by Ray Flynt
“The service is at one. We plan to leave from Stage 42 at ten-thirty.”
“Thanks for including me. Will Ralph be going?”
His tone turned frosty. “No. He wouldn’t take my call, but later he left a voicemail that he’s heading back to Chicago tomorrow. It’ll be you, me, all the cast members except Ed…asshole,” Zane muttered. “…Tracy Macklin and Todd Hurley. Not sure if Aaron is coming. He hasn’t returned my message. Hopefully,” he added ruefully.
It sounded like Zane was still out in the cold with Aaron. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Wait.” Zane’s voice carried an edge to it. “You told me you’d be meeting with the police. Any chance of them springing Doug?”
Not wanting to show irritation, Brad deflected with a concise. “Not likely.”
“What evidence could they possibly have?” Zane whined.
Brad promised Detective Russo he wouldn’t share information with the media, but he wanted to shut Zane up. “Can I count on you keeping information confidential?”
“Sure.”
“The police found a makeup-smudged fingerprint on a plastic bag of poison at Doug’s dressing room station.”
“Shit!”
“Exactly.”
“No. No. I mean it had to have been planted.”
“Zane, I thought the same—”
“It couldn’t be him. Doug didn’t use makeup for the show. We wanted him to have a pasty appearance like a guy who spent all his time in front of a computer screen. You know muffin-top tummy and all.”
Brad had a new detail to discuss with Doug’s attorney.
30
Brad accompanied Beth to Penn Station for her eight o’clock Acela to Washington, DC. She had a meeting with officials of the Union Station Redevelopment Corporation at eleven, and timed her departure accordingly.
Memories of their last night together in New York made him smile. He kissed her goodbye in the backseat of the taxi, promising to spend the weekend at her DC area condo. This provided a self-imposed deadline to walk away from the Gambit drama—figurative and literal. After all, it was Ralph Lundgren who urged him to investigate, and Ralph had headed back to Chicago. Doug had legal representation. With its positive reviews, the show would most likely go on, even if it didn’t have enough steam for a transfer to Broadway as Zane hoped.
En route to Quentin Dobbins’ office, Brad texted Sharon. She didn’t require close supervision, usually demanding more from herself than Brad would ever expect. He texted mostly so she’d know he was still alive.
Doug Brennan/Pawn arrested in Gambit murder. Meeting his defense attorney this morning. Stay warm on your stakeout. I should be back in the office next Monday, if not sooner.
Brad exited the cab on 49th near 5th Avenue.
If money had an odor, it might smell like the lobby of Dobbins’ office building. Shiny white marble covered the floor and walls, art deco chandeliers hung from a silver-painted ceiling with elaborate deco molding. The receptionist’s desk gleamed with chrome and polished wood designed in Mission-style.
Brad identified himself and the office he wanted to visit. After glancing at a computer monitor, she gestured toward a bank of elevators. “Number three will take you to your destination.”
When he boarded, the button for the fourteenth floor already glowed. Out of curiosity, he pressed one of the other buttons. Nothing happened. This marked his first experience with an elevator security system designed to restrict visitor access.
With its mahogany paneling and museum-quality paintings, the attorney’s suite surpassed the lobby in elegance. When their shoes sunk into the thick wool carpet, most people would realize that they couldn’t afford his services. How could Doug Brennan, an unemployed actor, mount a legal defense?
Before Brad could speak, the office receptionist said, “You may go right in, Mr. Frame. He’s expecting you.”
The man behind the desk in the inner-sanctum barely resembled the photo on the web. Bushy dark hair had been replaced by a receding hairline and salt-and-pepper coloring. Only the pearly whites looked the same. Quentin Dobbins stood to greet him.
Brad handed him his business card. “Thanks for seeing me.”
“My pleasure.” Dobbins gestured to a tufted leather wingback in front of his desk. “I’ve heard about a few of your cases. That one at Strickland Memorial Hospital was quite the doozy. I never thought we’d be working together.”
