by Ray Flynt
“Did Paula ever say anything about Lydia that would suggest this might be a crime of passion?” Nick asked.
Brad shook his head. “No. And Lydia’s grief seems genuine enough to me.”
“Just thought I’d ask,” Nick said. “Covering the bases.”
“What kind of hate crimes have you had in this neighborhood?” Sharon asked.
“I’m not sure,” Nick said. “Which is a good sign. Because if I don’t know about it, most likely the stats haven’t been significant enough to flag in our monthly reports.”
Nick stopped them as they arrived at the open doorway to the kitchen. Brad could see that the townhouses backing to Paula’s property blocked the late afternoon sun from the kitchen window. Two fluorescent light fixtures in the suspended ceiling provided most of the light.
Nick pointed. “See the bullet hole in the refrigerator?”
Brad saw the dark spot in the refrigerator door, about four feet off the ground. His eyes darted around the scene, noting the kitchen sink’s placement below the window, and recognizing new oak cupboards and vinyl countertops arranged in an L-shape on the right hand side of the room. On the left side, a two-person table sat in front of a bookshelf.
The smell of death lingered in the room. Brad thought he caught a whiff of gunpowder, but maybe it was his imagination. But there was no disguising the odor of the final elimination of human waste that can accompany death.
Brad noticed a mug on the counter, while a second broken mug was visible on the off-white vinyl tiled floor below the kitchen sink. Next to it was a dark red puddle. The rest of the floor looked a sloppy mess.
“It looks like she threw a pot of hot coffee on her assailant,” Nick said. “The technicians are gonna collect the cups and the carafe to see if we can find any fingerprints or trace evidence, but I wanted you to see their placement first, Brad.”
Brad inched his way forward into the room, taking in the entire scene. He studied the drip coffee maker, sitting on the edge of the counter, still plugged into the wall. The digital clock on its face showed 4:03. On the heating plate was a small now-dried brown stain.
“The time is wrong,” Brad said, looking at his watch and noting that it was after 6:30 p.m.
“I used to have a coffee machine like that,” Sharon said. “I never like to leave small appliances plugged in because of the possibility of a fire hazard. So every time you plug it in, the clock automatically resets to 12 o’clock. You even have to advance the time to at least 12:01 before the brew switch will operate. 4:03 probably means she plugged it in about four hours ago.”
“Which would mean that she was alive at about two-thirty this afternoon, but dead by three forty-five,” Brad said.
“That would fit with what we’ve learned so far,” Nick said. “Neighbors heard what they thought was a backfire shortly before three. We’ve got an officer canvassing the neighborhood to see what anyone else noticed.”
“What about the weapon?” Brad asked.
“The bullet was embedded in the refrigerator door. It’s already on its way to the lab, but it looked like a .45 caliber to me,” Nick said. “I’d say it was probably fired with a double-action revolver, but the gun hasn’t been found on the premises. Criminals just never cooperate that much. We’d prefer to find the gun with the owner’s name engraved on the handle. An address sticker on the barrel would help, too.” Nick laughed. “It’d make our job a lot easier.”
“Fired at what range?” Brad asked.
“I’d say about six feet. There weren’t any powder burns that I could see on the body—medical examiner will tell us for sure. The shot was fired from over there.” Nick pointed toward the doorway where they first entered the kitchen. “Finding the bullet in the refrigerator enabled us to quickly establish the trajectory,” he explained.
“Where was she—”
“Just above the heart.” Nick anticipated Brad’s question. “There was a lot of blood, as you can see.”
“What was she wearing, Nick?” Sharon asked.
“A denim jumper over a dark blue cotton blouse.”
“Sounds like she was dressed to go to work,” Sharon remarked.
“Yes. We already contacted the Inquirer. She was expected at their offices around three. It would have taken about fifteen minutes from here for her to get to work. So she made coffee for her girlfriend at about two-thirty, then should’ve left for work, but someone interfered with her routine.”
