Fatal Gambit

by Ray Flynt

  The sound of a key turning in a lock alarmed him. He flipped off the lights and retreated to the shadows next to the kitchen archway. Seconds later, a door closed. He waited.

  It must’ve been across the hall.

  A gnat buzzing near his ear seemed as loud as a helicopter.

  After a minute, only the sound of his heart pounding in his chest remained.

  Brad checked the time. The Gambit performance would be over, and he hoped Zane and Aaron chose to socialize with the West Coast visitors. He entered the bedroom. Turning on a lamp revealed more sparse furnishings, and he found nothing in a bedside table resembling rodent killer. Ditto in the bathroom’s vanity.

  Finally, he searched a narrow walk-in closet, illuminated by a single low-watt bulb. Clothes hung neatly on both sides. He spotted a suitcase and knelt to open it. Empty.

  A small trunk blended into a dark corner of the closet. Brad tugged on the handle, realized the contents were heavy, and pulled it closer. He found Zane Scott Tilghman’s name etched into the leather top. After undoing straps, the lid opened to reveal theatrical scripts, including play titles from Eugene O’Neil, David Mamet, August Wilson, and Lillian Hellman. He dug through to the bottom, lest it conceal more sinister contents. Clearly, these were a source of inspiration for this 21st Century playwright with two successful Broadway plays now on his résumé.

  Brad sighed. He had struck out. Maybe he’d been wrong about Aaron.

  He pulled the cord to shut off the closet light and returned to the front door of the apartment, where he peered through the peephole for signs of activity.

  As Brad stepped into the hall, he noticed the newspapers no longer laying in the corridor. When he turned to lock up, the door to 9B flung open. A man stepped out and uttered, “Aaron…” before looking startled, no less than Brad, whose body tensed at the sight of the stranger. He wondered how to explain his presence.

  “You’re not Aaron,” the surprised man grumbled.

  Brad smiled and tried to act natural. “No. I’m in town to see Zane’s new play. Just dropped off my overnight bag before I meet up with the guys for a drink.”

  “Oh.” Mr. 9B paused, then offered his own explanation. “I didn’t get my Tuesday paper. I was coming to see Aaron, hoping he would still have his copy.”

  If the man suspected anything unusual, he didn’t act it. He disappeared into his apartment before Brad could say anything more.

  Brad prepared to summon the elevator when the lighted display above the doors showed it climbing in his direction. He dashed for the stairwell, but the door wouldn’t budge. Instead, he climbed three steps and ducked through the utility door at the end of the corridor.

  He took deep breaths and used light from his iPhone to assess the surroundings. From a landing not much wider than the door, the steps narrowed and continued upward. A ding signaled the arrival of the elevator. Moments later, he heard muffled voices in the hallway. Brad couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like the man from 9B talking to Aaron.

  Crap.

  Brad climbed the rest of the way.

  43

  At the top of the stairs, Brad recoiled when his head hit the ceiling. The phone light revealed storage cages, fashioned from wood and wire mesh, running the length of the building. The unit in front of him belonged to 5B.

  Maybe Aaron’s storage bin is hiding mole killer.

  Head bowed to avoiding bumping it again, he searched for lights, noting fixtures mounted in several places along the length of the ceiling.

  Damn it, where’s the switch?

  Unable to find one, it dawned on him that the control might be at the bottom of the stairs. He eased his way back down, trying not to make noise. After finding the switch plate, he listened for further conversation in the 9th floor hallway. Hearing none, he flipped the switch, bathing the stairs and attic hall in fluorescent light.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead and his chest felt damp. Brad shed his top coat before trudging up the steps to find the storage area for 9A.

  With the benefit of light, Brad saw that a narrow corridor ran the length of the building’s attic. The wooden stairs from the 9th floor came up in the middle and storage units lined one side. If Brad had his bearings straight, Aaron’s cubical sat at the south end of the building.

  Despite how spare the furnishings were in their apartment, the four by four cubicle appeared stuffed. Visible through the mesh: stacks of magazines, an old computer monitor, and a wooden menorah. Laces from a pair of running shoes spilled under the gate, which was secured with a padlock.

