by Ray Flynt
The computer’s battery registered low. I rummaged in the bag for a power cord but found none. Should I gamble that I can complete a download before the battery fails?
I plugged the thumb drive into a USB port and opened the directory. The first folder of documents contained more than two thousand items. There were seven folders. I hurried to copy them while the battery still furnished power.
After copying each folder, I double-checked to make sure they’d arrived safely on the portable drive.
My mission accomplished, I shut down the computer, packed it away, and stowed the case in the closet.
I dropped the memory stick in my purse and returned to the laptop downstairs to explore Haller’s search history.
After opening Chrome and clicking on the tab to expose his browsing history, there were hundreds of URLs listed. But they had all been since Sterling Haller’s disappearance on Wednesday of the prior week. I wondered if Haller routinely deleted his browsing history or whether a subsequent user might have done it for him.
I recognized many of the sites: Facebook, the Weather Channel, Gmail, Yahoo, and Google. When PeaceOfMind’s website showed up on the list, I realized the caregivers—assisting Grace Haller twenty-four-seven—had used the computer. All their searches appeared innocuous, but then I spotted a URL I didn’t immediately recognize: hsn.com. The “h” and “s” made me think of horses. Were the ladies placing wagers at a pari-mutuel betting site? I clicked on the URL and laughed when the Home Shopping Network materialized on the screen. Most of my friends used QVC, but I’d heard a few mention HSN.
Glancing down, I saw that a corner of white paper stuck out from under the notebook. I lifted up the computer exposing a folded eight-and-one-half-by-eleven sheet of paper containing several web addresses along with user names and passwords. Maybe this is what Brad hoped I’d find. And where had he come up with the password for Sterling’s computer, since I didn’t see it on the sheet?
The doorbell rang, causing me to jump. Maybe Rhonda had come back, in which case I’d seize the opportunity to question her.
After walking into the front hall, I peered through the peephole and saw Skull standing outside the door. Fuck.
I dashed back to the computer, powered it off, and closed the notebook—even though it had been open when I’d found it.
The doorbell sounded a second time, followed by a third impatient ring.
I grabbed the sheet of paper with the web addresses and passwords and stuffed it in my purse. Skull probably wouldn’t recognize me, but I’d have to disguise my voice.
I walked back to the front hall, took a deep breath, and pulled open the door to find two men in suits. “Oh, hi.” I pitched my voice a little higher and adopted a folksy personality. “I thought I heard the doorbell. I was upstairs in the restroom.”
Skull spoke. “Are you Ms. Haller?”
I shook my head. “She’s at her brother’s funeral. I’m housesitting till she gets back.”
“I’m Detective Sanders.” Pointing at his partner, he added, “And this is Detective Russo.” He reached into his suit coat pocket and produced a folded sheet of paper, which he handed to me. “We have a warrant to search for and seize any computer equipment at this location.”
Skull was all business with none of the cockiness that had been on full display at Ruddigore’s. He spoke in the monotone I hear TV detectives use when giving Miranda warnings. And he wasn’t much for eye contact—which was fine by me—nor did he appear to recognize me from our encounter at the bar. His partner, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, eyed me up and down, seemingly more interested in my ass than anything else.
“Gosh.” Can’t believe I just said gosh! “There’s a computer over here.” I pointed at the spot under the stairs.
Skull moved toward the computer. “Mike, go upstairs and look around. I’ll get this one.”
Detective Russo did as he was told, but not without one last undisguised stare at my butt.
Skull sat at the table and pulled the notebook closer, grumbling, “It’s still warm.” He glared at me. “Were you using this computer?”
“Yeah.” I giggled and tried to think fast. “I knew Grace wouldn’t mind. I surfed the Home Shopping Network.”
8
Brad pulled into the parking lot late and snuck in a side door.
Sterling Haller’s service may have been the strangest one Brad had ever attended. He’d already buried several family members and, at his age, found himself attending funerals for the parents of friends. He didn’t look forward to the time when more of those his own age would be passing on.
Sterling’s funeral seemed more a corporate than a family affair. Mourners did not gather at the funeral home and travel in procession to Emmanuel United Methodist. Those interested simply arrived at the church at the appointed hour. Barely thirty had done so.
As the organist played a somber rendition of “Be Thou My Vision,” Brad managed to find a seat only four rows back from where Grace Haller, her caregiver, and Riley Truit sat. Another man, whom Brad hadn’t met, sat next to Riley. He would make it a point to find out his identity.
The minister approached the lectern and read the familiar Twenty-third Psalm. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil….”
Funerals were for the living, intended to provide comfort. In light of Haller’s murder, Brad heard the words of the Psalm in a fresh light. Killing a man by embalming struck him as an evil worthy of fear.
On the opposite side of the church, he spotted Grayson from Federated and several employees from The Burnham Group. He recognized them from their visit to the funeral home the night before. He expected to see Irene Del Greco, but she wasn’t there.
There were several women in the two rows in front of him. He guessed they could have been neighbors or perhaps church members who might have casually known Sterling.
At the front of the church sat Haller’s flag-draped casket, flanked by matching baskets of gladiolas and carnations.
