by Ray Flynt
I grinned sheepishly while replacing the receiver.
Bernice glowered. “What you doin’ girl? I thought you was one of us.”
Feigning innocence, “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t be lyin’. A lot of us liked Miss Ellie.”
So that’s what this is about. News travels fast.
I clutched my chest. “I liked Ellie too. Sitting here is the last thing I expected.”
“That’s not the way we see it.”
“We?”
“Working gals.” She snorted. “You haven’t been here a week and already pushed Ellie out.”
“No. I had nothing to do with her being fired.”
Bernice leaned over my desk. “Maybe you think you got over, but you better watch your back.”
I straightened in my chair, determined not to escalate the situation. “Was there something you needed from Councilman Parson?”
She laughed. “He don’t have anything I need. The minute I heard about Ellie, I came to talk to you.”
“I didn’t do anything to harm Ellie. You’ll see.”
Bernice stood tall. “Oh, yeah. I can see.” She pointed at the phone. “There’s only been one line lit this whole time, and it’s still lit. You were listenin’ in and pretending not to. Maybe the councilman would like to know that tidbit about his latest lackey.” She turned and strode out of the office.
Fuck.
After holding my breath, I finally exhaled.
I’d witnessed my share of workplace intrigue while working in juvenile probation. If it weren’t for my assignment with the State Attorney General’s office it would be easy to march out the door and avoid the drama.
Parson remained behind closed doors; his call with Bruno Tomasi lasted another ten minutes.
Two more calls came in on Carmen’s line, neither of whom wanted to leave a message.
At 10:30 a.m. Parson walked out of his office, saw me sitting at the receptionist’s desk, and muttered, “Where’s Ellie?”
Yeah, that’s what everyone wants to know.
“Uh, Carmen told me I’m her replacement.”
Parson screwed up his face and shook his head. “That’s right. Sorry, Ms. Rojo, I don’t know where my mind’s at this morning. I’m heading out. If anyone calls, take a message. I won’t be back until Monday.”
I grinned. “Yes, sir.”
This left me alone to send summaries of Parson’s phone conversations to Tulverson. The AG’s investigator still hadn’t responded to my earlier text.
* * *
By one o’clock, with no one else in the office, I didn’t know if it was wise to leave my post to get lunch. I decided on a delivery order of a Reuben from the downstairs deli, which would also avoid encounters with Bernice or God knows how many other upset people from the secretarial pool.
Carmen never returned following her dentist appointment, and by mid-afternoon the phone had quit ringing.
Minutes ground slower as quitting time approached, but I didn’t dare leave early. Shortly before five, I texted Oliver about meeting him at the City Tap House at the corner of 18th and Cherry for a brew and burger before walking to his apartment. We’d talked about a trip to Lancaster over the weekend and enjoying Pennsylvania Dutch country. Putting Parson, Dragon Lady, and developers behind me for a few days sounded awesome.
My phone dinged, but it wasn’t Oliver. The screen displayed a group text from Warren Tulverson to me and Brad: “Let’s meet at your Bryn Mawr office tomorrow at 9 a.m. Important.”
So much for my weekend plans.
16
I woke with Oliver pressed against my back and the sound of his gentle snores. Gray light filtered between the curtains while the alarm clock displayed 6:52 a.m.
When Warren Tulverson had summoned me to a 9 a.m. Saturday meeting in Bryn Mawr, Oliver and I shifted gears and headed for my apartment, hoping the meeting wouldn’t run long and there’d be time to salvage our planned trip to Lancaster. Brad had graciously met our commuter train and extended an invitation for Oliver and me to join him for breakfast prior to Tulverson’s arrival.
I nudged Oliver.
He grunted.
“Time to get up.”
“Where are we? What day is it?” he grumbled.
I propped up on my elbows and laughed. “You know exactly where we are.”
Oliver comes out of a deep sleep faster than anyone I know.
He smiled and leaned in to kiss me, followed by hands wandering over my breasts.
“Whoa, stud. Don’t get excited. There isn’t time.”
He brushed his finger over the face of his watch. “It’s only six-fifty-eight. Brad’s not expecting us until eight-fifteen, and I only need five…six minutes tops in the bathroom.”
I rolled my eyes. “In case you haven’t noticed, I take longer.”
His exaggerated pout prompted me to take pity. “All right, let’s cuddle for ten minutes.”
We managed more than cuddling and still showed up in Brad’s kitchen on time for a breakfast of coffee, juice, fresh berries, and cinnamon rolls.
Brad seemed distracted. When I pressed him on it, he explained that Beth Montgomery, his fiancé for longer than I could remember, was in Brussels for a work-related trip.
Just to make conversation, I commented, “She travels a lot.”
Brad sighed. “Yeah, I know.” He seemed glum. Oliver, who couldn’t read Brad’s non-verbal signals, glanced at me with concern.
“Okay, what’s going on? Is everything all right with the two of you?”
He stood and walked to the nearby coffee pot.
“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. We need your full attention during the meeting with Warren.”
