by Ray Flynt
The investigator was the epitome of professionalism and courtesy, but Brad could see the officer wouldn’t buy a non-response even if he delivered it courteously. “This morning's Inquirer mentioned a Bible. There's apparently some dispute about it. Could this incident be related to that Bible?”
Gertrude Lindstrom maneuvered her wheelchair closer to the officer, apparently straining to hear, while her husband rocked on his heels acting like he didn’t know her.
Brad responded, “It's possible. The Bible was in the office. The fire... How much destruction was there?”
“About two-thirds of the office sustained damage.” Norton responded.
“It’s gone,” Brad said.
Sharon brought her hands in front of her face as she gasped, a fact the officer seemed to note.
“Could I speak with you privately, Mr. Frame?” Brad nodded and followed Officer Norton closer to the front door of his mansion. Out of earshot from the others Norton merely reiterated that he’d return in the morning, and for Brad to expect more questions at that time.
Brad returned to find Sharon comforting Gertrude Lindstrom. Tears welled in Gertie’s eyes as she said, “I gave that Bible to your parents forty years ago. When they first moved into the house. A family Bible to record important events, use at baptism...”
Brad knelt down beside the wheelchair. “Your gift is still safe, Gertie. I have that Bible in my bedroom. It's not the same Bible.”
“There was a story in this morning’s paper,” Emerson said, joining in calming his wife. “It’s a prison Bible.”
“I never saw the paper,” she snapped, embarrassment turning to anger over jumping to the wrong conclusion.
Gertrude swiveled her motorized wheelchair on the cobblestone drive, apparently deciding to leave. “If we can do anything for you, Brad, please call.”
The wheelchair surged forward then abruptly stopped as she turned back toward him. “How's your dad?”
The question brought Brad back to the emotionally charged subject of his family. “He's... he's not doing very well. But I'll tell him you were asking.”
“Thanks again for your help,” Brad called after them, watching as the Lindstroms returned down the path toward their home.
“That old guy looks like a mortician,” Sharon said.
“You’re in the ballpark.” Brad grinned. “Em’s a retired investment banker. He knows where to bury your money.”
“What about her? Did she have a stroke?” Sharon asked.
Brad shook his head. “Gertie developed a tumor on her spinal column seven years ago. The doctors recommended surgery, which she had, but she's been partially paralyzed ever since. Without surgery, Gertie wouldn't have survived.”
“She's a feisty old bird,” Sharon commented.
“Her mind seems as sharp as ever. Dad used to think she was overly meticulous and annoying when she was younger. She used to drive him crazy with questions about the smallest issues.”
“Humph,” Sharon sniffed. “That's back when all men thought any woman in the business world was annoying.”
“No. It’s thanks to her that my dad starting Joedco, his business, and they were partners for nearly thirty years. Gertrude Lindstrom inherited this land along with a fortune when her father died. She bankrolled Dad’s idea, and became the company’s Vice President for Finance. About that same time, Gertie sold twelve acres of land to my dad and he built this house.”
Sharon linked her arm in his saying, “I know you've never worked with any annoying females.”
Mark walked behind them, and Brad heard him chuckle.
Sharon tried to steer him toward the front door of the mansion.
Brad resisted, saying, “Let's go this way.”
He led Sharon and Mark around back to survey the office. A broad strip of yellow crime scene tape hung across the French doors leading to the office. Black soot clung to the exterior siding above the entryway. Burned furniture dragged onto the patio still dripped evidence of the firemen's hoses, and an acrid smoky odor defied the wind, refusing to leave. The three of them peered through the open holes of glass smashed out of the French doors, viewing the damage with the benefit of the low-level landscape lighting around the patio.
“This side of the desk doesn’t look good,” Brad said.
“It’s the biggest desk I’ve ever seen,” Mark said.
