by Ray Flynt
According to Irene, Rhonda was “hung up” on Sterling Haller. At Joedco, Rhonda had enlisted Grace’s help to arrange a date with her brother. By Irene Del Greco’s account, Sterling had rebuffed those advances.
He turned to the information about Henry Lucas. The police had suggested a relationship between Lucas and Grace Haller when they worked together at Joedco—a mere spider’s thread possibly linking Sterling Haller and Henry Lucas.
Brad studied the résumé Lucas had furnished. Lucas had been thirty-five years old when he’d joined the company as their controller. If he’d been in a relationship with Grace Haller, theirs would have been a May-December romance since Grace was near fifty at the time. Love makes the world go round.
Gertrude Lindstrom had interviewed Lucas, as evidenced by her neatly penned notes in the margins.
He also recognized his father’s handwriting on the document, indicating Lucas had not submitted a reference from his most recent employer, Excelsior Equipment, where he’d held a similar position. “Why no reference?” Dad had penned. “If necessary, I can call Malcolm.” Brad supposed that Malcolm was the president of Excelsior, and a man his father knew. In the same felt-tip pen, his dad had circled Lucas’ Wharton School education and put a plus sign beside it.
Brad noted positive performance reviews for Lucas, dated more than a year before the embezzlement charges became public. A copy of the subpoena from the district attorney’s office requesting Lucas’ personnel records was also in the documents.
Finally, Brad turned his attention to Irene Del Greco’s personnel file. He knew her best, since Irene had worked in sales for his father for nearly as long as Gertie had worked for the firm. She never failed to greet him with a smile when he visited his father, which was the primary reason why he’d so readily agreed to help find Sterling Haller when she’d reached out to him.
He scrolled quickly through her record but paused when he saw the final page.
Irene had written a “confidential” letter to his father accusing Andrew of having an affair with Emily Pearson in the marketing department—laying out specifics of their comings and goings. Brad pictured the same woman who’d prayed the Rosary at Sterling Haller’s funeral, disturbed by the moral failing she’d witnessed and feeling righteous in bringing the situation to the head of the company.
Andy’s dalliances were no surprise. He’d confronted his own brother over past rumors, cautioning him what a public scandal would mean for the company's reputation—and stock value. Brad had no memory of Emily Pearson but recognized the date on Irene’s letter as the day before his father’s stroke.
Brad winced as he double-checked her final date of employment with Joedco. Andrew’s first day as CEO was Irene’s last.
19
Brad found Nick Argostino sitting in the lobby of Federated Trust. No attendant staffed the receptionist’s desk.
Brad took a seat next to Nick. “You look like you’re waiting to see the dentist.”
Nick snorted. “These are your people. This is foreign territory for me.”
“But you deal with all kinds of individuals.”
“I work with street criminals and fellow cops. The Feds handle folks like this—trust officers in nine-hundred-dollar suits.” Nick gestured toward glass-enclosed offices. “…or the State Attorney General’s office.”
This was a side of Nick Brad hadn’t witnessed before. Brad didn’t think Nick begrudged him his financial success. It had never been an issue during the cases they’d worked together, nor had it come up in their partnership discussions.
“Most of the employees here are living paycheck to paycheck,” Brad said.
“I know,” Nick muttered. “It’s the people they’re working for who make all the rules and look down their noses at a guy like me. Then they squeeze us with outrageous fees.”
Brad would have to wait to hear the rest of his complaint, as Kip Murray marched through the lobby doors with Riley Truit in tow.
Riley spotted Brad first and approached. “Hello, Mr. Frame.”
“Brad, please,” he replied. “This is my associate, Nick Argostino.”
“Has anyone helped you?” Kip asked.
“The receptionist hasn’t been here. Hamilton is expecting us for a meeting at three forty-five.” Brad looked at his watch, noting they were still a few minutes early.
“Actually, I think we’re going to be in the same meeting,” Kip said. “Come on over to my office, and I’ll let Mr. Grayson’s secretary know you’re here.”
Two right turns later they arrived at a glass-fronted office. Brad hated the idea of working in a place where he’d feel like a fish in an aquarium.
