Yard Goat

by Ray Flynt

  “If all else fails,” Jeremy said, “I can get you a job at the museum.”

  Cecilia shuddered.

  When the waiter cleared Cecilia’s salad plate there seemed as much spinach on it as when first served. She dismissed the notion of dessert, but asked for coffee. Jeremy’s and my prix fixe dinners came with ginger crème brûlée, the house’s specialty dessert.

  With me no longer firing questions like a private investigator, everyone lowered their guard. Jeremy added cream to her coffee without first asking—the kind of action one expects between intimates. I didn’t judge. Just wished Joel was around to realize his infidelity hadn’t been the sole reason behind the collapse of their marriage.

  I claimed the check when it arrived. Jeremy looked relieved.

  After dropping them in front of Baker’s shortly before the start of the seven o’clock viewing time, Jeremy escorted her up the walk. He brushed a strand of hair from the side of her face.

  Yeah, they know each other.

  Dusk had arrived as I guided my car though the dimly lit half-empty parking lot. At the far corner, I spotted a familiar beige sedan. I pulled in next to the driver’s side, lowered my window, meeting the dour scrutiny of Detective Jackson.

  “Good evening, Detective.”

  He spoke in a menacing baritone. “What brings you to Baltimore?”

  “Wanted to pay my respects.”

  “You paid your respects this afternoon. You’re still here.”

  Interesting to know the funeral home was under surveillance.

  “I took Cecilia out to dinner. Any ruling from the medical examiner on the cause of death?”

  “Nothing official. I attended the autopsy. Severed aorta the cause. No weapon found yet.”

  I pointed to the left side of my head. “The laceration on—”

  “There appears to have been a struggle before the fatal stabbing. We believe Mr. Driscoll hit his head on the engine’s coupler, possibly rendering him unconscious.”

  “What about—”

  “Go home, Mr. Frame. Time to mind your own business.”

  His definitive tone threw me off, prompting me to provide more justification for my presence. “I felt Cecilia could use my support.”

  “I doubt it. Perhaps she didn’t mention the one-million-dollar life insurance policy on which she’s the sole beneficiary.”

  I couldn’t keep shock off my face.

  Detective Jackson’s smirk grew wider, teeth gleaming.

  The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed eleven as I arrived back at the Bryn Mawr estate. On the drive home, my mind sorted through all I’d learned. Each answer raised two or three more questions.

  Jackson’s mind-your-own-business caution rang in my ears. I couldn’t let go. I had to have Joel’s back. In spite of Cecilia’s earlier story, Jackson implied she was still a prime suspect in the case. Motive: A generous life insurance policy.

  I marched up the curved stairway toward the master bedroom, shedding first my tie and then the jacket, which I draped over a chair.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed to slip off my shoes, I noticed the souvenir program from the train museum’s fundraiser on my nightstand. Leafing through, a full-page ad from Joel’s law firm caught my attention, including a smiling photo of him and Mr. McMillan, arm in arm—no indication of discord. In the middle of the booklet, the auction agenda, including descriptions of the high-end donated items.

  In the midst of the auction’s late start, I hadn’t paid attention. When the proceedings finally got underway, Cecilia introduced the local TV celebrity Jim Edwards to conduct the auction. According to the program, museum administrator Jeremy Nulph was slated to introduce Edwards. He wasn’t there at the same time when Joel was stabbed behind the yard goat.

  19

  Wednesday, October 3, 2001

  I woke to the sound of a jackhammer. When plumbers tied the drain line for the new office into an existing sewer, they found a crack in the cast iron pipe. Contractors had to rip out part of the cobblestone drive to make repairs.

  Over coffee, I perused this morning’s edition of The Philadelphia Inquirer. News featured a warning from the Defense Secretary that our adversaries might use terrorists to attack us with chemical, biological and even nuclear weapons. Meanwhile, Congress’ ten-day-old compensation fund, established to award families of victims of the September 11th terror attacks up to one million dollars, had generated resentment and confusion.