Grace Haller moaned, grunted, and spoke aloud to her caregiver throughout the service, a fact that everyone in attendance conveniently overlooked.
To his left, Brad sensed movement. Glancing over his shoulder he saw Jack Barkow wander down the central aisle and ease into an empty pew behind the corporate types. A smirk formed on Barkow’s lips as he met Brad’s gaze. The truth was, they were both there for the same reason: to keep eyes and ears open hoping to make sense of the tragedy. Brad didn’t think he’d find the killer among the mourners, but stranger events had happened.
The pastor read a New Testament verse from John 14. “Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.”
As the minister started his sermon, Brad recalled the same scripture verse had been spoken at the funeral of his mother and sister. Their lives had been taken all too soon and in no less a tragic way than Sterling Haller’s. The passage had brought him comfort back then, and he needed the reminder.
The organist played “Amazing Grace,” and the minister offered a benediction.
A check showed that Barkow had already left. Perhaps he’d observe the mourners from his car as they left the church.
Brad approached Riley Truit and extended his hand to offer condolences.
“Thanks, Brad.”
Similarly, Brad reached for the hand of the man next to Truit.
“This is my brother-in-law, Victor Seralago,” Truit made the introduction. Victor had a build similar to Truit, newly-trimmed brown hair, and—Brad couldn’t help but notice—the Rolex on his wrist.
They swapped nice-to-meet-you pleasantries.
Victor grasped Riley’s arm and said, “I have to get going. I’m showing a house at three o’clock. You
know how it is.”
“I do.” Victor departed after a not-too-close man hug.
Grace emitted another wail, and Truit turned his attention to her. Brad used the opportunity to slip out the side door.
9
Brad had just stepped out of the shower when a knock at his front door drew his attention. His bedside clock showed 6:54 a.m. After hearing Sharon’s account of the seizure of Sterling Haller’s computers, he wondered if the police might be there to question him about what he knew about Haller’s disappearance and murder. He finished toweling off and pulled on a pair of khakis and a Phillies sweatshirt.
Another rap on the door sounded, followed by the clatter of the brass doorknocker.
Will a battering ram be next?
From the top of the stairs, Brad called out. “I’ll be right there.”
He padded across the marble-tiled foyer in his bare feet and opened the door. “Nick!”
Nick Argostino stood there holding a rubber-banded Philadelphia Inquirer that had been tossed in front of the door by the paperboy earlier that morning. Nick wore a plaid flannel shirt and denims. Brad couldn’t remember a time when Nick hadn’t worn navy or gray suit trousers and a white shirt—even during their casual meetings.
Nick looked down, saw Brad standing in his bare feet and flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking this morning. I’m on automatic pilot since this is when I usually arrived at my office.”
“No worries. We’re less rigid here and usually get to the office between eight-thirty and nine. Would you like coffee? I was about to make a pot.”
Brad motioned for him to come in, and they headed back to the kitchen.
“Grab a seat.” Brad pointed to the table near the bay window. “Did you have breakfast?”
Nick shook his head. “Just a cup of instant coffee. There’re usually donuts at the office.”
“I can’t offer you any donuts. How ’bout a bagel and cream cheese?”
Nick smiled. “Sounds good.”
“Go ahead and read the paper,” Brad instructed. “I’ll have sustenance for us shortly.”
Brad brewed a fresh pot of coffee and delivered a cup to Nick before returning to retrieve a bagel from the toaster. He spread each half with a strawberry-flavored cream cheese and carried the two plates to the table. Brad noticed the newspaper remained rolled up in the confines of its rubber bands, as Nick sipped coffee and stared out the window.
“What are you watching?” Brad slid onto the padded bench across from Nick and began munching on his bagel
“A squirrel gathering acorns.” After a pause, Nick mused, “Nothing like a simple, carefree life—with a singular purpose.”
Brad chuckled. “Now don’t go getting all philosophical on me.” He’d already witnessed signs of Nick’s depression and intended to keep things light—help him focus. “How’d your meeting go with Ken Matheson?”
Brad knew the answer, but he wanted to force Nick’s admission.
Nick pursed his lips and stared back at him. “You’ve been talking to Ruth.”
“Yeah,” Brad confessed.
Nick exhaled.
“Ruth’s not the only one worried about you. As long as I’ve known you…what is it, fifteen years now?...you’ve been a man of action.”
Nick nodded. He hadn’t touched his bagel.
“Now that you’re going to be working here, I’ll give Ken a call and try and set up a meeting with him Monday morning. Hopefully, he can come here.”
Nick fidgeted in his seat and stroked the edges of his mustache. “Ah, maybe I should call the FOP.”
“You don’t think Ken’s good enough?”
“The FOP lawyers are used to dealing with the department.”
“Who’s the best criminal defense attorney in Philadelphia?”
“Archie Greer?” Nick’s attention had returned to the scene outside the window.
“Correct. I’m going to tell you a story that not too many people know. A couple of years ago, Archie faced possible suspension by the Disciplinary Board of the State Supreme Court for allegedly misusing escrow funds. Guess who he asked to represent him?”
Nick gave him a sideways glance, not wanting to take his eyes off the squirrel.
