by Ray Flynt
Nick was talking like he’d forgotten about his suspension. Brad wondered if he should have gotten into the details of the case.
Nick sat at his desk and put a fresh sheet of paper in front of him. Brad saw him write Sterling Haller’s name. “Gimme his description.”
“Five-foot-eight, one fifty-five, bald, brown eyes, and he’s got a Chinese dragon tattooed—”
“On the left side of his neck.” Nick finished the sentence.
“How did you…?”
“I know where Sterling Haller is.” Nick drummed his fingers on the desktop. “At the morgue wearing a John Doe tag. The medical examiner autopsied him this morning. Homicide. He might have been poisoned, but they’re waiting for lab results.”
“How can he rule it a homicide if there’s no apparent cause of death?” Brad asked.
“He was found already embalmed.”
2
Brad persuaded Nick to wait until the following morning before notifying the Department of the identity of the John Doe homicide victim at the city morgue. Knowing the way the police worked, Nick estimated detectives would converge on Grace Haller’s residence by 10:00 a.m. for the death notification and to summon her to ID the body. Brad hoped to spare a sixty-four-year-old woman with Alzheimer’s that ordeal.
Before leaving Nick’s driveway, Brad made two phone calls. He alerted Sharon Porter, his assistant, to developments in the Haller case and asked that she be prepared to accompany him to Grace’s residence the following morning. Hiring Sharon was the best decision he’d ever made. The longer they worked together, the more he appreciated her talents.
Next, he called the caregiver at the Hallers’ residence. During his visits the previous week, he’d met two of the three women who took turns providing live-in care. They worked for PeaceOfMind, a company that specialized in home assistance for Alzheimer’s patients. He was relieved when Phyllis Santiago answered his call.
“Phyllis, this is Brad Frame calling. We met last week.”
“Yes, Mr. Frame. How can I help you?”
“Is Grace nearby?”
“She’s in the living room watching Dancing with the Stars. I’m in the kitchen, but I can get her for you.”
“No, wait. I want to speak with you. I have bad news. The police found Ms. Haller’s brother—deceased.”
“Oh my.”
“Detectives will be there in the morning to break the news. My associate and I plan to arrive ahead of them. Are you working in the morning?”
“I go off duty at seven a.m.,” Phyllis explained. “Carol Forrester will be here then.”
Brad hadn’t met that caregiver, which complicated things.
“Please give Ms. Forrester a heads-up on this news and to expect a visit from the police. Tell her about me so I won’t have to explain who I am when I arrive.”
“Will do, Mr. Frame.”
Evening rush hour had tapered to its conclusion as Brad eased his Mercedes back to his Bryn Mawr estate. He thought about the odd circumstance of Sterling Haller’s death…already embalmed. Brad wondered if Sterling had been dead or only unconscious before the embalming commenced. The potential scenarios gave him a chill.
“I’d stay on Montgomery Avenue if I were you,” Sharon said while surfing traffic information on her smartphone from the comfort of the passenger seat. Sharon Porter had joined the detective agency as an assistant a half-dozen years earlier. Over time she became a de facto partner. She was intelligence, tenacity and fearlessness, all packaged in a petite body with piercing green eyes and auburn hair.
Brad made the left-hand turn onto Grays Lane, aiming for I-76, the Schuylkill Expressway.
Sharon groaned. “That was a mistake.”
Brad smiled, tuned satellite radio to a Mendelssohn concerto, and launched into a recap of his conversation with Nick.
“Suspended?” Sharon shrieked. “We need to do something.”
“Of course we’re going to help Nick.” He told Sharon about contacting Ken Matheson, an attorney, on Nick’s behalf.
They saw eye to eye most of the time, but riding together in the car seemed to precipitate most of their disagreements.
Brad hoped the discussion of Nick’s suspension would divert Sharon’s mind from what had become the Schuylkill Expressway parking lot.
Sharon glanced at her watch. “I told you this was a mistake.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll be there by nine-thirty,” Brad said. I’ll either be vindicated or hear about it for another week. Time to go big. “Traffic will thin out as soon as we get past the Roosevelt Expressway.” Brad flashed a grin, but Sharon looked unconvinced.