Brad watched as Nick stood near the middle of the kitchen, hands on his hips, looking in all directions.
“Something’s bothering you?” Brad said.
Nick shrugged. “Not really. Just confused that’s all. Most of the coffee was spilled on that side of the room.” Nick pointed toward the small table. “Since it wouldn’t have been possible for her to throw a pot of hot coffee at her assailant after she was shot,” he noted wryly, “I keep trying to picture the little dance that might have gone on here.”
“Was this a robbery gone bad?” Brad asked.
Nick stared at Brad for a few seconds, almost as if to say you-tell-me. But then he shook his head. “I don’t think so. Her purse wasn’t touched. She had thirty bucks and four credit cards in her wallet. No evidence of any possessions disturbed in the house. As you can see they were immaculate housekeepers.
“Then it must have been somebody she knew,” Sharon speculated. “Maybe she told him to have a seat. Then they had an argument and she let fly with the hot coffee.”
“Yeah, it’s possible.” Nick said. Though from his expression, Brad figured he’d already discounted that possibility. “That’d sure make a guy mad. The water would have been hot, but not scalding. They make these coffeepots nowadays so you can almost drink the coffee as it comes out. It might have produced first degree burns, but it wouldn’t have incapacitated anyone.”
“Was any blood or coffee tracked back through the house?” Brad asked.
“Not that we could tell. There was a throw rug at the entrance to the kitchen,” Nick explained. “We’ve sent that to the lab for analysis. There were a couple of footprints in the kitchen. They took photos, but I’m not prepared to say it wasn’t from one of our men who arrived first at the scene. Lydia was out here too, as was the guy from next door.”
“Excuse me, Captain.” A uniformed officer stood in the doorway to the kitchen. “We’ve done a door-to-door canvas talking with neighbors. Only three of the residences were occupied this afternoon. The neighbor across the street saw a young man knocking on Ms. Thompson’s door about 3 p.m., but never saw him enter the premises. She described the man as blonde and in his early-20s, but another neighbor reported a sixteen-year-old blonde kid was working the street selling magazines subscriptions for his school.”
“Thanks, Ed, for the report,” Nick said. “You can tag these other items and close up shop here, we’re about done.”
Nick led the three of them back into the dining room, then faced Brad. “In the Inquirer this morning, I noticed your name mentioned ahead of our esteemed elected officials.”
It was now clear to Brad why Nick had invited him; Nick had read Thompson’s article that morning, saw Brad’s name in connection with Wilkie’s note, and knew that the two of them had had conversations. Nick wanted the scoop.
“Everybody’s a cynic,” Brad said, glancing at Sharon. “I told Paula about Wilkie’s message—showed her the phrases we came up with—since I was hoping to flush out a Camden con man who I figured had stolen Wilkie’s Bible and probably torched my office. I’ve already put a crimp in Allessi’s con. But if you’re thinking there’s a connection between her article and this crime, I agree with you. I’ll gladly share his address so you can question him about Paula’s murder.”
Nick tightened his lips and nodded.
“I’m curious,” Nick said. “Thompson mentioned a botched execution and cover up for the next article in her series. You know anything about that?”
“No, but I can tell you that Paula w
asn’t a fan of capital punishment. She was a passionate idealist."
“So was I, once,” Nick said, “before I became a police officer.”
“Where are you parked?” Brad asked Sharon when they had exited Thompson’s townhouse.
“New Jersey,” she quipped. “Nah, it’s just around the corner and up a couple of blocks.”
They only had walked a few hundred feet, when Sharon grabbed Brad’s arm and said, “I’ll be right back.” She turned and ran toward Thompson’s townhouse.
Brad didn’t have a clue what she was up to, as he studied a neighborhood in the midst of renewal. Saddened by Thompson’s death, and convinced of its connection to his family’s murder eleven years earlier, Brad hoped he could find who was responsible before there were any more deaths.
Five minutes later Sharon returned, wiping tears from her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Brad asked.
