Unforgiving Shadows (A Brad Frame Mystery Book 1)

by Ray Flynt

  “Your marriage to Diane was on the rocks long before Mom and Lucy were killed, wasn’t it?”

  “I plead my rights under the Fifth Amendment.”

  The phone rang. Brad let it ring three times before answering, then recognized his detective mentor on the other end of the line. “Hey, Nick.”

  “About our meeting tonight,” he heard Nick Argostino say.

  “Yeah, we’re expecting you.”

  “There’s a small glitch. I’m on-call tonight, and can’t leave the city. Any chance you could come over here?”

  “Oh, sure. I’m in the middle of a meeting right now,” Brad said, noticing that Andy had loosened his tie. “I expect Sharon any minute and we’ll be on the road within a half-hour. See you later.”

  Andy looked at his watch.

  Brad cradled the phone. “How did you receive the notes?”

  “My secretary brought them to me.”

  “Consuelo?”

  “No. Ah… Roslyn.”

  “Roslyn Hunter?” Brad asked.

  Andy bobbed his head. “Yes.”

  “I remember her,” Brad said. “Did you ask where she’d gotten them?”

  Andy developed a rhythm to his responses—flat and unemotional, belying his tense body language. “The first time, I didn’t bother the second time.”

  “And her answer was?” Brad prompted him.

  “She found it when she came into the office.”

  “I see,” Brad said. “What’s going on with you and Diane right now?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Andy’s voice seemed to go to a higher pitch.

  “Let me be a little more specific,” Brad said, suspicion in his voice. “You were talking about her on the phone this afternoon.”

  Andy flashed an angry look. Glancing around the room, he added, “You got this place bugged?”

  “You made five calls from here this afternoon. One to my cell phone, three to your office in Houston, and one local call to the law firm of Blankenship, Trawler and Ivanic.”

  Andy laughed and threw his hands in the air. “You’re making this up.”

  “Hardly. The desk phone displays a digital readout of the last ten calls made from it. Unless I’m mistaken you talked with Ronald Allessi, an associate with that law firm—your ex-wife’s escort to Dad’s funeral. And I’d be willing to bet that Diane figured prominently in that phone call. What’s going on?”

  “We have nothing more to talk about,” Andy said coldly, apparently ready to exit the battlefield. “We’re leaving early in the morning—Barbara, the kids, and me. I’ve already put in an order for a cab. No use inconveniencing anybody around here. We’ve got a 6:30 a.m. flight.”

  Brad got up from the desk and walked over to his brother. “Walk out if you want. This morning at the breakfast table you were the one talking about how important perceptions are to the value of the company. Something isn’t right and unless you tell me what’s going on you can forget about issuing any press release on Friday.”

  Andy twisted his neck, as if trying to loosen the kinks, before saying, “Diane’s threatening an exposé.”

  “Why? What did you do?”

  Brad saw Sharon enter the office just as he and his brother stood nose to nose. Andy scowled in her direction.

  “I didn’t do anything.” Andy sounded exasperated, adding, “Well, I take that back. She had enough dirt on me ten years ago that I agreed to a generous divorce settlement. She got child support for Byron until he’s finished with college—even graduate school. And she got alimony for ten years, which is almost over. But I know her; that bitch’s not satisfied. Now that Dad is gone, she thinks I’m rich,” he pointed at Brad, “like you. She doesn’t know I got cut out of the will, and believe me I have no interest in bragging about it. Diane’s coming after me for everything she can get her hands on.”

  “You’re meeting with her tonight?”

  “No. Allessi.”

  Sharon spoke up, “Why don’t you contact the attorney that handled your divorce? If it was a legal agreement, it would be binding on both parties.” Her suggestion surprised Brad, since he knew Sharon had gotten the short end of the stick on her own divorce settlement.

  Andy shook his head. “That would be too simple. I’ve got a bigger fleet of lawyers back in Houston than I have cars. But this is extortion. Diane’s threatening to publish a tell-all-book that’ll ruin me.” Poking his brother on the shoulder, Andy added, “And you can sure as shit bet her book ain’t gonna make you smell like roses either. Allessi made it sound like an overnight best seller. He promised it would have everything—murder, sex, adultery, bastard kids, greed, betrayal… Did I mention sex?”

