Code Rojo

by Ray Flynt

  It was laughable until what happened next. An index finger aimed forward through the broken windowpane. The hand’s other fingers pointed backward with its thumb cocked upward like the hammer of a pistol. In rapid succession, the hand mimicked firing three times, complete with mock recoils.

  Juanita let out a final screech, and Brad heard reverberations from her screen door slamming. During his previous visit, Brad learned that McCurdy had argued with the squatters in the abandoned building. Based on what he’d just witnessed, Brad wondered if such squabbles had led to McCurdy’s death.

  * * *

  Brad watched the boarded-up row house for several minutes through a gap in the bedroom curtains. Juanita’s retreat neutralized the situation and created an uneasy calm. She’d previously identified the owner of the empty townhouse behind McCurdy’s as a man named Lacroix. According to her, Lacroix suffered a stroke a couple of years ago. The deceased’s daughter lived in Australia and seemed uninterested in dealing with the property.

  After checking with a real estate agent, Brad learned that the abandoned building had been on the market for a year with no takers. Six months earlier, shortly before McCurdy’s death, it had been removed from sale.

  Time to explore.

  The school’s bell clanged again while Brad replaced the key in the lockbox. Students still lingering on the sidewalk rushed back to class, leaving him the lone pedestrian. He circled around the block, and when he turned the corner onto Seminger Street, three young men sporting backpacks ran in the opposite direction. Perhaps they’d recently occupied the vacant row house.

  This street felt narrower than McCurdy’s. It had a different ambiance, flanked on the opposite side by multi-story warehouses whose height obstructed natural light and bore scars of boarded-up windows.

  Brad found the townhouse he was looking for.

  Depending on whether property taxes were current, it was exactly the kind of building that might eventually be put up for sale by the City of Philadelphia. Howard Parson didn’t serve this particular district, but Brad couldn’t help wondering if a local politician might already have his eyes on a potential windfall.

  A padlock and chain hung around the door handle, and graffiti-painted plywood covered the first-floor window. If squatters had taken over the place, he couldn’t figure out how they gained access.

  A wrought-iron grate shielded a basement window with a chain interwoven through it and another padlock. On closer inspection, the lock didn’t attach to anything.

  He slid the heavy grate aside, exposing a window that opened into the cellar of the row house. Brad wanted to investigate further until he glanced at the dirty sidewalk and then his freshly dry-cleaned wool trousers. He spotted a piece of cardboard leaning against a chain link fence on the opposite side of the street and used it as a hedge against soiling his slacks.

  Brad knelt on the cardboard, turned the flimsy latch on the basement window, and pushed it. He stuck his head through the opening and peered into the dark. The window served as the only light source, and his body blocked much of that, so he retrieved his phone and activated its LED flashlight.

  Directly below stood a stepladder propped against the stone wall, which confirmed this as the squatter’s primary entry. The air smelled fetid and musty. As he scanned with his phone, the light revealed a Styrofoam takeaway carton like the ones Hernandez had brought to the fence-building site from the fish and chips place. Brad recoiled when a rat scurried from behind the carton.

  “Who are you?” a faint voice sounded behind him.

  Brad banged his head and his phone tumbled to the basement floor.

  Dammit.

  He turned around to confront a young girl staring at him curiously.

  Brad rubbed the welt growing on the back of his head and muttered a lie about being with the gas company and checking for leaks. Anyone older than ten years of age wouldn’t have bought his story or the hesitation with which he told it. However, his explanation seemed to quell her curiosity and she moved on.

  Brad once more stared into the dark abyss, this time noting a rectangular band of light glowing from the edge of his phone case.

  Time for reinforcements.

  29

  I didn’t have my Civic with me at Oliver’s place, so I took a SEPTA train to the Bryn Mawr station then walked the rest of the way. Fresh air and sunshine on a beautiful spring day would help clear my head. Although it had been only five days since my last visit to the office I shared with Brad Frame, it felt longer. I arrived a half hour ahead of our scheduled meeting thinking we’d have time to catch up before the AG’s investigator showed.

