by Ray Flynt
“How long have you lived in Philly?”
She sighed. “Twenty years. I went through a divorce when I was thirty-one. A girlfriend from college days invited me to visit her. She had a connection with Herron Industries. That’s when I landed here.”
The laser printer on her desk came to life, spewing three pages, which she handed to me.
“I should have thought of this earlier, but have you monitored Mr. Trambata’s corporate credit card purchases since he traveled to DC?”
Worry crossed her face. “That’s just it. There haven’t been any, except for The Hay-Adams.”
“I assume he’s made other trips to DC over the years.”
“Of course.”
“Did he have favorite restaurants?”
“For business meetings he nearly always wanted me to make reservations at The Capital Grille. Otherwise, he favored Tandoori House, an Indian restaurant.”
I scribbled those names in my notebook.
She added, “He grew up in India.”
“Is there a photograph of Mr. Trambata on the corporate website?”
“Yes. Taken just last month. He wanted a new one before....” Her voice trailed off, most likely contemplating the debilitating effects of Parkinson’s.
I tucked the emails into my jacket pocket and prepared to leave. “Perhaps you can clear up a little confusion. Mr. Trambata’s middle name is Wentworth, but his wife refers to him as C.J. Is there a reason?”
Tanesha half-hiccupped, half-chuckled. “I’m embarrassed to tell this story. A few years back, he heard a woman refer to our Lord and Savior as the ‘Big J.C.’ He decided he wanted to be referred to as C.J.”
Christ Jesus?
In addition to his other complexities, Carlin harbored messianic aspirations!
Aunt Harriet asked me to meet her in Dad’s room at four that afternoon. She would arrange for us to join him in the dining room for his meal served promptly at five—much earlier than my usual dinner.
I skipped lunch and headed back to my office.
After sending an email to Nick with word that he could afford to buy a new set of tires and treat Grace to a steak dinner, I called Amtrak to reserve a seat in the First Class car for the 7:15 a.m. Acela to DC. I hoped that one or more riders would remember Carlin from his September 12th trip. I counted on recollections of that day being in a higher state due to everyone’s awareness of the momentous events from the day before.
Several copies of Carlin’s head shot from the corporate website went into my Day-Timer.
The receptionist at The Hay-Adams expressed delight at my call. I had no difficulty making a reservation for the next three nights. She offered a suite for what she described as a discount—though a nightly rate north of $500 hardly seemed a bargain.
While most airports had reopened within a day or two of the 9/11 attacks, Reagan National remained closed thirteen days later, and no one knew when it would reopen. Loss of tourism for high profile cities like New York and Washington might cripple local economies.
A buddy of mine from our days at Princeton worked in the Department of Veteran’s Affairs. I shot Steve an email hoping he might have a contact at the Pentagon.
I planned to poke around DC for a few days and be back in time for the train museum event on Saturday.
That reminded me to call Joel, but after four rings it dropped into voice mail. I didn’t bother to leave a message.
Consulting with the Defense Department was the stated reason for Carlin Trambata’s trip. Why would they have secreted him in an undisclosed location without notification to his wife or corporate headquarters? He could have been the victim of foul play. What other scenario would cause Carlin to disappear for a few days? The fact that neither Megan nor Tanesha had a credit card trail for him bothered me.
I left early for the Bairne’s Center and swung by Trambata’s residence to question Megan on alternate sources of money to which Carlin might have had access.
My agreement with Herron Industries restricted what information I could provide outsiders regarding “findings” of my investigation. They never said I couldn’t reveal conducting an investigation. If Megan knew I’d be “on the case” perhaps I could pick up a few more useful details.
Slowing for a speed bump on the street in front of Trambata’s mansion, I glanced toward the entry and noticed a black Lincoln parked in the drive.
Shit.
Joel had returned. It’s possible the car wasn’t his, although a front license plate meant it wasn’t from Pennsylvania.
With no desire to find Joel and Megan in flagrante delicto, I drove past the entry gate and stopped half a block away to consider my options. There weren’t many. Time for dinner with Dad and Aunt Harriet.
After a three-point turn, I headed back the way I’d come. Passing by Trambata Manor a second time, a glint drew my attention to a man standing on the curb side of a parked dark blue Buick across from Trambata’s. Sunlight sparkled off the telephoto lens aimed at Joel’s car. The man lowered his camera. I recognized Sal Zalinski.
Private investigators in the Philly burbs knew each other, and mostly we kept hidden our varying opinions of other’s talents as a professional courtesy. During my first case, Sal and I clashed after he horned in where he had no business.
I pulled my car to the curb a few blocks later and tried to call Joel.
It went into voicemail.
I refused to leave a message. Regardless of Joel’s extracurricular activities, I couldn’t imagine him shutting his phone off. His Baltimore office would still be open, besides he’d keep the phone on for the sake of his kids.
After nine attempts, Joel finally answered and bellowed, “Damn it, leave me alone.”
“Right after this call. There’s a private detective across the street from Trambata’s residence snapping photos of your Lincoln Town Car.”
“How do you—”
“Just drove past. Recognized the PI. Watch your back.”
Silence.