  “What about libel laws?” Sharon directed her question to Brad.

  Andy exhaled. “There’ll be enough truth in it to prevent it from being libelous. Hell, you don’t run a twelve billion dollar business without having a pile of shit accumulate at your back door.” An apt metaphor, Brad thought, for his brother. “Anybody who even thinks they were treated unfairly will be happy to be quoted in the book. They’ll cite newspaper clippings, legal filings, divorce papers; hell, they can do an Internet search and get enough material.”

  “An exposé might not be all that bad,” Sharon suggested. “There’ve been enough trashy articles and books written about politicians, but the garbage doesn’t stick.”

  Andy laughed. “That’s one area where government is behind the corporate world. The leader of a Fortune 100 company has seldom survived a personal scandal. Oh, there’ll be a few early calls of support, but then the phone lines will buzz among the Board members. My demise as CEO won’t necessarily be quick—death by a thousand cuts. And in the end, I’ll be expected to fall on my own sword.”

  Brad sank into the freshly tanned leather of the sofa and closed his eyes. “A book,” he repeated. “Have you talked directly with Diane about any of this?”

  Andy grimaced. “I haven’t talked with Diane in ten and a half years. Why would I want to start now?”

  “What about your son?” Sharon asked.

  “I don’t talk with Byron about her either.” Andy flailed his arms. “Which is more than I can say about her and what she’s told him about me. My secretary arranges visitations, and lawyers talk with lawyers about alimony and child support.”

  “Your lawyers have dealt with Allessi before?” Brad asked.

  “No.” He shook his head. “Her attorneys are in Haverford, not the city.”

  “What time is your meeting?” Brad asked, glancing at the regulator clock on his office wall.

  “Nine at the Rosemont Country Club.”

  Brad stood up. “Go see Mr. Allessi. Find out what he wants. Just don’t agree to anything.”

  Andy buttoned his shirt and repositioned his tie.

  Patting Andy on the back, Brad reminded him, “Stopping extortion is my line of work. Let me handle this. Call me when you’re back in Houston to let me know how the meeting went.”

  Andy grabbed his wool overcoat and threw it over his arm preparing to head out the door.

  “And another thing,” Brad called after him, “I’d recommend sticking with the club soda. Don’t have any liquor, even if he buys.”

  Andy nodded and flashed thumbs up.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  He and Sharon left the office, walking the short distance to Brad’s car, as a brisk wind blew across the driveway. When Brad unlocked the car’s doors with the remote, Sharon pulled her coat tightly about her and raced to the passenger seat. Brad paused by the driver’s door, gazing at the star-filled sky and found Orion, his compass to the universe. He’d had his first joyful encounter with constellations at summer camp when he was twelve years old, learning to spot Perseus, Andromeda, Ursa Major and Minor. Orion was his favorite; so easy to find Orion’s belt, even on a murky night. Thinking of the stars and their distance in terms of light-years always gave him a sense of unease, overwhelming his brain, like static spoiling a
broadcast tune. He took one last look at Orion’s belt before getting behind the wheel, realizing once more how tiny his role was in God’s unfathomable plan.

  The car made good time in the post-rush-hour traffic, and Brad punched up the soundtrack to Shakespeare in Love on his CD changer. Noticing that Sharon hadn’t spoken for a few minutes, Brad said, “You’re quiet this evening.”

  “Just thinking,” she said.

  “Worried about how you did on the test?”

  Sharon shrugged. “Yes and no.”

  Sharon stretched out in her seat, leaning her head back. Brad planned to ask another question but glanced over and saw that she had closed her eyes. He smiled as he remembered that’s exactly how she looked at the end of the first case they’d worked together—reclining in a first-class seat on US Airways on the way home to Philadelphia.

  Hired by a woman in Bucks County, Pennsylvania to find out what her husband had done with $40,000 in a joint savings account, that case took a different tack when the woman was found stabbed to death. Brad immediately suspected the husband, a traveling salesman who spent two weeks of every month on the road. But he had an alibi from a hotel in Pittsburgh. The police arrested the woman’s seventeen-year-old son, Lon, already on probation for stealing a car. Though the boy denied having anything to do with the murder, investigators had found droplets on a pair of his jeans that matched his mother’s blood.