Brad focused on the road but felt Sharon’s gaze as they passed the interchange for the Roosevelt Expressway, still mired in traffic. “Big mistake,” she muttered. “The police are going to beat us there.”
Brad suspected she was right, but up ahead he spotted the flashing lights of an ambulance and had renewed hope that traffic might soon open up.
A few minutes later Brad said, “What’d I tell you?” as they cleared the scene of an accident. “No more rubberneckers.”
This appeared to mollify Sharon, and their conversation veered back to Nick’s situation.
“How do you feel about a little undercover work?” Brad asked.
“Sure. Anything to help Nick.”
“I’d like you to hang out at Ruddigore’s. An ex-cop is the bartender, according to Nick. Seems cops like to hang out there.”
“Might be a good place to pick up on what they’re thinking about Nick’s suspension,” Sharon completed his thought.
“Exactly.”
“Maybe I could take my friend Patty with me. I’d look less conspicuous than hanging out there alone.”
“You think she’d be cool working undercover with you?” Brad asked.
“Patty? She’s an actress. Patty’s done Tennessee Williams. She’ll love it, especially if you’re picking up the bar tab.”
Brad found a parking space half a block from the narrow three-story brick row house in what Grace Haller liked to call Society Hill. The Hallers’ place stood south of Lombard Street—technically outside of the perimeter defined by the Society Hill Civic Association. William Penn’s surveyor had planned the area, distinctive for its historic homes in the Federal- and Georgian styles. Brad imagined a time in the 1800’s when harpsichord strains of Mendelssohn and Schubert might have emanated from the drawing rooms of these homes.
As they walked toward the Haller’s residence, Sharon was uncharacteristically silent. Brad sensed that, like him, she dreaded the death notification. They both knew the pain of losing loved ones tragically.
The air felt thick with moisture, and dew glistened on yellow and brown leaves next to the curb. A church bell struck the half hour.
Brad spotted two men dressed in gray suits walking toward them. The men were glancing at house numbers on the odd-numbered side of the street.
“Uh-oh!” Sharon tugged at Brad’s arm, and they quickened their pace.
The men paused in front of the Hallers’ row house; the police had arrived sooner than Brad anticipated. Brad saw that the taller of the two men had the hardened look of a veteran detective, while the other man had a fresh face and eyes that narrowed with apprehension.
As the lead detective ascended the steps to the Hallers’ door, Sharon called out, “Officer, excuse me.”
The younger officer turned toward her and assumed a defensive posture, which evaporated when he noticed her petite figure.
“We’ve come to see Grace Haller, too, about her brother,” Sharon explained, as Brad caught up. “We’d like to help.”
The older detective frowned as he eyed Sharon. “Thanks,” he said, “but I think we can handle this.”
Brad extended his hand. “I’m Brad Frame, a licensed private investigator, and this is my associate, Sharon Porter. Ms. Haller hired us to find her brother.”
The officer sneered. “Well, then I guess your job is done.”
He offered a perfunctory handshake, then added, “I’m Detective Barkow, and this is Detective Gillespie. We plan to escort Ms. Haller to the morgue for a positive ID.”
Brad glanced at the officer’s name badge—“J. Barkow.” Jack Barkow? One of the guys who had tangled with Nick at Ruddigore’s tavern.
“Grace Haller has Alzheimer’s,” Brad explained. “Her brother was her caregiver. She’s occasionally lucid, but most of the time—you’ll see—her mind is in an impenetrable cloud. Her identification wouldn’t stand up in court. Sterling Haller served in the Navy so a fingerprint ID should be available. It would be best not to subject Ms. Haller to a trip to the morgue.”
Detective Barkow frowned and motioned for his partner. “Let’s do this.” He thumped the brass doorknocker three times.
As the detective waited for the door to open, Brad pulled Sharon aside and whispered that Barkow was one of the detectives in the altercation with Nick. He asked her to avoid mentioning Nick’s name.
