by Ray Flynt
“Sounds like a good idea,” Sharon said. The room needed airing out from the stale odor of Andy’s cigars, Brad thought, as he propped open the door. Cool, fresh air drifted into the office.
Standing next to the flip chart, Brad said, “I’d like to talk about the case—sort of re-group—and get your thoughts.”
Sharon noisily sucked up the last of her drink. “Go ahead.”
Pointing to the chart, Brad said, “I’m gonna play devil’s advocate and suggest that most of Wilkie’s message isn’t worth pursuing any more. The fact that Wilkie was sorry won’t bring anyone back to life.” Brad took a red felt-tipped marker and crossed out line five of Wilkie’s note. “We also know that the part where he talked about Eddie Baker being killed is wrong. It was suicide, and an autopsy proved it.” Brad scratched out the third line.
“Wait a minute. Call me a cynic,” Sharon said, “but isn’t it possible the system covered its ass for letting someone get away with hanging Baker inside the prison?”
Brad smiled. “Yeah, I’d say that’s cynical. I thought I was the one playing devil’s advocate this morning.” Brad paced behind his desk. “It’s like Nick suggested, that a prison guard—maybe even a fellow prisoner—fed Wilkie the story that Eddie had been killed. Emotional intimidation.”
“Maybe our buddy Ron Allessi planted the idea in Wilkie’s head about Eddie getting killed,” Sharon said.
Brad met Sharon’s gaze as he contemplated her suggestion, then wagged his index finger in her direction. “Yeah. You know, that would fit with other ideas I’ve had about Allessi.”
Putting the cap back on the marker, Brad then used it to point at the chart. “Take a look at the second line of the note—paid money kill.”
“Your brother delivered the $500,000 in ransom money,” Sharon said, “so someone got paid.”
“The question,” Brad said, “is who and how much? Baker made an off-hand remark about being paid $5,000. But who paid him? Wilkie? If so, how much did Wilkie get?”
Sharon shook her head. Brad knew the question of money was a blind alley at the moment.
“How would you explain the threatening notes your dad and brother received?”
“Good point, Sharon,” Brad said. “Earlier this morning I spoke with Gretchen Morse. She was the receptionist who found the note that Gertie told us about. Gretchen said the envelope was addressed to ‘Mr. Frame.’ Now that’s the same way my brother said his notes were addressed. Then I called Roslyn Hunter—according to Andy she found the notes for him. Roslyn’s husband said she was out grocery shopping, but I think I should try again.” Brad sat at the desk, pulling the phone closer to him.
Thumbing through the Rolodex he spotted her number, then dialed it.
After three rings, a woman’s voice answered. “Hello, Roslyn, this is Brad Frame.”
“Are you Andrew’s brother?” she asked warily.
“Yes, I won’t need much of your time,” Brad said, trying to assure her.
Outside, the landscapers powered up their mowers.
“May I put you on hold for a second,” Brad said. He covered the mouthpiece and got Sharon’s attention as he pointed toward the open French doors. He caught a whiff of freshly mowed grass just as Sharon pulled the doors shut.
“I’d like to ask you about an incident that happened thirteen or fourteen years ago.”
“Oh, my, that’s a long time ago,” she said, in a pleasant but thin voice.
“Yes, I know. Can I put you on speakerphone so I can make a few notes while we talk.”
“That’s fine,” Roslyn responded.
Brad pushed the speakerphone button, and pulled a tablet closer to him with a pen poised in his hand. “I’m wondering if you remember receiving a couple of notes, which were addressed to Mr. Frame, and you delivered them to my brother, Andrew.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, sounding relieved. “I never thought I’d be able to help you with something that happened that long ago, but I remember those notes.”
Sharon scooted closer on the sofa, cupping her ear.
“Do you remember how you found the notes?” Brad asked.
“I usually was the first person in the office. There were two notes, several weeks apart, with letters Scotch-taped on the outside of the envelope. I found them slid under the door when I entered the office.”
“I see,” Brad said, jotting the details on the tablet.