Brad raised an eyebrow at Dobbins’ choice of words.
“I meant as producers on a show. Gambit was my third shot for Ralph as an investor. Up until now, it’s resulted in a couple of tax write-offs. Looks like I could finally make a few bucks if we can keep the murder publicity from derailing our prospects at the box office.”
Brad nodded. “How did you meet Lundgren?”
“We served on a planning committee for a bar association national conference. He found out I liked theatre, and hit me up to invest in a play called Carla’s Tomb.”
Brad shook his head.
“Not surprising you never heard of it. A little too esoteric for my taste. Ralph’s into artsy shit.” Dobbins’ pantomimed quote marks with his fingers on the word artsy. “It closed three days after it opened. Made me gun-shy of ever investing again. But a year or so later, Ralph referred a colleague of his to me for criminal defense. I earned a ton with that case, and Ralph came back after my wallet for another show.”
Brad glanced around the well-appointed office. “Doesn’t look like a poor actor can afford your services.”
“Seven-fifty an hour…are you kidding me?” After framing his brag as a question, Dobbins added, “I don’t mind doing a little pro bono work, especially if it’ll help the show make money.”
Self-interest trumps generosity.
“What prompted you to step up and offer representation to Doug?”
“That would be my wife. We were at the bar. She noticed the police arrive and poked me. We watched them approach the stage. When they arrested that young man—who was her favorite in the show—she told me, ‘You’ve got to help him.’ That’s when I followed them out into the lobby and gave him my card. Told him to zip it until I had a chance to talk with him.”
“Doug looked lost and frightened the other night. I’m sure he appreciated your gesture.”
“I’ve already petitioned the court to serve as his public defender. The state will provide an hourly stipend and reimburse costs.”
So much for pure pro bono.
“You talked with Doug. What did he have to say?”
“He denies any involvement. Not that I expected anything different.” Dobbins leaned back in his chair looking smug. “I called Detective Russo yesterday afternoon, right after we spoke.”
Brad found the timing of Dobbins’ outreach to the police interesting, suspecting he didn’t want to be blindsided by anything they might discuss.
“The evidence against Doug is pretty damning,” Dobbins continued, “including possible DNA. I tried to explain to my client that we could plead guilty to second-degree manslaughter. Prison time is three to fifteen, but if he pleads, we’d push for the lesser sentence.”
Quentin Dobbins sounded like he’d be doing his client a favor with three years of jail time. Brad wondered if Doug wouldn’t be better served with a $150/hour lawyer committed to getting an acquittal.
“What if he’s not guilty?” Brad asked.
Dobbins sat upright in his chair.
Brad placed his hand on the desk. “When I talked with the detective, there wasn’t any bit of evidence she mentioned that couldn’t have been planted to incriminate Doug.”
The attorney shrugged. “Juries hear that defense all the time. It’s not very effective.”
“Did Russo tell you about the makeup smudged fingerprint on the bag of poison found in Doug’s dressing room?”
Dobbins nodded.
“According to Zane Tilghman, Doug didn’t wear makeup for the show. Russo’s speculation about DNA evid
ence is predicated on the presence of skin cells in the makeup.”
Quentin Dobbins rolled his chair closer to the desk.
Brad continued. “Did Russo suggest Lauren was the random victim of poisoning?”
“Yes. That’s what I expected given that four people drank from the glasses on-stage and only one died.”
Detective Russo hadn’t changed her tune about random versus Lauren being the target of the killer. “I’d like you to rethink the case in the following light.” Brad recounted Oliver’s evidence on the pour of the glasses, and the routine pattern employed each night in distributing those glasses on-stage. “It appears Lauren Parshall was the target, and more than one person points a finger at Ed Minteer—who plays Bishop in the show and once had a relationship with Lauren—as their prime suspect.”
Dobbins rubbed his chin. “Reasonable doubt.”
“Exactly.”
Dobbins glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. “I should hire you as my investigator.”