Kip dragged an extra chair from an office across the hall so everyone would have a place to sit.
“Let me tell Karen you’re here,” he said, before disappearing around the corner.
“When are you headed home, Riley?” Brad asked.
“Tomorrow. Christine is anxious to have me back. These guys have kept me busy signing lots of paperwork.”
Brad recalled from her Facebook account that Christine was pregnant, with her due date approaching in about a month.
Kip walked back into his office gazing at his watch. “Mr. Grayson’s on a conference call. It could be a few more minutes.”
Brad couldn’t help but notice the enlarged photograph picturing Kip and several other airmen in front of a US Air Force cargo plane. It hung next to a framed diploma from the Lerner College of Business & Economics at University of Delaware for Jeremiah Kipling Murray. No wonder he goes by Kip.
“Is that the C-130 Hercules?” Nick gestured toward the image.
Kip bobbed his head. “Yeah, that’s me and the other crew members in front of ‘Ugly Betty’—our nickname for the plane.” Pointing at the credenza, he said, “The model plane is the C-17 Globemaster.”
“I thought they called the Hercules ‘Fat Albert’?” Nick asked.
“Sure did. But we liked ‘Ugly Betty’ from the TV show.
“You were a pilot?” Riley asked.
“Two and a half years. I flew Ugly Betty at Pope Air Force Base and the Globemaster at Dover until a broken leg grounded me. They gave me another assignment, but when it became clear I’d never fly again I got a medical discharge.”
“Well, look who’s here!” Grayson’s voice boomed from the open doorway.
Grayson glanced around the room and honed in on Nick, whom he didn’t recognize. Extending his hand, Grayson said, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Nick Argostino, I’m an associate of Brad’s.”
Grayson appeared to give Nick the once-over, but quickly ignored him and turned to Brad.
Nick eyed Brad with a see-what-I-mean expression.
“Let’s all go to the conference room,” Grayson said, already in motion.
While the Trust Department had a prestigious downtown address, their fourth-floor views couldn’t rival the ones they’d seen earlier from Ken Matheson’s twenty-eighth-floor suite.
Grayson handed Brad an envelope before easing into a leather chair at the end of the lacquered wood conference table. “Payment in full for your services.”
Brad thanked him and slipped the envelope into his suit coat pocket. He and Nick took seats facing Kip and Riley and enjoyed a partial view of historic Rittenhouse Square.
“I want to talk with you about this Lounsbury lady,” Grayson began. “But first, I hope you’ve heard that the police have arrested the man who killed Sterling Haller—Riley’s uncle.”
Brad noticed Riley squirm at the reference to his uncle. It seemed clear from the record he’d seen that Sterling was Riley’s father, and Brad suspected Riley knew it.
“Yes. We heard the news,” Brad said.
“This morning, a crazy woman—Rhonda Lounsbury—showed up demanding to talk with the person in charge. The receptionist urged her to make an appointment, but she wouldn’t leave. They contacted me and I agreed to see her. She sat where you are.”
Grayson gestured toward Brad. “She began making these wild accusations, accusing us of kidnapping Grace Haller. Apparently they’d worked together for your father. She mentioned sending you a letter.”
Brad nodded.
“At one point she even accused me—well, the Trust Department—of killing Sterling so we could kick Grace out of the house.”
Brad and Nick exchanged glances.
“Well, you didn’t waste much time evicting Grace after Sterling’s death,” Brad said.
“We have a fiduciary responsibility to Sterling Haller’s estate.”
Brad thought Grayson came across as a bit pretentious though perhaps Nick’s pronouncements about bankers had influenced him.
“Grace lived in his home,” Grayson continued. “He provided for her while he lived and made provisions for her in his will. Grace’s round-the-clock care costs more than three thousand dollars a week. Assisted living will be less than a third of that amount.”
“What would’ve prompted Rhonda to accuse you of murder?” Nick asked.
Resentment flashed on Grayson’s face at Nick’s question. Clearly, those two weren’t destined to be BFFs.
