Yard Goat

by Ray Flynt

  Dad looked puzzled. “Why does she call him C.J.?”

  “I figured his initials.”

  “Nah. I saw his full name on enough legal documents. Middle name’s Wentworth.”

  Another question for me to ask Megan.

  “Doesn’t surprise me, Trambata being summoned to DC. He chaired Bush Senior’s campaign in Southeast Pennsylvania. Carried every county except Philadelphia. If you check, I’ll bet he contributed big to Junior’s campaign.”

  As I pondered the political angle, Dad changed the subject. “Have you talked to your brother lately?”

  “Last weekend at a stockholder’s meeting.”

  “Good that you get to see him.”

  I grabbed a hand full of popcorn. “When did Andy last visit?”

  “Easter. Him and the grandkids stopped by.”

  Dad used to mention Andy every visit—their strained rapport evident. In the eighteen months since Andy moved Joedco’s headquarters to Houston, Texas, there’d been fewer inquiries.

  “The company’s doing great, Dad. We just announced a stock split.”

  “I know. I still own a sizable number of shares. He has to keep me informed whether he wants to or not.”

  Dad stopped eating popcorn, clenched his jaw, and wrung his hands.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Dad brushed strands of grey hair from his forehead. “I hope you aren’t being set up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This Trambata woman. Maybe she’s trying to put you on a wild goose chase while her husband goes after Joedco.”

  I stared in disbelief.

  “Don’t look at me like that. He tried before. Trambata attempted a hostile takeover of Joedco, back when you were living in New Zealand.”

  “I don’t th—”

  “Warn Andy.”

  5

  I poked my head in the door. Nick Argostino cradled the phone’s receiver in the crook of his neck. His eyelids fluttered as he listened and murmured, “Uh huh.” He motioned for me to have a seat.

  The cracked-open window allowed fresh air in and let the smoke and potent aroma of his cheroot escape. The wheels of a SEPTA commuter train squealed as it rounded the curve at the Mt. Airy station two blocks from Nick’s house.

  I dropped into the wooden club chair next to his desk.

  Nick moaned. “Can we have a tow truck push it to the Camden side of the bridge? Let it be their problem.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Before we create a traffic nightmare, have they asked the guy to open up the back?”

  He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Relay that. I’ll hold.”

  Nick covered the receiver with his palm, as the stinky cheroot dangled from the corner of his mouth. “Not too much longer.”

  “Take your time.” The phone call wind up gave me a few more minutes to consider exactly what I wanted from Nick. Although it had been a couple of years, I still felt green at the detective business. Maybe I’d lay out my intended scenario and see how often he grunted.

  “Alright, Rocco. I’m not goin’ any place. Call if you need me.” Nick replaced the receiver. “Idiots.”

  I raised my eyebrows and smiled, hoping he might elaborate.

  Nick snuffed the cheroot in an ash tray. “A guy in a white box truck breaks down on the outbound lane of the Ben Franklin. Happens all the time, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Call a tow truck. Ten minutes later, problem solved, right?” Nick shook his head. “Not tonight. Some guy headin’ the other direction calls in that the driver looks like an ‘A-Rab’ and might be planning on blowing up the bridge. Jesus. Dispatch sends a couple of cruisers. I’m on call. They ask if they should shut down the whole bridge.”

  Nick reached for a fresh smoke before continuing.

  “Finally, an officer who knows his ass from a hole in the ground arrives on the scene. He asks the driver—who, by the way, ain’t no more Middle Eastern than you or me—to see what’s in the back of the truck. Second-hand dining room furniture the guy got his wife for their anniversary. Officer finally calls the tow service.” Nick leaned back in his seat. “You didn’t stop by to hear my troubles. What’s up?”

  “You know anything about Carlin Trambata?”

  “Whoa, I’m just a poor working stiff. He’s in your billionaires’ club.”

  “I never saw the guy. But I met with his wife earlier today.”

  “Is he cheatin’ on her?”

  “Actually, the other way around.”