“You’ll have it.” Brad brought the pot to refill our cups. “I talked to her last night. Actually, it was the middle of the night in Brussels. We ended up having a spat. I’ll catch up with her later today. Everything will be okay.”
He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. I thought about pursuing the matter, but Oliver, who reads me pretty well, touched my arm. I didn’t probe any further.
* * *
Warren showed up at the office right on schedule, dressed in a suit, unlike the rest of us who wore casual attire. His sandy blond hair appeared newly trimmed. He got down to business, declining an offer of coffee and breakfast leftovers.
Oliver and I sat on one sofa, while Brad and the Attorney General’s investigator were seated opposite us. His briefcase lay on the coffee table between.
“Thanks for being here on such short notice.” Warren gestured toward Oliver. “Before we start, I’m not sure it’s a good idea for him to be here as we discuss operational details.”
I piped up. “Oliver already knows what I’m doing. Remember, you spoke to him before you met with me.”
Brad swiveled toward Warren. “He’s been a great assist on a couple of our cases. I don’t see an issue.”
Oliver cleared his throat. “I’m blind, not deaf. If you want me to step out of the room, just ask. But I’ve worked at Bignell, Watkins, and Clark long enough to know and understand the players, which makes me useful.” He hooked his thumb in my direction. “Besides, she talks in her sleep, so I’ll find out eventually.”
Brad covered his mouth to hide the chuckle.
Warren didn’t look amused. “All right…let’s move forward.” He faced me. “Your information thus far has been extremely useful in pinpointing targeted development areas. Bruno Tomasi is an employee of Scott McQuillen. Scott is Parson’s business partner, while Tomasi does most of the legwork. Frankly, I’m surprised the councilman is conducting those meetings at his office, but it shows how brazen they are. I don’t think they have a clue about being on our radar.”
I raised my hand like a seventh-grader in history class. “Who are these guys—Overlander and Morris—that Parson keeps talking about?”
“Members of City Council. The Philadelphia Inquirer cast
sunshine on these types of sweetheart—I grease your palm, you grease mine—deals in a series of articles about councilmanic prerogatives last year. Morris took heat, which explains his skittishness.”
“Why would they chance it again?” Brad asked.
Warren held up one finger. “Greed.” Then he raised a second. “And they’re counting on the public having short memories.”
Brad seemed to put his worries about Beth behind him and was fully engaged. I scooted forward on the leather sofa. “Parson used the term gold mine, but from the way Brad described the burned-out duplex on Springhurst, it sounds like anything but.”
Warren glanced at Brad. “Yeah, your visit called attention in the wrong way—”
“All my fault.” I waved both hands. “I realized Brad was in the vicinity those guys were talking about and asked him to check it out.”
Warren shot me an are-you-finished-interrupting look. “However, we might be able to turn it to our advantage. More about that in a minute after I outline the complete picture.”
He pulled a folder from his briefcase and opened it to reveal a detailed street map. Dotted lines outlined the property boundaries with structures shaded in gray. Yellow highlighter accented the two properties in question—6406 Springhurst and 2103 Tuttle—making it easy to see how the backyard for the house on Tuttle abutted with the burned-out duplex property.
“The key to their acquisition efforts is this location.” Warren planted his finger on the un-highlighted corner lot. “This duplex is owned by Millicent Cartwright, who happens to be Howard Parson’s aunt.”
Brad and I exchanged glances.
Warren continued. “Once Scott McQuillen and his silent partner, Parson, acquire the other two properties, they intend to combine all three for commercial development.”
“Can they get away with that?” I asked.
“The area is transitionally zoned, and there’s already a strip mall across the street.”
Brad nodded. “It’s busy too. Cars kept circling the lot looking for parking.”
“We’re not sure, but we think they intend to build a fast-food restaurant with a drive-through. Makes sense with good traffic flow for cars entering on Tuttle and exiting via Springhurst.”
Brad pointed at the map. “With those crowded conditions at the strip mall, they’ll draw a good business, especially for people who don’t want to wait for a parking spot.”
I raised my hand again. “You said that Howard’s aunt owns the corner duplex. Does she live there?”
“Yes. But she’s 88 years old and could probably be persuaded to downsize or move into assisted living.”
Brad stood and refilled his coffee cup from the nearby carafe. I hoisted my mug, and he topped it off as well. Oliver waved off an offer of another cup.
I sipped the hot brew. “How do you think Brad’s visit can be turned to an advantage?”
Warren reached into his briefcase and pulled out a notice, handing it to Brad. “There’s a public meeting on Tuesday morning at 9 a.m. in City Hall to review properties on which they’re accepting proposals. It’s strictly an informational meeting. Any questions must be submitted in writing.” He turned toward Brad. “McQuillen will have a representative there and, if you attended, it might raise their anxiety about competitors. At the very least, they won’t feel like they can lowball their bid.”
Brad frowned and handed back the public meeting notice. “Unfortunately, I won’t return from Houston until later on Tuesday.”
Warren shrugged. “It was a thought.”
