Yard Goat (A Brad Frame Mystery Book 7)

  YARD

  GOAT

  Ray Flynt

  Copyright © 2017 Ray Flynt

  All rights reserved.

  Cover photo: Steve Heap/Shutterstock.com

  DEDICATION

  For Seann

  L. Bradford Frame

  Bryn Mawr, PA

  September 2017

  Those familiar with my cases know that the kidnapping and murder of my mother and sister thrust me into the detective business. For more than a decade, my associate, Sharon Porter, has served as an integral partner in our agency’s success. We’ve had a drought of clients lately, so when a sorority sister had hip replacement surgery, Sharon decided to spend six weeks in Providence tending to her recuperation.

  As I dropped Sharon at Southwest Airlines’ departure level, I quipped, “How am I going to manage without you?”

  “Why don’t you write up the story about the goat? You know. The one you’ve bitched about for years.” She flashed a smile, slammed the passenger door, and waved goodbye.

  I chuckled at her memory of the yard goat and how it had factored into a now sixteen-year-old case. Not my finest hour. I worked alone back then. Dad was still lucid when we shared dinner at the nursing home. Beth hadn’t entered my life. Maybe reexamining the experience would prove a teachable moment.

  Challenge accepted, Sharon.

  Brad Frame

  YARD GOAT

  A Brad Frame Mystery

  yard goat n. Slang. Railroad terminology for a switch engine.

  1

  Friday, September 21, 2001

  I took the bait.

  Joel Driscoll’s promise of a guided tour of the historic B&O Museum’s rail yard and lunch at “the finest restaurant within ten miles of Baltimore” didn’t set off alarms. He even flattered me about my model trains.

  Joel had been a friend since prep school. He knew firsthand of my attic HO gauge layout, having spent many after school hours helping me put the miniature rolling stock through its paces. Our fathers served as directors for each other’s companies. He’d gone to law school at the University of Maryland and joined a “Charm City” firm after graduation. We could go a year without speaking and pick up where we’d left off.

  “There’s a woman I’d like you to meet,” he added, during our call.

  I laughed. “You’re not attempting to set me up, are you?”

  He wouldn’t be the first buddy who tried to hook me up with a sister, neighbor or, in one instance, an ex-girlfriend.

  His long pause suggested I’d hit the nail on the head.

  Finally, he stammered, “No, she’s already married.”

  I should have asked more questions. Instead, I had agreed to meet at Nevan’s Bistro on Friday at noon.

  In hindsight, my perspective had been thrown off by last week’s World Trade Center attack, the worst on American soil since Pearl Harbor. I anguished that a handful of well-funded terrorists could bring down the iconic symbol of the Twin Towers. Americans felt violated and united in outrage.

  On the gloomy drive to Baltimore, I grimaced, recalling desperate people jumping, and shed tears at the bravery of first responders who marched to their own deaths in selfless acts to save others.

  A slicker-wearing attendant parked my Mercedes, and the maitre d’ tucked my umbrella into a stand by the door. “We’ve been expecting you, Mr. Frame. Right this way.”

  The restaurant featured Chalet-style décor with rough hewn beams in an A-frame design, and a wall of glass overlooking a golf course at the rear. Joel half stood and waved when I rounded the corner into his view.

  My eyes zeroed in on the attractive young lady seated next to him. Joel and I would soon hit mid-thirties; she looked ten years younger. She reminded me of so many Main Line socialites I’d run into at orchestra concerts or museum galas in Philadelphia—brown hair trimmed short, pencil-arched eyebrows, and deep red lipstick. She met my stare with a slight upturned smile.

  “This is Megan Trambata.” Joel gestured in her direction.

  How do I know that name?

  We exchanged pleasantries.

  “I hope you can help me, Brad,” Megan cooed, as Joel shot her a not-now expression.

  The waiter brought their drinks and took my iced tea order.

  Chastened, Megan buried her head in the bill of fare. Her ring finger, wrapped around the edge of the leather-bound menu, glittered with a lavish diamond—at least three carats—trimmed with rubies.

  Joel nursed his vodka and tonic. “Did you watch the president’s speech last night?”

  The world will never be the same, but our solidarity against terrorists isn’t why Joel invited me to Baltimore.

  I nodded.

  After the waiter took our food order, I turned to Megan. “How may I be of assistance?”

  Joel raised his palm, and she hesitated.

  “It’s okay. Tell me how I can help.”

  “I don’t know my husband’s whereabouts. C.J. left on September 12th to attend meetings in Washington. He was supposed to return home over the weekend but never showed up.”

  “When did you last hear from him?”

  “He sent an email on Saturday. Nothing since.”

  I glanced at Joel who gripped the arms of his chair.

  “Did you notify the police?”

  She shook her head. “C.J. traveled to DC for meetings with the Defense Department. With all the stories about officials being moved to more secure locations after the attacks on the Pentagon, I figured he might not be in a position to call.”

  The waiter delivered a basket of rolls.

  Over Megan’s shoulder, I saw a golf cart roll past the flag marking the seventh green. The rain had stopped. Rays of sun highlighted first signs of fall color on the trees lining the fairway.

