by Ray Flynt
During their brief meeting the night before, Brad had sensed Truit was tired of being kept on a short leash by Grayson and Kip Murray. “Maybe he decided to leave earlier and took a cab?”
“I don’t know,” Grayson whined. “I sent Kip over to the hotel to see if he could find out any more information. We booked his accommodations, so they might share information.”
“Is Kip at the hotel now?”
“Yes.”
“Call him and tell him to stay there. I’m in Center City. I’ll meet you both at the hotel in five minutes.”
Brad knew the route but had fun second-guessing the car’s GPS navigation suggestions.
He arrived at The Ritz-Carlton and used their valet parking service.
Brad found an out-of-breath Hamilton Grayson conferring with Kip Murray in the Rotunda lobby, not far from where Brad had chatted with Riley Truit the previous evening.
“Thank God you’re here,” Grayson said as he spotted Brad. Sweat beaded on his forehead. It appeared he had jogged the three blocks from his office to the hotel.
Brad looked at Kip. “What have you found out?”
Kip stood with his back to the registration desk. He tipped his head and rolled his eyes in that direction. “See the desk clerk with the ridiculous comb-over? He doesn’t want to give out any information. I’ve asked to speak with a manager.”
Grayson bellowed, “Did you tell him the room was booked under our corporate account?”
“Yes, of course, but he’s probably being paid ten bucks an hour and doesn’t give a—” Kip turned the end of his sentence into a cough after Grayson gave him a dirty look.
Brad chuckled to himself at the sideshow. “I think the manager’s coming.”
A burly man of about forty in a charcoal suit approached the trio. “Mr. Murray?”
“That’s me,” Kip said.
Grayson interrupted. “He works for me. I run Federated Trust headquartered a few blocks from here. We booked a Club Level room for a client of ours, Riley Truit. When I stopped by this morning to take him to the airport, he could not be found. It’s entirely possible that he left by other means, but we’d like to check his room to make sure.”
“I’m Kyle Elmore, the front desk manager, and you are?”
“Hamilton Grayson.” He handed the manager an ivory-colored embossed business card.
As Elmore studied the card, Brad offered his hand. “I’m Brad Frame.” They shook hands.
“I assume you’ve called his room,” the manager said.
“Yes,” Kip said, “several times.”
“Gentleman, let me check to see if Mr. Truit might have checked out. If not, I’ll get a key card and escort you to the room.”
After the manager had stepped away, Kip said, “The clerk already told me he hadn’t checked out. But maybe Riley didn’t think that would be necessary since the room was billed to Sterling Haller’s trust account.”
“Have you contacted his wife yet?” Brad asked.
Kip pointed at himself. “I haven’t.”
Grayson said, “I felt that would be premature.”
“You brought Riley back to the hotel following your dinner last evening?” Brad asked.
“Yes. Truit told me he was in for the night,” Grayson said.
“I’m not so sure.” Kip rocked on his heels.
Grayson snapped, “What do you mean?”
“Last night, when you stepped away from the dinner table, Riley asked me if there were any strip clubs in Philadelphia.”
Grayson looked apoplectic. “What!”
Kip held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I’m reporting what he asked.”
“What did you tell him?” Brad asked.
Kip glanced sideways at Grayson, red-faced as if embarrassed to respond. “I told him there weren’t any downtown, and that the closest would be a twenty-minute cab ride.”
Brad suspected Kip’s version edited out the particulars of their conversation about strip clubs. Brad remembered the white van Truit had mentioned might be following him. Why would Truit venture from the hotel late at night?
Elmore returned brandishing a plastic card and announced, “Mr. Truit hasn’t checked out. Let’s go up to his room.”
They followed Elmore down the hall to a bank of elevators. Once they had boarded, Elmore pushed the button to the twenty-third floor before launching into his spiel. “Mr. Truit stayed in one of our Club Suites.” He nodded proudly, as if those accommodations equaled a night’s stay at Buckingham Palace. “Truit had twenty-four hour access to the Club Lounge on the thirtieth floor for various guest amenities such as breakfast, refreshments throughout the day, and concierge service.”