“How did you know to give the notes to Andrew rather than my father?”
“They were addressed to Mr. Frame, that’s how Andrew insisted he be called. Material for your father was usually addressed to Joe, by those close to him, or to the Professor.”
“I see,” Brad said, nodding. “You’ve been very helpful, Roslyn. I just have one more question. Did my brother seem upset after he’d read the notes?”
“It was hard to tell,” she said, adding, “To me he always seemed upset.”
Brad suppressed a laugh. “I can understand why you might say that. Thanks for your help, Roslyn, it was a pleasure talking with you.”
He replaced the receiver as the antique regulator clock behind his desk chimed the half-hour.
“It sounds like all three notes were intended for Andrew?” Sharon asked.
Brad nestled back in the cushioned leather of his desk chair and stared at the ceiling. “Yes, I think all three of the notes were meant for Andy, and the last one missed its mark.”
Sharon kicked off her shoes, and pulled herself up on her knees on the leather sofa.
“For a working hypothesis,” Brad continued, “let’s assume that the person who sent the notes wanted my brother to receive them. Since they were slipped under the front door of the office, almost anyone passing down the hallway could have left them, including the last person out the night before.”
Sharon looked like a fresh thought had crossed her mind. “Okay, I buy that,” she said, a hesitant edge to her voice. “But if the notes were intended for your brother then they have nothing to do with the kidnapping.”
“I’m not so sure,” Brad said. “According to Gertie, the third note arrived just days before the kidnapping, The other two notes were several years earlier. The threats may have been directed to Andrew. But back then, only Dad—or the company he headed—could respond financially to the kidnapper’s demand.”
Sharon nodded.
“Think about how Dad and Andy responded to the notes. Andy never thought twice that the notes might have been for him; if he didn’t anger three people before breakfast, he probably figured he’d had an unproductive day. He may not have known who sent the notes—a jealous husband, disgruntled secretary, or jilted mistress. But when somebody told him he wasn’t going to get away with ‘it,’ he sure as hell had a long list of possibilities for what it was. On the other hand, according to Gertie, my dad left the note lying in the open on his desk overnight. I imagine he studied it, and with the benefit of a clear conscience threw it away.”
“Okay, you’ve been the devil’s advocate long enough,” Sharon said. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Brad stood next to the flip chart, circling the fourth line with the marker—Find real killer. “That’s what’s troubling me. I can explain every other line. Eddie Baker wasn’t a big guy. Paid money kill could have referred to money Wilkie gave Baker. But this,” Brad said, tapping the fourth line of the message, “I don’t have the answer yet. If somebody hired Wilkie and Baker to kidnap my mother and sister, then the notes could point to a long-festering motivation.”
After a pause, Sharon asked. “Is there any chance your brother was involved in the kidnapping?”
Brad sighed then pursed his lips. “God, I hope not.”
“Could those lawnmowers be any louder?” Brad commented, as a rumbling noise neared the front of his office, followed by a backfire.
“It’s Mark!” Sharon shouted, jumping up from the sofa and running to the window. Brad saw Mark Bertolet’s three-tone—counting the gray filler patches on
the body—‘67 Ford Fairlane roll across the cobblestones. The car backfired again as it rolled to a stop.
An idea percolated in Brad’s brain as he heard the squeaky slam of Mark’s car door.
A moment later Mark stuck his head in the office, asking, “Am I interrupting?”
“Hi honey,” Sharon said, racing to her boyfriend, throwing her arms around his neck.
“Hey, Mark,” Brad said. “I was thinking about a road trip into West Philly this afternoon. What’s the chance of you driving?”
“Cool,” Mark uttered, and never noticed the are-you-out-of-your-freaking-mind look that Sharon flashed Brad.
“I should have mentioned I’ll pay you $50,” Brad said. “You can treat Sharon to dinner tonight to celebrate her new job with the Philadelphia Police Department.”