  “Did you try contacting the Pentagon?”

  “Well...no...I mean.” Megan looked flummoxed and shrugged.

  “Didn’t Carlin give you explicit instructions not to contact him?” Joel offered helpfully.

  Jesus! Carlin Trambata. No wonder the name sounded familiar. He and Dad were business rivals.

  “That’s right. C.J. assured me he’d be in touch.”

  I glanced between Joel and Megan. “Did you call his office to see if they’d heard from him?”

  “Oh, yes. Tanesha—his secretary—told me that they hadn’t spoken with him directly, but they received faxed instructions for information and had complied with his request.”

  A waiter brought our salads, quieting the conversation.

  Megan had to be thirty years Carlin’s junior—a fact prominently mentioned in the media buzz surrounding their nuptuals. It drew comparisons to when Aristotle Onassis married Jackie who was twenty-three years younger. I wasn’t invited to Carlin and Megan’s wedding a couple of years earlier because of a patent dispute between Herron Industries and Dad’s firm, Joedco.

  “Did you contact any of his other family members?”

  “There aren’t any. C.J.’s an only child. His parents died years ago. He had no children with his first wife.”

  I couldn’t remember if Trambata’s first wife died or if they’d been divorced. I turned to Joel. “How did you get in this picture?”

  He cleared his throat. “Megan talked with me on Tuesday. I told her I knew the best detective on the Eastern Seaboard.”

  I laughed.

  Why didn’t you share all this with me when you invited me three days ago?

  Our entrees arrived before we’d finished our salads.

  “Joel, while we’re enjoying our lunch, why don’t you lay out the whole story. How do you two know each other? Is Carlin on a secret mission for our country, or i
s there a more nefarious reason why he’s not been heard from? What exactly would you like me to do?”

  To Megan, I added, “Feel free to chime in with any details Joel misses.”

  For the next half hour, between bites of crab cake and shoestring sweet potato fries, Joel explained that he’d known Megan since they grew up next to each other in Radnor. Turns out she was only five years younger than Joel. He’d served as a groomsman at her marriage to Carlin Trambata in 1999, and they’d kept in touch, mostly during visits with family in the old neighborhood.

  Joel summoned the waiter for another vodka and tonic. “Mom had a spell last Friday and spent the weekend under observation in the cardiac care unit. They released her home Sunday evening, so I drove up this past Monday to see how she was doing. Megan happened to be visiting her parents at the same time. On Tuesday morning, as I got ready to leave, I saw Megan march down her parents’ driveway toward her Corvette. We talked for a few minutes before she mentioned Carlin’s trip to DC and that she hadn’t heard from him.”

  Megan bobbed her head in agreement.

  According to Joel, the more they talked about Carlin’s trip, the more he sensed Megan’s anxiety. “Your name came up and I suggested that she contact you directly, since she lives in Haverford—practically next door to Bryn Mawr.”

  Joel patted her hand. “Megan’s always been shy. I could tell she wasn’t keen on the idea. That’s why I arranged this luncheon.”

  While he spoke to me, his eyes remained glued on Megan.

  “So the invitation to tour the B&O Railroad Museum was a ruse to draw me here.”

  Joel looked miffed. “Brad, you know me better than that. I’ve wanted you to visit the museum ever since I joined their board. I figured you’d be able to make a few inquiries...allay her fears.”

  “Megan, last night the president announced the formation of a Department of Homeland Security and put Governor Ridge in charge. Do you think your husband might be working on that project?”

  She twisted her linen napkin. “I guess it’s possible. C.J.’s expertise is on the technical side.”

  “Did his office know where he was staying in Washington?”

  Megan shook her head. “They said the Pentagon arranged for his housing.”

  Perhaps guest quarters at Bolling Air Force Base.

  “Do you recall the name of any hotels where your husband usually stayed on prior visits to DC?”

  “Uh, the Adams.”

  She didn’t sound confident, and I wondered if she meant The Hay-Adams, a 5-star hotel overlooking the White House.

  Megan tossed her napkin next to the plate, stood and excused herself for a visit to the powder room. She turned back to Joel. “I forgot to tell you. Last night, after I’d gone to bed, the phone rang. The caller ID was for C.J.’s cell phone. By the time I answered, no one was on the line. I figured if he was trying to reach me it would be okay to call him. I got a recording: The number you have dialed is not accepting calls at this time.”

  2

  Tables filled around us. After Megan disappeared down the restroom corridor, I whispered, “Are you two having an affair?”

  Joel’s jaw dropped. “Absolutely not.”

  His flushed face kept me guessing.

  Maybe prep school slang—Are you boffing that chick?—would have elicited a more genuine response.

  He glowered and went silent.

  Doesn’t bother me if he’s pissed. I’m not thrilled at being lured to Baltimore under false pretenses.

  I aimed an upturned palm in his direction. “Does her story add up for you?”

  Joel swirled ice in his glass. “I want to believe her.”

  “You really think Trambata’s office doesn’t have a clue of his whereabouts? Wouldn’t his private secretary know where to reach him? Or the general counsel? He’s the founder/CEO of what, a six-billion-dollar corporation?”