Once on the twenty-third floor, Elmore stopped in front of the door to Room 2307. Brad saw the corner of a folded sheet of paper protruding from under the door, most likely the bill, which a desk clerk would have placed there in the middle of the night. Not a good sign.
Elmore used the plastic card to open the door. Beyond him, Brad observed a darkened room. The blackout curtains had been drawn; sunlight now oozed around their edges. Elmore flipped a switch activating a light on a desk at the far corner of a sitting room. He stopped, bent over, and picked up the confirmation of charges.
They walked into the room and Brad saw double glass doors opened to reveal the bedroom portion of the suite. It was clear the room was unoccupied.
Elmore scurried to open the blackout curtains. The suite had a bird’s-eye view of City Hall tower, topped by the statue of William Penn. A few decades earlier, architectural restrictions had prohibited any building from exceeding the top of the statue's head. The clock on the tower showed it was already past 11:30.
Brad observed a jacket draped over the desk chair in the sitting room. It looked like the same one Truit had worn when Brad first met him at Taylor’s Funeral Home. Truit’s hard-shell roller bag—suitable for airline carry-on—sat opened on a luggage stand adjacent to the bed. One compartment held unkempt clothing, while a short-sleeved casual shirt, black socks, and cotton boxers remained neatly arranged on the other side.
The king size bed had not been disturbed since the previous evening’s turndown, which most likely occurred while Truit had been at dinner. Two foil-wrapped chocolates still graced the pillow.
Brad peered into the marble bathroom—a distinctive feature of The Ritz-Carlton. A toiletry bag sat zippered shut next to the wash basin. One hand towel lay folded next to the sink. Toilet paper had not been used since its customary V-fold by the maid service.
Because the blackout drapes had been drawn, Brad felt that Riley Truit had last used the room to freshen up following his dinner the previous evening.
While Brad made his observations, Grayson opened closet doors, rummaged through the desk, the suitcase, and all but crawled under the bed in his efforts to find a clue as to Truit’s whereabouts. Whenever Kip moved, Grayson looked askance, so he never ventured more than five or six feet into the sitting room of the suite.
“May I take a look at the bill?” Brad asked Elmore.
“Sure.” He handed it to Brad.
No phone charges had been incurred from the room phone, which was not surprising in this era of ubiquitous cellphones. No room service, including the room’s mini-bar. On two of the five nights Truit stayed there were charges for an in-room movie rental. Given the discussion about strip clubs, Brad wondered if they had been adult features.
The front desk manager began to look impatient.
Finally, Brad said, “Hamilton, I don’t think there’s anything more to see here.” Turning to Elmore, he asked, “Might we be able to visit the Club Lounge? Perhaps the concierge has an idea of Truit’s whereabouts.”
“Certainly.” Elmore took that as his cue to head for the door. Brad and Kip followed.
Grayson took one last look back into the room before pulling the door shut and following them out.
The Club Lounge was nearly deserted. Two women kib
itzed at a corner table while sipping tea. The concierge remembered Truit but reported that he hadn’t been in the lounge for breakfast that morning.
When they returned to the lobby, Brad walked with the two men toward the exit, suggesting they talk outside. He stopped, made an excuse to return to the front desk and found the manager. “Mr. Elmore, I have two questions I’m hoping you can help me with.”
“I’ll try.”
“I noticed on the bill that Mr. Truit rented two movies during his stay. Can you tell me if either of them were adult films?”
He lifted an eyebrow. Elmore still had the bill in his hand and looked at it. “I’m not permitted to share the movie’s title, but I can tell from the price that both of these were adult entertainment. They’re several dollars more than regular movies even the recently released ones.”
“What time does the evening parking staff arrive?”
“They’ll be here at three.”
