Embalmed (A Brad Frame Mystery Book 6)

by Ray Flynt

Brad eased into a chair situated at a right angle from Guido. “Did Sterling ever say anything to you about concerns over his safety?”

  Guido looked nonplussed. “Give me a minute.”

  “Sure,” Brad said. “It’s a lot of information to absorb.”

  “Yeah.” Guido gritted his teeth. “On his last visit, Mr. Haller said he felt like he was being tailed, but added that no one would want to follow him all the way up those stairs. I took it as a crack about the elevator not working and laughed. He did too.”

  “But now you’re thinking he might have been serious about being followed?”

  Guido shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Did he ever make any comments about his son?”

  “No.” Guido looked surprised. “I didn’t know he had a son.”

  “One more question,” Brad said. “Can you tell me when he visited here last?”

  “Let me check.” Guido jumped up and disappeared into therapy room number two. A short time later he returned and announced, “Haller was here on Tuesday the eleventh.”

  “Thanks again for your time.”

  Brad exited the office and paused in the corridor. Haller’s last therapy treatment had been the day before he’d disappeared and two days before the Trust Department asked Brad to help find him. Had the killer followed Haller to his colonic therapy appointment? Guido wasn’t sure, but if so, it could explain quite a bit.

  He decided to pay a surprise visit to Phil Bertolini at Ruddigore’s. After all, he was mere blocks away. Face-to-face, Brad didn’t expect a repeat of the diatribe in Phil’s phone message. He might even get answers to exactly what happened between Nick and the other two officers.

  As he walked through the front door, Brad saw a man bent over the pool table ready to take his shot. From the distinctive skull tattoo on the man’s right bicep, Brad knew it was Skull Sanders. He wore the wife beater shirt and appeared to have the same eightball opponent Sharon had described from her visit to Ruddigore’s.

  Skull was too engrossed in the game—and his beer—to take note of Brad’s arrival.

  Brad found a stool at the far end of the bar, near the hallway for the restrooms. He remembered that’s where Nick had sat on the night of the “incident.”

  A few dozen Ruddigore’s patrons focused their attention on a TV newsflash regarding a U.S. Navy helicopter crash in the Red Sea. Three of the crew members were injured and in stable condition, while two others remained missing. The MH-60S Knighthawk had been operating with the guided-missile destroyer USS William P. Lawrence in the central Red Sea, between Africa and the Arabian Peninsula. The announcer added there had been three combat deaths the previous day in Afghanistan.

  Brad realized it was approaching 10:00 p.m. in the Middle East, and his heart went out to the families who’d be receiving notifications of the tragedy.

  A man roamed about taking orders. Based on Nick’s description, it had to be Phil.

  When the special report ended the TV returned to football. The Eagles had a bye week so the game was tuned to the Giants versus the Carolina Panthers. The absence of the home team, coupled with the lopsided score of thirty-one to zero in favor of the Panthers going into the fourth quarter, created a subdued viewing atmosphere.

  Brad swiveled on his stool to watch the other patrons as he waited for Phil. There were at least two tables crowded with five or six—what appeared to be—college students. A lot of the young people in the bar seemed underage. The older I get, the younger everyone else looks.

  Phil returned to the bar and pointed at the pad in his hand. “I’ll be with you as soon as I fill these orders.”

  “No rush,” Brad called out.

  He watched as Phil loaded up a tray with glasses, bottles and pitchers of beer, as well as a couple bowls of chips. When Phil passed by the pool table, he handed Skull his beer and collected two empties.

  A roar rose from the crowd when a forty-seven-yard pass led to another Panther touchdown, pushing their lead to thirty-seven, going on thirty-eight to zip. During the commercial break, Brad noticed a few guys getting up from their tables after the lopsided score and waving their farewells to Phil.

  “See ya, fellas,” he said.

  Phil finally returned to the bar, let out a breath, and said, “What’ll ya have?”

  “A bottle of Michelob Light.”

  Phil placed the chilled bottle and glass in front of him, then scanned the room to see if anyone needed anything. When it appeared everyone was set for the moment, Phil leaned back against the bar and gave an exaggerated sigh.