She turned and looked at him, her eyes puffy. “Oh, Brad,” she said, before throwing her arms around him. She spoke, the side of her face against his chest, which muffled her words, but Brad thought he heard her say: “I just told Nick I wasn’t interested in the police job. I want to stay with you.”
“It’s okay,” Brad said, returning her hug. He held her tight and patted her back as she cried for a few more seconds. Brad smiled. It was the best news he’d heard all day.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Brad rode back to his estate in Sharon’s car. They arrived at dusk to find a familiar looking blue Lexus parked in the driveway and lights ablaze inside the mansion.
“Did you leave the lights on when you left?” Brad asked.
“I wondered that myself,” Sharon said. “No. It was daylight. I’d never turned on any lights.”
Brad got out of the car and approached the house warily, opening the front door with his key as Sharon followed behind.
“Oh, there you are, Bradford,” Harriet said, sounding relieved. Brad stared in disbelief as Harriet hurried over to him in a matronly gray suit and high heel shoes that clacked on the marble floor when she walked. “I was so worried about you. I even called the police. I was afraid something awful had happened.”
“How did you get in?” Brad asked, pointing toward the door.
Innocently, she said, “I used my key. Joe gave me a key a long time ago.”
“It would have been nice if you had let me know you were coming,” Brad said, trying not to sound peeved. “Especially since I just saw you in New York City eight hours ago.”
“I told you I’d be down to visit soon.”
“Yes, but you didn’t say it would be this evening.” Brad glanced at Sharon and saw her chuckling. He wasn’t amused.
“I didn’t know myself.” Harriet sounded flustered. “I mentioned to Andrew that I wanted to come to Philadelphia and take care of getting a gravestone for your father, and he offered me a ride.”
“On the corporate jet?” Brad asked. “But you don’t like to fly.”
“On those great big ones, heavens, no!” She shuddered. “Not crammed in with all those people. This was a nice cozy airplane, with only Andrew and me and a lovely stewardess.
Brad wondered which one of them had piloted the plane.
“I even had a Brandy Alexander at 23,000 feet,” she continued. “I’m just glad to see you here.” She threw her arms around him, talking in his ear as she said, “I even checked with Andrew to see if the two of you were having dinner together.”
Brad pulled away. “In Houston? Aunt Harriet, you’re not making any sense. You knew I was coming back to Philadelphia.”
“Andrew’s in Philadelphia,” she announced. “He had business to take care of. He’s staying at the Ritz Carlton.
Brad glanced at Sharon and could tell she shared his suspicions.
“Aunt Harriet, what time did you arrive in Philadelphia this afternoon?” Brad asked.
She paused, using her thumb and forefingers to figure the time.
“About one-forty-five,” Harriet said, then misinterpreted the look of distress on Brad’s face. “Oh, your brother said he would have offered you a ride, but that you were meeting a friend in New York for lunch and then taking the train back to Philadelphia.”
“I wish Andy would have told me,” Brad said to no one in particular.
“You’re home,” Harriet said, clasping her hands together. “That’s the important thing. Oh,” she said, spinning on her heels, “Diane’s waiting for you. We’ve been having a nice chat in the drawing room.”
Brad advanced several steps and peered through the archway, and saw Diane Panella-Frame seated demurely on the Chinese sedan in the living room. He frowned in Aunt Harriet’s direction as he realized Diane had overheard their conversation about Andrew.
Brad summoned up his manners as he walked toward Diane, saying, “That must be your car in the driveway.”
“Brad, thank you for seeing me.” Diane remained seated, but extended her hand like she expected it to be kissed. Instead, Brad offered a polite handshake.
Diane cleared her throat. “Actually, the car is one of the reasons I came.”
“How can I help?” he asked.
“You remember my friend, Ron? You met him at my house last week.”
“Yes. I think I remember.” Brad tried to keep a straight face. “The one with the hairy chest and the white towel around him, right?”