  Perhaps news always had a doom and gloom quality about it. In my opinion, that had intensified. In particular, I hated to see our unity as a country dissipate.

  Shortly after nine-thirty, I headed out to the breezeway connecting the kitchen to the new office. A beautiful autumn day greeted me, clear skies, and temperatures in the mid-60s, heading for 80 in the afternoon.

  I found the architect, who acted as general contractor for the project. He oversaw metal workers installing the spiral staircase that would connect the first-floor office to an exercise gym on the second floor.

  While I had been visiting Baltimore, drywallers had finished sanding the joint compound and the mantel installed over the fireplace.

  Amidst the sound of the jackhammer, I asked the architect when the project might be finished.

  He consulted a clipboard. “We’re close. Tile goes in upstairs next Monday. Painters finish on Tuesday, and your office carpet will be installed on October 11th. Fingers crossed, we’ll move the furniture in a week from Friday.”

  Dad’s old partner’s desk—one he used for nearly thirty years—would serve as the centerpiece for my new office. Andy wanted to get rid of it when he became CEO. I salvaged the desk until I could repurpose it. “Have you visited the refinishers lately?”

  The architect smiled. “They’re all done. It polished up nicely, and they put new hardware on the drawers.”

  Armed with that good news, I walked to my temporary office above the garage and renewed my focus on the “yard goat” murder.

  The web edition of The Baltimore Sun reported the following:

  Investigation continues into the homicide of local attorney Joel Driscoll at the train museum’s fundraiser last Saturday night.

  According to a spokesperson for the state medical examiner’s office, Driscoll, 35, of Roland Park, died when his aorta was severed using a shiv, a style of knife favored by street criminals. Police have not recovered the knife, but it is described as one and a half inches wide and five to six inches long.

  A source with the police said death occurred at approximately eight Saturday evening, adding, “Driscoll may have been at the wrong place at the wrong time, victim of a street hood trying to rob him.”

  I pulled out a tablet and scribbled the name of the article’s byline: J. Kitteridge.

  Baltimore society might take comfort in the report that a street thug accosted Joel, but I wasn’t buying it. To paraphrase Joel: Wrong place, wrong time, my ass!

  Unwelcome by Detective Jackson, I had to find a backdoor way to achieve justice. Too early to tell how seriously they would pursue the truth of who killed Joel. Planting the suggestion of his death as collateral damage in a street crime didn’t bode well for the outcome of their investigation.

  I made notes of who—based on current information—might want to harm Joel:

  Cecilia Driscoll – widow under suspicion

  Jeremy Nulph – Cecilia’s new lover?

  Mike McMillan – Joel’s law partner

  Carlin Trambata – he had Joel followed

  Sal Zalinski – PI who followed Joel

  Megan Trambata – grown tired of Joel?

  In Philadelphia, public release of autopsy records was limited to the cause and manner of death. I suspected the same would be true in Baltimore. I already had that information about Joel. Would I find clues in the balance of the report? Cecilia should have access to them. Whether she’d cooperate in requesting the reports would have to wait until after Joel’s burial.

  Looking at the l
ist again, I decided to invoke the Biblical aphorism “the last shall be first” and arrange to meet with Megan. Joel had told me she’d headed off to the Trambata compound in Boca Raton, Florida.

  Andy said he’d visited Carlin’s Boca villa, so I called his office. Doris, his long-suffering secretary, answered. Andy could be a pickle to work for, but Doris didn’t seem to mind. God bless her.

  “Good morning, Doris. Is Andy available?”

  “Let me check.” Her sigh tumbled out before she put the line on hold.

  Andy’s voice boomed. “Hey little brother, what’s happening?”

  I’m younger, he’s shorter—thus his confusing moniker for me as little brother.

  “I’m planning to visit Trambata’s estate in Boca Raton—”

  “Me too.”

  “When? Why?”

