Yard Goat (A Brad Frame Mystery Book 7) Page 10

  21

  My phone chirped as buckled my seatbelt. Caller ID was blocked. “This is Brad Frame.”

  Detective Jackson replied in a gruff voice. “Mr. Frame, I made it clear yesterday to butt out of my investigation.” A car horn blared in the background.

  “Yeah, well you shouldn’t be driving and using your phone.” I imagined him clenching his teeth. “One of these days you’ll figure out I’m only trying to help. I know you’re in Florida, maybe on your way back to the airport from meeting with Megan Trambata.”

  His end of the call was quiet.

  Despite the silence, I continued, “I suggest you stay there. I found out Carlin Trambata was in Baltimore this weekend. He’ll be at his estate in Boca Raton tomorrow. You might want to talk with him about Joel Driscoll’s murder.”

  The thunder of a truck applying Jake brake told me Jackson was still on the line.

  “How do you know this?”

  I had his attention. “My brother has a business meeting with Carlin in Boca tomorrow. I’m planning to fly down tonight. In spite of what I’ve read in the paper, you and I both know Joel wasn’t killed by a thug wandering in off the street.”

  He ignored my dig. “Where did Carlin Trambata stay in Baltimore?”

  “Don’t know, but I’d check the five star hotels.”

  Jackson roared. “In Baltimore? That’ll be a quick search. I’m almost at the airport, let me call you back.”

  While waiting for his return call, I contacted my travel agent, explained I needed a ticket to Boca Raton, Florida, from Baltimore this evening, if possible, and to call me when she’d made the arrangements.

  After five o’clock, workers filtered into the parking garage to claim their vehicles. The longer I sat, it became a game to guess who might call me back first, the detective or Marie from Superior Travel.

  Jackson won. “Why are you coming to Boca?”

  My response might determine the level of cooperation he’d be willing to provide, especially if he still perceived me as horning in on his investigation.

  “As I already explained, my brother’s going to be there finalizing a business deal with Carlin. It would give me a chance to catch up with Megan, who I haven’t spoken with since Joel’s death.”

  After a pause, he asked, “Where are you staying?”

  “Don’t know yet. I’m waiting for a callback from my travel agent.”

  He sighed. “I’m postponing my trip back so I can talk with Mr. Trambata. Call me when you get here.”

  Jackson gave me his elusive cell number before ending the conversation. I’d gotten my foot in the door and hoped the detective might now see me as a collaborator instead of an interloper.

  Two minutes later Marie called. Her deep exhale signaled bad news.

  She’d booked me on a 7:25 flight that evening from BWI to Palm Beach International, nearest to Boca Raton. “There’s an executive airport at Boca,” she explained. “I couldn’t arrange a charter this quickly. You’re on Southwest Airlines, so you don’t have a seat assignment.”

  I arrived at the airport shortly after six, picked up my boarding pass at the Southwest counter, and stood in a slow-moving security line. The fun began at the gate. Via my cell phone, Marie tried to explain Southwest’s boarding groups. “You’re in the C group. You’ll probably be stuck in a middle seat.” Her tone apologetic.

  Seeing was believing. By the time A and B groups had boarded, only about six of us remained in the gate area. I ambled onto the full plane hunting for a seat with overhead storage space for my carry-on luggage. Turned out that was in the next to the last row—a middle seat.

  Good natured announcements from the flight attendants, peanuts, and a Bloody Mary—followed by a short nap—made the experience bearable. Two hours later we landed at Palm Beach. While waiting to pick up my rental car, I called Detective Jackson. He answered on the third ring.

  I identified myself and received his cryptic, “Meet me at Denny’s off the West Palmetto Park exit of I-95.” He hung up.

  Thanks to a map from Hertz, I had no trouble finding the West Palmetto Park exit. Denny’s yellow and red sign glowed up ahead on the left, one of only a few eating establishments open 24 hours. It was nearly midnight when I walked in the door.

  Jackson barely rose from his seat in a booth next to the front window. Two truckers sat at the counter, while a college-age foursome chatted at a table in the corner.

  The detective gripped my hand like he was on a caffeine overdose.

  I gestured toward the remnants of his Grand Slam eggs and pancakes platter shoved to the side of the table. “Thanks for waiting for me.”

  He sneered. “You’re welcome. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be back in Baltimore right now curled up in bed next to my wife.”

  The waitress appeared with coffee. “What’ll ya have?”

