to come into the office the following day and asked me to check with him tomorrow about Friday hours.

  From the way his eyes glazed over, I could tell he wasn’t thinking straight. “Would you like for me to arrange to have the office cleaned?”

  He dismissed my suggestion with a wave of his hand. “Ah, janitorial should take care of it.”

  “Sir, they’re not used to dealing with this kind of situation.” I grimaced. “You know…all that blood. There are companies specializing in biohazard cleanup.”

  His jaw tightened. “Great idea. Take care of it.”

  That assignment gave me another excuse to stick around, at least until I could find out when they’d be finished processing the scene of the crime.

  Amelia, Mrs. Watkins’ secretary, invited me into her office for a cup of tea. This was the same woman who, days earlier, had suggested I might not be working for the firm much longer. Back then I bore the brunt of criticism for Ellie’s dismissal. For the moment, Amelia and Mrs. Watkins plied me with chamomile and peppered me with questions about the murder across the hall. Full of curiosity for the details, neither expressed remorse at Carmen’s passing. I provided enough titillating information to keep them gasping, but not so much as to compromise either the police or the Attorney General’s investigation.

  As I prepared to leave, Ron Needell walked into Watkin’s suite. Ron barely dipped his head to acknowledge me. He looked a bit sheepish. He announced that he’d “heard the news” and wanted to make sure they were doing okay. Mostly, he focused his attention on Amelia. I know a fawning look when I see one, and she was smitten. Obviously, it hadn’t taken long for Ron to get over Ellie ditching him. Maybe that explained why Amelia no longer gave me the cold shoulder.

  Oliver texted at 1 p.m., asking if I’d eaten lunch.

  Food had been the last thing on my mind, but at his suggestion I suddenly felt famished. We agreed to meet at a crepe restaurant across the street.

  Before leaving the floor, I sought out Detective Norcross and asked him to text me when they were finished so that I could arrange for a complete scrub down of Parson’s office.

  Passing through the lobby, I saw Detective Gilchrist conferring with the receptionist. They both pointed at a security camera aimed at the bank of elevators. Since Carmen’s murder took place after regular business hours, it made sense to check out who might have entered or left the building during that timeframe.

  Oliver had already secured a table when I arrived at Le Crêpe Savoureux, which still bustled from a healthy lunch crowd. Although Oliver was eager to hear all about my morning adventure, I waited until after we ordered and then whispered details of the crime scene to avoid freaking out nearby diners.

  I was equally anxious for word about how the news of Carmen’s death spread throughout the law offices, and what the reaction had been. That’s when I learned that Isaac Bignell had sent an email blast alerting the BWC family of her death, informing everyone about police pr
esence, and asking for complete cooperation with the investigation.

  “The people around me were in shock,” Oliver reported. “Although when I dropped off paperwork in Mr. Barstow’s office, I overheard his secretary saying, ‘Ding, dong, the witch is dead.’ ”

  “That’s Bernice. She made it pretty clear how she felt when Carmen fired Ellie.”

  “Oh, that’s the other news,” Oliver whispered. “Ellie’s back. She spotted me in the hallway as I was leaving Barstow’s office and referenced our Sunday night dinner. She told me to tell you hello.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “Barstow hired her. She’s learning the ropes to fill in during his secretary’s maternity leave…started on Tuesday.”

  So, a person Carmen recently fired had complete access to the building at the time of the murder. Norcross would want to know.

  28

  Brad’s phone buzzed with a call from Sharon. Following the death of Carmen Castillo, Howard Parson had decided to shut down the office for the day. Sharon asked Brad if he could join her at the Bryn Mawr office at three o’clock for a meeting with Warren Tulverson.

  Brad had his own case to think about but agreed to attend the afternoon session. It meant getting his act together on that Thursday morning to pursue a couple of leads on the Hernandez case.

  Lost in the hubbub over Carmen’s death was Nick’s announcement that the crowbar used to kill Bennett McCurdy contained DNA from a person other than McCurdy, Joe Hernandez—the accused killer—or the neighbors who owned it.

  Archie Greer celebrated this development, calling it precisely the evidence he needed to convince jurors of reasonable doubt. Brad had a higher standard. For him, it wouldn’t be enough to free Hernandez from jail; he wanted to bring the person responsible for killing McCurdy to justice. Besides, it would keep him solid with Nick.

  Brad planned to visit McCurdy’s place again, but first he had an appointment with Pete Yazbek, general manager of Cheever Security, the company McCurdy worked for at the time of his death.

  Cheever’s headquarters occupied a two-car garage in Darby, PA, just across the Schuylkill River from Philadelphia. In addition to the cheesy stick-on letters spelling out the company name, the front entry boasted a logo from a nationally-known electronic security monitoring company—not exactly an endorsement for Cheever’s services.

  Brad tapped his knuckles, and a cry of “come in” sang out from behind the door. Opening it revealed space more like a man cave than corporate offices, with a sectional sofa, wide-screen TV, exercise equipment, and a mini-fridge.

  Pete Yazbek hunched at a desk, joystick in hand, playing a video game. He never took his eyes off the screen, just announced, “Grab a seat. I’ll be done in a minute.”

  The place wasn’t what Brad expected, nor was Yazbek, who acted like a sixteen-year-old in a thirtysomething body.

  Whirrs, whistles, and beeps from the game program continued, while Brad settled into a chair next to Yasbek’s desk and watched in bemusement.

  After a final congratulatory shout at the screen as the program ended, Pete leaned back in his chair. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m Brad Frame. I phoned earlier about Bennett McCurdy, who worked for you and was killed last October.”

  “Oh, yeah, Bend. I remember him.”

  Whatever its origins, McCurdy’s nickname had stuck.

  “Wondering if you could tell me a little bit about what he did for you.”

