Code Rojo

by Ray Flynt

  Back on the first floor, fearing Nick might bolt for the exit, Brad urged, “I’d still like to check out the second floor.”

  “Lead on, MacDuff,” Nick deadpanned.

  Like McCurdy’s row house, the second floor had two bedrooms with a bathroom in between. Aided by the flashlight, Brad saw plain wooden floors and ivy trellis wallpaper that might have been popular following World War II in the empty bedroom at the top of the stairs.

  Brad wasn’t shocked to see the bathroom stripped of its claw foot tub with one of its feet left behind.

  When they neared the bedroom at the back of the row house, light spilled in via the broken window Brad had first witnessed from McCurdy’s back porch. A light breeze invaded, though not enough to clear the pungent odor of cannabis.

  The three of them gazed on a room furnished with overturned plastic milk crates and an inflated beach float. A one-gallon paint can held a pillar candle with a deep wax recess around its burned wick. Empty condom wrappers and unfinished joints were strewn about the floor.

  Sharon whistled.

  Brad gazed at Nick whose eyes now sparkled.

  Nick produced a bag and a pair of tweezers from his pocket and began gathering roaches from the floor. “When I was a kid, me and my buddies went out in the woods to smoke reefer.”

  Sharon shook her head. “Nobody says reefer anymore. Not much woods in South Philly either.”

  Nick looked at Brad. “I think she just called me an old guy.”

  Brad laughed. He stood next to the broken window and stared across the forty or so feet separating this abandoned row house from McCurdy’s place. It also offered a good view of the fence Hernandez built for the neighbor’s yard. Brad imagined the ex-cop fired up at the notion that kids had invaded the vacant building. Unlike Juanita, who shook her rolling pin at them and screamed, Bennett McCurdy still had contacts in the police force. She might have notified the cops, and maybe they’d driven by, but with his connections, McCurdy had the kind of pull to insist the police knock on a few doors…make inquiries. “Does the department keep a log of complaint calls?”

  Nick sealed up a second bag with the condom wrappers. “I see what you’re getting at. Of course, there’s 9-1-1 recordings. A call to a non-emergency line might simply get logged as disturbance on such-and-so street, with its disposition recorded as a code number depending on whether they found anything. It’d be better to check with the district commander and ask if she remembers contacts from McCurdy.”

  Brad had planted the seed and knew Nick would follow up.

  Sharon pointed at the Sherwin Williams paint can. “There are no walls in this home that match the orange covering the side of this can. Somebody brought it in. If you’re able to match DNA from one of those roaches to the unknown DNA on the crowbar, finding the owner of this paint can could serve as an added identifier.”

  With his phone dead, Brad urged Sharon to snap a photo of the paint-smeared can, inspired by Philadelphia Flyer’s orange, along with a sticker labeled SW6885 Knockout Orange.

  “Don’t let the cannabis fumes affect you.” Nick sounded grumpy. “If we’re lucky, we might have a 50/50 shot at making a DNA match.”

  Sharon nodded. “I’ll email you these pictures anyway.”

  “Earlier, I saw three guys with backpacks rushing away. Their actions had nothing to do with my presence. There’s a high school on the opposite street.” Brad hitched his thumb toward the backyard. “The end-of-class period signal bell had just rung. Clearly, this is their clubhouse. Because of proximity to the school, it could be anyone, not just limited to kids in the neighborhood.”

  Nick stashed the collected evidence in a deep pocket of his jacket and scowled. “Are we done?”

  “Can we discuss Carmen Castillo’s murder investigation?” Sharon asked.

  “Sure. Outside.” Nick snorted. “The mold, mildew, and pot odors aren’t doing anything for my allergies.”

  Brad had achieved his objective in arranging Nick’s visit to the row house. Results would have to wait.

  Outside the sunshine felt good, and urban air had never smelled fresher. Nick secured the door with the new padlock before joining Sharon and Brad on the sidewalk.

  Sharon plunged right in. “Did you arrest Ellie?”