  “It’s your fault.” Andy laughed. “You found Trambata. That greased the skids on our acquisition of Herron’s subsidiary. I’ve been summoned to Trambata’s estate in Boca Raton to finalize a deal.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow at eleven. I wanted to meet this past Monday, but Trambata was in Baltimore over the weekend. He won’t arrive in Florida until later tonight.” Andy’s intercom crackled in the background.

  “Did you say Baltimore?”

  Andy grunted. “That’s what Todd told me.”

  “Where are you staying in Florida?”

  “Casa de Antigua...Trambata’s estate. Gotta run. Maybe I’ll see you there.”

  A dial tone hummed in my ear. Andy’s news that Trambata was in Baltimore altered my strategy on investigating Joel’s death.

  20

  Detective Jackson didn’t want me meddling in his murder case. However, since I’d been up front with him about Joel’s affair with Megan Trambata, Jackson would want to hear that Carlin Trambata had spent the weekend in Baltimore. I’d be handing him motive and opportunity on a silver platter. In return, the detective might be willing to share a few details of his investigation.

  Joel’s funeral would start in another hour. Perhaps Jackson planned to hang out in the church parking lot observing the comings and goings of mourners and keeping an eye on Cecilia Driscoll.

  I called the Baltimore police asking for Detective Jackson. A top 40 tune played as I waited on hold.

  “Homicide. Sergeant Hackett.” The man ran the words together and sounded raspy, taking me a few seconds to comprehend what I’d just heard.

  “This is Brad Frame calling for Detective Jackson.”

  The sergeant told me to hold. He may have tried to cover the receiver, but barely concealed his shout to a colleague. “Where’s Dwayne?”

  In the distance, another man relayed the question, until a woman said, “He’s in Florida.”

  The Sergeant didn’t share those specifics, instead saying, “He’s not in the office right now. Can I take a message?”

  If it had been January, I might have imagined Jackson on a sun and fun vacation, or maybe getting ready to board a cruise ship. Instead, Megan Trambata came to mind.

  “Yes. Please ask him to call Brad Frame. It’s about the Joel Driscoll homicide.” Although Jackson had my business card, I repeated my cell number.

  “I’ll pass it along.” The Sergeant hung up.

  I didn’t expect a quick return call.

  Back-to-back reports of Trambata’s weekend in Baltimore and Jackson’s trip to Florida energized me. I tried not to jump to conclusions, while at the same time anticipating the contours of the police investigation.

  Cecilia had been set aside as a suspect—for now—thanks to barbeque sauce instead of blood on her dress.

  Considering Megan’s affair with Joel, Jackson would want to interview her, determine where she’d been and explore possible alibis at the time of the murder.

  After a half-hour passed with no response from Jackson, I called Mike McMillan’s office to see if I could arrange an appointment. Snagged one for 4:00 that afternoon. As Joel’s law partner, McMillan had likely spent the morning attending the funeral. He was the one person on my list of suspects about whom I knew nothing except that Cecilia didn’t trust him. She alluded to financial problems in their business.

  Before heading to Baltimore, I packed an overnight bag. I wanted the flexibility to travel from there to Boca Raton, if necessary.

  Andy would be in Boca on Thursday. Maybe I could turn him into a suspect. I smiled.

  Driscoll-McMillan’s posh sixth-floor law offices on East Pratt Street overlooked Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. The receptionist wore a black dress, and most likely had come directly from Joel’s funeral.

  I announced myself, noting my appointment with Mr. McMillan.

  She apologized that he was with a client and invited me to have a seat.

  “I’m a friend of Joel’s from his Philly days,” I explained. “I wonder if I might step into his office for old-time sake.”

  She blinked back a tear. “Sure. It’s to your right.”

  Not sure what insights, if any, I might find, I opened the door and passed through a small anteroom where a now-empty secretary’s desk sat. My shoes sank in thick red carpet. Joel’s desk was bare, except for a combination pen set and name plaque. On the credenza, photos of his children, crystal canisters of candy—including Reese’s Pieces—and a pile of law books, their pages separated with multi-colored sticky notes. Thick file folders spilled from wooden stacking trays.

