Code Rojo

by Ray Flynt

  Tulverson gestured toward Parson’s inner sanctum and mouthed, “They still in there.”

  I nodded.

  He rapped sharply on the door. Beyond, Parson called out, “Come in.”

  Tulverson entered, accompanied by the others. He identified himself and who he worked for, then called the two suspects by name. “You’ve been indicted by a State Grand Jury on two counts of political corruption and criminal conspiracy to defraud the City of Philadelphia.”

  Parson never spoke.

  McQuillen sounded deflated as he muttered, “I wanna talk to my lawyer.”

  Seconds later, the two men were led past my desk, their heads bowed, wearing handcuffs.

  As they exited the suite, Mrs. Watkins stood across the hall, eyes wide, and mouth gaping.

  If Carmen had lived, she’d be joining them in their perp walk.

  I texted Oliver with the news.

  It dawned on me that I didn’t need to remain seated at the desk. Parson no longer required my services. Hopefully, I’d soon collect a check rendered from the State of Pennsylvania for my services.

  I walked to the window in Parson’s office to admire the view one last time. Deep blue sky framed the skyline to the north and sun glinted off the gold cross of the cathedral across the street. I smiled, imagining a chorus of angels celebrating this victory for the taxpayers.

  I locked the door to the suite and deposited the key in an envelope. After a short walk down the hall, the receptionist in the managing partner’s office greeted me with a smile.

  “Hi. I’m Sharon Por…uh, Rojo, from Howard Parson’s office. Is Mr. Bignell available?”

  Thank goodness I can ditch the Rojo name.

  “He’s in a meeting at the moment. May I have him call you?”

  I handed her the envelope. “Just give him this. He’ll understand.”

  * * *

  Several hours later, I joined Oliver for a celebratory dinner at his neighborhood bistro. It was a bittersweet moment. With my assignment ended, it would be back to living in my apartment above the garages at Frame’s estate.

  Oliver raised his glass of wine, and I clinked it. “Here’s to having you visit me more often.”

  He had the same thoughts as me. Eerie. But another sign of how close we’d become.

  Oliver pointed toward the TV behind the bar. His uber-sensitive hearing picked up news of the councilman’s arrest. I turned in time to see a split screen of the Attorney General’s news conference alongside video of the two handcuffed men being stuffed into an unmarked car. The media obviously had advanced warning of the arrest, since several other camera crews were visible in the shot. To the rest of those watching, Tulverson might have looked stoic, but I knew a got-ya smile lurked behind his tight-lipped expression.

  According to Oliver, news about Parson’s arrest spread quickly around Bignell, Watkins, and Clark. One of the partners returned from a late lunch with clients and witnessed Howard escorted from the building by detectives.

  Oliver blurted, “Oh, and I had an interesting visitor this afternoon.”

  A smirk formed, while he waited for me to ask.

  “Who?”

  “Kate Bignell. Turns out she was the insider who knew about the AG’s investigation and set up the interview for you. She hadn’t even told her brother. Kate asked me to thank you on behalf of the firm.”

  I reached for Oliver’s hand, turned it palm up, and traced a heart with my index finger.

  He covered his chest with his free hand and a tear welled in the corner of his eye.

  Like I said, a bittersweet celebration.

  35

  Brad enjoyed a three-day weekend with Beth. On Tuesday, he drove her to 30th Street Station for the 3 p.m. Acela to Washington, DC. The next few weeks would be busy while she prepared to leave Oring-Whitman and transition to her new duties with Centco Systems.

  Brad parked in a short-term metered spot at the perimeter of the station and helped Beth with her luggage. When boarding was announced, they bid goodbye near the escalator for track #4. Through her momentary tears, Brad sensed her excitement at the prospects for the future. He felt it too, eager to put weekend commutes behind them and settle down.

  On his way to Archie Greer’s office to discuss the Hernandez case, KYW radio, Philly’s all-news station, reported on Howard Parson’s arrest.

