by Ray Flynt
“Not really.” She reached over and ran the tips of her fingers on the back of his hand. “I’ll be working for Centco Systems in Valley Forge, Pennsylvania.”
Brad’s face lit up at mention of the nearby location.
Beth added, “I’m gonna need a place to stay.”
Brad stroked his chin. “I might know of one.”
33
A bright blue sky greeted us as Oliver and I walked toward the office on Friday morning. With temperatures in the high 60s, it felt like spring had fully arrived. Not having to confront Carmen at the office added a bounce to my step. Too often, she’d acted like a cobra ready to attack, injecting fear into my undercover assignment with her cutting asides, withering glances, and erratic mood swings. When she wasn’t around, my days often had been boring, although I’d never known when she might sweep into a room and make my life hell.
The councilman was much more laid-back, perhaps due to a politician’s innate desire to be loved. If he showed up for work that morning, I could deal with him.
Oliver and I allowed time for breakfast at the bagel shop on the ground floor, and I still arrived at Parson’s suite by 8:55 a.m.
I unlocked the front door and entered the darkened office, my first time there since shortly after discovering Carmen’s body. After turning on the lights, I filled the Keurig’s water reservoir and prepared to make Parson’s coffee when he arrived. I smiled at the notion that proper amounts of cream and sugar kept me in his good graces.
I stepped into the councilman’s private office. My presence would trigger Tulverson’s recording system. He’d know I was on the job. Everything appeared back in place, with the desktop neat and orderly. Parson’s campaign photograph hung over the wall-safe location. No blood stains marred the carpet behind the intricately carved desk. Scent of oranges hung in the air—the only reminder from the biohazard crew’s presence.
After fixing my own cup of coffee, I sat at my desk, just as Rose Watkins, the grand dame of BWC, entered the suite.
She gazed at me with a benevolent smile. “How are you, dear?”
“Sweet of you to ask. It’s all still a bit of a shock. I haven’t worked here long enough to really get to know Ms. Castillo.”
Rose’s lips curled into a smirk. “It doesn’t take long.”
I know where she stands on Carmen.
Rose peered through the open door toward Parson’s private office with a mixed expression of curiosity and dread. “Is, ah…Howard around?”
“No, Ma’am. I’m expecting him.”
Honestly, I had no idea if he’d be coming in today or not. My answer covered all the bases. With the city’s bid deadline later that morning, I figured Parson would want to be far away from City Hall, giving an appearance of being above the process. “May I take a message for him? Or would you like me to call you when he comes in?”
Rose Watkins looked befuddled. “Yes, let me know.”
“Has Amelia arrived yet?”
“She’s running a little late this morning.”
I smiled, having a pretty good idea why she was late. “We talked about having lunch together one of these days, I’ll stop by later to see if Amelia’s free.”
I would enjoy hearing gossip about her night with Ron.
Rose once more stared toward Parson’s private office. She appeared curious to see where Carmen had met her demise. Finally, Rose sighed, turned, and left.
Over the next forty-five minutes, a half-dozen employees of Bignell, Watkins, and Clark stopped by asking for Howard. All of them acted like Rose, sneaking a glance toward the crime scene. I dutifully took their names to share with Parson. Instead, I should’ve placed a tip jar on my desk and offered guided tours to point out gory details of where I’d found the body.
When Parson finally arrived at 10 a.m., I handed him the stack of notes, along with three important emails that had come in since the murder.
He meandered into his office and grumbled, “Coffee,” then pulled the door shut behind him.
I added an extra smidge of sugar to brighten his mood and tapped on the door three times before entering with his cup of steaming brew. He sat at the round conference table instead of his desk. My expression must’ve given my thoughts away. He straightened in his chair. “Decided I’d work here today.”
I placed the cup on a coaster in front of him. “Anything else?”
“Hold my calls.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And close the door behind you.”
“Sure.”
I doubted he’d be bothering me. Back at my desk, I texted Oliver to see if he’d heard any news. I also alerted Tulverson to Parson’s arrival, in case they wanted to live stream the video from his office.
With the boss asking for privacy, I held off alerting Mrs. Watkins of his arrival.
Parson’s private line lit up. It hadn’t rung, so he was making an outgoing call. I muted my phone and pressed the button to listen in on his conversation.
I caught Bruno Tomasi’s voice in a mid-sentence whisper. “…so far, including the guy from Bryn Mawr that Scott’s concerned about.”
“Did he show in person?” Parson inquired.
“Nope. Courier.”
“Was his bid for both properties?”
“Yes.”
“Hold on,” Parson said, before shouting, “Rojo,” loud enough for me to hear through the closed door along with it reverberating via the receiver.
I cradled and unmuted the phone, then I opened the door to his office.
Parson had moved his chair alongside his desk to use the phone, perhaps spooked at the idea of sitting over the spot where Carmen had been killed. He held his mug aloft and resumed his conversation. I retrieved the cup, and by the time I returned it to him full, he’d ended his conversation with Bruno and returned to the conference table.
He gazed up at me. “Do we have any donuts?”
“Sorry.” I shook my head. “Would you like me to pick some up?”
