by Ray Flynt
“Oh, I’m sure you did. Convincingly. But I found out that you’re not exactly an associate at Blankenship, Trawler and Ivanic. You’re working there as part of a legal assistant’s program until you finish law school.”
Brad reached into his wallet and pulled out the business card which Ron Allessi had given him. Brad tapped the card, right below the printed “Esq.” Next to Allessi’s name. “Esquire,” he said. “This might be exhibit number one. When I spoke with Ralph, and sensed that they’ve had their own misgivings about you, I suggested their firm might want to hire me to investigate your background. Unfortunately, they don’t get to see your tailored suits, Cashmere coat, and that natty silk scarf you wore to my office. I’m wondering where you got the Lexus?”
Allessi averted Brad’s gaze.
Glancing around the cheap apartment, Brad said, “I’m betting Diane never visited you here. Where did you tell her you lived when you weren’t playing with her in the hot tub?”
Defeated, Allessi replied, “Cherry Hill, New Jersey.”
“Of course,” Brad nodded. “A prestigious enough Zip Code, but far enough away that she wouldn’t suggest swinging by to visit.”
Allessi sank into the couch, getting smaller by the minute, Brad thought.
“I’m gonna give you some free advice,” Brad said. “Don’t show up at work again. I’m meeting with Ralph Blankenship on Monday morning. After he gets my report, you’re gonna be too big of a liability for them to continue their association with you.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Brad sank into his seat on Amtrak’s southbound Acela Express and stretched, glad to be heading home. He’d had a long, but good, day.
It had begun when Sharon—in what Brad could only describe as an act of charity at that hour of the morning—agreed to drive him to the Bryn Mawr rail station at five-thirty a.m. so he could catch the commuter train to 30th Street Station. After boarding the early-bird Acela Express to New York, Brad studied the agenda for Joedco’s annual stockholders’ meeting. He was still Chair of the corporation until the Board approved the plan to name Andy the Chair and CEO, and the Board wouldn’t meet until late morning. Brad didn’t want to disappoint his brother by looking unprepared, but he marveled at how anal the corporate briefing materials were. The communications department provided him with a two-inch thick binder on the intricacies of Parliamentary procedure, but also detailed instructions for directing stockholders to the restrooms, and an overblown, two-page introduction for his brother. Ladies and Gentlemen, here’s my brother, Andy Frame, Brad had said to himself, rehearsing an abbreviated—and in his opinion more appropriate—version of the introduction.
An Amtrak attendant in the first-class coach asked Brad if he wanted something to drink. Planning to nap, Brad declined. But then he spied a copy of that morning’s Philadelphia Inquirer on the empty seat next to him, and decided to read instead. He picked up the paper, and summoned the attendant so he could order a ginger ale.
Flipping to the local section, Brad spotted an article on the death penalty by Paula Thompson, the start of the series she had told him about.
DEATH ROW IN PENNSYLVANIA by Paula Thompson
Who controls the property of a condemned killer? How about his story? It is generally recognized that a criminal cannot profit by his crime. But should anyone else profit from the actions of a killer at the expense of the victims of crime? Pennsylvania, according to key legislative leaders, may be a step closer to settling this issue, especially after what followed a recent execution.
Several years ago, victim rights’ advocates secured legislation denying criminals the right to sell their stories and profit from them. But criminals have found creative ways to capture the media spotlight, while others skim the profit from telling their stories—in the form of books, lectures, and movie rights. Only a small amount of what advocates describe as “blood money” ever makes it into the hands of victims’ families. Key legislative leaders may now be ready to close those loopholes, and ensure more justice for crime victims.