  Sharon Porter had been his probation officer, and thought the young man incapable of murder. At the time, Brad was still getting used to having an associate in his agency. But Nick Argostino had convinced him, with the double-barreled argument that she was homeless and needed a place to live and would be a competent addition. Brad had misgivings on the latter. Sharon finally persuaded Brad to find holes in the father’s alibi. They traveled to Pittsburgh and examined hotel records and receipts—discovering that three of the husband’s room service receipts were never signed for. Interviewing wait staff, they learned that in each instance—dinner, a midnight order of beer, and breakfast the following morning—a man’s voice had asked for the deliveries to be left outside the door, saying he wasn’t dressed. A five-dollar tip had been slipped under the door each time, which only succeeded in improving the memory of the hotel’s staff. A maid, who said she’d seen two different men coming and going from the room, ID’d a photo of the husband and helped produce a composite picture of the second man. Hotel security recognized the man from his picture, a two-bit local con man. When questioned, the man said he’d been paid $20,000 just to hang out and order room service. The husband was subsequently arrested and convicted of his wife’s murder. Brad, impressed with Sharon’s passion for justice, promptly offered her a job.

  Brad pulled into the driveway outside of Nick’s two-story Dutch colonial on Ardleigh Street in the Mt. Airy section of Philadelphia, triggering security lights mounted on the gable end of the detached garage. Emerging from the car, he heard a dog barking furiously, and the barking continued until Brad rang the doorbell—then intensified.

  “Randy, come and get this dog.” Brad heard Nick’s muffled shout behind the door.

  The door opened and Nick stood, slightly out of breath, holding his black and white Border Collie on a short leash. “Thanks for coming over.” The dog stopped barking, but gave both of them a good sniff and sat panting as Nick closed the door.

  “It’s about time.” Nick grumbled to his teenage son, a gangly lad with his dad’s coloring and freckles—but no purple hair, eyebrow piercings, or other overt signs of rebellion against a father who served as captain of detectives with the Philadelphia police force. Randy was only five or six years old when Brad had last seen him, and now stood nearly as tall as his father.

  “Wait a minute, Randy,” Nick said, as his son led the dog away. “Don’t dash off. I want you to meet Brad Frame and Sharon Porter.”

  “Hey,” his son said softly, flashing a wave before hurrying out of the room.

  Nick shook his head, but also wore fatherly pride as he watched his son disappear.

  Brad smiled. “He’s working on developing quiet strength. Just like his dad.”

  Nick sighed. “I hope so. Right now I’m just praying he lives until his eighteenth birthday. It’s tough raising a teenager.” Nick led them into a spacious living room, pointing to a colonial-style rocker where they could drape their coats. Brad spotted the natural stone fireplace with its raised hearth and timber mantel, recalling how many times he and Nick had conferred there during the investigation of the murders of his mother and sister. The furnishings hadn’t changed much in the last decade; Brad noticed a fresh slipcover added to the sofa, and the same drop-leaf maple coffee table sitting on a now faded braided rug.

  Nick wrapped his arm around Brad’s shoulder in an after-the-gridiron-game-clinch, asking, “How you doin’?”

  “Fine.” Brad realized it was the first he’d seen Nick since the detective and Sharon had confronted him. “I’m trying to stay focused. I appreciate what you did for me last week.” Turning to Sharon, he added, “What you both did.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t get to your dad’s funeral. I had to work,” Nick explained. “Can I get you anything… beer, soda?”

  Brad shook his head and settled into a seat on the sofa as Nick glanced at Sharon.

  “Hey, congratulations,” Nick said. “You got the highest raw score on the police exam they’ve seen in the last two years. I’d flagged your application and they called me late this afternoon with the good news. There might be guys with veteran’s preference who’ll show up higher on the list, but we won’t have any trouble reaching your name.”

  Sharon beamed. “Wow,” she said.

  “Yeah, that’s great,” Brad said, trying to disguise how conflicted he felt at Sharon’s good news.

  “I assume you already met the physical requirements,” Nick said.

  “I had to reschedule,” she said, then after sitting next to Brad on the sofa, Sharon abruptly changed the subject. “What kind of information have you got for us?”