  Brad promised he’d be there, so it seemed strange not to see his Mercedes parked on the cobblestone drive. I had to use my key to access the office. No note was left behind to explain his absence.

  Warren Tulverson kept me in the dark, too. At his request, I’d arranged the meeting at the Frame Detective Agency without so much as an inkling as to the reason why. When it came to working cases, Brad and I didn’t keep secrets from one another. Requesting information from the Attorney General’s office came with lots of need-to-know caveats. Maybe I could pry more details from Warren in a face-to-face meeting.

  Three o’clock came and went with no sign of Brad or Tulverson.

  While I waited, Bignell, Watkins, and Clark’s HR office called with word that Howard Parson expected me in the office on Friday. Parson had my cell number, though it didn’t surprise me he’d have underlings make contact.

  A few minutes later, Oliver texted scuttlebutt: Police detectives showed up and took Ellie Padgett to headquarters for questioning in Carmen Castillo’s murder. Maybe her rainbow-colored hair showed up on the lobby surveillance video at an inopportune time. Shocking news. I never imagined her capable of murder.

  At a quarter past the hour, two cars drove through the gates of Brad’s estate: his Mercedes and Tulverson’s state-furnished Ford Taurus.

  The two men stood on the driveway apologizing to each other for being late, both blaming traffic.

  My curiosity on tenterhooks, I held the door and hustled them inside. Before Tulverson could hang up his coat, I inquired, “What’s up?”

  My impatience wouldn’t rush him. He ambled toward the same spot on the leather sofa where he’d sat during our initial consultation. Creatures of habit, Brad and I took our customary seats.

  Tulverson opened his briefcase and removed a file folder. “Tomorrow is the deadline for proposals to acquire those two properties on Springhurst Street and Tuttle Way.” He gestured toward Brad. “I know you weren’t available to attend the pre-proposal meeting, but we’d like you to submit a bid.”

  Brad frowned. “Why? I’m not a developer and have zero interest in either of those properties.”

  “We’d like to determine how brazen Parson wants to be in low-balling his—I mean McQuillen’s—bid.”

  I raised my hand. “I don’t understand. Previously you told us the fix is in no matter who else submits proposals.”

  “Perhaps.” Tulverson drew in a breath. “Parson’s been courting his fellow councilmen to ensure they’ll endorse his councilmanic privilege on who gets approved for those property sales within his district.” He clasped his hands together. “Based on the pre-bid meeting, only one other proposer will be coming forth, but he has very little prior experience doing business with the city. If McQuillen realizes you’re submitting a bid, maybe they won’t try for rock bottom. You know, make their proposal more competitive.”

  Brad looked skeptical. “I certainly don’t have a track record buying property in the city.”

  “True, but you’re well-known. There won’t be any question about your financial ability to carry through.” Warren slid paperwork in Brad’s direction. “Here’s a completed proposal. It only needs your signature. We’ve consulted with a couple of appraisers to determine fair market value for those properties. Those figures constitute your proposal.”

  Brad glanced at me. “If t
he stars align, I’ll wake up Saturday morning owning two lots in the city.”

  Warren corrected him. “Actually, they won’t make the decision until next week. From the conversation we monitored in Parson’s office between McQuillen and Ms. Castillo, we already know what they’re planning to bid. It’s nowhere near market value. If Parson tips the scales in favor of McQuillen’s proposal at City Council next week, your counteroffer will demonstrate convincingly that Parson and company weren’t acting in the best interests of the taxpayers of Philadelphia.”

  I turned to Brad. “Or…shit happens, and you end up with a couple of fixer-uppers.”

  Tulverson scowled.

  Brad covered his mouth to hide a chuckle.

  “Few people outside of Parson’s inner circle—certainly not members of City Council—understand his plan to combine two properties with the one owned by his aunt. Taken together, those three lots are worth more than twice the appraised value of the two parcels up for bid.”

  Brad pulled the documents close and studied them. “You think they’re going forward despite Carmen’s death.”