  Pete shrugged. “Like all the others. On-site security. That’s our specialty.”

  “I know that he was scheduled to work the night shift on the evening of his death. Can you tell me exactly where he worked?”

  “Hold on.” Pete stood and stepped toward a nearby file cabinet. He leafed through several files in one drawer before closing it and examining another. Neither seemed overflowing with records. “Here it is.”

  He returned to his desk and spread open the file. “He worked at Mead’s, an auto parts warehouse in Eastwick, near the airport.”

  “Was there anyone he worked with on a regular basis that I could talk to?”

  Pete scowled. “Not likely. Our guys work solo.”

  Brad’s confusion must’ve showed, since Pete continued. “Take Mead’s for example. A few years ago, they spent a fortune on cameras and electronic surveillance only to have a group of thugs cut the power to their system. Naturally, the alarm company alerted management and police, but not before pros made off with a couple hundred thousand dollars’ worth of auto parts. Thieves know they can defeat electronic systems long enough for their crime to make a profit.”

  “McCurdy worked alone?”

  “Yup.” Pete shuffled papers in the file.

  “But the report of his death indicated that the police were notified when McCurdy failed to report to work and couldn’t be reached. Was he supposed to let you know?”

  Pete shook his head. “Nope. Doesn’t work that way. Our guy on duty before him at Mead’s probably got worried. Most of our employees are ex-cops. The rule is a guy stays on the job until his relief shows up.”

  “Did you hire Bennett McCurdy?”

  “Nah. That’d be Frank.” He shot a glance at the computer as if eager to return to his video game.

  “Frank?”

  “My father-in-law, Frank Cheever. He’s a retired cop. Set up this business ten years ago. It was his idea to hire ex-law enforcement types. He started out with a few guys who retired about the same time as him. Word spread. They were lookin’ to make a few bucks or get outta the house, if you know what I mean.”

  Pete’s description explained a lot, especially how a general manager had so much time on his hands.

  “Do all of your clients involve warehouses?”

  “Mostly. We patrol for a couple of HOAs tagging cars for towing that aren’t authorized.” Pete beamed. “I lined up a few gigs providing personal security for singers and bands.”

  “How long had McCurdy been assigned to Mead’s?”

  Pete glanced at the file. “Pretty much the whole time he worked with us.”

  “Was he reliable?”

  Pete leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. “Oh sure. All our guys are. Gotta be on their death bed before they’ll think about calling off. Most of ’em need the money.”

  Sounds like a well-oiled machine.

  “Is Mr. Cheever around? I’d love to find out how he knew Bennett McCurdy.”

  “Afraid you’ll have to wait until the end of April.” Pete smirked. “He stays in Florida during the winter. Place called The Villages.”

  Brad stood. “Thanks for your time. I’ll see myself out.”

  Before he reached the door, computerized buzzes and toots resumed behind him.

  * * *

  Brad felt a different vibe that morning as he walked South 13th Street toward Bennett McCurdy’s row house. A bell clanged from the adjacent high school, and a dozen or more students flooded onto the sidewalk. A couple of them used the opportunity to vape, while others huddled in groups and chatted during the short break between class periods. Although they acted indifferent, most of them stole a quick glance at Brad as he strolled along the sidewalk.

  He mounted the steps and secured the entry key from a real estate agent’s lockbox. There’d been no takers in the several months the house had been on the market. The fact that it had hosted a violent murder might have spooked a few people. Or maybe McCurdy’s estranged daughter, his heir, wanted too much for it.

  Brad entered without knowing precisely what he was looking for. He needed a moment of inspiration. The dreary atmosphere conjured up anything but.

  In a traditional murder investigation, speculation would fall on those closest to the victim. Yet McCurdy’s ex-wife had had no contact in years and kept their daughter away too.

  Based on what Brad learned at Cheever Security, McCurdy hadn’t made any enemies at the workplace. Police ruled out the neighbors who owned the murder weapon, and the nosey neig
hbor on the opposite side didn’t seem a likely suspect. The question of who would want to kill the retired cop brought Brad back to the idea of a lingering grudge from his days as a police officer. Unfortunately, that kept the target on Hernandez’s back.

  Brad stared out the kitchen window at the narrow backyard where McCurdy had met his fate. The fence next door still looked new. At Brad’s urging, Archie Greer questioned Hernandez on where he’d left the crowbar.

  According to Greer, it was last used to help jostle the corner post into position. Following his confrontation with McCurdy, Hernandez left the job site to grab lunch and allow time to defuse the situation. After he returned from the nearby fish and chips place, the crowbar was forgotten, left lying in the grass behind the fence.

  Brad stepped onto the back porch. At the neighbor’s house, the screen door squeaked as Juanita rushed outside brandishing a floured rolling pin. She shook it in the direction of the boarded-up townhouse behind McCurdy’s place, shouting, “Get out of there.”

  Brad looked but couldn’t see the target of her yelling. He stepped inside before the nosey neighbor could turn her attention on him.

  Stair treads creaked as Brad made his way to the second floor. The card table that had served as a makeshift desk for McCurdy continued to collect dust in the front bedroom.

  Not sure exactly what he was looking for or hoped to find, Brad wandered toward McCurdy’s bedroom at the rear of the townhome. Its unkempt nature stood out, especially considering the home’s for sale status.

  A scream broke the stillness and drew him to the window. He pulled back the curtain. Juanita intensified her verbal sparring with whomever occupied the vacant building behind McCurdy’s. Plywood dangled from a second-floor window, exposing a broken pane of glass. From within those shadows came a fusillade of male voices shouting “bitch,” “asshole,” “whore,” and other demeaning epithets. As their heckling intensified, they grew bolder in coming closer to the opening, although not close enough for Brad to make out specific features. Juanita fed their taunts with her shrieks and squeals.