Finally, I said, “Are you still there?”
The anger had left his voice. “Listen. Leave me alone, okay.”
The call disconnected.
If Carlin Trambata had hired Sal Zalinski to investigate marital infidelity, Sal might be the key to Trambata’s whereabouts.
While I couldn’t tell what was going through Joel’s mind, he had to contemplate how much of my information to share with Megan. What I thought of as a missing person case had gotten a whole lot messier.
I walked into Dad’s facility just as an aide wheeled him toward the dining room for supper. Aunt Harriet marched alongside and waved when she saw me. “Thank God you’re finally here. We were worried sick about you.”
She had a way of expressing concern for my well-being with a chaser of guilt. I wasn’t more than five minutes late.
“Traffic,” I muttered.
Over chicken Parmigiana, Harriet shared her views on topics ranging from the color of the table napkins to the frayed pillow on Dad’s wheelchair.
When we’d finished our tiramisu, Aunt Harriet peered over her glasses and announced, “Your father and I have been talking.”
Dad glanced at me with a you-know-who-was-doing-the-talking smile.
“I think you should give up this detective business.”
I laughed.
That is, until Dad nodded. “I agree.”
11
Tuesday, September 25, 2001
A long line formed by 7 a.m. at stairway five in 30th Street Station. When the attendant saw my ticket, she directed me to the south end of the platform where I would board the First Class car.
The Acela originated in New York City and had already made one stop in Newark. At least a hundred and fifty people waited to board, only a dozen of us for first-class.
My heart beat faster in exhilaration as the sleek silver and blue engine breezed into the station. This was America’s answer to high-speed rail, but paled in comparison to TGV in Europe or the Japanese b
ullet train. It took an hour and forty-five minutes from Philly to DC. Eurostar through the Chunnel traveled twice as fast. Maybe in another decade we’d catch up.
When the door to the car slid open, a conductor emerged and growled, “First-class passengers only.”
Welcome to Amtrak!
Seats were arranged in pairs on one side and singles on the opposite. The car was mostly full. Many of the passengers dozed. I grabbed an open single where a copy of The New York Times rested neatly on the seat.
Two weeks after the Trade Center attack, news stories focused on the U.S. response, with President Bush freezing terror network assets and the Russians offering airspace and pledging arms support.
An attendant, wearing a name badge identifying her as Star, handed me a breakfast menu. I opted for a bagel with cream cheese, and coffee.
After Star returned with my breakfast I showed her Carlin Trambata’s picture. “Did you happen to see this man a couple of weeks ago?”
She shook her head. “This is my first week here. I just transferred from the Metroliner.”
My ears tuned to neighboring conversations trying to determine who might be the regulars. Up ahead, a woman sat opposite two men, a work table between them. I listened from behind my newspaper.
It didn’t take long to figure out that one of the men was an Acela newbie, heading to DC for a conference. The woman boasted of taking the train three times a week, while the other man complained of “every damn day”.
Two passengers exited the car at the Wilmington, Delaware, stop, where we were joined by a half dozen more. One of the new arrivals plopped down in the empty seat next to the talkative woman. She seemed to know him, as they shared bragging rights on their sons’ weekend football games.
I waited until their conversation subsided, stood and approached the foursome, Trambata’s picture in hand. “Excuse me. I’m wondering if any of you remember seeing this man. He rode the Acela—this time slot—to Washington on the day after 9/11.”
The woman snatched the picture from my hand. She studied it, and then waved it at the man opposite her. “The Brit?”
Joel said that Carlin spoke with a British accent.
Her seatmate snorted. “I guess.”
She scowled. “Yes. We saw him. I thought he was acting funny. There weren’t many taking the train on the day after the terror attacks. We were all on edge. Anybody we didn’t recognize seemed suspect.”
“What do you mean that he acted funny?”
“Seemed nervous, didn’t he Chester?”
Chester shrugged.
She scowled again and pawed at the air. “Don’t pay no attention to him. The guy kept looking around as if somebody might be following him. His hands shook. I remember he spilled his coffee. Got his pants wet. Spent a lot of time in the restroom cleaning up.”
She handed the photo back to me. “Are you with the Feds? Is he a terrorist?”
“Nothing like that. I’m a private investigator. His office hasn’t had any contact with him for a week and they’ve asked me to try and locate him. Did you notice? Was he traveling with anyone?”
She glanced at Chester who rolled his eyes like he couldn’t care less. She stared up at me. “Not that I recall. Like I told you, he kept looking over his shoulder.”
“Thanks for your help.” I returned to my seat.
The Acela clattered along the rails and pulled into Washington’s Union Station at 9 a.m.
A display of Clive Cussler’s latest Dirk Pitt novel, Valhalla Rising, diverted me into a bookstore before heading to the taxi stand. Walking through the vaulted main concourse, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see Chester from the train.
“That guy you’re looking for,” he said.
I nodded.
“He met up with a man in the station.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I stopped in the men’s room that morning. When I came out, I spotted the guy you were asking about in an angry conversation with another guy. He shouted, ‘Where the hell were you? You were supposed to meet me on the train.’ The other guy pleaded he’d been on the train...‘walked the length of it.’ They stood in front of Sbarro’s, and were yelling so loud it drew everyone’s attention. An Amtrak security guard approached them, but I didn’t stick around. I had a meeting at the Hart building.”