“Didn’t you tell us that a lower bid for the property could still prevail because Parson can use his councilmanic privilege to put his finger on the scale, so to speak?”
“Yes, but if he should recommend a really low proposal—after last year’s publicity—then he might lose support from his colleagues.”
It seems his fellow council members can overlook greed only to a point.
“What else should I be doing?”
“I’m glad you asked.” Warren reached into his briefcase and retrieved an ivory-colored toggle light switch and a matching plate cover. “Your reports established probable cause for us to secure a warrant for electronic surveillance of Howard Parson. We need you to swap this with an existing switch in Parson’s office—preferably with a good view of his desk. Once connected to a power source, it will transmit audio and video images, activated by motion sensor.”
I directed a worried glance at Brad.
Concern crept onto Warren’s face. “You do know how to change a light switch?”
“Not a problem. My dad made sure I had all those manly skills. It’s just I don’t remember if that color matches the switches in the office.”
Warren grinned. “Another contact assures us it does. It’s already programmed to use the law office’s Wi-Fi, so we should get a good signal.”
I touched Oliver’s leg. “Guess we can head to the office early on Monday, and I can install this before anyone else arrives.”
“Sure.”
I stowed the light switch and cover in my purse. “How does Carmen Castillo fit into all of this? She has to know what’s going on, since she sat in on that first meeting between Parson and Tomasi.”
The AG’s investigator stowed the street map into its folder. “As far as Carmen Castillo, she’s married to Scott McQuillen. They’re officially separated, not yet divorced, and she remains his business partner.”
I whistled.
Oliver, who had been listening quietly, blurted, “That explains a few things.”
I patted Oliver’s arm. “How so?”
“Yesterday, I found out that Ron Needell, one of the partners in the firm, dated Carmen Castillo for a few months. She’s not the most popular person in the office, so he’s taken a lot of ribbing about her—especially since they broke up. In the lunch room, one of the guys made a crack about Ron’s relationship with Carmen, and Ron, who usually responds with a snide comment, said, ‘I can’t compete with Scott.’ ”
I squeezed his knee. “You never told me.”
“Didn’t think anything of it until I could connect the dots to who he meant by Scott.”
Despite Oliver’s story, I had a hard time picturing Carmen and Ron Needell together. She had style and he had…well, an eight on the creepiness index. It also explained his obsessive interest in my working relationship with her.
Warren began packing up.
“Before you go,” I began, “the first time we met, you referenced another insider at the firm. Can you tell me who that is?”
A smirk formed on his lips. “Best you not know.”
“Could there be more than one?”
He closed his briefcase. “No comment.”
Warren hasn’t said nearly enough.
“Uh, is it one of the partners?”
Warren tilted his head toward me. “Nice try.”
Maybe I can convince him to spill the beans.
“There’s another issue you need to know about.”
He finally showed interest.
“I’ve run into a bit of flak from those who think I engineered Ellie’s firing.”
Warren snapped the locks in place on his leather briefcase. “I’m well aware.”
What the hell.
“Great. What am I supposed to do about it?”
“Actually, if people think that of you, they’re less likely to believe you’re spying on behalf of the Attorney General’s office.”
17
Just as Sharon and Oliver took off for their weekend trip to Lancaster, Brad’s phone dinged with a text from Beth. His usual smile when receiving messages from her quickly faded as he looked at the screen.
This isn’t working.
If it hadn’t been for their late-night argument, Beth’s comment might have related to the quality of her phone connection or dissatisfaction with hotel accommodations in Brussels. Brad couldn’t escape the feeling that “this” pertained to their relationship.
Disparate careers kept them apart. Beth worked for the New York City-based engineering firm of Oring-Whitman. For quite a few years, they’d managed to alternate weekends in NYC or at Brad’s Bryn Mawr home. More recently, her job took her to the DC office of Oring-Whitman. Commuting could be tedious, but they’d still been able to make it work.
Resolving issues by text wouldn’t work, but what exactly should he say? While he contemplated, a second text arrived.
Guess you’re busy.
Damn.
He quickly typed, “Hey, good morning!” Then realizing it was already mid-afternoon in Europe, corrected his text, “I mean good afternoon.” He put a smiley face next to it to keep the conversation light and waited for her to respond.
None came.
Dozens of logical reasons would explain why, but his mind kept going to a dark place. Finally, he typed, “TTYL. Love you!”
Brad could sit around the house and brood all day, but instead he decided to make another trip to the South Philly neighborhood where Bennett McCurdy was murdered. More people would be around on the weekend, and he might uncover new information. Besides, it would keep his mind off worries about him and Beth.
Brad opened the sunroof on his Mercedes and enjoyed crystal blue skies and the sounds of Camille Saint-Saëns on Sirius’s classical music channel during his leisurely drive to the city.
Brad found a parking spot on South 13th Street and backtracked for a stop at Ralph’s Diner during lunchtime. He sat on a stool at the counter where Chuck, the proprietor who he recognized from their encounter several days earlier, handed him a menu. Patrons occupied two booths, but the place wasn’t very busy.