Two weeks after Frank Wilkie was executed for the murder of Edith and Lucy Frame, the State Department of Corrections is still debating the fate of his personal belongings. Such items are usually given to next of kin, but Wilkie died without family ties. A few mementos belonging to a now-deceased prisoner wouldn’t normally prompt so much discussion in the policy-making corridors of the Corrections Department, but on the night of his execution Frank Wilkie left a note for the family of his victims. The note was inside a Bible, which the condemned man carried to his death. Wilkie gave the prison’s chaplain instructions that the items were to be given to L. Bradford Frame, the son and brother of the murdered women. Superintendent Henry Dolewski, of the Rockville State Correctional Institution, where Pennsylvania’s executions are carried out, found the note on the floor of the lethal injection chamber. Since that time, Ron Allessi, with the law firm that represented Wilkie’s appeals, has fought its release to anyone other than himself.
Last week the Inquirer reported that the prison chaplain had given Wilkie’s Bible to Brad Frame, and that it may have contained a final message from the executed killer. We have since learned that the Bible was stolen from Frame’s Bryn Mawr estate. The Inquirer has obtained an exclusive look at this note, which is still in the possession of prison officials. According to knowledgeable sources, it may point the way to others responsible for the tragic death of Edith and Lucy Frame.
When contacted, Brad Frame said he was “anxious to get a copy of the note from the prison’s warden,” but withheld comment on the substance ...
Brad was grateful Paula hadn’t blown his cover. His strategy to openly share information with her was paying off. Ron Allessi came off in a lesser light than in Thompson’s earlier stories, and Brad smiled, realizing her article wouldn’t help Allessi with an already bad week.
The article continued on the following page with quotes from politicians and bureaucrats eager to be on the right side of victims’ rights. Brad noticed that part two of Thompson’s series on the death penalty would deal with a “botched execution and a cover-up.”
Brad sipped his ginger ale, pulled the sports section onto his lap to see how the Phillies were fairing at the beginning of the new baseball season, and occasionally peered out the window as the high-speed train rolled by the scenery.
Closing his eyes, Brad smiled as replayed the lunch he shared with Beth Montgomery at Mancuso’s, one of his favorite New York dining spots. Off the beaten path, in Chelsea, the location had worked perfectly. Brad caught a southbound cab on Broadway at 45th when his meeting at the Marriott Marquis concluded and Beth took the “A” train uptown from the subway station near her office in lower Manhattan. Coordinating their departures—in true 21st Century fashion—via cell text messages, they arrived at the restaurant within minutes of each other.
Unlike other women he’d known, Beth seemed more self-assured—and correspondingly less fascinated with his lineage or finances—a fact Brad liked, but which, in a strange way, made him feel more self-conscious. Five years younger than him, Beth had worked in New York City for the past eight years since earning her Master’s degree in Engineering. Over lunch-sized portions of linguini carbonari—Isabelle Mancuso’s specialty—they talked about far flung topics like Broadway shows they enjoyed, the challenges in finding consensus on a new World Trade Center, and favorite ice cream flavors—he made a mental note that she liked butter pecan.
Over dessert he noted that she had avoided playing twenty questions with him about his background.
“I have a confession to make,” Beth said, smiling. “I probably already know more about you than you’d like me to.”
An attractive woman, Brad thought, who grew more intriguing as they talked. “Dare I ask what you know?”
“I know about the time you and your brother soaked your mother’s flower beds with the garden hose and dared your sister into a mud wrestling contest.”
Brad’s mouth slack
ed open.
“I know that you can’t stand Brussels sprouts,” Beth continued, “and that you have a fantastic model train set.”
“Okay,” Brad said, “I’ll bite. How do you know all this?”
“Lucy and I were roommates at Bryn Mawr College for three years. I spent a lot of time with her at your place. She showed me the trains, and told me the rest. Oh, and a lot more,” she managed to say without sounding like a blackmailer.
Brad felt the blood rising in his cheeks, and when he saw the grin on Beth’s face, he could tell she saw him blushing.
“You were always traveling,” Beth added.
Brad hoped she hadn’t heard of some of his youthful indiscretions. He thought of them and smiled to himself.
“Lucy and I were great friends and we stayed in touch after college. I attended her funeral, but I doubt you remember.”
He gazed into her eyes. “I don’t.”