Diane gushed. “Well, that description does narrow the field. Yes, I can tell you remember him. Ron brought his car over to my place on Friday night, and I gave him a lift to the train station Saturday morning. I haven’t seen him since. He told me to go ahead and drive it as much as I wanted. I’ve been thinking about buying a new car, so I thought I’d give it a whirl. Well, I kept expecting to see him over the weekend, but he never showed up. I think he’s missing.”
“Missing?” Brad repeated.
“I can’t even reach him,” Diane said, sounding distressed. “He gave me an office number and they said he’s not there anymore. They wouldn’t give me any more information. And the number where I used to leave him private voice messages has been disconnected.”
Aunt Harriet, seated next to Diane, clucked her tongue.
“I’d like to hire you to find him,” Diane finally announced.
“I see,” Brad said, not anticipating her request. “Do you have the keys to the car?”
“Yes.” Diane fumbled through her purse. “They’re here someplace. Ah, here they are.”
Ironic, Brad thought, when Diane produced keys on the end of a white rabbit’s foot.
Brad whispered to Sharon, handing her the keys. Sharon excused herself.
“You don’t suppose Ron was after you for your money, Diane,” Brad said, “and now he’s found someone richer and more beautiful?”
Diane put her finger on the dimple of her chin and glanced upward. “Richer, maybe,” she said. That was apparently all her vanity would let her admit.
“We should have information in just a few minutes,” Brad said. “You didn’t need to come all the way over here. You could have called me.”
“It wasn’t out of my way. I was visiting Gertie Lindstrom, and I thought I would swing by. Besides, I saw the lights on.”
Brad glanced at Harriet.
“Gertie’s very depressed,” Diane said, sounding dejected herself, as Harriet reached out to comfort her. “Their house is up for sale, and Gertie can’t understand why. The bankruptcy came as such a shock to her and she’s blaming herself because of all the medical bills and personal care she requires.”
Harriet sat next to Diane shaking her head, acting like they were bosom buddies, but anyone who’d been at Joseph Frame’s funeral knew how she really felt about Diane.
“I offered to help them,” Brad said, “but Em was too proud to accept it.”
Sharon returned carrying a sheaf of papers along with the car keys, which she handed to Diane. “The Lexus is a rental, at about $150 a day with all the insurance and extra covera
ge,” Sharon said. “Ron was supposed to return it to the dealership by Saturday afternoon.”
“Looks like Ron Allessi stuck you with a problem,” Brad said.
Diane seemed momentarily flustered. “Well! Interesting. I’d better be going. Thank you for your time, Brad,” she said, gathering her purse and heading for the front door.
“If you’d like me to see if I can locate him.” Brad said.
“No,” Diane said, firmly. “I don’t think that will be necessary. You see, I only wanted to find him so that I could give him back his car. But thanks to you, now I know where to return it.”
Brad closed the door behind her, and seconds later heard the rhythmic thumps of tires across his cobblestone drive. He watched as Harriet scooped up a packet of papers from a nearby table, handed them to him and announced, “I got your mail, Bradford.”
Brad noticed that several letters had ragged edges, like they’d already been ripped open.
“You never told me an arsonist set fire to your office,” Harriet said, matter-of-factly.
The anger rose in him as he glanced through the mail to see which items had been disturbed.
“Toluene is very dangerous,” she continued. “Your Uncle Oscar, God rest his soul, owned several auto body shops. A fire destroyed one of them when someone smoked a cigarette near an open container of Toluene. Luckily no one was killed. You need to be more careful.”
“You opened my mail?” Brad asked, sharply.
“Well, I… Yes. It was from the insurance company and I thought that maybe it had something to do with Joe. That’s when I saw the arson report. I couldn’t help it,” she said, with an edge in her voice. “I worry about you, Bradford.”
Brad held up two of the envelopes. “Did worry cause you to open sympathy cards addressed to me?”
Harriet babbled on. “One was from your cousin in St. Louis. I was anxious and curious to see if there was any word on the baby’s arrival.”
Brad exploded with anger. “Aunt Harriet, don’t ever open my mail again. Do you understand me?”