by Ray Flynt
“Okay. I’m good.”
“You at your office?”
“I’m home.”
“Oh.” Hardly conducive to a freewheeling discussion. “Cecilia around?”
“She’s at the train museum getting ready for Saturday. I volunteered to stay with the kids. They’re off school. Teacher in-service.”
A rap sounded at my door. “Hold on.”
Through the peephole I saw the bellman who’d brought me to my room. I opened the door. He handed me a wicker basket. “A delivery for you.” Through the yellow-tinted wrapping I saw assorted fruit, cheeses, and chocolates.
I fished in my pocket for tip money. “Thanks.”
Plunking the basket on a dining table in the suite, I resumed talking with Joel. “You said Megan freaked. What happened?”
“It was just like you predicted yesterday morning. She was pissed that Carlin would have her followed, and started acting all paranoid when any of the servants were around.”
“The last time I saw you, Megan had bid you goodbye. You went back?”
“Uh...well...yeah, I didn’t exactly get an open- arms reception at home. Cecilia realizes we’re on the rocks. She’s holding it together for the sake of the kids.” He spoke ruefully, resigned to the fate of his marriage. “When we finally divorce, my bank account will take a big hit.”
I paced as we talked, appreciating the opulent surroundings and watching tourists wander through Lafayette Park, snapping photographs at the fence in front of the White House. I spied an ivory-colored envelope taped to the back of the fruit basket. Inside, a matching card with beveled edge and the words. “Enjoy your stay.”
Nice touch. Almost makes me forget what I’m paying for all this luxury.
Joel cleared his throat. “You there?”
“Sure...given all that’s happened, I’m surprised Cecilia is working on your train museum benefit.”
“She got me involved. Her dad was one of the original board members.” Joel laughed. “Believe me, she’s not doing me any favors. She’ll be the queen bee with all her society friends.”
“Should I still plan to come on Saturday night?”
“Of course. Cecilia doesn’t know that I’ve been consulting with you about Megan. No danger of her looking at you with spite in her eyes.” He chuckled. “Bring a date.”
“Okay. Back to Megan’s freak-out. Where do things stand with the two of you?”
“I’ll find out next week. When she realized Carlin had her watched, she booked a flight to Boca Raton, Florida, where they have a home. I plan to meet her there on Monday.”
I didn’t bother to ask how he maintained his law practice with all his travels. I needled him. “You know that private detectives can purchase airline tickets to Boca Raton. Or drive to Baltimore.”
“I don’t give a shit. They can follow me all they want. Megan’s a big girl. She can take care of herself.”
I heard the tone for an incoming call. “Joel, I’ve got another call. Dad’s in the hospital. I need to take it. See you Saturday.”
Joel muttered, “Hope everything’s okay.”
I disconnected the call.
Aunt Harriet’s cheerful voice replaced his. “Good news.”
Harriet explained that a “nice young man” had called my cell for her from Dad’s hospital room. An EKG proved normal, Dad’s blood pressure remained stable, and his symptoms were most likely anxiety produced.
“You don’t need to rush back.” Harriet seemed to suggest that I might want to.
“I’m going to leave him in your good hands, Aunt Harriet. If all goes as planned, I should be back home on Thursday. In the meantime, use cabs for transportation, and I’ll reimburse you when I get back. Tell Dad I send my love.”
“I will.” She sounded subdued.
Since I didn’t want Harriet to think I was giving her the brush-off, Joel’s invitation to bring a date to the train museum came to mind. My first choice, Valerie, abhorred—her word—trains. As a teenager, I invited girls to the model railroad layout in my attic for a few memorable make-out moments. The moments got even better after I stapled strings of white Christmas tree lights to the ceiling, dimmed the lights in the room, and courted “under the stars” in the night sky. In Valerie’s case, trains were a turn-off.
“Oh, Aunt Harriet, I’m invited to a gala at the B&O Museum in Baltimore on Saturday night. Will you be my date?”