“About a month ago, I was staying with Dad for the weekend and decided to visit St. Matthew’s cemetery where your sister is buried. I’ve thought about Lucy a lot since the…” She didn’t say the word. “But that was my first visit. It was a cold cloudy day, and it looked like it might snow. I spotted a shiny flat stone at the edge of the road, near her grave, and I polished it with a handkerchief in my purse; then laid it on top of her gravestone.”
“It’s still there,” Brad said. “I visited the cemetery just the other day.”
“I’m glad,” she said, as silence fell between them.
“I would enjoy showing you the model trains again,” Brad said. “Or we could try the mud wrestling?” He laughed.
“I just might enjoy that.” She winked at him.
Brad couldn’t remember when he’d spent a faster two hours. He found her unpretentious, and yet there was something about her that fascinated him.
They promised to get together in Philadelphia, where Beth was scheduled to spend a week’s vacation before Memorial Day. But Brad wasn’t sure he could wait that long to see her again, and New York was only an hour and fifteen minutes away on a fast train.
Brad’s cell phone rang, just as the Acela crossed the Delaware River at Trenton, New Jersey. He glanced at the phone’s display screen and saw the call originated from HOME, answering, “Hi, Sharon.”
“Brad, where are you?” she asked, urgently.
“Fifteen minutes from 30th—”
“Nick Argostino just called. Paula Thompson has been murdered. He wants you there.”
Brad felt anger and anxiety swelling in his gut. “Give me the address,” he said. “I’ll catch a cab and meet you there.”
Copying the South Philadelphia address in his notebook, Brad recognized it as a residential street, most likely Paula’s home. Like a computer searching for information on its hard drive, Brad swept through his brain recalling his recent conversations with Thompson and her interest in the eleven-year-old murder case. Dread crept up his spine, as he thought about her latest Inquirer article and whether Paula’s knowledge of Wilkie’s note had led to her own death.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The cab deposited Brad at the end of Paula Thompson’s blocked-off street, already clogged with police and emergency vehicles. Red lights seemed to flash everywhere. Brad walked along a brick sidewalk to the address Sharon had supplied. A once prosperous neighborhood, it looked to Brad like it had fallen into disrepair, but was now in the midst of gentrification. Only a few houses remained boarded-up, while most had freshly cleaned and re-pointed brick, white-trimmed windows with flower boxes and black shutters.
Brad arrived at Thompson’s two-story brick townhouse just as two Coroner’s assistants carried a stretcher with her body, zipped in a black vinyl bag, to the back of their van. Brad approached a uniformed officer at the base of the brick and concrete steps.
“I’m Brad Frame. Captain Argostino is expecting me.”
“Just a minute,” the officer said, before mounting three steps and entering the townhouse.
Seconds later Nick appeared in the doorway, beckoning Brad to join him.
As he climbed the steps, Brad noticed a man with three camera cases slung over his shoulder, and heard Nick ask, “Did you get all the shots I wanted?”
“Yeah,” the photographer said. “I should have them developed and on your desk by the time you get back to the office.”
Brad stepped into the living room and saw no evidence of a crime. But a female officer knelt next to a sobbing woman seated in a Mission-style chair, covered in a fabric of Native-American design. The woman had dark spiked hair, and wore jeans and a baggy sweatshirt.
“Is that Lydia?” Brad asked, recalling that Paula had mentioned she and her partner had been together for six months. He sensed she’d shared that information to see how he would react, dropping Lydia’s name as a litmus test. When Paula discovered Brad was okay with that aspect of her life, he felt she relaxed a bit more in his presence.
“Yes. Lydia Sanchez,” Nick said. “She found the body. We’ve only gotten the bare facts from her. She’s been too broken up. I’ve assigned the uniformed officer to stay with her.”
“Where’s the crime scene?” Brad asked, as he scanned the rest of the living room noting a stereo tape deck and neatly stacked CDs which served as the focal point of the front wall.
“Kitchen,” Nick whispered, adding, “Messy. Gunshot.”