Sharon unleashed another scowl at Brad, as Mark led the way to his car. Sharon sat next to Mark, while Brad climbed into the back seat and navigated the trip. Once in the city, they headed west on Market Street traveling well beyond the Penn and Drexel campuses before turning in to a maze of side streets. At Brad’s direction, Mark circled one particular block.
“Pull up here, Mark,” Brad announced. “The open spot behind that blue car.”
Several shades of blue, Brad noticed, and—like Mark’s car—covered with gray patches and primer.
“See the bald headed guy standing over there?” Brad asked, pointing out a man who looked like a bouncer at a sadomasochist’s bar.
Sharon sat with her arms folded across her chest. “You mean the one with the lightning bolt tattooed on the side of his head?” she asked.
“Nah, I don’t think that’s a lightning bolt,” Mark said, not realizing Sharon was directing a barb at Brad.
Brad slipped Mark a fifty dollar bill. “Give him this. Ask him to keep an eye on your car.”
Two minutes later Mark rejoined them. He looked wide-eyed, as he exhaled. “I gave him the money. He said my car will be here.”
“Good. You might as well come with us, Mark,” Brad said. “If you’re gonna date a cop, this will give you a little flavor for detective work.”
Sharon punched Brad in the arm.
Brad led the way as the three of them traversed a narrow walkway between two row houses, then walked across a small litter-strewn yard to another set of row houses. There were two doors on the dilapidated back porch. Brad studied the hand-painted numbers before pounding on the right hand door, giving it six or seven hard raps.
Ron Allessi answered the door, shirtless and wearing a pair of faded jeans. He couldn’t have looked any less happy if the IRS was on his doorstep.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“You turned up at my place one day. I figured it was time I showed up at yours,” Brad announced.
“Ah... ah,” Allessi stammered. “How did you find out where I live?”
“That’s not important.” Pointing to Sharon, Brad said, “You remember my associate?”
“And this is Mark,” Brad said, adding, “He’s on special assignment.” Brad noticed Sharon rolling her eyes.
“Aren’t you gonna invite us in?” Sharon said.
Allessi staggered away from the door. As they entered the apartment through a galley kitchen, Brad noticed the old porcelain sink piled high with dirty dishes, which spilled over onto the speckled countertops. Plywood cabinets were missing doors, and the linoleum was worn through to the underlayment in a couple of spots. A single bare bulb in the ceiling lit the musty smelling living room, with sparse furnishings and peeling paint on the walls. Toward the front of the house, visible through an open doorway, he glimpsed Allessi’s unmade bed.
Allessi grabbed a T-shirt from the back of a chair and slipped it on, then stood in the middle of his living room facing them. The scar above his left eye, which Brad thought had looked so menacing, now seemed more like a benign flaw.
“What do you want?” Allessi asked.
“You’re a moving target that I couldn’t quite figure out,” Brad said. “When I saw you at Diane’s house the other day and you gave virtually no sign of recognition, that’s when I realized you were freelancing.”
“I don’t know—”
“You know exactly what I mean. Everything you’ve done has been designed to line the pockets of Ron Allessi. I’m betting the idea of finding a stash of missing ransom money first led you to Frank Wilkie. When the Governor signed his death warrant a couple of years ago all the details of the case appeared in the newspaper. You probably read about the ransom money when you were in law school, and thought you’d see if you couldn’t con Wilkie into telling you where he hid it.”
“Wilkie claimed he didn’t know anything about the money.” Allessi showed his first hint of genuine passion, Brad thought.
“Maybe he didn’t. But you kept after him, and kept him alive by filing appeals. Every time the sand was about to run through his hourglass you turned it over, delaying the inevitable. I’m sure the firm found it admirable that you were representing him pro bono. They didn’t realize you had a tax-free $500,000 fee in mind for yourself. Then you gave up, and his time ran out. You didn’t care anymore. You hadn’t visited him for six weeks before his scheduled execution. I double-checked; you were the last minute cancellation as his execution witness.
“When you struck-out finding the treasure map to the loot, you lost interest. That is, until you read Paula Thompson’s article in The Philadelphia Inquirer stating that Wilkie had given me his Bible and mentioning that it might contain a message. Suddenly your light bulb was back on.” Brad moved toward Allessi, who stepped back. “Maybe there was a treasure map after all. That’s when you came to see me.”