“Oh...my...I don’t know.” Her voice fluttered into a higher register. “What will I possibly wear?” Women think of these events differently.
“It’s not real fancy. Much of the museum is outdoors. The dress you wore to visit Dad last evening would be fine.”
Cheeriness returned to her voice. “If you think so. I’ll go.”
“It’s a date.”
13
If glamour ever existed in the detective business, it was missing in action that afternoon.
Lunch consisted of a banana and two Hershey’s Kisses from the hotel’s gift basket. I arranged dinner at The Capital Grille, one of Trambata’s dining haunts according to Tanesha Goodling, and made a reservation for the following night at Tandoori House, Carlin’s favorite DC Indian restaurant.
A call to Scott D’Salvatore with the DC police resulted in a chilly reception. I mentioned Nick Argostino’s name three times before Scott finally agreed to meet me at 4:30 p.m.
The face-to-face wasn’t much warmer. I explained the reason for my trip and showed him Carlin’s photo. The meeting produced no hits, and a “no hitter” for a PI doesn’t carry the same prestige as in baseball. I called Todd Vicary with an update.
At dinner, I flashed a few twenties, courtesy of Herron Industries, along with Trambata’s picture to the maître d’ and waiters. They hadn’t seen him.
Later that night, I sank into the comfortable mattress at The Hay-Adams and called Valerie. At last a cheerful voice with words of encouragement. I asked if she’d stop by and visit Dad the next morning. She adored the idea that Harriet would spare her a trip to the train museum. I’d miss out on a ballet recital that weekend, which made me smile.
With the drapes left open, I drifted to sleep with a vista of the White House bathed in spotlights.
14
Wednesday, September 26, 2001
Considered the world’s largest office building when completed in 1943, the Pentagon now ranks in the top five. My buddy suggested taking the Metro, and he provided directions from the Pentagon station to Arthur Lukins’ office. The Metro brought me to the opposite side from where a plane destroyed the west front on 9/11. An acrid odor clung to the air, underscoring the gravity of the tragedy.
After passing through security and being issued a visitor’s pass, I required an escort and cooled my heels until my guide arrived.
In an amiable southern accent, which I learned originated in Meridian, Mississippi, a freckled buzz cut red-head led the way, pointing out key building features along our route. Five sides. Five above-ground floors. Five concentric rings—designated A to E from the inside out. We traveled polished corridors, occasionally passing a doorway flanked by U.S. and service flags signaling an important official’s office. Lukins worked behind a plain door on the third floor of the D-ring.
Top assistant to the Under Secretary of Defense, he cut an impressive figure in his grey suit, red tie, and a service insignia in his lapel.
Lukins grasped my hand. “Mr. Frame, welcome.”
I pointed at the emblem. “You were in the Air Force?”
“Twenty years. Retired colonel. Feeling back in the saddle here, just have to remember not to salute the brass.”
Lukins invited me to sit in a leather-padded chair, while he settled in behind his desk. “How do you know Steve Bucheral?”
“We were best friends in junior high. His family moved to Cincinnati when we were fourteen or fifteen, but we stayed in touch. Steve transferred to Princeton during my junior year. He joined the VA shortly after we graduated.”
; “Steve gave me a heads-up on your interest in Carlin Trambata and work he might be doing for the Defense Department. I’m not exactly on a first-name basis with Secretary Rumsfeld.” He smiled and arched an eyebrow. “I contacted a few colleagues at my pay grade to see what I could find out.”
He paused long enough that I felt compelled to respond. “Any information would be helpful.”
Lukins pulled a notepad closer and adjusted a pair of glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Mr. Trambata had meetings here at the Pentagon on September 13, 14, 15 and 17.”
The 18th was the last day anyone at Herron Industries heard from him.
“I can’t disclose any details since they weren’t shared with me. Do you remember the strategic defense initiatives of the Reagan administration—the ones dubbed Star Wars?”
I nodded.