Grayson studied a tablet in front of him on which there were notes. “She’d got the idea after talking with a woman named Irene, who also worked for your father.”
“Her name is Irene Del Greco,” Brad said. “She worked for Dad at least twenty-five years.”
Grayson swiveled in his chair and aimed a finger at Kip. “Is she related to Hank Del Greco?”
“I believe that’s Hank’s wife,” Kip said.
Grayson’s mouth puckered like he’d suddenly developed an acute case of heartburn.
Brad had to ask, if only to stir Grayson’s discomfort. “Who is Hank Del Greco?”
Grayson gripped the edge of the conference table and nodded for Kip to answer.
“He’s the developer who’s buying Sterling Haller’s home.”
Surprised, Brad said, “The deal came together quickly.” If Irene knew those details at Sterling’s wake, she never mentioned them.
“Yes. As I mentioned last week, we’re the executors for the estate. We had the property appraised, and Mr. Del Greco contacted us on Friday offering to purchase the townhome at five percent over the appraised value,” Kip explained.
“Which is why all the furnishings were moved from the Haller residence over the weekend,” Brad remarked.
Grayson shook his head. “Those moves were already in the works.”
“I’ve been pushing them, Mr. Frame,” Riley said. “I’m the primary beneficiary. I work in real estate, in Chicago, and know the fair market value. My wife and I are about to have our first child, and I’m anxious to get Sterling’s affairs settled as quickly as possible. There was nothing in his possessions I wanted or needed.”
Grayson cleared his throat. “We did a walk-through of his place after the funeral last Thursday. Over the weekend, an auction house picked up saleable items, and the rest were donated to charity. It will take a little longer to liquidate Sterling’s investments to ensure the best possible tax scenario.”
It seemed a tidy explanation. And if Sterling Haller hadn’t been murdered, the circumstances would barely have merited eyebrow raising. Rhonda might not have been the sharpest knife in the drawer, but given how she’d seen events unfold, Brad could understand her alarm.
“Hamilton, it’s unclear exactly what you expect of me with respect to Rhonda Lounsbury.”
“You know her,” he sputtered. “Talk to her. Maybe drive her up to see Grace in her new facility.”
“I’m not an Uber driver,” Brad said.
Grayson looked momentarily puzzled, but then said, “No. No. She trusts you. We’ll hire you.” He sounded desperate. “Riley’s willing for us to hire you—to ease Ms. Lounsbury’s mind.”
“You need to employ a social worker, not a private investigator. I don’t know Rhonda. Yes, she wrote me a letter as you mentioned in your call this morning. Our connection is indirect; she knew my father.” Turning to Riley, Brad said, “She doesn’t fully appreciate Grace’s deteriorating mental state. Your…” Brad nearly slipped and said dad, but caught himself at the last minute. “…uncle kept her away from Grace, and she’s missing contact with her friend. If you provided Rhonda cab fare so she could visit Grace, I believe it would put an end to her consternation.
“Besides, Nick and I are in the middle of a critical case,” Brad said it as much for Nick’s benefit as any of the others.
Grayson looked at Riley and Kip as if to gauge their reaction. “We could give your idea a try.”
Riley bobbed his head.
Brad said, “I don’t think Rhonda gets out very much. She didn’t attend Sterling’s wake, and I didn’t see her at the funeral. I’m surprised she came to your office.”
“A neighbor brought her.” Grayson pointed a finger at Kip as if to signal, “Make it so.”
Brad pushed back his chair, sensing their work was finished. After they had shaken hands all around, Riley Truit motioned for Brad to join him. “I’d like to speak with you for a few minutes,” Riley whispered.
“Sure.”
“Not here.” Riley kept his gaze on Hamilton Grayson, who gave instructions to Kip before leaving the room.
“Where are you staying?” Brad asked.
“The Ritz-Carlton on the Avenue of the Arts.”
“We could walk over to their lobby.”
“I have two more documents to review and they told me I’d be done by five. They’re taking me to dinner at six-thirty. I’m feeling highly programmed.” His laugh sounded more despairing than jovial.