Parson’s eyes brightened, and he reached into his pocket handing me a ten-dollar bill. “Two glazed for me. Get a couple for yourself.”
I thanked him and headed for the deli on the ground floor.
When I returned, Parson’s door stood open. I looked in. Detective Alan Norcross sat across from him at the circular conference table.
I delivered the treats, deciding to leave my donuts with the detective. My waistline would thank me later.
Parson gestured toward me. “You remember Ms. Rojo.” At least he’d stopped referring to me as Ellie.
“Of course.” Norcross nodded.
I asked the detective if he’d like a cup of coffee.
Norcross declined. I stood there hoping they might invite me to join in the conversation, but Parson shot me a look that said get-lost.
I returned to the reception desk but left the door ajar, hoping to overhear their conversation. If Parson had been sitting at his desk, he might have noticed. Instead, he faced the windows. On the other hand, Detective Norcross could see what I’d done. I hoped he wouldn’t rat me out.
Their conversation started off slowly and with the rustle of the donut bag. Norcross sounded low-key. I scribbled notes of their conversation.
Norcross: “On Wednesday, you couldn’t remember the contents of the office safe. It’s been a couple of days. Has your memory improved?”
Parson: “Paperwork mostly. A half-inch thick file folder, if I recall correctly. It’s been six months since I’ve gone near the safe.”
Norcross: “Did you keep money there, or other valuables such as jewelry, collectibles, or bonds?”
Parson: “No.”
Norcross: “Who else knew the combination?”
Parson: “Just Carmen.”
Norcross: “What about others in the firm? Mr. Bignell, perhaps.”
Silence. Parson must’ve given a non-verbal response.
Norcross: “How long has the safe been there?”
Parson: “From before I
joined the firm.”
Norcross: “So it’s possible that a person or persons knew the combination from before? Some of the old-timers perhaps.”
Parson: “I had the combination changed. Why all these questions about the safe?”
Norcross: “Was a weapon kept there?”
Parson: “No. I still don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
It seemed clear enough to me. The open safe suggested a robbery, meaning the killer thought something of value was stored there. On the other hand, if the safe held a firearm, perhaps Carmen toyed with her attacker as to its contents hoping to gain access to the weapon and neutralize the threat to her. With no gun found at the scene, that situation appeared unlikely.
Norcross: “You told me that Ms. Castillo had been your assistant for three years. How did she first come to work with you?”
Parson: “I was introduced through her then-husband, Scott McQuillen, a local developer. They continued to stay on friendly terms after their divorce, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Hmmm. Interesting to hear Parson downplay McQuillen’s name as a potential suspect.
Norcross: “We spoke to Mr. McQuillen. He met with Carmen here on Tuesday afternoon. Did you know what their meeting was about?”
Parson: “No.”
He didn’t sound convincing.
Norcross: “According to McQuillen, the two of them engaged in consensual sex, right here in your office.”
I would have loved to see the expression on Parson’s face. The detective and Tulverson had conferred, so he already knew about the taping system and what had happened between Carmen and McQuillen. Norcross also had knowledge of the real estate scheme in which Parson, McQuillen, and Castillo engaged. The fact that Scott admitted to sex as the reason for their meeting gave him an excuse not to mention their conspiracy on bids for properties put up for sale by the city.
Parson called out, “Rojo,” no doubt buying time to consider his response.
I jumped up from my desk. Because the door remained cracked open, I jiggled the handle before entering to make Parson think I’d opened it. Norcross suppressed a chuckle when he saw what I was up to. Once more, Parson held up his coffee cup, which I dutifully took to fill. Unfortunately, the noise from the Keurig prevented me from overhearing the next part of their conversation.
When I returned with Parson’s coffee, they were discussing Marshall Barstow. Parson denied any enmity between them and laughed at the notion Barstow might have killed Carmen. “We may have had our differences, but Marshall wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Norcross tapped his index finger on the wooden table. “The medical examiner believes Ms. Castillo was raped prior to her murder.”
Parson’s jaw dropped, as did mine.
When I discovered Carmen’s body, I noticed her panties pulled below the knees. While indicative of sexual assault, it could also have been misdirection by the killer.
Parson made no immediate effort to shoo me out of the office, so I stood there watching and listening.
“You’re not suggesting Scott raped—”
Norcross shook his head. “No. The autopsy report shows evidence of a lubricant commonly found on latex condoms. McQuillen informed us he didn’t use one.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“We’re trying to pin down a motive. According to you, there was nothing kept in the safe worth robbing.” The detective pointed toward its location on the wall. “And only you and Ms. Castillo had the combination. You worked with her for the past three years. Who might want to brutalize her in this way?”
The councilman stared at the table. When he lifted his head, he glanced toward me, then recoiled as if noticing my presence for the first time. “I have an idea.” Parson hesitated.
“Go on,” Norcross urged.
“Ron Needell, one of the partners here.”
Norcross made a note, stood, and prepared to leave. He shook Parson’s hand. “Councilman, thank you for your time.”
Relief spread over Parson’s face.
I preceded the detective into the reception area, then closed Parson’s office door behind me. “Sir, I’ve dealt with Mr. Needell, I think you should—”
Norcross held up his hand to silence me.