  Nick held up his right palm. “Nobody’s been arrested. We wanted to question her.”

  “And?”

  “She had a plausible explanation for her actions on the evening of the murder.”

  “Brad told me Ellie was wearing a wig. How did she explain that?”

  Nick shot Brad a sideways glance. “That was our initial speculation, based on the videotape. Turns out she had her hair colored between when she left the office and came back a couple of hours later. Her new boss, I forget his name—”

  “Marshall Barstow.”

  “Barstow…right. He hired her on the condition that she ditch the rainbow hair. Barstow worked late that evening, and she returned to the office to demonstrate her compliance.”

  Sharon puckered her mouth. “Seems odd. I mean, wouldn’t he see her the next morning?”

  Nick sighed. “We thought the same thing. But that wasn’t her sole reason for returning. She met a friend for dinner, which also explains why the elevator lobby video never captured her exiting. Ellie rode the elevator…she calls it a lift to the second floor to meet up with a friend. Then the two of them took the stairs to exit the building. Alan reached out and confirmed the story with her friend.”

  Sharon folded her arms across her chest. “Do we know why Barstow was working so late?”

  Nick turned to Brad. “Is she always like this?”

  Brad grinned. “Pretty much.”

  “Very funny.” Sharon planted her hands on her hips.

  Nick took a deep breath. “I field fewer inquiries from the Deputy Commissioner. But to answer your question, Detectives Norcross and Gilchrist have an appointment to see him in the morning.” Nick looked at his watch. “Hate to break up this party, but I’m expected for a meeting that started two minutes ago.”

  Brad grasped Nick’s arm. “Thanks for coming. Let me know if you find a DNA match.”

  Nick nodded before settling into his car for the trip back to police headquarters.

  As Nick drove away from the curb, Sharon stared after him, looking dejected.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head at Brad. “Barstow. I can’t figure him out.” Sharon detailed how Marshall Barstow had publicly challenged Parson during the recent partner’s meeting about the negative PR impact of frequent turnovers in the councilman’s law office—ones for which Carmen Castillo was responsible. “And now we find out Barstow worked late on the same night Carmen was murdered.”

  “The police will figure it out.”

  Sharon’s face registered not-if-I-get-there-first.

  31

  Following our abandoned property tour, Brad agreed to drive me to Oliver’s place. I texted that I was on my way, and Oliver responded that he would order a pizza for dinner.

  When Brad double-parked in front of the apartment, I spotted Ron Needell, who lived on the first floor, strolling toward us. He linked arms with Amelia, who worked across the hall from Parson’s office as assistant to Rose Watkins, the last living founder of the firm.

  I urged Brad to pull into a nearby spot and wait, having no desire to confront either of those people. I slouched in the passenger seat to avoid being seen and shared my reasons for doing so with Brad.

  Ron undoubtedly associated me with his disastrous drunken performance at the dinner Oliver and I shared with him and Ellie. His behavior that evening had ended any further interest in him on Ellie’s part. Still, it was surprising to see Ron so quickly hooked up with Amelia. It marked my second time to observe the two of them together, and she still looked besotted.

  Although Amelia and I had gotten off to a rocky start, things between us changed when she and Mrs. Watkins shared chamomile tea with me in their office fo
llowing Carmen’s murder. Amelia seemed down-to-earth and discerning, which made it even more surprising to see her involved with Ron.

  In the short time I’d spent in Parson’s office, Ron had been romantically linked to Carmen, Ellie, and now Amelia. Runaway testosterone? Couldn’t he find anyone to date outside of the workplace?

  “They’ve disappeared inside,” Brad advised.

  “Thanks for the ride.” I jumped out and hurried across the street.

  Upstairs in his apartment, Oliver greeted me with a hug and a glass of merlot. We’d been dating for several years, with me having misgivings initially about making a relationship work with a blind guy. It hadn’t taken long to put that misconception behind me. We had a healthy balance in our temperaments and interests. Although we’d done sleepovers before, living with him these past two weeks had convinced me we could make marriage work. Oliver had been hinting at it nearly the entire time I’d known him, while giving me enough space to reach the same conclusion.