  “Nice.” Nick laughed. “Anyone we know?”

  His smirk suggested I might be the person with whom she was cheating. “No. A buddy of mine from prep school days.”

  Nick shrugged. “So what’s the problem?”

  “Carlin Trambata’s missing.”

  Nick exhaled a puff of smoke. “Did your friend conveniently off him?”

  I smiled. “Visiting with you is always an amusing education.” I filled Nick in on my lunch conversation with Joel and Megan, and gave him Trambata’s history with my dad and the family business. “I haven’t decided whether to take her case. Any thoughts?”

  “Yeah, one. $10,000.”

  “You’re speaking as a partner in the business. I want your perspective as a decades-long cop.”

  Out the window, a light illuminated the trunk of a tree, highlighting it against the night sky. Moments later, the creaking sound of a screen door and Ruth’s voice calling their dog.

  “I have a meeting scheduled with Megan Trambata in the morning to let her know if I’ll take her case. If I do, I’ll need to visit Herron Industries. Based on what my father said, and the way Megan was rebuffed when she called them, I can’t expect them to open up to me.”

  Nick tugged at the corner of his mustache. “She hasn’t been very truthful.”

  “Joel says she’s scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “What might have happened to her husband?”

  “In a worst case, she’d become a rich widow. Best case: He shows up. We collect $10,000. Easy pay day.” Nick’s eyes twinkled as he grinned. “In her eyes, maybe it’s the other way around. His demise becomes her best case.”

  He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in a gesture of greed.

  I laughed, but I’d already considered the money angle.

  Nick cleared his throat. “You think your dad is exaggerating a takeover threat?”

  “I’ll give Andy a heads-up, but Joedco is solid right now.”

  “I suppose the folks at Time Warner felt that way before AOL came courting.”

  “If I take her case, I’ll want to travel to Washington. Do you have any contacts with the DC police?”

  He shook his head. “Oh, wait, there’s a guy who worked for me up until three years ago. He’s in DC now.” Nick pulled open a desk drawer and rummaged through a pile of business cards. “Here it is, Scott D’Salvatore.”

  I grabbed the card, which identified Scott as a detective with the Metropolitan Police Department.

  The phone on Nick’s desk rang. He gave it the finger. “I gotta take this.”

  When it became evident his call might last a few minutes, I stood, stretched, and stared out the window. A crescent moon emerged from behind a cloud. Second floor lights snapped on at the house directly behind Nick’s place.

  Nick’s caution about Megan’s truthfulness nagged at me. I had my own issues with her, but Nick saying it let my mind see side trails I hadn’t yet noticed.

  Nick crushed his cheroot in the ash tray and shook his head muttering “Jesus.” Seemed like his call could be a while longer.

  Joel told me to “Give her a fuckin’ break,” but her image didn’t generate much sympathy. Dad shared a story once of seeing a prominent state official use a reserved disability space at one of the turnpike rest stops. That’s why, a few years later, when the official was indicted on Federal corruption charges Dad hadn’t been surprised. Megan’s use of her husband’s hang tag to park her car in
a disability spot testified to her character.

  Even more puzzling was Joel’s complicity in Megan’s incomplete story for me—especially if he wanted my help.

  Nick erupted. “Get your head outta your ass and go check the file on that ‘98...‘99 case.” He slammed the phone. “Damn it.”

  “Tough night?”

  Nick pawed the air with his hand. “My problem. Not worth explaining.”

  I held up Scott D’Salvatore’s card. “Thanks for this. I’ll look him up.”

  “Sounds like you’ve decided to take her case.”

  I sat back in the chair. “You don’t think I should?”

  “Didn’t say that. Still thinking about my share of the $10,000 retainer. With that kind of windfall, I could persuade Ruth into cuddling a little closer at night.”

  We both laughed. “Maybe I’m looking for an excuse to travel next week. My Aunt Harriet’s coming on Sunday for a few days—wants to visit with Dad. Since Mom died, she treats me like a surrogate son.”

  “If that’s all you need, book a cruise out of San Diego for the week and tell her she has the run of the house.”