  Nick flashed Brad a suspicious look, as if Brad had managed to curb Sharon’s enthusiasm for the police job. Brad shrugged. He knew Sharon’s test was rescheduled for the following day, and was surprised she hadn’t provided the details, as well as by her generally tepid response.

  “I’ve learned a few things that might interest you,” Nick began, sitting in a nearby armchair. “Wilkie’s partner, Eddie Baker, was incarcerated at Graterford. The Department of Corrections likes to keep guys separated that were convicted of the same crime, and Wilkie did his time at SCI Pittsburgh before the execution. I talked to an old Marine buddy of mine who works at Graterford and asked him to see what he could find out. Seems like Wilkie must’ve been the brains of the pair, if you can imagine that. Eddie got the nickname ‘Snail’ because he was slow.” Nick tapped the side of his head. “Elevator barely made it to the second floor. My buddy reported that because of his mental capacity and size—Baker stood five foot four and weighed about a hundred pounds with his clothes on—he was easy prey. Baker got protection for his first three and a half years in prison from a big oaf outta Germantown—in exchange for you know what. But then that guy got released, and Snail was fair game again. I’m sure somebody was after his skinny ass every time he turned around. The story inside the prison is that he couldn’t take being fucked over all the time—literally. Eddie killed himself. He wasn’t done in by anybody.”

  Nick’s Border Collie ran into the room trailing his leash behind him. Nick yelled for his son, “Randy, the dog got loose again. Come and get him.” The dog crouched contentedly next to Nick wagging his white-tipped tail. Nick frowned and shook his head. “You know who the master is around here, don’t you? Aloysius!” Nick said, pointing at the dog.

  “That’s a funny name for a dog,” Brad said. “Where’d you come up with that?”

  “We got the dog about eight years ago, back when I worked for a Captain who used to drive me crazy—all the time
sending reports back to me asking for a redo. A stickler for details, the Captain always wanted more information. As a puppy, the dog used to bring me anything that wasn’t nailed down, a newspaper, socks, it didn’t have to be a bone for him to fetch it. My wife heard me complaining about Captain Aloysius returning paperwork to me all the time, and she suggested naming the dog after him. Then anytime I had a bad day at work I could come home, call out his name, look that dog in the eye, and say whatever I wanted. He never minded, and he still loves me. Don’t you boy?” Aloysius barked when Nick reached down and patted him on the head. “After I got promoted to Captain, I wondered how many of my officers named their dogs Nick.” He threw his head back and roared.

  Brad and Sharon joined in the laughter. Refocusing on the case, Brad asked, “Did the autopsy results support the conclusion of suicide in Eddie Baker’s case?”

  “My buddy reviewed his entire file. The autopsy showed no evidence of foul play,” Nick said. “But something happened shortly before his death that may help explain Baker’s actions. The prison got their first official notice of execution for Baker after the routine appeals process was concluded. Prison officials had to go through a formal notification to the prisoner that the Governor had set an execution date. How was Baker to know the Governor we had back then wasn’t in a hurry to execute anybody? But the Governor’s office still went through the motions; issuing more press releases about death warrants than actual warrants, so the public would think he was tough on crime.”

  “Baker hung himself, right?” Brad inquired.

  “More like strangled.” Nick looked grim. “Official cause of death was asphyxiation due to strangulation. According to the prison’s internal report—my friend saw the file—Baker claimed to be sick and they let him stay in his bunk when most of the inmates were taken out for time in the exercise yard. Apparently Baker had the top bunk. When they found him, the bed was up against the right side of the cell, and pulled away from the rear wall by about eighteen inches.” Nick’s hands moved as he talked, demonstrating the location of the bunk bed and the gap at the rear of the bed. “Baker stuffed clothes and pillows in his top bunk and draped a towel over the back of the bunk so he couldn’t be seen. Then he tore a pillowcase into strips and tied those together to form a noose.” Nick spread his arms wide indicating a strip of about four feet in length. “One end was tied to the top bunk rail and the other around his neck. He probably would’ve just gone limp so the noose tightened around his neck and cut off his air. Not a pretty way to die. He was bare-naked when they found him, too. Maybe he was trying to send a message to all those guys who had their way with him.”