Code Rojo

by Ray Flynt

  After a long silence, Ethan stretched out his arms. “Look, I can’t be sure, but it might have been Greg.”

  Lyle combed fingers through his hair. “Does Greg have a last name?”

  Ethan stared at the ceiling and rolled his tongue along his lower lip. “Am I gonna have to talk to the police?”

  All eyes shifted to Brad. “Possibly. Depends on what Greg has to say for himself.”

  Ethan barely whispered, “Dunford. Greg Dunford.”

  When Lyle signaled he could go Ethan dashed up the steps, followed by a door slam.

  Brad shook hands with the two men. “Gentleman, thanks for your help.” He stepped outside, pulled out his phone, and called the detective. This time, Nick answered.

  “I’ve got a lead for you on McCurdy’s murder.”

  Nick grunted. “I’m all ears.”

  36

  I linked arms with Oliver while we walked the two blocks from our celebratory surf-and-turf dinner at the neighborhood bistro toward his apartment. I paused to gaze at the third quarter moon rising above Chestnut Street.

  Oliver turned toward me. “What are you doing?”

  “Admiring the moon. One of my stop-and-smell-the-roses moments.”

  I took a deep breath before opening the door to his apartment building. When Oliver halted in front of the entry to Ron Needell’s place, I tugged on his arm urging him to continue up the stairs.

  Oliver shushed me and cocked his head toward Needell’s apartment.

  Before I could ask what was going on, I heard a woman’s scream, followed by a second one.

  Oliver’s expression grew dark. “She’s yelling rape.”

  Did he mean Amelia? She was the latest woman Ron had been hanging out with. I pounded on his door with both fists, and urged Oliver to call 9-1-1. I tried the handle, but found the door locked.

  We swapped glances. Oliver cupped his hand behind his ear, and shook his head signaling that he couldn’t hear any more conversation.

  I pounded on the door several more times before running outside.

  Needell’s apartment layout should mirror Oliver’s place, which meant the window fronting 18th Street offered a view into the living room. A crack of light appeared between the curtains. I peered inside. Amelia wore a slip and her blouse opened in the front. She kept Ron at bay, slashing the air with a large butcher knife held in front of her like a rapier.

  Amelia wielded the knife from behind the sofa, while Ron bobbed and weaved in front of it. His only weapon, a leather belt wrapped around his right hand.

  I tapped on the glass, which caught Ron’s attention. He froze.

  Amelia screamed, “Help.”

  Oliver came over to me on the sidewalk. “Police are on their way.”

  “We have to get in there now.” I hurled my fists at the window.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to break the glass.”

  “You’re gonna cut yourself.”

  I stopped and looked around for an instrument to batter the window. A streetlight at the corner illuminated a freshly-planted tree along the curb, steadied to steel angle-iron posts by straps. I raced over and tugged on one of the supports, freeing it from the ground and slipping it off the strap.

  The pane of glass broke easily as I battered the steel post against the window. Amelia screamed. I kept bashing the post against the glass, shattering all of it. Swatting the curtain aside gave me a better view.

  A smile formed on Amelia’s lips when she recognized me as the invader.

  Ron faced the window and glared at me. Evil registered on his face.

  I shouted that the police were on the way.

  A few pedestrians at the corner of 18th and Chestnut gawked at the commotion. Their phones flashed as they collected photos.

  Ugh. Call 9-1-1, people.

  Shards of glass protruded from the bottom of the window frame, making it too dangerous to climb through the broken pane. As I prepared to pulverize those remaining shards, Ron bolted toward his apartment door.

  “Watch out,” I yelled at Oliver, who stood between me and the building’s entrance. I ran for the entry choking up on the angle-iron with both hands like a batter at the plate.

  Ron Needell sailed full throttle through the front door of the apartment building, where his chest met my swinging metal post. The force of impact on my palms made me flinch. Ron crashed backward with a groan, falling to the ground. His torso landed inside. His hips and legs dangled over the short stoop. His body wedged the door open.