“Herron Industries, along with others participating in the meetings, were key partners in the development of those defense systems. Naturally, in response to this new global terror threat, their input was valued.”
Perhaps Joedco had been invited to the same meetings, I would check with Andrew. “Sounds like brainstorming for Star Wars II, aimed at Al-Qaeda.”
Another arched brow. “You can make whatever inferences you’d like, Mr. Frame. I’m not at liberty to confirm. I should have made clear at the start, this conversation is not for attribution.”
“I understand. Mr. Trambata has not been heard from since the day following the last meeting you’ve described. His company is concerned for his safety. Of particular alarm is the absence of a credit card trail after he left Philadelphia. Did the department arrange for his lodging during the time of the meetings?”
Lukins held up his index finger and reached for the phone. He punched four buttons on the console, an inside connection. “The Trambata issue we discussed. Did DoD house him?”
After a while, Lukins covered the receiver with his palm. “I’m on hold.”
More time passed before Lukins deadpanned, “We were never this slow in the Air Force.”
If the department housed Trambata, that would account for the first six days of his travels. Where had he stayed since September 18th?
Lukins cradled the phone. “Our guests stayed at Marine Corps Base Quantico. They had secure van transport to and from the Pentagon.”
I’d heard of Quantico. Didn’t have a clue where it was.
He must’ve read my puzzlement. “In Virginia. Forty minutes south of here.” Lukins stood. “If you’re ready to go, PFC Watkins is waiting to escort you back to your entry point.”
I handed Lukins my card. “Thanks for your time. Should you have any more information to share, you can reach me at this number.”
My escort seemed less rushed on the return trip.
“Were you working the day the plane crashed into the Pentagon?”
“Yes, sir.”
Thirty yards later Watkins stopped. “I was standing right here when the plane hit. The building shook. At first, I thought earthquake...then bomb. We ran outside. Wasn’t long till we smelled jet fuel.” He resumed walking. “I was lucky. A guy I knew from basic training at Fort Jackson was killed.”
No sign designated Tandoori House—only the building number. The restaurant was tucked into the lower level of a townhouse off 21st Street between Dupont Circle and the upscale Kalorama neighborhood in Northwest DC. Half-underground, six steps below grade. The décor, with white-washed stone walls and a tin ceiling, hardly said Indian, but the aromas wafting from the kitchen told me I’d found the right place.
I could see where a man of Carlin Trambata’s breeding would find this off-the-beaten-path eatery an appealing location. There weren’t more than a dozen tables, two-thirds occupied when I arrived, with a diverse group of Indian and non-Indian patrons.
A man with black hair and a moustache, wearing a dark suit with an open collared shirt, greeted me. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes, for one.” I gave him my name.
He led me to a small table with two chairs next to the wall at the rear. I sat with my back to the kitchen. With a wave, he summoned a waiter who handed me a menu and took my drink order.
I glanced at the menu noting no prices next to the items. Decals affixed to the front door indicated acceptance of a variety of credit cards.
Mostly I watched. More patrons arrived, grasping the hand of the man at the front door like an old friend.
Two men in their twenties waited tables. Minus the moustache, they resembled the man at the front door. A family business.
Behind me, a pass-through held dishes ready to be served. I couldn’t tell how many cooks worked in the kitchen.
When the waiter returned with my glass of Sauvignon Blanc, I selected the chef’s choice featuring salad, tandoori prawns, vegetable curry, naan, and dessert. I handed him Carlin Trambata’s photograph and asked if he recognized the man.
His eyes widened, giving me my answer. He hesitated. “I don’t know.”
I pointed toward the front. “Show it to your father, perhaps he will be familiar.”
The waiter dashed away and delivered plates to two more tables before approaching the man at the entrance. He handed him the picture, spoke, and pointed in my direction. The man I presumed to be his father looked toward me, kept the photo, and dismissed the waiter. New diners arrived.
Moments later he stood next to my table. “Baasim tells me you inquired about Mr. Carlin.”
I gestured. “Please, have a seat.”