  Brad reached for Zane’s keys and tried one of the smaller ones that he’d originally thought might unlock a mailbox. The second key did the trick.

  When he swung open the mesh gate, a marble and brass tennis trophy thudded to the floor.

  Jesus.

  If not mistaken, he was directly above the living room of Aaron’s apartment.

  He draped his coat over the top of the gate.

  Brad dropped to his knees and moved two boxes aside before discovering an orange and green bag of rodent killer. He studied the back of the container for a list of active ingredients, stymied by the small print.

  Retrieving reading glasses from his coat pocket, he confirmed the presence of strychnine.

  Yes!

  Brad reached for his phone and hunted Detective Russo’s number. He tried to call. Nothing happened. Exhaling in frustration, he saw “no service” on the screen. His cellular provider’s name reappeared but only showed one bar of signal strength.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  It was Aaron. Brad recognized his voice. He turned and first saw the butcher knife. The overhead light glinted off the blade where Aaron stood at the top of the attic steps. Unsure if Aaron had seen him using his phone, Brad brought his hand back and laid the phone on the floor.

  He swallowed down his anxiety. “Gathering evidence.”

  Aaron snorted. “I knew you were up to no good when Rick said a guy asked him during the middle of the show if he’d seen me.”

  Rick must be the bartender at Stage 42.

  “He told me you tipped him. I figured it had to be you. Then my neighbor tells me a stranger just left my apartment. You meddling fuck!” His voice ricocheted off the close in walls. Aaron slashed the air with the knife. “I did a quick search and couldn’t find anything missing. Then, voila, a crash overhead…no cat-like tread for you.” He laughed. “Get up.” He used his tongue to recover the spittle that escaped from his lips.

  Brad glided back on his knees and leaned forward, bracing his left hand on the floor while accessing the message feature on the phone with his right index finger.

  “Get the hell up.”

  It might work.

  “Gimme a minute. I hurt my knee last week.” He hadn’t, but needed more time. Brad reached for his coat, as if intending to use it to pull himself up, instead allowing it to fall on the floor to cover his cell phone actions. He faltered, exaggerating the time he needed to get up in order to tap on a previous message from Nick Argostino and type, “911 Vic.” Detective Russo had called Nick to complain, so he had her direct number. Fingers crossed, he hit the send button.

  Brad cringed as the electronic send confirmation reverberated like a C-major chord. Not any louder than usual, but in the stillness of the attic, Aaron would hear it.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Aaron’s voice came from directly above him. “Damn you.” He kicked the phone, which slid under the gate of the neighboring storage cubicle.

  Okay, Nick. Look at your damn messages.

  Brad felt the blade of the knife against his back. Aaron grabbed the collar of his sports jacket with his empty hand and pulled. “On your feet.”

  With Aaron tugging at him, Brad struggled to stand.

  “That way.” Aaron pointed.

  He inched back toward the stairs in the middle of the attic.

  Brad heard a muffled ring and first thought it might be his iPhone
, but after a couple more steps the sound kept up with him.

  Must be Aaron’s.

  “Stop here,” Aaron barked. “Put your hands on the top of your head and don’t say a word or I’ll shove this knife between your ribs.”

  He complied.

  Aaron faced Brad before answering the phone—the gleaming face of the knife inches away. “What’s up?”

  Brad couldn’t understand the caller’s words, though it sounded like a male voice.

  If Nick understands my message, he’ll be contacting Russo right now. She’s only seven blocks away.

  “No. He went out with friends after the show.” Sounded like Aaron was talking about Zane.

  Brad’s optimism for help-is-on-the-way faded as he realized Russo would need the added step of GPS technology to identify the location of his distress message.

  Aaron’s mouth puckered as his caller droned on. “Look, I’m in the middle of varmint eradication.” Aaron shot a smirk at Brad. “Let me call you later.”

  His caller wouldn’t quit.

  “Fuck man, I gotta go. See you at Sweeney’s in a half hour.”

  Aaron shoved the phone in his pocket. He once more moved behind Brad, pushing him forward.

  “Hurry up.”