  Ron writhed in pain, clutching his right elbow with his free hand. That’s when I saw the blood and shattered bone protruding like a dagger from his forearm. Ron’s face contorted, punctuated with deep moans. Drool dribbled onto his chin.

  Spectators, about a dozen, moved closer to the scene. Phones began to flash. A siren warbled in the distance. I hoped it was headed in our direction.

  Amelia stepped out of Ron’s apartment into the hallway. In the melee, I’d momentarily forgotten her. She stood behind Ron, staring down at him, still clutching the knife at her side.

  Hate filled her face. I prayed she wouldn’t do anything rash. She choked back tears. “He tried to rape me.”

  I bobbed my head. “You’re safe now.”

  “Bastard.” She spat at Ron.

  “The police are on the way.”

  “He killed Carmen,” Amelia blurted. “I can prove it.”

  I wanted to give her a hug, but Ron’s position blocking the threshold prevented it. Her eyes met mine. After offering a reassuring smile, I gestured toward her open blouse.

  The continuing phone flashes caught her attention. She flushed with embarrassment, pulled her torn blouse closed, and stepped back into the apartment.

  Oliver moved closer and touched my arm. Only then did I realize I was still tightly gripping the angle iron. I let it drop to the sidewalk.

  Ron winced at the clatter. A Band-Aid between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand stuck out to me. I connected dots—albeit flimsy—between what Amelia had just said about Carmen, and Oliver’s story of Ron’s handshake with his left hand on the day after Carmen’s murder. I needed to find out what Amelia meant.

  An ambulance arrived first, its emergency lights casting a pulsating red glow on the surrounding buildings. “One of the onlookers must’ve requested it,” I muttered.

  Oliver shook his head. “No. I did.”

  EMTs swiftly tended to Ron Needell.

  After they’d moved him onto a gurney, I asked Oliver to wait for the police, while I headed inside to talk with Amelia.

  She sat on a dining room chair with her skirt on and blouse tied together at the bottom. The butcher knife lay harmlessly on the dining table. Its black handle had three metal rivets, similar to the knife that I’d seen protruding from Carmen’s back.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I think so,” she whispered.

  “Paramedics are outside if you need them.”

  She gulped a deep breath. “I’ll be okay.”

  “You said Ron killed Carmen and you could prove it.”

  “He made me his alibi.”

  When I said nothing, she reacted to my puzzled look. “The other day at the office, when police were questioning staff about what they knew, Ron called me. He said it was okay if I admitted to the police that we’d been together the night before. I couldn’t understand why he’d emphasized it, not realizing at the time that’s when Carmen was killed. I thought about that night. Ron ordered Chinese take-out. We ate sitting on his sofa. He fixed me a drink and not long after, I fell asleep…unusual for me. Later, I wondered if he’d drugged me, then gone to the office while I slept…and that’s the reason he urged me to tell the police.”

  “You can’t prove he drugged you.”

  Amelia waved her arms. “No, but…tonight he did the same thing, ordered take-out, and fixed me a drink. On my first sip, it tasted funny, so I faked drinking it and a few minutes later pretended
to fall asleep. That’s when he attacked, tearing off my clothes, and tried to rape me.” A smile crept onto her face. “It didn’t work out so good for him, did it?”

  I thought about evidence. “What happened to the glass he gave you?”

  “I set it on the floor.”

  Amelia pointed to the opposite end of the sofa. I checked and it was still there.

  Another siren warbled outside. Oliver appeared in the doorway. “Police are here. He’s talking with the ambulance driver.”

  “Send him in.”

  I walked past the kitchen counter and saw the wooden block from which Amelia had snatched the butcher knife she used to fend off Ron. Among the six slots for steak knives, one was missing. Also on the counter, I spotted a nine by twelve envelope with the Bignell, Watkins, and Clark logo. Handwritten on the front: Property of Carmen Castillo DO NOT OPEN. Cellophane tape had been placed across the standard seal, although both had been ripped open. Inside, I found a color photo of Ron Needell on his hands and knees, wearing only a dog collar and white briefs. At the other end of the leash stood Carmen Castillo dressed in a skimpy dominatrix outfit. It seemed clear that she’d been blackmailing Ron, and it cost her life.