Brad couldn’t afford to stick around until then. “Is there a way to reach them by phone?”
Elmore looked skeptical. He reached for a business card on the front desk and handed it to Brad. “You can call this number. Ask if one of the car attendants would call you back.”
“Thanks, that’s helpful.”
Brad returned to the lobby and found the two men in a heated argument over who’d lost track of Riley Truit.
“Gentlemen, please. Let’s talk outside.”
Brad gave the stub to the attendant and paid for his parking. As he waited for his car, Brad said to Grayson, “I don’t think there’s any choice but to call Truit’s wife. Christine is her name, I believe.”
“Yes,” Grayson said.
“Seralago,” Kip added.
The mention of her maiden name reminded Brad of Truit’s real estate connections. He recalled meeting Victor Seralago at Sterling’s funeral.
“Christine has family in Delaware. Perhaps Riley has gone to visit his brother-in-law.”
Grayson’s face brightened at a logical explanation for why Riley Truit couldn’t be found. “Brad, I want you on this case. You can contact his wife. I wouldn’t know what to say.”
Brad wasn’t yet ready to agree to a new assignment on behalf of the Trust Department.
“Tell me about your dinner last night. Where did you go? Was there anything different about Truit in your interaction with him?”
“We ate at Vetri. I didn’t pick up on anything unusual,” Grayson glanced at his colleague, who nodded.
“He kept saying how anxious he was to get home,” Kip added.
Brad had taken Beth to Vetri—arguably the finest Italian restaurant in the city—to celebrate her birthday. “Were you both present when Truit returned to the hotel?”
“No,” Grayson said. “I dropped Kip at the Broad Street Subway, then brought Truit back to The Ritz-Carlton.”
“Do you have a home number for Mr. Truit?” Brad asked.
Grayson looked at Kip, who answered, “I’m sure we do at the office. I’ll text you with it.”
“Alright, I will contact Christine, and I’ll make a few other inquiries,” Brad said, without specifying. “I have one final question. Under the terms of his new trust agreement, if anything should happen to Riley Truit, who benefits?”
“His wife, of course,” Grayson said.
When Brad arrived at his Bryn Mawr home, he was surprised to not find Sharon in the office. Her car wasn’t in the driveway, and there was no indication she had returned and left again.
He pulled up Facebook on his computer and once again visited Christine Seralago Truit’s page. There hadn’t been many new status messages since Riley had left Chicago for Philadelphia. A friend had tagged her in a photo from a baby shower the previous weekend. Christine could be seen pictured with a half dozen friends sitting around a picnic table on a festively decorated patio. In the photo, Christine posed sideways showing how far along she was in her pregnancy.
A few friends posted their condolences to “you and Riley” in response to her earlier comment about Riley attending an uncle’s funeral.
He found the text from Kip with Christine’s home phone number. Brad wasn’t excited about calling and alarming her with news that her husband could not be found. No wonder Grayson wanted to bow out of that assignment.
First, he decided to test his theory that Truit might have altered his plans and visited with one or both of his brothers-in-law at Seralago Realtors in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. Perhaps they had even reached out, urged him to visit, and driven to Philadelphia to pick him up. Brad guessed the trip would take two hours.
He dialed the number for Seralago Realtors, and a woman’s voice answered.
“Could I speak with Mark or Victor please?”
“May I tell Victor who’s calling?”
“Brad Frame, from Philadelphia.”
She put the line on hold. Brad closed his eyes contemplating what he might say.
“Mr. Frame, this is Victor, how may I help you?”
“You may not remember me,” Brad began. “Riley Truit introduced me at Sterling Haller’s funeral.”
Victor’s voice sounded less formal. “Oh, yes. Your name didn’t ring a bell when Pam gave it to me, but I remember now.”
“I don’t want to alarm you, but Riley wasn’t at the hotel this morning for his airport pickup. I’m wondering if he might be visiting you or your brother.”