“I must attend to my customers.” He remained standing. For the first time, I noticed a pewter badge engraved: J. Chaudhari, Proprietor.
I kept my voice low. “This is one of Carlin’s favorite restaurants.”
The owner beamed.
“Mr. Trambata’s wife has not heard from him in more than a week.” I hoped citing the family connection would elicit a better response than mentioning Herron Industries. “Have you seen him recently?”
“He was here twice. Last Tuesday and again on Saturday—both times without reservations. He is a frequent visitor. We do our best to accommodate him.”
“Was he alone?”
“Tuesday, yes. Last Saturday, an Indian woman accompanied him.”
I got excited at the prospect of another local contact who might lead me to Trambata. “Did you recognize her?”
“I did not.”
The waiter arrived with my salad. Mr. Chaudhari stepped back to excuse himself.
“Please. A few more questions. What did she look like?”
“A young woman. By that I mean, perhaps fifteen years younger than him. Long black hair. She wore a bindi.” I recalled seeing the red dot on Hindu women during my travels to New Delhi.
“Did he pay for his meals with a credit card?”
“No. He paid with cash.” A commotion near the entry drew his attention. “If you’ll excuse me.”
By the time my entrée arrived, every table was full. The image of Trambata showing up with a guest and without reservations on a Saturday night spoke to the esteem in which the owner held his friendship. Who was this mystery woman? Joel told me Carlin liked ’em young. Had Trambata come to DC for a meeting and stayed to carry on an affair?
After a second glass of wine, I turned down dessert, asked the waiter for my bill, and visited the men’s room.
When I returned, Sal Zalinski was sitting in the chair on the opposite side of my table, brandishing a cocky smirk.
15
“What the hell are you doing here?” My reaction brought stares from fellow diners.
“Now, Brad, let’s not get testy. Use your inside voice.”
I’d forgotten how irritating Sal’s nasal tone could be. I glared at him before reluctantly returning to my seat.
Baasim rushed to the table. “Would you gentlemen like coffee?”
“Yes, we would.” Sal responded before I could object. “Two espressos.”
Baasim scurried to the drink station.
“Wh
y are you following me?”
He clucked his tongue. “Give me a little credit. I don’t work that hard any more. I let my experience do it for me.”
His ego had inflated his tawdry reputation.
I pushed my chair back. “If you aren’t going to answer my questions, we’re done here.”
Sal raised his palm. “Relax. I have the best of intentions.”
The waiter returned with the espresso and also placed the bill next to me.
Sal reached for the check. “Please, allow my employer to treat you to dinner.”
I clamped my hand over the plastic folder. “And why would he want to do that?”
His mouth curled into a patronizing smile. “He? I haven’t even told you who I’m working for.”
I picked up the check. “I’m refusing to play your game.” I got up, walked to the front podium, and presented Mr. Chaudhari with my credit card. I looked back and Sal Zalinski no longer sat at the table.
After exiting the restaurant, I strode toward Connecticut Avenue as a better spot from which to hail a cab back to the hotel.
As I neared the corner of Connecticut and Hillyer, Sal hollered my name.
I stopped and looked back. He limped in my direction, dragging his left foot each time he took a step.
“It’ll be worth your while to hear me out,” he shouted from half a block away.
Up ahead I saw sidewalk café tables under a street lamp. I didn’t expect harm from Mr. Zalinski. However, should he try anything funny, I wanted to have witnesses. I motioned my intention to sit. Temperatures in the high-50s were bearable in my jacket. He caught up with me moments later. I handed him a ten-dollar bill. “If you want to talk with me, go get us coffee. Black for me.”
He tossed his business card on the table. One side presented his contact information, while the reverse displayed his photograph. Aside from being a few years younger when the picture was taken, the grin in the photo reflected his out-sized ego.
When Sal went inside the café, I called my dad for the second time today. He was back at the Bairnes Care Center. When he told me to “stop fussing over him,” I knew things would be fine.