  Beneath that envelope was the thick file folder Howard Parson had described from his office wall safe. A cursory glance revealed documents related to his and Scott McQuillen’s real estate deals. If I was correct, I’d also hit the jackpot for Warren Tulverson.

  A uniformed patrol officer walked into the apartment.

  “Attempted rape.” I pointed to Amelia. “She’ll tell you all about it.”

  I retrieved my phone and called the private number Detective Norcross had given me. He answered on the second ring. I identified myself and gave him the address. “There’s someone here you’ll want to talk with about Carmen Castillo’s murder.”

  EPILOGUE

  Brad gave me the rest of the week off, so I remained at Oliver’s place through the weekend. On Monday morning, I accompanied Oliver part-way toward his office, then caught a SEPTA train to the Bryn Mawr station.

  I walked through the front door of Brad’s office just as he entered via the kitchen breezeway. It felt good to be back and like I’d been gone for a lot longer than three weeks. I smiled. “Good morning.”

  A folded copy of The Philadelphia Inquirer was tucked under Brad’s arm. “Hey, stranger. Welcome back.” He waved the paper at me. “Have you read the Inquirer this morning?”

  “Yup. On the train. Nice that we made the news.”

  “Not we,” Brad corrected. “You.”

  “Yeah, I noticed your buddy Greer didn’t exactly give you any credit for cracking McCurdy’s murder.”

  “My buddy Greer.” Brad peered over the top of his reading glasses. “You sound like Nick.”

  “Well, he didn’t.”

  Brad shrugged. “He sent me a check, which is even better than getting credit. It’s fascinating watching Greer grab headlines for Hernandez’s release from jail. A few days ago, Greer chose to hitch his PR fortunes to Howard Parson’s wagon. After McQuillen copped a plea and fingered Parson as the mastermind on the real estate deal, that idea faded fast.”

  I sat across from Brad at the partner’s desk. “Yeah, that photo of Greer’s shit-eating grin as he greeted Hernandez outside the jail was a bit much. Defender of the common man? Gimme a break. On the brighter side, springing Hernandez made room for Ron Needell in the county lockup. They transferred him from the hospital following surgery on his broken arm. Detective Norcross matched the murder weapon in Carmen’s case to the knife set in Needell’s kitchen. It also looks like Ron may have cut his hand during his attack on Carmen, and they’re double checking all the DNA evidence to see if they can match Ron’s blood at the crime scene.”

  Brad flashed a thumbs up. “Great work.”

  “What’s gonna happen to McCurdy’s killer? He’s a juvenile, right?”

  “Greg Dunford was seventeen-years, ten-months old at the time of the murder but has since turned eighteen. The police found out that McCurdy arrested Greg’s older brother four years ago, and he’s still serving time at the State Correctional facility at Huntington.”

  “Which means his motive for killing McCurdy involved more than being yelled at across the back yard?”

  Brad nodded. “Nick thinks they might move Greg’s case to adult court and try for voluntary manslaughter—maybe even get him to plead guilty.”

  That struck me as a better move for justice. “But hey, did you see the good news on page 17 of the newspaper?”

  Brad furrowed his brow. “No.”

  “The city has re-advertised those properties on Springhurst Street and Tuttle Way. You still have a shot at owning them.”

  Brad ignored my dig, instead pulling an orange paint sample card from his desk drawer. He attached a loop of Scotch tape to the back of it and pressed it against his memento wall behind the credenza.

  “What’s that for?”

  “A reminder of the Hernandez case.”

  “What are you gonna post to remember my case by?”

  Brad held his arms wide. “You mean—Operation: Code Rojo?”

  I laughed.

  Brad had a glint in his eyes. “Your case deserves a wall of its own. I’m picturing your photo, with the caption—Employee of the Year.”