  When Brad reached the top of the steps, Aaron stopped him. “We’re not going downstairs. There’s a door at the other end.”

  He didn’t know what Aaron had in mind, but needed as much time as he could give them for the police to respond. If Nick even got my message. “Did you think you’d get away with killing Lauren?”

  “Shut up. Keep moving.”

  Brad glanced over his shoulder. “Does Zane know you did this to get his play on the front page? And why Lauren?”

  Aaron poked at his back with the knife. He felt a pinch as the tip penetrated his clothing and stabbed the skin. Brad grabbed for the nearby sidewall. They were only two yards from the north end of the attic.

  “Stop here. Face the cages and stuff your hands inside your belt.”

  Brad did as instructed. He sensed sticky warmth trickling down his back. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Aaron moved toward the end of the attic hallway, still wielding the knife in his direction. He saw the outline of a door secured by two wrought iron barn door latches.

  Brad took a different tack. “You think Zane will be proud of what you did?”

  “Ask me if I give a fuck.” Aaron scoffed. “I got my own career to think about.”

  He unhooked the latches and pulled the door inward, exposing a view of lights from a high rise apartment on 28th Street. Chilly night air rushed in.

  “They use this to change out the AC compressors. You’ll have a quicker trip down.” Aaron smirked. “Time to fly…or as we say in the theatre, ‘Defying gravity.’ ”

  Aaron motioned for Brad to move closer to the open door.

  Brad stood his ground.

  Aaron lunged toward him, grabbed him by the elbow, and pushed the sharp edge of the blade against his neck.

  Brad spread his feet further apart. “You won’t get away with this.”

  “Watch me. Remember…you broke into my apartment, which my neighbor will confirm. Then you heard me arrive and decided to hide in the dark attic.” Aaron leaned closer to Brad’s face and whispered.” I’ll be sure to turn off the lights when I leave. They’ll say you became disoriented. Even lost your phone. Just when you thought you found a way out….” Aaron clucked his tongue. “So sad. Now move.”

  With his hand still tucked under his belt, Brad balled it into a fist. He punched in Aaron’s direction. At the same time, he extended his heel behind Aaron’s ankle, yanking forward to throw him off balance. Instead, Brad lost his own equilibrium. He fell on top of Aaron, pinning him. The knife clanged against the floor. He couldn’t see it.

  Aaron heaved his body trying to push off the excess weight, but Brad bounced even harder on his abdomen. Aaron grunted and threw a fist at the side of Brad’s head.

  Brad’s ear ached. He couldn’t let Aaron get the advantage. He spotted the knife inches from Aaron’s right hand and reached for it.

  Aaron thrashed about and kneed him in the lower back. Brad throbbed with pain. As he grappled to push himself up, Aaron raised the knife in the air, poised to strike.

  “Police. Drop the knife,” Victoria Russo barked.

  Aaron’s eyes widened as he peered up at the barrel of her service weapon. He let the knife slip onto the floor and raised his hands.

  Brad gasped for breath. His ear stung and the wound on his back smarted. After he reached for his neck, blood coated his fingers. Nothing seemed life-threatening. The worst was over.

  “Are we so fragile that we must cloak ourselves with the anonymity of the internet rather

  than risk exposing our insecurities?”

  Zane Scott Tilghman

  Pawn, Scene 3, Gambit

  2018

  44

  Brad stood on a ladder in his Bryn Mawr office holding a chrome-framed Playbill from the Broadway debut of Gambit. Ralph Lundgren successfully negotiated a theatre contract and made the transfer happen in less than three and a half weeks—timing the lead producer called remarkable.

  Beth had accompanied Brad to the glittering Saturday night Broadway opening and gala party afterward. This time, his Aunt Harriet joined in the celebration, telling everyone about her nephew, “the famous Broadway producer.” All in all, it had been a great weekend.

  More critics joined in praise of Zane Scott Tilghman’s “latest” play. He had broken free of the gravitational pull of one-hit-wonder, though the trajectory for the remainder of Zane’s career remained uncertain.

  As Brad prepared to add his framed Playbill memento above the credenza behind his desk, Sharon Porter bounded into the office wearing a navy blue suit and white blouse.