In a short while, they heard the click of the deadbolt lock. A blonde woman wearing jeans and a cable knit sweater cracked the door a few inches. Brad could see the security chain remained attached.
“Ms. Haller?” The detective showed his badge.
The woman, who appeared to be in her forties, warily eyed the crowd gathered on the stoop. “She’s still asleep. Can I help you?”
Barkow softened his tone. “It’s about her brother. May we come in?”
She hesitated. “I…I hardly saw your badge.”
The detective held the badge toward the opening in the door, and the woman squinted as she studied it.
She unlatched the chain and opened the door. As Brad and Sharon were about to cross the threshold, Barkow aimed a thumb at them and called out, “Those two aren’t with us.”
The woman began to close the door, but Brad said, “Wait. Ms. Forrester. I’m Brad Frame, and this is Sharon Porter. I believe Phyllis told you we’d be coming this morning.”
“Of course! Come in. I’m Carol.”
Over her shoulder, Brad could see Barkow’s scowl and knew this had to be the guy Nick described from the confrontation at Ruddigore’s. They joined the detectives in the foyer and stood on a threadbare Oriental rug that covered well-worn pine floorboards. The house smelled musty, and Brad noticed water stains on the faded wallpaper next to the stairs. A TV blared in a nearby room.
Ms. Forrester latched the front door, then turned and said to Sharon, “May I take your coat—”
“We’d like to see Ms. Haller,” Barkow interrupted.
“I told you. She’s asleep.”
“Please wake her, Ms. Forrester.” Even though he’d said please, his harsh tone sounded like an order.
Carol looked at Brad, who nodded his consent. Barkow bellowed, “I’m in charge here.”
As Carol Forrester headed upstairs to the second floor, the detectives wandered into the adjacent living room.
Sharon flashed Brad a look that conveyed she didn’t appreciate Barkow’s hostile manner. She followed the detective into the living room, picked up the remote control and snapped off the television. “Officer, you’re making a mistake. My dad was a cop, so I know you have discretion in these matters. We can take care of notifying Ms. Haller.”
Brad, who had followed them into the living room, said, “I came here prepared to tell Grace about her brother. You’ll see what she’s like. Spare her a trip to the morgue. She has a photograph of her brother in her bedroom. Take that with you to confirm Sterling Haller’s identity.”
“Mr. Know-It-All, how did you find out about Haller’s death?”
Brad wanted to leave Nick’s involvement out of the discussion. “He’s been missing for six days, and this morning I checked with the medical examiner’s office to see if they had a John Doe with a distinctive dragon tattoo.”
Barkow glared at Brad, turned abruptly and headed back to the foyer.
Grace Haller descended the stairs on the arm of Carol Forrester. Grace wore a violet chenille robe and a vacant smile that reinforced everything Brad and Sharon had said about her condition. Brad glanced at Detective Barkow, whose face flickered like he’d begun to understand what they’d been telling him.
As Grace took the last step to the foyer floor, Brad greeted her, taking her hand in his, but she showed no signs of recognition. “You’re early for the party. I’m not quite ready,” Grace sputtered.
Her dementia appeared far worse than Brad had observed on his prior visits.
Detective Barkow—against all evidence to the contrary—plowed ahead. “We’re here about your brother, ma’am.”
“I sent him to the store,” she replied. “He should be back anytime.”
“She doesn’t understand,” Carol apologized. “Can’t I help you?”
“Give us a minute,” Brad said and motioned for the two detectives to follow him. He led them past the stairs to the kitchen at the rear of the row house, where a stained glass transom above the back door looked like a Tiffany design.
“Listen,” Brad began.
Barkow cut him off. “No. You listen to me. I don’t know who you think you are, hotshot. We’re investigating a homicide, and I’ve got a death notification to perform. If you insist on stopping us, we’ll charge you with obstruction.” Barkow and his partner returned to the foyer.
Brad knew he was bluffing, but Jack Barkow acted slippery enough to confirm he’d be capable of helping another officer set up his friend Nick.
Before Brad could catch up, the detective stood in front of Grace and said, “I’m sorry to tell you this ma’am, but we believe that Sterling Haller is dead.”