Brad leaned toward him. Allessi lost his balance, falling backward onto the sofa, but not before Brad heard Allessi’s head thud against the wall.
“Shit!” Allessi muttered, rubbing the back of his head.
“That’s a good idea. Have a seat,” Brad said. “You might as well get comfortable. We’re gonna be here for a while.”
Brad glanced over at Sharon’s boyfriend, noting he stood with a wide-eyed gape taking in the scene.
Sharon laughed after Allessi tumbled on to the couch. Allessi seemed to take out his frustration by pounding the sofa with his fist while glaring at Brad.
“You claimed that your representation of Wilkie would result in a book deal,” Brad said, “but the only book deal you seemed interested in was getting your hands on Wilkie’s Bible.”
“Wilkie made an agreement,” Allessi explained, as a hint of desperation crept into his voice.
“Save it,” Brad said. “Then—probably not coincidentally—less than twenty-four hours after your visit, someone broke in, stole the very Bible that you were looking for, and set fire to my office.”
“Hey... wa... wait,” Allessi stammered. “I didn’t commit any arson.”
In spite of Allessi’s pathetic look, Brad had no pity. “Maybe some of your Camden friends.”
“No... No... You’ve got it all wrong.”
“Have I?” Brad said. “Why didn’t we hear anything more from you after the Bible was stolen?”
Allessi squirmed in his seat, and Brad could tell he was unnerved.
“I figure you got what you came for. The next thing I know you crashed Dad’s funeral with my ex-sister-in-law on your arm.”
“Wait a minute. I don’t know anything about the Bible. Let me explain,” Allessi pleaded. “Diane called me. She saw my name in the paper, and called asking if we could get together. I suggested meeting her for a drink after I got off work, and we met at her country club.”
“Uh huh,” Brad mumbled matter-of-factly, while at the same time anxious to hear what prompted Diane’s sudden interest in Allessi.
“Diane gave me an earful about your brother, like his attraction to thin, young, blonde secretaries. How he’d abandoned her and their seven-year-old son. What a struggle it was to live on the alimony he provided.” Brad imagined Diane’s diatribe against An
dy, and knew that Allessi was giving him a sanitized version.
“Did Diane tell you all of this before or after you two shared the hot tub?” Brad asked.
“That was a bonus.” A smile crept onto his face.
“After she confided in you about her deep and abiding feelings for my brother,” Brad said, caustically, “you decided to extort money from him.”
“She... I didn’t—”
Brad cut him off. “Freelancing. Trying to find that treasure map again, weren’t you? If you couldn’t dig up $500,000 from Wilkie, you’d squeeze it out of my brother. Diane would have been a willing accomplice in that effort.”
“Don’t describe Diane as an accomplice,” Allessi said, sounding tender toward her.
Aunt Harriet’s one-word description of Diane came to Brad’s mind—bitch!
“But my brother wasn’t buying what you were selling. You made a tactical error. You raised the idea of a book deal again, this time with my brother. When Andy told me,” Brad explained, “something began to smell. I figured you for a con man the first time I met you, but I underestimated how big a con.”
Allessi scowled at him, then ran his hand through his black hair and folded his arms across his chest.
“I contacted Ralph Blankenship, the managing partner of your law firm,” Brad said.
Allessi shot him an angry look, but Brad could tell he had his full attention.
“I found out that the folks at Blankenship, Trawler and Ivanic weren’t happy to see their firm’s name mentioned in the Inquirer in conjunction with Wilkie’s execution. Mr. Blankenship told me a lot of their hard-nosed clients are in favor of bringing back the guillotine. He laughed when he said it, but I got the point. They didn’t want clients thinking their hefty retainers were aiding a prisoner on death row. Frankly, your employers are concerned that you’ve misrepresented yourself and the firm.”
“I told them the newspaper makes mistakes all the time,” Allessi said.