  THE END

  Enjoy this preview of:

  COLD

  OATH

  A Ryan Caldwell Novel

  by Ray Flynt

  Don’t preach about optimism. Because shiny metal rusts, youth fades, and cherished dreams yield to the frenzied quest. Reveal your cold oath.

  Friday, December 15, 1989

  Paul Troyer covered the communion trays with a linen cloth and double-checked the candle wicks in the Advent wreath before pivoting to admire the chapel.

  He descended the marble steps to the transept.

  Fragrant pine ropes festooned the hurricane glass mounted on the end of each pew, where, in a matter of hours, candles would blaze in celebration of Christ’s birth at Brandell College’s annual caroling and communion service.

  As he glanced back at the chancel, the stained glass windows—illuminated by exterior lighting—blazed in vibrant hues of red, blue, and yellow. Theatrical spotlights reflected off the altar and made the communion linens and gold candlesticks glow. In his thirty years as a Lutheran pastor, the chapel had never looked so beautiful.

  An oak door in the narthex creaked open, admitting a young woman along with a swirl of snowflakes accompanied by a gusty chill. She rushed down the central aisle but stopped short when she spotted him.

  He beckoned her forward. “I’m Pastor Paul. All are welcome here.”

  She gazed at the ornate cross, the altar’s centerpiece, and barely above a whisper said, “I’m Emily.”

  Paul knew he’d never seen her before. Emily had a young cherubic face, but it looked like she’d been crying. She glanced back toward the entry, her eyes filled with apprehension.

  Paul pointed to the front row. “Please, have a seat.”

  Emily sank onto the cushioned pew.

  “Are you a student here?” Paul asked.

  She shook her head.

  “How can I help you?”

  Emily sucked in a gob of air. “I want to make a confession.”

  “Father O’Neil, from St. Timothy’s, is usually only here on Saturday mornings,” Pastor Paul explained.

  “I…I’m not Catholic. I…just wanted to tell somebody.”

  Paul sat next to her. “You can talk to me.”

  Silence took hold for a few moments until she blurted, “I’ve been having an affair with a married man.” Then, following a sob, “I’m only a junior.”

  It wasn’t the first time Paul had heard news of a moral failing. He would summon words of solace and reassurance. Realizing how young she looked, it dawned on him she meant a junior in high school.

  “Our Savior said, ‘Do not let your hearts be troubled.’ I’m gl
ad you’ve come, Emily.”

  Paul placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. She recoiled from his touch before dissolving in tears and murmuring, “I’m pregnant.”

  He enveloped her in his arms. Her tears washed onto his shoulder. Emily could only be a year or two older than his granddaughter. “It’s all right. It’s all right.”

  Emily hugged him tightly. He lost count of how many times he reassured her all would be right.

  Still holding her, Paul asked, “Do you live with your parents?”

  “Mom.” Emily spoke the word with regret.

  “Does she know?”

  “No.”

  “How far along are you?”

  “I think four and a half months.”

  Her answers flowed along with the tears. He’d gained her trust. The pregnancy wasn’t visible yet, at least not through the winter coat. But at nearly five months it wouldn’t be long.

  They broke their embrace.

  “Have you seen a doctor?” Paul asked.

  She shook her head.

  Maybe Maggie in health services can help.

  He looked into her eyes. “Does the father know?”

  Emily blinked tears and blubbered, “Yes.”

  Paul felt a cold breeze and glanced toward the narthex. “What did he say?”

  She pointed at her face. “He hit me and accused me of not taking the pills he’d given me.”

  Bastard.

  Paul saw a faint welt on her cheek, which would grow redder with time. Anger rose in his voice. “When did he do this?”

  “Right now.” Her shaking hand pointed to the rear of the chapel. “I mean before I came here. We got together like always on Friday. I broke the news hoping he’d help me. I was wrong.”

  She sniffled.

  “It’s okay, take your time.”

  “He told me to lose the baby or he’d do it for me.” She drew a deep breath. “When he got to the stop sign, I jumped out of the car and ran here.”