  “Tough day?” Brad asked, anxious to open a conversation.

  “Just busy. Nothing to complain about.”

  “I understand you have a beef with me?”

  Phil looked perplexed.

  “I’m the guy who left a sign in your restroom yesterday. I listened to your phone message this morning.”

  Brad saw a flash of anger on Phil’s face, replaced with a puckered brow.

  “Well, now you know what I thought…and the sign’s down, so it’s done,” Phil said in an even tone.

  “What happened that night for you to not want anybody talking about it?”

  Phil leaned in and with a sharp whisper said, “I run a respectable business here. I don’t want to drive customers away.”

  “You must not have been thinking that the night Nick Argostino was sitting here. You could have stopped them, but you didn’t. Why not?”

  “It’s not your concern. Finish your beer and leave—it’s on the house.”

  Brad laughed. “Nick Argostino’s a friend of mine. I’m not going till I get answers.”

  “I told Internal Affairs what I know.”

  “Honestly? Where did all this concern come from about your ‘respectable’ business? You wouldn’t even try to stop a fight from happening. Especially when it took place right in front of your nose. I want to know why you didn’t. Were you paid to keep silent?”

  Phil fumed. Brad saw him form a fist.

  A shout from one of the patrons for more beer put their discussion on hold.

  Brad noticed that after filling a pitcher with draft beer and delivering it, Phil stopped by the billiard table and exchanged a few words with Skull. Both of them glanced menacingly in Brad’s direction.

  Phil returned to the bar, grabbed a rag, and wiped it over an already clean spot on the bar. “We’ve got nothing more to talk about. You can leave.”

  “Oh, you’ll be talking. When a man is innocent of charges, he’s not going to give up his career without a fight. You’ll be talking with a lawyer who’ll take your sworn deposition on exactly what happened that night.” Brad stood. “One more thing, I’ve heard rumors that undercover agents from the liquor control board have visited. Not everyone looks twenty-one, and you’re about to make their undercover work easier with costume parties.”

  “Hey, Skull,” Phil shouted, and motioned for him to come over.

  “Let me finish this shot,” Skull hollered back.

  “Need reinforcements?” Brad asked. “I wouldn’t if I were you. Have you seen how much he’s had to drink? You want him as your bouncer?” Brad pulled out his cell. “I’ll call nine-one-one. That’ll empty the place, and when officers arrive I’ll ask them to give your friend over there,” Brad trained his thumb in Skull’s direction, “a breathalyzer test.”

  Skull missed his shot, wobbled on his feet, and started toward the bar. Phil raised his hand and waved him off.

  “What do you want?” Phil said in exasperation.

  Brad laid his business card on the bar. “The truth. Call me.”

  16

  To others, it might have felt like a typical Monday, but for Brad it would forever be known as the day all hell broke loose.

  It didn’t help that Brad had overslept and arrived at the office later than Sharon and Nick.

  He found Nick sitting on one of the leather sofas wearing a tweed sports coat, a beige shirt with button-down collar, and a rus
t-colored tie. Nick had obviously remembered their meeting with Ken Matheson.

  Nick was briefing Sharon on Saturday’s visit to the spots where Sterling Haller’s and Henry Lucas’ bodies had been dumped. Nick also showed her the clipping from that Sunday’s Philadelphia Inquirer and, along with a few well-chosen expletives, laughed off the adverse publicity. “Fortunately, I was spared any mention in today’s Inquirer,” Nick said.

  “Remind me never to take a weekend off,” Sharon quipped.

  “Wait. It gets better,” Brad said and filled them in on his Sunday trip to the colonic therapy clinic and the confrontation with Phil at Ruddigore’s. “I think I struck a nerve with the underage drinking accusation. He now believes the liquor control board is keeping an eye on his place. I reminded him that he’ll make their job easier with his Halloween costume parties.”

  “Halloween is more than a month away,” Sharon said.

  Nick rolled his eyes.