After consulting his watch again, Brad said, “I’ll meet you in the Ritz-Carlton lobby at five-thirty.”
A minute later he caught up with Nick, who had wandered back to the Trust Department’s entry.
Brad dangled the keys to the Mercedes in front of him. “I’m meeting Truit, and then I have my seven p.m. meeting with Phil, so I don’t have time to drive you back to your car. Go ahead and take mine home with you. I’ll use cabs to get around.”
Nick tilted his head, smiled and grasped the keys.
Brad decided to kill time before his meeting with Riley Truit by walking through Rittenhouse Square. Viewing the Square from the trust offices had him longing for an up-close view. He recalled the time when he’d nearly convinced his Aunt Harriet to buy a brownstone facing the Square. Unfortunately, she’d become too much of a New Yorker to move back to Philadelphia.
The sunshine and fresh air felt invigorating. Surrounded by trees cloaked in the early stages of fall color, he sat on a bench and called Sharon for an update on her Halloween party planning. She chuckled and assured him he’d be green with envy but didn’t provide any more details. Sharon reported that Irene Del Greco had left a message confirming lunch with him that Thursday.
The Ritz-Carlton was housed in a former bank building dating from Teddy Roosevelt’s administration and designed in neoclassical style by the legendary architectural firm of McKim, Mead & White. The lobby, known as the Rotunda, was modeled after the Pantheon in Rome. Brad found the domed marble space impressive but cold—hardly conducive to chilling out. Perhaps the strategically located bar would expedite relaxation.
When he arrived at 5:20 p.m., Riley was already seated at a high-top table sipping a frozen margarita and staring at his smartphone.
As Brad got closer, he heard a woman’s voice emanating from the phone, saying, “Where are you going for dinner?”
“They haven’t told me yet,” Riley said. “I’m sure it will be good. They keep taking me to these fancy restaurants. I’ve gained five pounds since I’ve been here.” When Riley spotted Brad, he said, “That detective I told you about just arrived. Want to say hi to him?”
Riley aimed the phone at Brad, who saw that he’d been having a FaceTime conversation with his wife.
“Hi.” Brad waved at the phone. “You must be Christine.” Her face looked more
round than the image he’d see on Facebook, but there was no mistaking the auburn hair.
She giggled. “Good guess. I hear you’re taking good care of my husband.”
“Those are the guys from the Trust Department. I haven’t had much to do with it,” Brad said.
Riley turned the phone around and said, “I need to get going. I’ll call you in the morning from the airport. Love you.” He puckered his lips and made smooching sounds toward the phone.
Brad heard Christine giggle again. “Love you, too.”
Riley laid his phone on the table and hoisted his glass. “I started without you, Mr. Frame. May I get you something?”
He needed to be sober for his meeting with Phil. “No, thanks. But please call me Brad.”
“Sorry,” Riley said, “force of habit.”
“You’ve finished signing all your paperwork?”
“Yeah. It’s nice to have a break from those guys. They’ve been mother-henning me ever since I got here. Fortunately, Mr. Grayson had another meeting, and Kip ran off to the gym.”
“Before dinner?”
“Kip said he had a change of clothes at the office.” Riley laughed. “They’ll be back on Truit-watch in a little over an hour.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Grayson doesn’t want me to discuss this, but Sterling Haller wasn’t my uncle. He was my father.”
“I suspected as much when I first saw you at the funeral home. Grayson almost bit my head off when I suggested you looked like Sterling at a young age.”
“I guess I do.” Riley didn’t sound enthused.
“Since I’m a private investigator, I was able to confirm my suspicions. What I couldn’t figure out was the reason why Grayson insisted on the fiction of referring to Sterling as your uncle.”
“My mother and Sterling were divorced when I was three years old. Soon afterward she married Jacob Truit. Mom wanted us to be a family and for her new husband to adopt me so I wouldn’t be one of those kids in school with a different name than my parents. Dad paid child support and insisted on visitation rights, but my mother demanded that he only be referred to as my uncle. He agreed. When my stepfather died—I was twelve—Uncle Sterling took an even larger role in my life.”