“My mother got Dad that partners’ desk when he started his business. So huge, but he always seemed to need every square inch of it for his piles of paper.” Brad put his hands up to the window to shield his view, straining to see the extent of the damage. He hoped to salvage the desk. “I remember Mom bringing us kids to visit Dad’s office. Dad would take us into the lunchroom and get us whatever we wanted from the vending machines. I always wanted a Coke, which was dispensed in those old-fashioned green bottles. I think they only cost fifteen cents back then, maybe twenty. We’d come back to the office and Dad would sit Lucy on top of the desk and play patty cake with her, while Andy and I would always play in the cavernous area underneath.”
Brad closed his eyes. In his imagination he could picture his sister’s legs dangling over the edge as he and his brother played pirate or caveman below. Then a Tootsie Roll pop appeared from Gertie’s side of the desk and they forgot what they were playing to enjoy the treat. Maybe that was Gertie’s plan all along, to stop the two of them from careening back and forth disturbing her work. Brad smiled.
He felt Sharon’s hand on his shoulder again. “I'm sorry about the Bible, Brad.”
Brad stood, hands on his hips, staring at the arson scene. “It's gone,” he mumbled.
“You'll be able to make repairs,” Sharon said, trying to comfort him.
“No,” Brad shook his head. “I mean the Bible's missing. Whoever did this took the Bible and set the fire to cover his tracks.”
“What?” Sharon looked shocked. “Now we'll never figure out Wilkie's final message.”
“I have good news,” he said. “I made a photocopy of all the relevant pages in Wilkie's Bible this morning, then I erased the original entries. I figured if Allessi got a court order for the return of the Bible, I should be ready to return it on short notice. If we ever get a list of scripture verses from Dolewski, we'll be able to put it all together.”
Chapter Ten
Brad looked out his bedroom window at eight-thirty Saturday morning and spotted the arson investigator’s car, a beige American-made model with municipal plates. He wondered what they might find.
A half-hour later Brad walked out to the patio carrying a plate of freshly baked cinnamon rolls courtesy of Pillsbury. “Would you guys like some sweet rolls?” Brad shouted through the open doors, just as he spotted a camera flash inside his office.
“Thanks, Mr. Frame,” Lieutenant Norton said. “Put it down over there, and we'll get it.”
Brad set the plate on the glass patio table. He noticed the buds dotting the trees, figuring they only needed a few more sunny days before they’d be donning their spring leaves.
“You find anything?” he asked, easing into a patio chair. The office looked dark behind the sun-drenched patio, and Brad realized he would have trouble seeing any details at that distance.
“Get a shot of the ceiling right above the desk, Skip,” Norton ordered his partner. “Hey, there's rolls out here too.” The Lieutenant walked toward him. “We're just collecting evidence, Mr. Frame.”
“You can call me Brad.”
The second officer rolled a wheelbarrow full of charred debris through the French doors and dumped it onto an empty spot on the patio. Brad watched as the officer knelt down on the stone surface and transferred bits of the debris into plain metal cans then sealed and labeled them. He’d seen similar cans at the crime lab.
“I didn’t know you guys did demolition work,” Brad said.
Norton flashed him a fake smile. “Just collecting evidence. We'll be able to determine what accelerant was used to start the fire—but you already k
now that. Skip thinks it's some kind of paint thinner. I'd trust his nose.”
Brad got up and moved closer to the open doorway for a better whiff.
“You got a sniffer like a bloodhound's, don't you, Skip?” Norton laughed. “Did you get a sample from the left side of the desk?” he asked, as his partner sealed up two more cans of evidence. “There's a lot of charring there.”
“I'm on that right now, Jim.”
Brad saw that the floor had burned through to the joists in several places and a chunk of drywall from the ceiling had collapsed near his desk.
“Step back a little further from the door, Brad,” Norton ordered.
“You guys need anything?”
The Lieutenant shook his head. “We're almost through. We should have the lab results within a week. We’ll most likely be back. If your insurance agent has any questions, tell him to call us.”
“When you’re done, can I get back in my office?” Brad asked.
“Sure,” Norton nodded. “Oh, Brad?”