  “You’re in rare form tonight.”

  Nick tapped another smoke out of the pack. “On-call does it every time.”

  “Seriously, forget the money. Would you take this case?”

  Nick swiveled his chair toward me. “From what you described, Herron Industries has enough money. If they thought Trambata was lost they could find him. His wife sounds like a serial prevaricator, and your lawyer friend—who’s draggin’ you into this—is thinkin’ with his dick.”

  I flinched at Nick’s summary. “Maybe you should just tell me to get my head outta my ass.”

  “I would never do that.” Nick laced his fingers behind his head. “Besides, I need a new set of tires for my Buick and could use my portion of the retainer.”

  6

  Driving through the wrought iron gates, over the cobblestones, into Dad’s Bryn Mawr estate, my headlights lit the incomplete brickwork on my new office. It would connect to the kitchen via a covered breezeway. I’d asked the architect for a “carriage house” to match the Georgian-style of the main building.

  Above their three-car garage on the opposite side of the property, my parents had built an apartment, originally intended for use by Grandma Frame. For the last several years it’s served as my office. I parked the car, trooped up the stairs, and brought my computer to life. I hoped to find a message about a new case, which would give me an excuse for turning down Megan Trambata. A delivery confirmation for a book I’d ordered and a couple of spam messages were the only items in my inbox.

  As I prepared to shut down the computer, an email from Joel arrived titled “Apology.” I glanced at the time: 9:56 p.m.

  Sorry about today. I should have been more forthcoming when we talked on Tuesday. My feelings for Megan got in the way of our long-running friendship.

  I love her. That’s not going to change.

  I talked with Cecilia this evening and told her everything. She’s pissed.

  The next few weeks will be difficult, but knowing that you’ll be able to help Megan will brighten the gloom.

  Again, I apologize for not being straighter with you sooner.

  A second email from Joel, titled “Invite,” arrived as I finished reading the first. Attached was a PDF invitation, designed like a vintage railroad ticket, to the B&O Museum gala the following weekend. Prices ranged from $250 to $1,000 per person. Mine was stamped “complimentary.”

  I’d been excited when Joel first told me he would send information about the museum event. The chance to nosh with other lovers of classic steam and diesel engines would be fun. But according to Joel, this event was Cecilia’s baby, and circumstances could make my attendance awkward.

  She’s pissed.

  His description left plenty to the imagination. I didn’t expect a Lifetime TV mini-series recounting of events. When Joel told Cecilia “everything,” had that included roping his old friend Brad into finding Megan’s husband?

  I’ve known Joel for twenty-five years. Our friendship was wide, not deep. I’d been inclined not to take Megan’s case. Joel may have sensed that, and was trying to manipulate me in the opposite direction. He’s a lawyer; their every word is purposeful.

  Besides, Joel had enough to worry about on the home front. He could cope with me not handling Megan’s case. I headed off to bed determined to convey that message during my meeting with her the next morning.

  7

  Saturday, September 22, 2001

  I waited until 9:30 a.m. Eastern Time to phone Andy. He’d succeeded Dad as CEO of Joedco. Under his leadership, the company made advances in aerospace technology, and two years earlier Andy moved the headquarters to Houston to be closer to NASA. Barbara, his wife, answered my call and said he’d left for the office.

  I dialed his private line, shocked when he personally answered. Andy wasn’t much for pleasantries, especially with me, so I got right to it. “What can you tell me about Carlin Trambata?”

  “Great guy. We played golf two weeks ago. His handicap is lower than mine.”

  “I didn’t know you were in Philly.”

  “No. Carlin invited me to his waterfront estate in Boca Raton, where he has a private nine-hole course. Last winter, we went deep sea fishing off the coast of Martinique in his yacht. I want me one of those. Why you asking?”

  A fuller explanation would follow. For now, I wanted to keep him talking. Andy often derided my chosen profession—accusing me of playing “cops and robbers”.

  “Dad reminded me about the patent dispute with Herron Industries a few years back. I wondered if any repercussions followed.”