“No. He’s not here. Mark and his wife are on a Mediterranean cruise this week.” Edginess infused Victor’s voice. “This is surprising news. Have you talked with Christine, his wife?”
“Not yet. I wanted to speak with you first. I’m a private investigator who periodically does work for the Trust Department. They contacted me when they couldn’t find him at his hotel this morning.”
“Perhaps he flew back to Chicago early.”
“I thought, too, that might be the case. We visited the hotel and searched his room. His belongings were accounted for, but it didn’t look like he’d slept in his bed.”
“Oh my.”
Brad agreed. “I’ll call Christine now to see if she’s heard from him. With her being so late in her pregnancy, I didn’t want to unnecessarily worry her, which is why I called you first.”
“Mr. Frame, please keep me posted.”
Brad took a deep breath when he’d finished talking with Victor. He called Christine’s phone number.
“Hello,” she answered, in a soft and guarded voice.
“Christine, this is Brad Frame calling from Philadelphia. I saw you briefly on FaceTime last evening when you were talking with Riley.”
“Yes, he mentioned a detective, but hadn’t shared your name.” She sounded excited as she said, “We grew up near Philly and heard about a few of your cases.”
“I’m calling about Riley. Mr. Grayson from the Trust Department went to pick him up at his hotel and take him to the airport, but he wasn’t there.”
“Wha….” The word caught in her throat.
“We’re trying to find him,” Brad explained. “When did you last speak with him?”
Christine’s voice trembled as she spoke. “Last night. When you saw me on the phone. Riley told me how excited he was to be coming home today. I thought maybe it was him calling now.” She began weeping.
Brad waited for her emotions to subside.
“Wait. I have an incoming call.” She sounded breathless. “Maybe it’s Riley.”
The line went silent.
Moments later, Christine returned and blubbered through, “That was my brother,” before Brad heard uncontrollable sobs.
26
I didn’t arrive back at the office from my errand until mid-afternoon. Brad wasn’t happy. As we talked, I could tell his grumpy temperament related to Riley Truit having gone missing and Grayson sticking him with calling Truit’s wife.
Brad seemed less pleased when I shared my idea with him. I finally convinced him he needed to “take one for the team.”
S
hortly after 3:00 p.m., I sat across from Brad as he called to contact a parking attendant at The Ritz-Carlton. They put him on hold for eight minutes before an attendant came on the phone. The valet parking guy recalled Truit returning to the hotel shortly before 10:00 p.m., and he never saw him leave.
Brad called Grayson with a report, and also alerted Nick Argostino about Truit’s situation.
I excused myself from a scowling Brad Frame around 4:30, saying that I had elaborate preparations to make for the evening.
Once in my apartment, I called Patty Triola—AKA Glinda—to make sure she still planned to join me at Ruddigore’s.
“What time should I plan to arrive?” Patty asked.
“Eight-ish. I don’t think there’ll be much to see before then. Plan to take a cab. That way you can have a few drinks and not worry about driving. My boss will pay the cab fare.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“That will help,” Patty said. “I tried on my dress over the weekend. I’ve gained a few pounds since I first wore it.”
“Oh.”
“Alright, fifteen to twenty pounds,” she corrected herself. “I had to let it out a bit around the waist.”
I wish extracting confessions from suspects was as easy.
“You’ll look great.” I made sure she had the address for Ruddigore’s. “See you tonight.”
If I lived on a regular street in Philly, I know the cabbie would have driven up, taken a good look at me with my green face, black dress, and pointy hat, and sped off. Even within the gated walls of Brad’s estate, the spooked look on my driver’s face told me he contemplated making a run.
I climbed in the back seat and pulled all the excess fabric from the skirt and petticoats in beside me. I took off the witch’s hat and placed it on the seat next to me since there wasn’t enough headroom. I hoped my wig still looked okay.
“Lady, you know Halloween isn’t for another month,” the taxi driver said.
“Not where we’re going. It’s every Tuesday for the next six weeks.” I gave him the address.