“Yes,” he answered, wary of the tone in Norton’s voice.
“That Bible we talked about last night, was it bound in leather?”
“No. Why?”
“Unless a fire is very bad, you can usually tell a charred book after the fire. The outer edges might be burnt, but the inner pages can even be readable—but you already know that.” The Lieutenant glared at him. Brad was experienced enough as a private detective to know he was under suspicion, and matched the officer’s glare with a penetrating gaze of his own. “In any event,” Norton continued, “we didn’t find any Bible. We even checked the grate in your fireplace, no Bible. It’s missing.”
“I thought I told you that last night, Lieutenant,” Brad said.
“You implied the Bible was destroyed in the fire.”
“Well,” Brad said, “I don’t know what you heard, but I’ve got four witnesses who heard me say ‘It’s gone’. Maybe when you find the missing Bible you’ll also have your arsonist—but you already know that.”
Chapter Eleven
Brad watched the investigators pack up their equipment and disappear around the corner with several debris-filled cans destined for analysis. He picked up the plate with the remaining cinnamon rolls, and as he turned toward the kitchen he spotted Sharon.
Her mouth crimped in annoyance. “What are you doing?”
“I’m taking these back to the—”
“That’s not what I mean. We need Lieutenant Norton on our side. You think baiting him will help?”
“How long were you spying on me?” Brad asked.
“Don’t change the subject. Answer my question.”
Brad stared at her in icy silence.
She continued to press, and Brad felt his gut tighten. “You could have told Norton about Allessi’s visit, about him demanding the Bible, maybe shared your own suspicions about who started the fire.”
Brad brushed past her. “I’ve got work to do.”
Brad deposited the plate on the kitchen counter. Wanting to put distance between himself and Sharon, he continued toward the library, which was on the opposite side of the foyer from the drawing room. Until repairs could be made, the library would function as his temporary office. Brad yanked the wooden swivel chair back from the small desk and sat, surrounded by walnut shelves lined with leather-bound volumes and Book-of-the-Month Club best sellers still in their faded paper jackets. The odor of furniture polish and aging leather hung in the air. Still fuming after his confrontation with Sharon, Brad opened his laptop and grabbed a flash drive; it held the faint aroma of the fire in his office, and Brad was glad he had retrieved it just in time. He had just flipped on the computer, when Sharon appeared in the doorway. He froze, shutting his eyes, hoping she might just glower at him for a moment and then move on.
“You didn’t shave this morning,” she said.
Brad ignored her, inspecting the list of file names from the flash drive. He frowned, and tried one of the storage disks.
“In the last three years I’ve never seen you unshaven. Hell, you freak out over a five-o’clock shadow.” Sharon tramped to the edge of his desk and stood with her arms crossed.
“Don’t crowd me,” Brad muttered. Brad scanned the computer files looking for the contact information of the contractor who had built his office. Damn. It was frustrating not finding the information he wanted and watching Sharon take a seat in front of him. He ejected the second disk and tried a third.
“Your Aunt Harriet is right,” Sharon said. “This house could use a makeover. These chairs look and feel like they came from a monastery garage sale. And what is it with all those porcelain vases?”
Brad’s anger simmered, but he ignored her. He left the laptop on, pushed back his chair, and got up to leave. Sharon caught up with him before he reached the bottom of the staircase. She turned and practically spat in his face. “You still keep the Glock in your nightstand?”
Brad nodded, and before he could wonder why she had asked Sharon dashed up the stairs. Brad seized the opportunity to return to the quiet refuge of the library, this time closing the door behind him.
Moments later, Sharon charged through the door with Brad’s pistol slung over her shoulder, encased in its black leather holster. Her face flushed as she advanced, trapping Brad against the edge of the desk.
Practically nose-to-nose, she yelled, “Your head hasn't been screwed on straight since you went to that execution. The Brad Frame I signed on to work with is gone. I don't know where he went.” She turned to leave, but then she swiveled around at him again. “You shouldn't be near a gun today. You might hurt yourself.” She patted the weapon. “I’m hanging on to this for safe keeping.”