  Behind the desk, an oil painting of a 19th century warship dominated a wall covered in a red, blue, and yellow tartan.

  I stood next to one of the wing chairs covered in the same colorful fabric, and gazed at the painting. Through the window, I spotted the three-masts of the USS Constellation moored in the harbor.

  “Joel loved that old ship.”

  I turned abruptly to see the man I presumed to be Joel’s surviving partner. He looked a couple of years younger than Joel, with a full head of auburn hair.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you, Mr. Frame.” He handed me his business card. “It’s a bit unsettling coming into this room and not finding Joel sitting at his desk.”

  I aimed a finger at the back wall. “Any significance to the plaid?”

  “He claimed it was his family’s tartan. From County Cork, I think.” McMillan shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, and I’m the one with Mc in my name.” He eased his six-foot frame into one of the wingbacks. “We might as well chat here. Joel won’t mind.”

  McMillan continued. “Joel mentioned you. I assume you’re investigating his death.”

  “I don’t have a formal role. More to respect his memory.”

  McMillan bobbed his head. “Any theories?”

  “I was about to ask you. Had he received threats?”

  “None that I know of.” He cleared his throat. “In case you’re wondering, I’m aware of his affair with that woman in Philadelphia.”

  I cocked an eyebrow.

  “Going back four or five months ago, he started skipping days in the office. I wondered what was going on. Finally, I asked him. Once the dam broke, we occasionally drifted to the topic of divorce.”

  “Did he want you to represent him?”

  McMillan shook his head. “I went through a divorce three years ago. Mine was different. We didn’t have kids.”

  Thus far, our conversation seemed like cards face up on the table. Time to push those limits. “You were at the museum the night Joel was killed?”

  He nodded.

  “Where were you at the time of his murder?”

  A smile creased his lips. “Mr. McMillan, with a candlestick, in the library...is that what you’re getting at?”

  I smiled back.

  “If what I’ve read in the papers is correct, I was trying to outbid you on a getaway weekend to Chicago.”

  “I didn’t mean to accuse you.” Actually I had, only to gauge his reaction, which appeared genuine.

  “It’s okay. You’ve probably been talking to Cecilia. She’s not very happy with me
right now.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Not sure what she told you. I had a date at the fundraiser last Saturday night. We were able to vouch for each other, and were among the first the police allowed to leave. I’d already had a few drinks, and we also stopped at a neighborhood bar for a nightcap before I took Darcy home. When Cecilia called from the police station, I never should have gone.”

  “Because you’d been drinking?”

  “That, and I don’t do much criminal work. At the station, the subject of the law firm came up. She alluded to selling his share of the business, and got pissed off when I told her not to expect much.”

  “Can you elaborate?”

  “Our partnership is...was...primarily about sharing expenses, advertising, phones, the receptionist, janitorial services, etc. We each own a 50% interest in this office condo. We bought high and the market is down at the moment. If she wants to sell his share, she’ll be lucky to get enough to pay off half the mortgage.”

  “Joel always gave me the impression that his law business was successful.”

  “Oh sure. He probably made four or five hundred thousand a year, working five days a week, fifty weeks out of the year, but I tried to brace Cecilia that there weren’t many assets coming back to her. Thanks to my being honest, she glared at me in church this morning.” Ruefully, McMillan added, “Not the way I wanted to say goodbye to Joel.”

  “Rumor is that he had a substantial life insurance policy.”

  “He did. If you’ve seen their home in Roland Park, and with the kids in private schools, you know they were spending every dime Joel made. He used to say Cecilia has champagne tastes.”

  Sounded like she could burn through a million-dollar life insurance policy in about two years.

  “Cecilia will need a job,” I ventured.

  “Oh yeah, big time, or a sugar daddy.”

  21