  Warren nodded. “We’ve been monitoring Scott McQuillen’s interactions with Bruno Tomasi. Carmen’s death hasn’t changed their plans. If anything, there’s one less conspirator to share the proceeds with.”

  Brad flipped to the signature page. “If I agree, what are the logistics? Do I need to present this in person?”

  Tulverson shook his head. “We’ll have a runner submit on your behalf. I’d like to turn it in early on the theory that McQuillen will monitor submissions right up until the deadline. Maybe not him personally, but one of his people. Once he’s aware of your bid, they could make a last-minute alteration to theirs.”

  Brad stood. “It’s a sealed bid, right? He still wouldn’t know the details.”

  “True, but he’ll know there’s a serious competitor. Parson and McQuillen have to weigh the implications if City Council members see a wide disparity in bid amounts.”

  Brad walked to his desk, where he sat and grabbed a pen to scrawl his signature. He handed the paperwork to Tulverson. “If this doesn’t go as planned, maybe Sharon can operate a couple of bed and breakfasts in Philly’s Mayfair neighborhood.”

  I glanced at Warren.

  He laughed. “No worries. Your offer, should City Council choose to accept it, is within market range. The fire-damaged home has little more than land value in its present condition. Seventy-five thousand should make it habitable, and you’ll easily recoup your investment. The city’s interest is in getting these properties back on the tax rolls. Besides, I don’t believe Parson and company will take the bait. Based on what he’s done in the past, Parson will push for acceptance of McQuillen’s bid. Your proposal gives us ammunition to use in front of a jury about just how bald-faced their corruption scheme is.”

  Tulverson began packing up his briefcase. He’d gotten what he wanted and didn’t plan on sticking around for small talk. I had other plans. “Do you have any special instructions? Parson plans on having the office open tomorrow.”

  He snapped his case shut. “Just keep your eyes and ears open.”

  “Are you still video monitoring Parson’s office?”

  “Yeah. Hasn’t been much to see. A crime scene cleanup crew worked there this morning.”

  A fact I already knew from arranging their services. “Was Parson there?”

  “No.” Tulverson started for the door.

  I trailed behind. “Any news on the investigation into Carmen Castillo’s murder?”

  Tulverson shook his head and kept moving toward the exit.

  “I have information.” Brad’s words stopped Warren in his tracks.

  I shot Brad a don’t-stop-now look and leaned against the edge of the partner’s desk waiting for his explanation.

  “I talked with Nick Argostino on my way here. Detectives believe Carmen’s murder took place around seven-thirty on Tuesday evening. They reviewed video of the elevator bank on the ground floor from that night. Carmen returned to the building at 7:10 p.m. wearing the clothing in which her body was found. They reviewed comings and goings prior to that time.” Brad pointed at me. “The woman you replaced left early on Tuesday afternoon and returned at 6:45 p.m.”

  “Ellie,” I chimed in. “She has weird rainbow-colored hair that can’t be missed.”

  “That’s another thing. According to Nick, she wore a distinctive jacket with an easy-to-spot seashell design.”

  Ellie had worn that same jacket during my first day at Parson’s office.

  Brad continued. “However, during her return trip, her hair color was brown. Detectives think she might have worn a wig.”

  I whistled. That explained Oliver’s text about police bringing Ellie in for questioning.

  Apparently, Warren had heard enough. He muttered, “Thanks, Brad. See ya.” He paused after arriving at his car, turned around, and waved at me.

  I thought through the scenario Brad had just outlined while watching Warren drive off. I couldn’t understand why Ellie would alter her hair color and still wear a very recognizable jacket. When I turned to express my misgivings, Brad was preparing to leave the office.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m meeting Nick near the scene of Bennett McCurdy’s murder.”

  “Could you drop me at Oliver’s? It’ll spare me rush-hour traffic on SEPTA.”

  “Sure.”

  “It will also give me time to express my concerns about what Nick told you about Ellie.”

  Brad rolled his eyes. “I have a better idea. Come with me and tell him yourself.”