Nodding in Lydia’s direction, Brad asked, “Do you mind if I try to talk with her?”
“Go ahead.”
Brad cautiously approached, and knelt next to Lydia’s chair, signaling to the police officer that she didn’t have to move. In the most comforting voice he could muster, he said, “Lydia, I’m Brad Frame. I knew your friend Paula.”
“Yes, I know who you are,” she said, with a Hispanic accent. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I didn’t even get to spend the weekend with her.” She moaned. “I was with my family in Baltimore. Why did this have to happen?”
“I don’t know.” Brad said. “But you might be able to help us find who did this.”
Lydia sniffled.
“When did you last see Paula?” Brad asked.
“This morning. I left for work at five-thirty.” Lydia’s breath seemed to catch on nearly every word. “Paula was still sleeping.”
“Where do you work?” Brad asked.
“Seidels—a package delivery service near the airport. I have to be there at six-thirty.”
“What time did you get home?”
“Same time I usually get home, I think. About three-forty-five.”
Brad glanced over at Nick. “The 9-1-1 call came in at three-fifty-five,” Nick said, after consulting his notes.
“What did you do when you first entered the house?” Brad asked.
“The door was unlocked, and that made me worry a little bit. Paula usually left before I got home. She always locked the door.”
Brad saw Nick scribble a note, probably about the unlocked door.
“Did you hear any noises when you came in?” Brad asked.
“No.” Lydia shook her head. “I thought maybe she had trouble when she tried to lock it. I double-checked using my key, and it seemed okay. Then I went upstairs and changed my clothes.”
“Did anything seem unusual when you were upstairs?” Brad asked.
Lydia stared, and Brad could tell she was still in shock—responding to his questions on autopilot. “I came down to the kitchen and that’s when I found her.” Lydia sobbed heavily. Brad pulled a clean handkerchief out of his pocket, offering it to her.
Lydia took a deep breath before continuing, “Everyday before she left for work, Paula got coffee ready so that... so that, I’d have a fresh cup when I got home...”
“It’s all right,” Brad said, expecting another torrent of sobs. “Take all the time you need.”
Lydia dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief. “When I went to the kitchen… I found her, and she… There was all that blood.”
“You don�
��t need to go into all that,” Brad said, watching her face, hoping she would meet his gaze. “Where were you when you called the police?
“I panicked and ran out screaming. I went to Juan and Raoul’s next door, and they called the police. I stayed with Raoul, and Juan came over here and waited for the police.”
She dissolved into tears as she finished her story. Brad started to stand, but Lydia grabbed his arm. “Paula liked you,” Lydia said, adding, “Not at first. She said you got off to a bad start.”
Brad smiled back at her, while recalling the confrontation with Paula at Wilkie’s execution. “I liked her too.”
“Paula said you were helpful with a story she wrote.”
Brad stood. “Yes, it was in today’s paper.” He put a hand on her shoulder, saying, “I’m sorry, Lydia.”
Brad thought he heard his name being called, then realized it was Sharon shouting from the street, and he suspected that the officer standing guard at the steps wouldn’t let her pass.
Gesturing toward the door, Brad said, “Nick, I’ll need your help to get your soon-to-be-rookie into this crime scene.”
Nick poked his head out the door, got the officer’s attention with a whistle, and seconds later Sharon stood with them in the townhouse’s living room. A badge, with the proper amount of authority, can work miracles, Brad thought.
“Let me show you the kitchen,” Nick said. Brad thought Nick’s demeanor seemed unusually tense, and he acted less collegial. Brad wondered why Nick wanted him at the crime scene, since they already had a van-load of criminalists, photographers, and detectives present.
As they passed through the dining room, Brad noted the deep emerald green color of the walls and the way floral fabric had been stapled to the ceiling to produce a tent-like effect. The furnishings were sparse, of second-hand store origin, he thought, and mismatched. But the sideboard looked like a valuable antique, maybe a family heirloom.