  Andy roared with laughter. “Carlin and I agreed to forget that unpleasantness. All’s fair in love, war, and business, right?”

  Before I could react, Andy plowed ahead. “Carlin has a subsidiary down here, and Todd Vicary, their VP for finance, is fast becoming my best friend. In fact, we’re doing a round of golf in another hour. I might even propose Todd for our board.”

  “Any danger of a hostile takeover by Herron Industries?”

  Andy, who’d been chatting a mile-a-minute, screeched to a crawl. “Nah...not that I see.”

  I could tell the thought hadn’t occurred to him. “Dad’s worried. I figured I’d ask.”

  “How is the old man?”

  “Lucid. Feisty. Hangs out with two or three buddies. They eat meals together. Watch football on the new thirty-six-inch TV at the center. He asks about you.”

  “Tell him no worries.” Andy sounded more confident. “No way is anyone taking us over. Actually, I got my eye on acquiring Carlin’s subsidiary here in Houston. I’ve been urging Carlin and Megan to come for a barbeque one of these weekends. Hell, he’s been known to hang out over in Crawford with George and Laura. I figure they can swing by here.”

  “You know Megan?”

  “Sure. I told her all about my Philadelphia roots. Quite a looker. Don’t know what she sees in him other than his bank account.” Andy let out a rude chuckle usually reserved for towel-snapping locker room banter.

  “I met Megan yesterday.”

  Andy didn’t react. He had a reputation as a skirt-chaser. I imagined him replaying his contacts with her for anything embarrassing Megan might have shared with me. The fact that she knew my brother and never said anything solidified my earlier impressions of her.

  I let him sweat before continuing. “Carlin’s missing. She asked me to find him.”

  “What?” Andy yelled. “Can’t be. We played golf. Hold on. Let me call you back.” The line went dead.

  It was my turn in the hot seat. Andy was a take-no-prisoners executive. I had no idea what he might do or who he’d call. He bandied the president’s name around earlier, and could be on the phone to the Justice Department with W’s blessing.

  The phone rang. I picked up the receiver. Before I could say anything, I heard Andy. “Holy shit. You
might be right. I just called Carlin’s private line. A recorded message: The number you have dialed is not accepting calls at this time.”

  I explained that I would be meeting with Megan later this morning.

  “I hope you can find him.” It marked the first time Andy expressed any appreciation for my work.

  “Not planning to take her case.”

  “Why not? Listen, when word of this gets out, Herron Industries stock is going to drop like a rock. They’ll be ripe for a takeover. I want to get our team working on a proposal. If we can pull this off—” He ended the call.

  My trip to Trambata’s mansion in Haverford took less than fifteen minutes. The brick structure had a dome in the center, reminiscent of Monticello. Jefferson never envisioned so many wings.

  I drove through the gates and up the winding drive toward the entry, where a Lincoln Town Car was parked near the front portico. For an instant, I thought Carlin had returned, but the car had a Maryland license plate. I shook my head in disgust. Joel had driven from Baltimore. Perhaps Cecilia had kicked him out. He’d probably come to keep his old friend on a short leash.

  Joel opened the front door and waved heartily, like I’d arrived for Thanksgiving dinner.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  His smile faded. “I thought I could be useful.”

  I stepped inside the foyer. “I’m not taking her case.”

  Joel glanced toward the archway at the top of a curved stairway. He lowered his voice. “She’ll hear you. Let’s go out back. There’s coffee.”

  Were it not for his promise of coffee, I might have bolted for the door. We passed through the kitchen, where a uniformed maid filled glasses with orange juice.

  Joel led me onto the brick patio. We took matching rattan chairs at a table arranged with Danish, croissants, and assorted jams. Joel never gazed at the lush lawn or the blooming chrysanthemums and zinnias. He seemed quite familiar and relaxed in that setting. He filled my cup from a stainless-steel carafe and sat next to me. The maid placed a glass of fresh juice next to my plate before scurrying back to the kitchen.