  I grinned. “Sounds like a plan.”

  30

  Brad drove through the late-afternoon shadows that engulfed the abandoned row house on Seminger Street. He steered into an empty parking spot.

  Sharon unbuckled her seatbelt. “I haven’t seen Nick in a while.”

  Nick Argostino paced in front of the boarded-up building, swirls of smoke drifting skyward from his cheroot. He held a pair of bolt cutters in his hand.

  Sharon raced over and threw her arms around Nick, who glanced at Brad and quipped, “At least somebody’s glad to see me.”

  Brad fished a flashlight from his glove box and joined the pair on the sidewalk. He ignored Nick’s dig and pointed at the bolt cutters. “Looks like you’re ready to do a little breaking and entering.”

  “No such thing,” Nick mocked. “I’ve arranged permission.”

  Brad arched a disbelieving eyebrow.

  “Seriously, I talked to the owner.”

  “I thought she lived in Australia where it’s what…five o’clock in the morning?”

  “She’s on vacation in Hawaii this week. It took a few phone calls, but we tracked her down at her hotel about ten thirty local time. I explained the situation, and she gave us permission to enter the property. I have another padlock with me to button up the place when we’re done.”

  “Brad brought me current on what he witnessed from that second story window.” Sharon wrapped her hand around Nick’s bicep as they all walked toward the building.

  Brad held up his flashlight. “I think the power’s off, so this’ll come in handy.”

  Instead of a traditional locking mechanism, the front door had a heavy-duty chain wove around sturdy metal straps bolted to the door along with a matching one affixed to the adjacent brick wall. A combination padlock held it all together. The jaws of Nick’s cutter bit through the chain like teeth through a marshmallow.

  A man drove a small pickup into an empty spot two houses down. After emerging from his vehicle, the man called out, “Hey, what-are-you-doin’?”

  Nick flashed his badge and gestured nothing-to-see-here. The man hurried into the nearby home.

  “Must be the neighborhood watch captain,” Sharon mumbled.

  Nick scoffed. “From the looks of it, they could use a few more.” He pulled open the front door of the abandoned row house and entered, followed by Sharon and Brad.


  Brad found a light switch, but as he suspected, nothing happened. He splayed his flashlight around the entry, revealing a layout similar to Bennett McCurdy’s place. This house had no furniture, and a stale odor hung in the air. Ironically, it felt colder inside than out.

  The trio worked their way toward the kitchen at the back. The room had been stripped of appliances, and a layer of dust covered the Formica countertops.

  “Not much to see.” Nick’s rueful tone hinted at regret for having come.

  Brad aimed the light toward the basement stairs. “Let’s go take a look at that food carton, and I need to retrieve my phone.”

  With Brad in the lead, they descended the steep rickety wooden stairs. The small window at the front of the basement didn’t offer much light, so he cast the flashlight around the space to reveal a stack of mildewed boxes, a rusty bicycle, and a trail of rat droppings. “Watch your step.”

  Stone walls surrounded an uneven concrete floor. Above them, open joists were threaded with ancient knob and tubing. He spotted a crusty circle on the floor where a hot water heater once stood. Above, galvanized straps remained where thieves had stripped the place of copper tubing.

  A moldy stench prompted Sharon to cover her nose and mouth. They moved toward the front of the basement, which Brad had investigated earlier through the window. Propped against the stone wall beneath the window, a six foot wooden stepladder.

  Brad aimed a beam of light on a Styrofoam container. “There it is. I think it came from the fish and chips place Hernandez visited while working on his project.”

  Sharon turned to Nick. “If it was Hernandez’s, could you test for DNA?”

  Nick cleared his throat. “You mean from one of the rats that’s been feasting on whatever was left?”

  Brad glanced at Nick. Even in dim light, his expression spoke why-have-you-wasted-my-time.

  Brad hunted for his phone. Its gray case blended with the concrete and no longer glowed around the edges. He figured the battery had died. He finally spotted and retrieved it. “We can head upstairs.”