  “Phil’s a Halloween freak,” Brad explained. “He’s scheduled costume nights every Tuesday between now and the end of October, with half-priced beer for anyone in disguise—a great excuse for more undercover work. Sharon, would you and your friend Patty be interested in half-priced beer if I paid the tab?”

  Sharon grinned. “I’m sure I can talk her into it. We’ll have to figure out what to wear.”

  Nick looked pensive and rubbed his mustache.

  “You’re awfully quiet Nick,” Brad said.

  “I’m thinking about your meeting with Phil. I haven’t dealt with him all that much, but your description isn’t the guy I know.”

  “I’ll be interested in getting Ken’s perspective.” Brad looked at his watch. “He should be here within a half hour.

  Brad sat at the partners’ desk and played four phone messages:

  Ken Matheson had an emergency court appearance and wouldn’t make it to Bryn Mawr. He offered to meet at 2:00 p.m. at his office in Philly.

  His brother, Andrew, notified him of a meeting of the Joedco Board of Directors at the corporate headquarters near Houston scheduled for Wednesday evening.

  Hamilton Grayson, in a whiny tone, pleaded for Brad’s help with Rhonda Lounsbury.

  On the final message he heard, “This is Phil. We need to talk.” Followed by a callback number.

  Brad ran his hand through his hair.

  “What’s wrong?” Nick asked.

  “Today’s schedule just went through the meat grinder.”

  After a brief explanation, he handed Sharon a phone number and said, “Would you mind using the phone in the library and find out what Grayson wants?” He winked at her.

  “I’m on it.” She started in that direction, but Brad stopped her. “If he needs to see us, I should be available after 3:30 p.m.”

  Brad placed a call to his brother’s private line.

  “Hi, Thelma, it’s Brad,” he said when the secretary answered. “After you put me through to Andy, would you please ask HR to give me a call? I’d like to check the records on a couple of former employees.”

  “Will do,” Thelma said. “Please hold for your brother.”

  Moments later, Andy came on the line, and without any preliminaries said, “I need you here Wednesday evening. We’ve finalized the deal for the acquisition of MacTronics, and I’ve scheduled a special meeting for the Board to approve it. We will make a public announcement Thursday morning before the markets open.”

  “They’re a robotics company, right?”

  “Yes. It’ll help us diversify,” Andy said. In the background, Brad heard him whispering instructions to Thelma or another long-suffering aide.

  “Is that Mack Hasting’s company?” Brad pulled up MacTronics’ stock information and saw they were selling at $19.17, down 2 percent in early trading. The high for the year had been $23.03.

  When Andy didn’t respond, Brad asked, “Are you still with me?” I hope he doesn’t treat our customers like this.

  “Hold on,” Andy finally said amidst more murmurs in the background.

  Why does he have to be such a dick? Andy ran Joedco as he saw fit in his role as Chair and CEO. That was the arrangement since their father’s passing. As the majority stockholder and Chair of the Board’s Executive Committee, Brad figured he was entitled to ask a few questions.

  “Yes, Mack’s company,” Andy jumped in as if there’d been no interruption. “Mack died in June. His sons don’t care about the business. Analysts know it and the stock’s been dropping like a rock.”

  “What did you offer?”

  “Nineteen ninety-five a share. A straight buyout for one and a half million shares.” Brad did the math in his head—a thirty-million dollar deal. Modest by acquisition standards.

  “I’ve got a lot going on right now,” Brad said.

  Andy hooted. “Still playing cops and robbers?”

  Damn. He knows how to piss me off.

  “What time’s the meeting Wednesday night?”

  “Seven-thirty. Felix couldn’t come before then. Will you be here?” Andy sounded impatient.

  It seems the availability of the Board’s secretary took precedence over his own brother’s schedule.

  “Send the corporate jet and I’ll be there.”

  Andy groaned. “Why don’t you charter your own damn plane?”

  “Have the Gulfstream at Wings Field on Wednesday and I’ll see you at the meeting.” Brad disconnected the call. Andy would comply. It wouldn’t be proper to show alienation in public—an unspoken tenet in their imperfect bargain that ceded control of the family business to Andy.

  “Your brother?” Nick asked.

  Brad nodded.