Brad took his words as flattery. Dobbins no doubt had his own New York-licensed detective. “If I learn more, I’ll share them with Russo. I became a private detective to help bring justice to victims of crime. I would never do so at the expense of a wrongly accused person. Lauren Parshall’s funeral is today. I’m traveling there later this morning with a vanload of Gambit’s cast and crew. I plan to keep my eyes and ears open.”
The lawyer stood, offering a handshake. “Thank you for stopping by. Stay in touch.”
Brad wished Dobbins had sounded more sincere.
31
Monitoring Milo
For the third morning that week, Sharon Porter parked at the playground behind Milo Benedetti’s half-sister’s house in the Borough of West Chester. Sharon stared at the pile of treated lumber still sitting in the back of Julia’s Silverado. Deck supplies remained unmoved since Milo had picked them up from the Home Depot on Monday.
Sharon sat in the Mercedes she “borrowed” from Brad. Her Civic’s heater had given up the ghost the previous afternoon, so she dropped the car at the dealership. With morning temperatures hovering near freezing, and the high not expected to exceed forty, a car with a working heater seemed essential.
She didn’t think Brad would mind her using his car for the stakeout. After all, a spare key hung next to the door of their Bryn Mawr office. Why would he do that if he hadn’t anticipated just this kind of situation? Besides, he was in New York City having fun.
Sipping a toffee nut latte from Starbucks, Sharon settled in with a camcorder with optical zoom, her Canon equipped with a 135mm telephoto lens, a pair of binoculars, smartphone, and her snacks.
The windows fogged up, so she re-started the engine to clear her view of Julia’s backyard and warm the car.
The place looked the same as it had from 8 a.m. to dusk the previous day. A light coming on behind a frosted second-story window prompted a twinge of excitement—until it went off.
Damn, I hate surveillance.
Her phone chirped with a text message from Brad. Among other things, he wrote: “Stay warm on your stakeout.”
I knew he wouldn’t mind me taking his car.
The Mercedes’ radio was tuned to KYW news, which highlighted the top stories every twenty minutes. Great for short-term commuters, but after hearing the third repetition of the president’s tweet of the morning, Sharon searched for a hard rock station, none of which were on Brad’s pre-set buttons.
She texted Oliver “Good morning.” He replied, “Hi. Thanks for the sunshine you bring to my life.”
Aww… isn’t he sweet.
Julia Spencer appeared at a first-floor window, the kitchen, judging from the café curtains. She momentarily stared into the backyard. Sharon doubted that Julia noticed her a hundred yards away parked next to the playground’s swing set.
Sharon’s phone rang. The Honda dealer’s service advisor informed her that the heater repair would cost $379. In addition, they recommended a radiator flush and tire rotation, which would double the cost. “Just fix the heater.”
Highway Tune by Greta Van Fleet blared, and Sharon tapped the steering wheel in time with the music. After a few minutes, she squeezed her eyes shut and rocked her head back and forth getting lost in the music. It helped her forget the tedium of the assignment.
A noise startled her, and she opened her eyes just as Milo pulled into Julia’s driveway with a flat-bed trailer hitched to his Crosstrek. The Mercedes’ clock read 11:10 a.m.
Milo made a three-point turn and backed the trailer closer to the deck.
Using binoculars, Sharon spotted a post hole digger laying on the back of the trailer.
Holy shit!
It looked heavier than any 4” by 4” post, and her excitement built as she anticipated getting the dirt on Milo’s disability scam. With any luck, she’d have video and be on her way home in ten minutes.
Milo tooted the horn. Moments later, Julia emerged from the side door wearing a house dress. Sharon chuckled when Julia handed him a giant muffin, especially after witnessing his stops at McDonald’s and Dunkin Donuts a few days earlier. Clearly, Julia had her half-brother figured out—bribe him with food to get her deck built.
After Julia shivered and dashed back into the house, the chubby Milo leaned against the side of the Silverado and devoured his muffin. Sharon caught the moment, testing her telephoto lens.