  “More like sixteen. Carlin’s a bit of an eccentric.”

  When you’re wealthy it’s called eccentric. For everyone else it’s weird.

  “Based on what we’ve heard so far, he’s either holed up in an undisclosed bunker—maybe the same one Cheney’s using—plotting the imminent demise of Osama Bin Laden. Then again, maybe he’s avoiding her.”

  “Between you and me, she’s worried he may be trying to dump her.”

  “She told you that?”

  “Not in those words.” Joel stared at his Rolex and glanced toward the restrooms.

  “Relax. She’s been gone less than three minutes. How are Cecilia and the kids?”

  “They’re okay.”

  His joyless response confirmed my hunch about Joel and Megan.

  He elaborated. “Cecilia’s been busy chairing a fundraiser for the railroad museum. It’s next Saturday night. I’ll make sure you get an invite. Local chefs will set up tasting stations, and people can buy tickets to cast votes for their favorites. Adam’s playing soccer this year. Annie’s captain of her middle school debate team...says she wants to be a lawyer.”

  “I hope you set her straight on that idea.”

  Joel never laughed. “Look. Help me out here,” he rasped. “Find Carlin, and let her know where he is. Megan’s concerned for his safety.”

  I exhaled. “Does she have any idea what that could cost?”

  “Money isn’t an issue. Shhh...here she comes.”

  Megan rejoined us. Awkward silence fell over the table. The waiter arrived to clear plates.

  Joel piped up. “Brad’s willing to help you—”

  I shot him a stern look.

  “But he’ll need a $10,000 retainer to get started.”

  Megan never flinched. She extracted a checkbook from her purse.

  I wonder if they rehearsed this.

  “Get me the contact information for Carlin’s office and his cell phone number. Did your husband drive to Washington?”

  “No. He took the train. I dropped him at 30th Street Station.”

  “Also, I’ll need a list of credit card numbers on any accounts he may have used. It would give me an idea of his movements over the last week.”

  She smiled demurely. “Uh, I already checked. None of his credit cards were used.”

  I flashed Joel a why-am-I-even-here expression. For the second time in less than twenty minutes Megan had revealed important details absent from her earlier story about Carlin’s disappearance.

  Prying information out of Herron Industries would be the key to finding Trambata, but Dad’s patent dispute with them wouldn’t yield a warm welcome to a private detective named Frame.

  Megan handed me a check with her left hand. Her nail polish matched the color of the rubies in her dazzling ring. On closer inspection, I estimated the diamond at five carats.

  I slid the check back at her.

  “But Joel said you were willing to help.”

  “He got ahead of himself.”

  “What the hell?” Joel muttered.

  “Before I take your case, I’d like to know what else you’ve been holding back from me.”

  “Nuh...nothing.” She looked at Joel with pleading eyes.

  Before he could speak, I said, “You stay out of this.” I turned to her. “Initially, you never mentioned the unanswered call you received from his cell phone, and failed to tell us about checking his credit card activity. What else haven’t you shared?”

  The waiter chose that inopportune moment to bring dessert menus.

  By the time I focused back on her, she’d turned on the tears. “You know everything,” she blubbered.

  Joel handed her a folded white handkerchief.

  Now’s not the time to let up.

  “How long have you and Joel been having an affair?”

  Joel heaved a sigh.

  She shot him an accusatory look. Joel’s eyes widened and he barely shook his head.

  Megan took a final sniffle and stopped dabbing her eyes. “Six months.”

  “Does your husband know?”

  “I
don’t think so.”

  “Have you been followed?”

  She shook her head. “Well, I’m not sure.”

  Joel looked sheepish from having lied to me.

  Megan stared at the table. I still didn’t have the whole story. I let silence do the dirty work for me.

  A few minutes passed. Joel requested the check, furnished a credit card, calculated the tip on the final bill, and stowed the receipt and card back in his wallet.

  He swapped glances with Megan more than once, but I’m an investigator not a mind-reader.

  Joel turned to me. “We didn’t want to deceive you. Megan called me last Friday. Two days had passed since Carlin left for Washington, and she hadn’t heard from him. She was worried. I made up an excuse and told Cecilia I was going to visit my mother. I spent the weekend with Megan. What I said earlier about Mom having a spell, never happened.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at him. Joel winced.

  “Yeah, I owe you better than that,” he said. “Over the weekend, we contacted just about every 5-star hotel in DC, hoping to locate him. Megan called his cell a couple of times. What she said about the message last night happened, but there was no such response when she tried last weekend.”

  I didn’t ask what they did in between making phone calls.

  “On Monday morning, I listened in when Megan called Carlin’s office to see if they had heard from him. They had not, nor did Tanesha, Carlin’s secretary, seem concerned. When Megan asked if the company should send someone to investigate, she shot down the idea.”

  I drummed my fingers on the table. Herron Industries’ legal department boasted its own team of investigators. We’d seen their handiwork during the deposition phase of the patent dispute. If anyone at the firm wanted to locate Carlin, they had the means to do so.

  I moved my focus to Megan. “How do you get along with Carlin’s secretary?”