  “You speak differently to him than you do to most everyone else.”

  “Maybe because he’s unlike anyone else.” Brad laughed.

  Brad left a message for Ken Matheson confirming a 2:00 p.m. meeting at the lawyer’s Philadelphia office.

  “All right,” Brad announced, trying to keep Nick in the loop, “do you have any thoughts before I call Phil?”

  “I can’t help you much. I have to stay clear of him.”

  “How ’bout I call on speakerphone, and then you can share your impressions afterward?”

  “He’ll know you’re on a speakerphone.”

  “I’ll tell him I’m on my car phone.”

  Nick shrugged. “Okay.”

  Brad switched to hands-free and called Phil.

  After they’d established the preliminaries and Brad mentioned calling from his car, Phil said, “Can you meet tonight?”

  “At Ruddigore’s?”

  “No. Not here.” Phil sounded panicked.

  “How about the Starbucks across the street?”

  “No. No. Too close.

  “You tell me then.”

  Phil hemmed and hawed.

  Brad glanced at the Regulator and noticed it was within a minute of striking the ten o’clock hour. The chimes would sound out of place if he were in his car, and Brad didn’t want to spook Phil. He scribbled a note and handed it to Nick, telling him to stop the clock.

  Nick jumped up, stepped quickly toward the Regulator, and opened the glass cover on the clock face. He pushed back the minute hand just as Brad heard the movement click in preparation for chiming the hour.

  Brad looked at him and mouthed, “Thank you.”

  “I’ll ask Steve to work tonight,” Phil continued. “We could meet at my place at seven.”

  Brad agreed, hoping he wouldn’t be walking into a trap. He wrote the address Phil gave him for a location in the Old City neighborhood of Philadelphia. “I’ll see you this evening.”

  “Any thoughts?” Brad asked Nick when he’d hung up the phone.

  Nick had resumed stroking his mustache.

  “Something has him on edge. Did you hear the way he bellowed, ‘No. No. Too close’? Seems like he’s being watched—or at least imagines he is.”

  “I thought the same thing.”

  “Be careful tonight,” Nick cautioned. �
��If Phil’s under observation, you’ll be as well.”

  Brad decided to change into a suit for the trip into the city. He loved the relaxed atmosphere of his Bryn Mawr office but had to appear more business professional to visit Ken Matheson’s office. The attorney occupied a small suite at Two Liberty Place, an auspicious address just west of City Hall in the heart of Philadelphia. Its location also primed clients for the $500 price tag for an hour of Ken’s services.

  “Do you think he can wrap up my case in fifteen minutes?” Nick asked as they exited the elevator on the twenty-eighth floor.

  “Don’t worry, I got you covered,” Brad said.

  “I’ll never be able to repay you.”

  Brad grinned. “Just invite me to dinner the next time Ruth makes lasagna.”

  “Deal.”

  As they entered the suite, Nick whispered, “This place smells like money.”

  “Nah. That’s furniture polish.”

  Nick smiled for the first time that day.

  The décor included wainscoted walls lined with reproductions of eighteenth-century landscapes, Persian rugs, and furnishings of Hepplewhite and Sheridan design.

  A receptionist greeted them by name. “Welcome, Mr. Frame and Mr. Argostino. Mr. Matheson’s expecting you, please go on in.” She added, “Would you care for something to drink?”

  Brad glanced at Nick and saw him shake his head before saying, “No, thanks.”

  An imposing figure at six-foot-five, Ken Matheson rose from his desk as they entered. “Brad, good to see you,” he said in an intense baritone. “You must be Nick.” He extended a handshake.

  Matheson directed them to wing chairs near the windows of his corner office, which provided spectacular views of City Hall and a glimpse of New Jersey beyond the Delaware River. Brad summarized the reason for their visit and asked Nick to detail the events on the evening of September 3 that led to his suspension.

  Nick explained what had happened at Ruddigore’s, substantially as he had previously to Brad.

  But this time, Nick made it sound like there’d been a lot more verbal back and forth before Skull took his tumble. Nick also admitted to drinking “at least” four beers, whereas he’d told Brad it was only three.