I plowed ahead. “But you didn’t ask Parson why he suggested Needell.”
Norcross heaved a sigh. “I didn’t have to. His name came up earlier in our investigation. He has an alibi.” The detective pointed toward the exit. “We already talked with her, a secretary across the hall.”
Amelia.
34
I didn’t recognize the incoming number on my smartphone but answered anyway.
“Good morning, Ms. Rojo.” Warren Tulverson’s distinctive baritone sounded in my ear.
It was the first I’d heard from him in the four days since the morning of bid submissions at City Hall. Since the State Attorney General’s office was paying for my services, I tried to be responsive. “What’s up?”
“Are you secure?”
I think he meant were my communications secure, since days could go by without Warren checking on my well-being. “I’m at the office; the only one here.”
“Are you expecting Mr. Parson?”
“He hasn’t touched base. He wasn’t around yesterday, and I think he has a Council meeting this morning. Sorry I don’t have more news for you.”
Following crosstalk, the line went dead. I stared at my phone.
Tulverson had left conversations abruptly before. I figured if he had more to say, he’d call back.
I hadn’t seen Howard Parson since his meeting with Detective Norcross. Following his nervous encounter with the detective, he’d bolted from the office. I hadn’t expected to hear from him over the weekend, but it surprised me when he hadn’t called for messages on Monday.
The glamour of undercover work.
Amelia walked into my office. We hadn’t managed to connect for our promised lunch date, and she wondered if today would work. Based on the unresolved call from the AG’s investigator, I politely declined, not knowing if he would need me later. Instead, I suggested to Amelia that we get together after work.
“I have plans.” She blushed.
“Ron?”
“Yeah. Chinese takeout at his place.”
“Nice.”
Ron always manages to steer her to his place.
I didn’t know what she saw in him, but as my grandma used to say, “As God makes ’em, he pairs ’em.”
Amelia launched into gossip about Mrs. Watkins’ decision to retire early, but a call on my cell interrupted her news flash. A glance at the incoming number told me that Tulverson was calling back. I held up my finger to pause my conversation with Amelia and answered, “Councilman Parson’s office, please hold.”
This alerted Warren that I wasn’t alone, while informing Amelia that I couldn’t chitchat forever. She invited me to a ladies’ lunch with Mrs. Watkins on Friday.
Ladies’ lunch? Is that still a thing?
I agreed to attend. When Amelia left the office, I spoke to Tulverson. “Okay, I’m alone.”
“Here’s the deal,” he began, “the Attorney General is meeting with a Grand Jury right now. Within the next few hours, there may be indictments to announce and, shortly after, we’ll be making arrests. If Howard Parson shows up at the office, text me.”
“Will do.”
No sooner had I ended the call than my pulse quickened. Today could be D-Day on my assignment at Bignell, Watkins, and Clark. Carmen’s brutal murder may have overshadowed the significance of the AG’s investigation, but ferreting out political corruption was a big deal.
Like a lot of folks, I often rolled my eyes at the relentless coverage and commentary by the three 24/7 cable news networks. They saw their job as uncovering slime under every rock in the nation’s capital. While that might be overkill, cutbacks in local newspaper coverage often meant that local politicians and bureaucrats functioned under the
radar. Political corruption at the local level was just as destructive to people’s confidence in our democracy.
Several state and congressional representatives had been held to account in recent years, with penalties ranging from forced resignations to prison time. Based on what Tulverson just told me, a prominent city councilman was about to join them. Maybe his arrest would help curtail voter’s cynicism.
Noon came and went with no sign of Parson. Lunch with Amelia sounded better by the minute, but that ship had already sailed. I didn’t feel like I could leave the office, so I texted Oliver to see if he’d be able to visit the deli on the first floor and pick up a chef’s salad. He didn’t respond, but twenty minutes later walked into the reception area carrying my salad and bottled iced tea.
“You’re a keeper,” I gushed.
Oliver beamed.
While Oliver stood at my desk, Howard Parson and Scott McQuillen entered the suite in a jovial mood.
Parson said nothing, merely nodded in my direction as he led Scott past my desk and into his private office.
I paused, expecting an immediate request from the boss for coffee. When none came, I stood, hugged Oliver, and whispered that the shit was about to hit the fan. He asked me to keep him posted before he returned to his 14th floor office.
I texted Tulverson: Parson just arrived along with McQuillen.
The wait began, but for what exactly I wasn’t sure.
My anxiety grew by the minute as I picked at my salad, not knowing whether to expect a SWAT team or a call with further instructions from Tulverson.
He’d mentioned a Grand Jury—usually associated with indictments. Maybe they hadn’t acted. The longer I waited, the more I feared the two men departing the office and me notifying the AG’s office that they were on the move.
Tulverson’s headquarters was located in Norristown. If that’s where he’d called me from, nothing would happen soon. I steeled myself for a much longer delay.
Shortly before two o’clock, with the two men still secreted in Parson’s office, Warren Tulverson marched into the suite accompanied by two other men in suits, who I presumed were part of the Attorney General’s investigative unit. In the hallway, I spotted a uniformed State Trooper standing guard outside the suite.