“Could you describe the other guy?”
“A couple inches shorter than me. Tweed jacket, no tie. Salt and pepper hair in a prominent widow’s peak.” Chester laughed. “Reminded me of Eddie Munster. And a mangled nose, like it’d been broken more than once.”
Chester had just described Sal Zalinski.
12
I paused to admire the Beaux-Arts architecture of Union Station’s two-football-field-length concourse. Gilded medallions formed a barrel-arched ceiling, while statues of Roman legionnaires stood sentinel. Before airports, this grand design welcomed visitors to the capital. At the news stand I bought The Washington Post; its headline reported multiple tornadoes touching down the day before, including a deadly one when a car with two University of Maryland students was thrown into a tree.
My phone hadn’t rung during the train ride, but a chirp signaled voice mail. Cell phones are great when they work, but dropped calls and missed messages drove me crazy.
I stepped outside to ensure a better signal. Overcast skies, temperatures in the 60’s, and moist air greeted me. The sunlit capitol dome, visible above a grove of trees, loomed directly ahead, framed by an arch in the façade of Union Station.
The voice mail was from my buddy, Steve, at the VA. He’d located a Pentagon contact.
When I called Steve back, he explained that Arthur Lukins was a key staff advisor to the Under Secretary of Defense. Steve arranged a meeting for me at ten the following morning, but due to heightened levels of security, he needed my birthdate and social security number to obtain my clearance. I’d have no difficulty on a background check. Still, the potential loss of liberty and privacy in post-9/11 America crossed my mind.
I gave Steve the information and received detailed instructions on where to find Arthur Lukins’ office.
By the time I finished the call, there were only two people ahead of me in the taxi queue.
During the fifteen-minute trip to the hotel, the driver treated me to a litany of woes as a DC cabbie. Tourism had tanked in the past two weeks. Conferences and conventions cancelled six months into the future, so prospects looked bleak. I listened patiently, figuring the man was angling for a bigger tip and wondering how much truth there was in what he said.
The cabbie pulled under the 16th Street portico of The Hay-Adams. I obliged the driver with a good tip. He leaped out to retrieve my luggage and hold the car door open.
The receptionist smiled at me the moment I set foot in the lobby. I gave her my name and pulled out my wallet for ID and payment.
“Mr. Frame, we have a message for you from Harriet Beecham. She asks that you call home as soon as possible.”
We went through the choreography of check-in, but it blurred compared with all of the scenarios swirling through my brain after hearing of Harriet’s message. She didn’t own a cell phone. Although I’d given her my number, I’m not sure she realized she could call a cell phone from a regular land line. Her message included the number for Dad’s estate—one she’d known for thirty-five years.
A bellman escorted me to my room. I ditched him at the door with a generous tip and called home.
“Aunt Harriet, I got your message.”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
I figured the house hadn’t burned down since I’d reached her on the home phone. “What’s happening with Dad?”
“They sent him by ambulance to the Bryn Mawr Hospital. Joe had chest pain and was short of breath.”
I ignored the tone signaling an incoming call. “When did all this happen?”
“Within the last hour.” A fretful tone crept into her voice. “I called a taxi, as you suggested.
Joe wasn’t in his room when I arrived. One of the staff told me what happened.”
“You haven’t seen him yet?”
“No. I wanted to contact you first.”
My mind flashed to our argument over dinner the previous evening about my chosen profession. Dad mostly observed my heated exchange with Aunt Harriet, though he made it clear he agreed with her. Fear for my safety constituted the basis of their argument. I underscored that I should be the judge of my own safety. Did the stress from our debate affect his health?
“I’m glad you let me know. Call another cab and visit the hospital. You have my cell number, or I’ll contact you later for an update.”
My aunt sighed. “You’re planning to stay in Washington?”
“For the moment. I have an important meeting tomorrow. Depending on Dad’s condition, I might be able to return early.”
“Be careful.”
I found a luggage rack and opened my travel bag, hanging a couple of shirts in the closet hoping the wrinkles would fall out. Harriet’s call had drawn my attention away from the furnishings of my room, impressive by any standards. They had upgraded me to the Federal Suite. I stood by the window to take in the view of the White House on the opposite side of Lafayette Park. If I had a flashlight, perhaps later the president and I could swap Morse code messages.
My cell phone signaled voice mail. I called the retrieval number and entered my passcode.
“Brad, it’s Joel. I’m sorry for the way I’ve acted. The shit hit the fan after your call yesterday. Megan freaked. We decided it best for me to return to Baltimore. Call me when you get a chance.”
I hated to tear myself away from views of the ornate Old Executive Office Building, with the Washington Monument, Jefferson Memorial, and Tidal Basin in the distance. Nevertheless, I draped my jacket over the back of a chair and punched in Joel’s number.
When he answered, I didn’t bother to explain that I was calling from DC. “Can you talk?”
“Ah...let me step outside.”
The line went silent for a moment.