  The State Attorney General’s office announced the culmination of a six-month investigation of political corruption in the City of Philadelphia. Their indictment alleges that City Councilman Howard Parson conspired with developer Scott McQuillen to defraud the city of hundreds of thousands of dollars in revenue on the sale of condemned properties. Parson and McQuillen were taken into custody and will be arraigned later this afternoon.

  Brad beamed at the role Sharon had played in bringing them to justice. He texted his congratulations to her after parking in front of Greer’s office.

  As had been the case on prior visits, Brad had to cool his heels in Archie’s waiting room. He grew more impatient and kept glancing at the receptionist as if pleading for her intervention. Twenty minutes passed, during which he expected an earlier visitor to emerge from the door to Greer’s private office. None came. Finally, the secretary announced, “You may go in.”

  Brad, already in a foul mood, clenched his teeth at Greer’s smug look. His desktop sat empty of any paperwork. The lawyer casually invited Brad to sit with a wave of his hand.

  What’s he been doing?

  “Keeping busy?” Brad quipped.

  “Always.” Greer reclined in his chair. “What’s up?”

  “I talked with Nick Argostino earlier today. They don’t have results yet from the additional DNA found on the crowbar at Bennett McCurdy’s murder.” When Greer didn’t react, Brad added, “It could be a few more days. Nick said the lab is backed up.”

  Greer heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Our taxpayer dollars at work.”

  Brad launched into a description of his recent visit to a boarded-up row house behind McCurdy’s place. He gave a full account of the threatening gestures directed toward the next-door neighbor and explained how an impromptu teen clubhouse might hold clues to the murder investigation. Greer appeared uninterested in these new details.

  Greer’s cellphone dinged. He glanced at the screen before typing a few words.

  Brad frowned at the attorney’s distraction from their discussion. A grandfather clock in the corner chimed a quarter past four. If Brad didn’t leave soon, he’d be stuck on the Schuylkill expressway during the height of rush hour. He stood. “Do you even care about what I have to say?”

  Greer clucked his tongue and patted the air like one might pet an overly rambunctious dog. “I apologize for my distraction. You’re doing good work. As I said the other day, you’ve unearthed the evidence that will establish reasonable doubt in the minds of the jurors.”

  Brad remained standing. “You don’t care that another killer might be at large, or that Hernandez has to spend what…another six to eight weeks in jail before the case ever comes to trial?”

  The attorney pursed his lips and shrugged. “Life isn’t always fair. That’s why there’re lawyers.”

  Nick might be right about Archie Greer.

  “Well, if we can find McCurdy’s real killer—”

  “That’s not what I’m paying you for.”

  “Then I guess my work is done. I’ll send my final bill.” Brad turned and walked out, not stopping when he heard Greer shout, “Brad, wait.”

  * * *

  Brad drove home—most of it creeping along at five miles per hour—contemplating the ramifications of his meeting with Archie Greer. Sunshine earlier in the day had given way to gray clouds that matched his mood. In his career, he’d dealt with more than a few scumbags, including those who had killed his mother and sister. He didn’t understand what led a twisted mind to a life of crime, but had committed his own life to finding justice for victims and those unfairly accused. Brad wasn’t inclined to burn br
idges, but couldn’t understand why Greer wouldn’t jump at the chance to spring Hernandez out of jail sooner rather than later, if the evidence warranted.

  Maybe Hernandez isn’t paying enough, or commanding the right amount of media attention.

  Greer’s attitude represented a ready contrast between those who act selfish and people engaged in selfless acts.

  After returning to his Bryn Mawr estate, Brad fixed himself a plate of leftovers then called to check on Beth. She’d arrived safely at her DC condo. After a few minutes to vent about his crappy meeting with Greer, their conversation shifted to the upcoming changes in their lives. He already missed Beth and invited himself to visit with her the following weekend.

  “Great,” Beth cooed. “Cherry blossoms are popping out early this year. We can visit the Tidal Basin.”

  Seconds after ending their call, Brad’s cell buzzed anew. He didn’t recognize the number, and simply answered, “Hello.”