  I cuddled next to Oliver on the sofa and brought him up to speed on my meeting with Tulverson and the chance to quiz Nick about Carmen’s murder. When I shared Nick’s explanation for why Ellie had returned to the office on the night Carmen was killed, Oliver bit his lower lip.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I should’ve picked up on that.”

  I still didn’t understand. “What?”

  “Her hair color change. I spoke with Ellie in the hallway on Wednesday morning, right after you texted me about Carmen’s murder. While we chatted, a secretary from my office passed by and remarked, ‘Nice do.’ Ellie thanked her. I should’ve realized.”

  Oliver made full use of his other senses, more than compensating for his blindness. I tried to reassure him. “There are plenty of sighted people who wouldn’t have noticed the change in her hair color. Don’t beat yourself up.”

  Oliver shrugged. “I’m not.”

  Despite those words, his mood changed. We sat in silence for a few minutes before I finally asked, “Did you have a bad day?”

  He shook his head. “Not really, it’s just…”

  “What?” I’d spoken too sharply, and repeated softly, “What?”

  Oliver grinned at my do-over. “The childish tricks get to me after a while.”

  “For example?”

  “People sneak into my office and just stand there, like they think I’m not aware. It usually freaks them out when I call them by name. They don’t understand; I can hear them coming or recognize their aftershave. Kids teased me in school all the time, but I figured lawyers would act more mature.”

  “I knew a few lawyers from when we were juvenile probation officers. Nothing they do surprises me. Besides, I’ve probably been guilty of pranking you a few times.”

  Oliver blushed. “You’re different. Even Ron tried to surprise me today. I was walking toward the elevator and recognized his footsteps. I said, ‘Hi, Ron,’ and stuck out my right hand. Instead, he offered his left hand.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Ron’s immaturity doesn’t surprise me. By the way, as I arrived, he walked into his apartment arm-in-arm with Amelia from Mrs. Watkins’ office.”

  Oliver’s eyes widened. “Did she have an overnight bag?”

  “No. But come to think of it, she had a canvas tote slung over her shoulder, in addition to her purse.”

  Oliver chuckled. “He works fast.”

  The intercom sounded, signaling the arrival of our pizza. Oliver buzzed the delivery guy in, while I fished a twenty from my purse.

  While we munched on slices of pepperoni pizza, I shared what Nick had told me about Marshall Barstow working late on the night of Carmen’s death.

  “That’s odd.” Oliver furrowed his brow. “Barstow usually leaves the office about the same time as I do.”

  “Are you aware of any reason why he might have still been there?”

  “No.”

  I recounted the story of the partners’ meeting when Barstow criticized the erratic hiring practices in Parson’s office. “He never mentioned Carmen by name, but they glared at each other. Have you heard whether they have a history outside of the law office?”

  “He’s old enough to be her dad.”

  “I don’t mean a romantic interest; wondering if they worked together before Bignell, Watkins, and Clark.”

  Oliver shook his head. “Darren might know.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Works in the cubicle next to mine. He’s part of Barstow’s corporate client team. They mostly deal with contracts. He talks with Barstow—calls him Buzzy—all the time. I’ll ask if Darren wants to have lunch tomorrow and see what I can find out.”

  “Sounds good.”

  We finished our pizza. I offered to clean, but Oliver jumped up and made his way into the kitchen. When he returned a few minutes later, we watched Jeopardy. I missed the final question, which dealt with an obscure vice president. I mean, who ever heard of Spiro Agnew? After the program, cuddling resumed, which led to more intimacy.

  Afterward, Oliver dozed on the couch, while I sat there wide awake.

  I couldn’t get Barstow off my mind, mostly because of his presence in the office building on the night of Carmen’s death. I recalled how accusatory Bernice, Barstow’s original administrative assistant, had been toward me about Ellie. It all felt connected, but how?