Sharon, who seemed to be choking back a sob, ran out of the library.
“Go to hell,” Brad muttered under his breath as the door slammed behind her.
An hour later Brad was still in the library, staring into space but not focusing on anything in particular. He thought he heard three taps from the doorknocker on his front door, but chose to ignore them.
The pounding on the door continued. Probably a high school kid trying to sell subscriptions, he thought. After a few minutes of silence, Brad figured whoever rapped on his front door had gone their way.
A couple of thuds echoed through the foyer, like the sound of a boot against the kick plate of his front door. He vacillated between ignoring the noise and upbraiding the offender. But as the blows to his door persisted Brad rose from his chair, left the library and marched to the front door. He threw it open, prepared to give holy hell to an overly eager magazine salesman.
Brad first saw Sharon Porter standing on the other side of the door. For an instant he figured she’d gotten locked out, but then he spotted Nick Argostino. Instead of shouting obscenities at what he thought was a noisy visitor, his mouth hung open.
“Nick…” Brad had known Nick for eleven years. As the Philadelphia detective who’d investigated the kidnapping of his mother and sister, Nick guided Brad into the private detective business and served as his mentor.
“Hello Brad. We’d like to talk with you.” Nick never showed his badge, but his manner suggested this was more than a social call. With curly dark hair, trimmed close to his scalp, a mustache laced with twisted strands of gray, and a slight paunch over his belt, Nick would look at home behind the meat counter at the Reading Terminal Market.
“I… I don’t understand. What are you doing here?” Brad flashed a questioning look at Sharon, who stood with her feet planted and a determined expression on her face. He noticed Nick’s government-issued sedan in the driveway, as a light breeze carried the sweet fragrance of hyacinth mixed with the pungent aroma of fresh tan bark across the portico.
Brad shouted at Sharon, “You called him didn’t you?”
“Yes. I… ah. I…”
He glared at her. “Stay out of my personal business.”
“Brad,” Nick said, with the firm voice of authority, “we need to talk.�
�
Dazed, Brad stood back so they could enter.
“Let’s go into the living room,” Sharon suggested, pointing toward the archway to the left, and closed the front door behind them.
“Let’s not,” Brad said, heading for the stairs.
Brad felt Nick’s hand pressed against his back. “Give me a few minutes of your time,” Nick said, as he guided him toward an armchair in the corner of the room. Nick and Sharon pulled up straight-back Chippendale side chairs forming a close triangle with him. He felt cornered, and couldn’t face them, preferring to stare at the floor.
“Sharon came to see me yesterday,” Nick began.
Ha! So that’s why she skipped out in a hurry.
“She told me about your meeting with Mr. Allessi and the unexplained message in Wilkie’s Bible. Of course, I’d already seen Paula Thompson’s articles in the Inquirer—”
Brad grunted. “God damn her!”
“Yes, Sharon told me you’ve been angry lately and moody,” Nick said in even and deliberate tones. “She’s worried about you.”
Brad, who had kept his gaze riveted at the floor, glanced up at Sharon. She sat wringing her hands, anxiety etched on her face.
“And today Sharon told me about the fire in your office and the missing Bible.” Nick continued, “You're a strong man, Brad. You've had a lot to cope with in your life, but every one of us has a breaking point—physically and emotionally.”
“I don't know…” Brad murmured, then got caught up in another swirl of his own thoughts. He’d experienced an encounter like this once before, more than a decade before, when he joined a support group after the murder of his mother and sister. He didn’t think he needed another twelve-step program.
“Sharon is worried—justifiably so, based on what I’ve seen—that you’ve reached the breaking point. And we’d like to bring you back before you hurt yourself or jeopardize your hard-earned reputation.”
Westminster chimes tolled the half-hour. As much as he resented hearing Nick’s words, Brad thought the silence worse.