  “Mr. Frame?” a small voice questioned.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Juanita, Mr. McCurdy’s neighbor.”

  Brad had given her his card, but barely recognized her voice minus the usual yelling and screaming. “What’s going on?”

  “They’re at it again…across the way. I can see light inside and there’s loud music.”

  “Did you alert the police?”

  She exhaled. “They ignore my calls. I thought maybe you could help.” Her voice had an edge, like she’d already pigeonholed his response in the same category as the police.

  “I have a good friend who’s a detective. I’m going to alert him. I’ll call you back, if that’s okay, to let you know what he says.”

  “Sure. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  Brad tried to call Nick Argostino. No answer. He waited a few minutes and phoned again, this time allowing it to go into voicemail. He left a brief message.

  When no callback came, Brad returned Juanita’s call. “Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to reach my friend.”

  “Oh.” She sounded like a deflating tire.

  Brad glanced at the time. Rush hour would be mostly over and, on a weeknight, not that many people would be heading toward the city. After the mental lecture he’d given himself about Archie Greer, Brad couldn’t leave her hanging. “Is there still activity in the abandoned row house?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to drive there myself. It’ll take me about forty-five minutes.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Brad fired up his Mercedes and headed toward the city. Traffic still looked thick on the outbound lanes of the expressway, but no delays heading east. KYW repeated the same batch of news every twenty minutes, until a new story caught his attention.

  This just in. City Councilman Howard Parson has been released on bail following his arraignment on charges of public corruption and conspiracy to commit fraud. Common Pleas Judge Horace Tannenbaum set bail at $250,000. Parson was represented at the hearing by famed criminal defense attorney Archibald “Archie” Greer, who issued a statement to the media proclaiming his client not guilty on all charges. Parson’s co-defendant, Scott McQuillen remains in custody.

  I’ll be damned.

  Brad now knew what had kept Greer distracted during their earlier meeting—bigger fish to fry.

  When Brad pulled in front of Bennett McCurdy’s row house, quiet had descended on the neighborhood along with twilight. With no word yet from Nick Argostino, Brad planned to talk with Juanita and figure out what to do from there. The last thing he wanted to do was break into the boarded-up row house via a basement window.

  Juanita’s home looked dark, and the bulb next to the front door remained unlit. He mounted the steps and knocked.

  From a distance, she shouted, “I’ll be right there.” The porch light flashed on, momentarily blinding him, followed by the snap of a deadbolt, and the sight of Juanita silhouetted in the open doorway, wearing a muumuu.

  “You actually came,” she squealed. “I’ve been keeping an eye out. They were still there a few minutes ago. Come. Come.”

  She motioned for Brad to follow. They passed a sparsely furnished living room, a dining table overflowing with quilting squares, and into the kitchen laid out like McCurdy’s.

  When they walked onto the back porch, her body language changed. Juanita’s shoulders slumped and she slowed her steps. She aimed a shaky finger across the way at the broken upstairs window. “Th…they’re gone.”

  Brad pointed toward her backyard. “Do you mind?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Brad scampered down the steps, dashed through the yard, and opened the gate to access the back porch at the abandoned row house. He jiggled the handle on the back door, which remained locked. Particle board, warped from months in the elements, covered the door’s window, and he easily pried it off. Brad peered into the void but couldn’t see anything. He returned to Juanita’s back porch.

  She sighed. “I’m sorry to make you come all this way.”

  Convinced the abandoned property held a clue to the mystery of Bennett McCurdy’s death, he reassured her. “It’s okay. I’ll alert my friend in homicide. Maybe they’ll put the place under surveillance.”

  Brad never mentioned his prior visit to the house with Nick Argostino and knew that any further investigative steps would await the results of the DNA tests on the crowbar.

  By the time he left Juanita’s place, it was pitch dark. As he walked toward his car, light from a second-floor window caught Brad’s attention. It came from the row house where Hernandez’s fence-building project had occurred. What drew Brad’s interest were the orange-painted walls visible through open mini-blinds. The bright color looked like a match with the candle-bearing paint can he’d seen in the boarded-up row house.