“Ken Matheson. He’s not as flashy as Greer, but he gets the job done.”
“Okay,” Nick said, without much enthusiasm.
Nick’s indifference to his own situation pissed Brad off. He stood and cleared his plate. “Look. Do whatever the hell you want. Call the FOP. But do something.”
Still no reaction.
“Dammit.” Brad dropped the empty plate and it clattered on the table before settling into place. “You want your life back or don’t you?” He got in Nick’s face. “Do you? If you assaulted those guys, then own up to it. Plead for mercy. Make a deal. Take early retirement. Something, for God’s sake.”
“Hell, no, I didn’t assault them.” Nick made a fist, and for a moment Brad thought he might have to duck. “They’re fucking with me,” Nick continued. “Somebody’s trying to frame me. I don’t know who or why.”
Brad leveled a finger at him. “Now that’s the Nick Argostino I’ve known for fifteen years. I’m going to finish getting dressed. Eat your bagel. Then we’ll work on a plan.”
The three of them met in Brad’s office. Sharon positioned herself across from the two men, who sat on opposite ends of one of the leather sofas.
Brad asked Sharon to recount her visit to Ruddigore’s and share her observations of Skull Sanders and Jack Barkow. Not only would it confirm for Nick that they’d already begun to work on his case, but it would give Brad time to observe his body language. He had to test Nick’s level of engagement and whether their heart-to-heart chat at the breakfast table had produced an epiphany or merely an attempt to placate Brad.
He’d find another time to hear a report from Sharon on her search of Sterling Haller’s computer. Brad wanted Nick to feel like his case was their priority.
Nick paid attention, Brad felt, and when Sharon mentioned Saul Kasheski’s name, Nick propelled himself forward to the edge of his seat.
“Do you know him?” Brad asked.
“Yeah, I do.” Nick looked puzzled. “I mean, I knew him. Haven’t seen the man in…ten years or more.”
“But you didn’t recognize him at Ruddigore’s that night?”
“No. But the guy I saw sat in a not-well-lit back corner.” Turning to Sharon, Nick added, “Near the karaoke player.”
“Phil described him as an arson investigator,” Sharon said. “Is that right?”
“Maybe Saul sees that as his specialty,” Nick said. “The Fire Marshall—who’s with the Fire Department—takes the lead investigating arson. Detectives assist through a joint arson task force.”
“Could Phil have been mistaken that Kasheski was with Sanders and Barkow that night?” Sharon asked.
Nick shook his head. “That’s hard to believe. Saul and Phil worked together when he was on the force. Actually, I think Phil was his supervisor.”
Brad started to ask, “How old is—”
“Wait a minute,” Nick cut him off. “Arson triggered another memory. I don’t know the details, but Kasheski was injured in an explosion a few years back. Maybe he’s had plastic surgery, which would explain why I didn’t recognize him.”
That made sense, Brad thought. “How old is Phil?”
“A couple years older than me…fifty-six, fifty-seven. We were rookies starting out.”
“You mentioned before that he’d retired on disability. What can you tell us about that?”
“The short version is that he was shot in the back.” Nick paused and rubbed his chin. “I haven’t thought about that case in years, but the memories are coming back.” He jabbed a finger into space like he was pointing at the scene. “Two men…no, three…barricaded themselves in a North Philly warehouse. They’d fled the scene of a bank robbery where they’d killed a teller and taken a hostage. I was there w
ith Phil and another detective, plus a few uniformed officers—mostly to keep onlookers away—and then the SWAT team arrived.”
Nick squinted and rubbed his left temple as he tried to remember more details. Brad noticed Sharon taking notes.
“Our first concern was for the safety of the hostage. I remember it was Phil who succeeded in getting the suspects to talk and asked them to release the hostage.”
“Did they?” Sharon asked.
“Yeah.”
Brad saw a twinkle in Nick’s eyes moments before he started to laugh. “What’s so funny?”
“The hostage…a young kid…sixteen or seventeen…his mom sent him to the bank at the wrong time.” Nick couldn’t stop laughing, and his story rolled out between chuckles. “After they released him, we realized why…. The kid had literally shit himself…inside that warehouse…. He stunk to high heaven…. Too many frijoles, or something.”
Brad and Sharon caught the laughing jag.
After they’d settled down, Nick added, “I think those bank robbers were happy to be rid of him, more than having been influenced by Phil’s persuasive powers.”
“You were telling us how Phil got his disability,” Sharon reminded.
“After the kid came out, Phil tried to talk them into giving themselves up. At the same time, SWAT prepared to make their move.” Nick looked grim as he continued, “The robbers knew they were trapped, and one of them got trigger happy and opened fire. When the siege ended, one of the bad guys was dead and the other two came out with their hands up. I looked over and saw that Phil had collapsed. An investigation later showed he’d been struck by a ricochet from SWAT ammunition.”
“Sounds like there might have been a lawsuit for the city.”
“Oh, yeah,” Nick said, rolling his eyes heavenward. “They settled out of court. I never heard for how much, but it wasn’t long afterward that Phil bought Lester’s Tavern—renamed it Ruddigore’s.”