  I googled on my phone for more information about Marshall Barstow. He wasn’t prominent enough to have his own Wikipedia page, so I slogged through a series of newspaper articles, most of them based on PR generated by BWC. I found photos of Barstow and his wife attending a black-tie Philadelphia Orchestra fundraiser from a year ago. Pictured in the same article was Isaac Bignell and his wife. The caption didn’t say, but it looked like an event generously supported by the firm.

  My eyes crossed as I scrolled through page after page of innocuous articles including mentions of Barstow.

  Finally, I found a Philadelphia Inquirer article from ten years earlier:

  Marshall Barstow, counsel with Declan Porter, has dropped out of the race to fill the 6th District City Council vacancy created by the death of Horace Bainbridge, 77, in January. Barstow’s departure all but guarantees the election of Howard Parson to the post, which pays an annual salary of $120,000, fourth highest in the nation for city councilmen. The special election will be held on Tuesday, April 8th.

  Through a spokesperson, Barstow cited family considerations for his decision. Parson could not be reached for comment.

  Bainbridge, who battled lung cancer for more than two years, had the longest tenure of any council member, dating to Frank Rizzo’s first term as mayor.

  The article raised more questions than it answered. Barstow’s withdrawal represented a watershed in Parson’s political career. It also pre-dated Barstow’s partnership at BWC. Had Parson arranged the partnership as part of a deal to get Barstow to drop out? If so, what had transpired in the intervening years to stoke enmity between the two men?

  32

  Brad tracked the progress of Beth’s Delta flight from Brussels to Philadelphia. She texted him before her departure, saying she couldn’t wait to see him and included a kiss emoji. Her gesture alleviated a bit of his anxiety over what her news might be.

  When the flight tracking program indicated her plane had left the gate in Boston, Brad drove to the airport where he waited eagerly, pacing back and forth checking the flight-arrival board at baggage claim. With attention focused on the escalator bringing arriving passengers, he anticipated his first glimpse of her. It had been three weeks since they’d seen each other.

  A bouquet of roses in his hands drew admiring glances from female passersby. One woman marched toward him, extending her arms, and gushed, “Oh, you didn’t have to.” They both laughed.

  It seemed to take an eternity before Beth, smiling broadly, appeared on the escalator. They rushed toward each other and embraced.

  When they’d unclenched, Beth said, “I’m starving.”

 
Brad retrieved her luggage from the baggage carousel and they headed toward Bryn Mawr, stopping at Montini Rustica, which specialized in steak and seafood.

  Over a glass of Lambrusco, they stared into each other’s eyes.

  Beth’s recent communications had made him uneasy regarding their relationship. “You said you have news.”

  “You’re so impatient,” she teased. “Let’s place our order, and then I’ll explain.”

  Beth laughed when Brad promptly motioned the waiter to their table, and she drove him crazy while vacillating on her entrée choice.

  Their decisions made, Brad went back to gazing into her eyes. Useless to do otherwise, he now waited patiently.

  “I’m leaving Oring-Whitman,” she finally announced.

  “Whoa. That’s big news. You’ve been with them for at least fifteen years.”

  “Seventeen. And,” she drew out the word to heighten the suspense, “I have a new job.”

  She’d just returned from Europe, and he hoped she didn’t plan on relocating there. “What? Where?”

  “I’ll still be with an engineering firm. A recruiter contacted me a few weeks ago to see if I might be interested. I demurred, since I hadn’t been thinking about a change. After reflecting overnight, I contacted the recruiter and said I’d like to pursue the idea.”

  “That’s great.” Brad still had lots of questions but let her share the story on her own timetable.

  “Within a week, I received a call to schedule an interview. I mentioned my upcoming trip to Brussels, and they told me their senior leadership would be staying at the same conference hotel. They arranged for us to meet for dinner on the first evening of the conference. Two days later, they made me an offer. I’ll be a senior project manager—same as I am now—but with a thirty percent salary increase.”

  “Will you still be headquartered in DC?”

  “Actually, no. That’s my other big news.” Beth grinned like a Cheshire cat.

  “You enjoy keeping a guy in misery don’t you?”