  She gawked at Brad standing on the ladder. “I’m having a déjà vu moment.”

  “I know, right.” Brad laughed. “I thought you had court this morning on that guy who faked his injuries to collect insurance.”

  Sharon dropped her purse on the desk. “Been there, done that. At the beginning of the hearing, Milo’s attorney stood up and announced that his client was prepared to plead guilty to insurance fraud. The judge asked to meet with the attorneys in chambers. I saw the insurance company rep before I left. He knew about the deal. Milo faced seven years in prison if convicted. The prosecutor agreed to a six month sentence and court costs in exchange for the guilty plea.”

  “Seems fair.”

  “Of course you would think that, you didn’t have to sit out back of his place for three days and collect evidence.” Sharon stuck out her tongue.

  Brad pointed at the framed Playbill. “Does this look straight?”

  “Yup. How was the Broadway opening?”

  He stepped down from the ladder. “Exciting and, most importantly, uneventful.”

  “No more bodies?”

  “Exactly. Ralph said the show will recoup its costs by August, at which time I should start seeing returns on my investment.”

  “What’s happening with Aaron Siegel?”

  It had been about a month since his arrest, and Brad had recovered from the mostly superficial wounds sustained in his scuffle with Aaron. “I don’t know much. Everyone connected with Gambit went out of their way not to remind the media that Aaron had ever been associated with the show. At the gala party, Quentin Dobbins whispered that he’d agreed to represent him—Aaron’s dad has money. The trial won’t happen before September. When I reminded Dobbins that I’d be a witness for the prosecution, he conveniently spotted someone on the other side of the ballroom he needed to talk with.”

  “Sounds like a lawyer.” Sharon smiled. “How’s the playwright dealing with all this?”

  Brad tilted his head. “Who knows what’s going on inside. I’m no shrink. Zane seems to be making the best of it. He moved into his grandmother’s old co-op in Gramercy Park, across the hall from Aunt Harriet. She delivers b
aked treats to him, which he enjoys, but Harriet also tries to persuade him to join in her Tuesday night canasta game.”

  Sharon’s mouth gaped. “Oh my.”

  “I told him not to knock it. Could be lots of fodder for his next play interacting with those old biddies.”

  Sharon laughed.

  “Zane’s seeing Ken again…not living together. In his words, ‘Taking it slow.’ Says he writes every day.”

  “What about you…planning to invest in another Broadway show? Maybe a musical?”

  Brad scowled. “I’d rather join Harriet’s canasta club.”

  The End

  AUTHOR’S BIO

  Ray Flynt authors Brad Frame mysteries, a standalone political suspense, and a new series featuring Ryan Caldwell, the journalist from COLD OATH. A native of Pennsylvania, Ray wrote and performs a one-man play based on the life of Ben Franklin. Ray is a member of Mystery Writers of America and active with their Florida Chapter. He is also a life member of the Florida Writers Association. Ray retired from a diverse career in criminal justice, education, the arts, and human services. More information is available at www.rayflynt.com.

  BRAD FRAME MYSTERY SERIES

  #1 – UNFORGIVING SHADOWS

  #2 – TRANSPLANTED DEATH

  #3 – BLOOD PORN

  #4 – LADY ON THE EDGE

  #5 – FINAL JUROR

  #6 – EMBALMED

  #7 – YARD GOAT

  #8 – FATAL GAMBIT

  _____

  KISSES OF AN ENEMY

  _____

  A RYAN CALDWELL STORY

  #1 COLD OATH

  #2 ANCHOR ON MY SOUL (Winter 2019)

  UNFORGIVING SHADOWS – A Brad Frame Mystery #1

  Brad Frame is invited to the execution by lethal injection of Frank Wilkie, one of two men responsible for the death of his mother and sister. Afterward the prison chaplain thrusts the condemned man’s Bible into his hands. Within hours another man is anxious to get his hands on Wilkie’s Bible and Brad suspects the motivation could involve the still missing ransom money from the kidnapping. Brad’s world is once again turned upside down as he and Sharon unravel an eleven-year-old mystery.