Carol Forrester, who already knew what was coming, draped a supportive arm around Grace.
Grace blinked rapidly, and her lips curled into an odd smile. “Of course he’s dead. Papa died in seventy-three.” She added, ruefully, “Mamma misses him so much.”
Brad and Sharon exchanged glances, and the young detective rolled his eyes. Barkow stood, steely-eyed as if contemplating his next move.
“Ms. Forrester,” Brad said, “when we were here the other day, there was a picture of Sterling Haller in Ms. Haller’s bedroom.” Brad nodded in Grace’s direction. “Would you mind if Sharon retrieved the photograph to give to the police?”
“No. Of course not.”
Sharon hurried up the stairs.
“Grace might be more comfortable in the living room,” Brad suggested.
Forrester helped Grace to the nearby sofa. As she sank into the overstuffed cushion, Grace repeated, “My brother should be back from the store soon.”
The rookie detective looked clueless while Barkow paced uneasily before asking, “Where were you last Friday night, Ms. Haller?”
Grace looked stunned, while Carol perched on the arm of the sofa and patted her shoulder.
Brad shook his head and wondered why the detective even bothered to question a woman in her condition. Is Barkow trying to impress his partner? Why would he ask about the previous Friday night? Brad recalled the challenges of piecing together information from Grace about her brother’s disappearance when they’d met a few days earlier. She’d been more coherent then, but still it had been a struggle to draw information from her. This morning Grace Haller’s mind was in a different place.
“I…I…” Grace stuttered.
Sharon returned holding the framed photograph of Sterling Haller. She handed it to the younger detective. “You can even see his tattoo in this photo.”
Carol Forrester glanced at Barkow, then said to Grace, “Don’t you think it’s time for you to go back upstairs?”
A befuddled Grace Haller rose from the couch, bowed slightly toward her guests. “Pardon me,” she announced, “but I must go get ready for the party.” Grace held steadily onto Carol’s arm as she led her back upstairs.
“What were you thinking, Barkow,” Brad asked, “that she killed her own brother?
“Maybe you should hunt for formaldehyde in the basem
ent?” Sharon added.
Barkow seethed and took several quick steps in Brad’s direction, which prompted his partner to call out, “Jack!”
The detective stood close and breathed so heavily that Brad could smell the Listerine mouthwash he’d used that morning. “Maybe you should mind your own fucking business.” Barkow pivoted away. “Come on.” He motioned to his partner, “Let’s go.”
Forrester returned to the living room. “You could try again this afternoon. She might be more easily understood then. What exactly happened to Mr. Haller?”
Barkow pointed at Brad. “Ask him. He’s got all the answers.”
Forrester raced ahead of the detectives and held the door open for them.
Barkow turned back to Brad. “By the way, be sure and tell your buddy Nick Argostino me and Skull said, ‘Hi.’” The detective pulled the door closed behind him, and Brad could hear him laughing outside.
3
He knew this visit might be an exercise in futility since the police were now investigating Sterling Haller’s peculiar death. Brad had been recruited to find a missing person by people who once worked for his dad. His emotional attachment, along with his natural curiosity, drove him to learn more about the circumstances of Haller’s death.
He parked in the tiny lot next to Taylor’s Funeral Home. Brad sat for a few minutes to get a feel for the neighborhood. He studied the South Philly street with its mix of well-kept row homes and retail shops, like the dry cleaners across the street and the grocery store at the corner. He wondered what the neighbors thought of having a funeral home next door as he took in the façade of the three brick townhouses connected by a single porch. A “Founded 1948” sign hung above the entry.
A floral delivery van stood double-parked in front. Brad realized that everyone on the block had lots of experience vying for limited street parking. A woman popped out through the driver’s door and walked to the rear of the vehicle where she threw open the cargo doors and withdrew two matching baskets of red and white carnations.
Brad watched her scurry to the entrance, deliver the flowers, and dash back to the van. A garbage truck behind the double-parked vehicle honked its horn. The florist shop driver pulled away in a cloud of smelly exhaust.