Milo licked his fingers, then reached into the bed of the truck and pulled out a bucket. He walked to the back of the house standing below the French doors where the previous deck once stood.
She trained the field glasses on the bucket as Milo produced a tape measure, string, and wooden stakes. He then began marking off the perimeter of the new deck. Watching through the French doors was an older woman, whom Sharon surmised was Julia’s mom. Milo waved at his step-mother, and she waved back.
Then “momma” furiously motioned for Julia to join her at the window. The older woman aimed a finger across the backyard. The object of her finger-pointing appeared to be the Mercedes. Julia joined in frantic gesturing toward the playground.
Shit.
At that distance, Sharon hoped the instruments of her surveillance would not be visible and breathed a sigh of relief when they both walked away from the French doors.
Meanwhile, Milo used a rubber mallet to pound stakes into the ground and tie cord between them outlining the perimeter of the new deck. If a construction company paid by the hour for his services, they would go broke.
Every time Sharon thought Milo was about to muscle the post hole digger from the trailer, he stopped to double-check his work or re-measure. Finally, he approached the trailer and unhitched it from the Crosstrek. He then jumped into his vehicle and drove away.
What the hell?
She glanced at the clock, saw it was almost one, and hoped he’d just left to grab lunch. His surveillance history revealed Milo’s penchant for fast food. Sharon turned on the car engine for a fresh round of heat, dug into her own container of carrot sticks, and used his absence to visit the portable potty at the edge of the playground.
Twenty minutes later, Milo returned. He climbed out of the car, stretched, and walked in the direction of the digger before making an about face to pop the trunk of his car and retrieve a small spade.
Sharon rolled her eyes.
Details from Milo’s lawsuit indicated weight lift restrictions of no more than ten pounds. His spade probably fell within those parameters, although the post hole digger looked at least thirty pounds, which gave her an idea.
While Milo dug a few starter holes at the perimeter he’d just staked out, Sharon focused binoculars on the digger, hunting for a brand name. She noted the manufacturer, XtremepowerUS, and hunted their website for the 43cc model. Bingo. Specifications pegged the machine at forty pounds.
If she captured video of Milo lifting the hole digger, the insurance company would be ecstatic.
Milo stood, dusted off his hands, and marched toward the traile
r on which lay the digger.
Sharon turned on the video camera, balanced it on her shoulder, adjusted the lens for maximum zoom, and looked through the viewfinder.
A rumble on the parking lot’s gravel drew her attention, and she turned to see a West Chester Police cruiser pull alongside.
Fuck.
Her camera caught Milo squatting and picking up the digger, not by its handles, but one-handed using the steel tube at the auger’s core. He carried it twenty feet to the deck site, with no pain evident on his face.
Sharon’s gaze darted between the image in the camera’s lens and the police officer getting out of the cruiser.
The cop would want her driver’s license. She kept filming while pulling her wallet from the passenger seat into her lap.
Milo jerked on the starter rope, twice, before the equipment roared to life. He plunged the auger into the pre-hole he’d dug and bore down with his shoulder as it penetrated the ground.
The officer tapped on the driver’s side pane.
Sharon lowered the window, which intensified the white noise of the auger. She balanced the camera on her right shoulder, trying to capture a steady image. She flashed a toothy grin at the police officer. “Can I help you?”
“I’d like to see your ID, please,” the young man deadpanned.
At least he said, please.
Sharon used her left hand to unzip the wallet and retrieve her photo ID. She handed it to him, resisting the urge to make a snide remark.
In the side view mirror, she watched the cop walk to the rear of the vehicle and make note of the license plate number.
Her shoulders slumped remembering it wasn’t her car. Technically, she and Brad had the same address, even though he lived in the mansion and she above the garage. If questioned, she’d tell the truth of her surveillance of the scumbag building the deck.
The cop returned to his cruiser, probably to verify the Mercedes’ ownership, or maybe call for backup.
With her peripheral vision, Sharon saw the officer glance over at her as he used the car’s radio communication.