  Brad paced in front of the renovated townhouse debating whether to speak to the owners. Was this too thin a lead on which to risk his reputation? Had he missed clues during his previous meeting with the neighbors?

  He decided to lay cards on the table, stepped up, and rang the doorbell.

  As with Juanita’s place, first the porch light popped on. Another moment passed, during which Brad suspected he was under observation through the peephole.

  Lyle Grundin opened the door. “Mr. Frame. This is a surprise. Come in.”

  Brad stepped inside, where a flat screen TV showed the final minutes of Wheel of Fortune. Lyle muted the sound on the television.

  Lyle’s partner, Dennis Letty, who initially scrubbed a pot at the kitchen island, wandered into the living room—a look of confusion on his face. He wiped his hands dry and flipped the dishcloth back over his shoulder.

  “What brings you here?” Lyle asked.

  “Juanita, the neighbor on the other side of McCurdy’s place, called me in response to suspicious activity in the abandoned row house on the opposite side of your backyards.”

  Lyle and Dennis exchanged glances, before Lyle said, “We’re familiar with that eyesore. It’s one of the reasons why we wanted to build our fence.”

  Brad recounted his recent visit with the police to the boarded-up row house, and how it appeared to function as a teen clubhouse, complete with a pong of marijuana and used roaches scattered about the floors. He conveyed Juanita’s concern about gun-emulating gestures aimed at her from the second-floor window. “She said that McCurdy used to yell at the kids hanging out. A suspicious DNA was found on the crowbar; there’s a possibility one of them may have attacked Mr. McCurdy.”

  Lyle held open his palms. “What’s this have to do with us?”

  Brad pointed toward the abandoned property. “There’s an empty can with orange paint dripping down the side over there. Tonight, I couldn’t help but notice the same shade through your second-floor window.”

  Dennis scowled at Lyle.

  Lyle shouted up the stairs, “Ethan.”

  He repeated it a second time before a faint voice replied, “Yeah.”

  Lyle yelled back, “Get down here,” then tu
rned to Brad. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. That’s my son’s room. When Elaine and I divorced, he stayed with me.”

  A young man slouched down the stairs wearing jeans and a black sweatshirt emblazoned with a green cannabis leaf. Although they’d no doubt seen that shirt before, both men winced when they saw what Ethan wore. He looked like a younger, skinnier version of his father, possibly a junior or senior in high school. Before his son reached the bottom step, Lyle fired a question. “Have you been hanging out in that boarded-up house out back?”

  Ethan looked askance at Brad. “Who wants to know?”

  Lyle grabbed Ethan by the arm. “I do.”

  Ethan shrugged him off. “Maybe I was. Somethin’ wrong with havin’ fun?”

  Lyle gestured toward Brad. “This is Mr. Frame. He’s a private investigator looking into Mr. McCurdy’s murder.”

  Ethan scoffed. “They already got that guy.”

  Brad jumped into the conversation. “We think he may be innocent. There were three DNA samples on the crowbar that killed your neighbor. Your dad’s, since the crowbar belonged to him, the man who used it to build your fence, and one other. There are reports that Mr. McCurdy tormented people hanging out in the empty unit. It’s possible one of your buddies attacked him.”

  With all eyes on him, Ethan finally blurted, “I didn’t see anything.” Surliness had left his voice.

  Brad added to his explanation. “Take-out food containers found in that row house matched the one planted near Mr. McCurdy’s body.” Ethan’s eyes widened. “I’m sure you know who else hung out there and might want to do your neighbor harm.”

  Ethan acted defiant, but fear infused his eyes.

  Lyle stared at his son. “All Mr. Frame needs is a name.”

  Ethan looked cornered. “I’m not a snitch.”

  Lyle took a step toward Ethan. “Which tells me you know something.”

  Ethan’s gaze darted around the room. Brad motioned for Lyle to step away, which he did. However, his subsequent angry stride around the room, riveted his son’s attention.