  In my twenties, I could chow down at midnight and manage to sleep like a baby. Not anymore. My supper had consisted of salted peanuts on the plane, so I was hungry. “I’ll have two scrambled eggs and an English muffin.”

  Jackson cocked his head in my direction and smiled at her. “Big spender.”

  She plopped the carafe on the table and sighed. “Story of my life.”

  Silence settled over our booth like late-night fog. Jackson sipped coffee and averted my gaze.

  After an agonizing pause, I said, “I was hoping we might—”

  “There’s no we.”

  My mouth hung open. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m investigating this case, Mr. Frame, not we, us, you...however you want to call it.”

  I folded my arms across my chest and glanced over both sides of his neck.

  Jackson looked behind him, seeing nothing, he growled. “What the hell are you starin’ at?”

  “Hunting for that chip on your shoulder.”

  Jackson jabbed a finger in my direction. “Everything I have, I earned.”

  “Nobody said otherwise.”

  “I was an Army brat. I didn’t get no breaks...lived in nine different places growing up, including staying with grandparents during my dad’s two tours in Vietnam. For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a cop. I worked and put myself through college. No handouts. Bottom line: I’m not about to let some rich frat boy, who uses travel agents, horn in on my investigation.”

  I wasn’t sure how to react, or even if I should. With my palms face up in front of me, I began. “Look...I was lucky growing up. Until high school, I thought most of the country lived like we did. My easy, complacent life shook to the core when my mother and sister were brutally murdered. That’s when I chose—like you did—to bring justice to victims and their families. We may have had different beginnings, but we’re at the same place now.”

  Dwayne Jackson’s face relaxed. “I’m sorry. I had no business saying what I said. It’s just...I wasted three hours this afternoon at Trambata’s estate being looked down upon the whole time. She showed more respect to the hired help. All I wanted when I left there was to take a hot shower. Then you called.”

  With a wave of my hand, I signaled no worries. “This case is important to me. I’ve known Joel since we were teenagers. Finding the truth will honor his memory.”

  The waitress set the plate of scrambled eggs in front of me. “One check. I got it.”

  “Absolutely not,” Jackson interrupted. “I’m on an expense account. I need my own bill.”

  She dashed away leaving the argument between us.

  It was time to learn if I’d managed to change his mind about including me in the investigation. “Did you learn any more details about Carlin’s trip to Baltimore?”

  “I alerted my staff. They’ll follow up. Find out where he stayed, etc. What time is your brother’s meeting in the morning?”

  “Eleven.”

  “What’s your take on Carlin Trambata?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve never met him. He knew Megan was having an affair and hired a private investigator to follow Joel.”
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  Jackson peered at me across his coffee cup. “Who’s the PI?”

  “Sal Zalinski. He comes across with a sleazy vibe, especially when he started following me.”

  Jackson shook his head in a never-heard-of-him gesture.

  “Zalinski mostly operates in Philly. Did you get the autopsy report yet?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “The usual.”

  Just when I thought tensions had eased between us, Jackson clammed up. After a few bites of scrambled egg, I said, “Humor me on one point.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What were the contents of Joel’s stomach?”

  He looked at me quizzically. “The ME described it as ‘recently ingested’ chicken. Why do you ask?”

  “I keep thinking about the crime scene. I saw Joel about seven-thirty that evening at the dunking booth. He wore an Orioles’ sweatshirt and grey sweat pants. After seeing his body, looks like he wore those over a swim suit. Had the evening been warmer, he would have only used the swim trunks.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “His murder wasn’t far from the dunking booth. Wet clothes draped on the locomotive and the bag of dry clothes nearby suggests that Joel was in the process of changing when confronted by his killer.”

  Jackson nodded. “Your point?”

  “I keep thinking about the plastic fork near the body.”

  The detective drummed his fingers on the table top.

  “The killer could have used food to distract Joel. There were twenty food vendors that night. My aunt and I didn’t sample everything, but I’m pretty sure the only chicken options were chicken croquettes and chicken satay. If the medical examiner used the expression ‘recently ingested,’ I’m guessing we’re talking about the satay.”

  Jackson bobbed his head in agreement. “So, the killer approaches and says, ‘Nice job on the dunking booth,’ hands him the food, and when Driscoll is chowing down, pulls the knife on him.”

  “Most of the appetizers were served in paper food trays. The killer must have disposed of it so his ruse wouldn’t be noticed.”

  “But he couldn’t easily spot the black plastic fork in the dark, which is why it was found at the scene.”

  I refilled my coffee cup from the carafe. “If that’s the way things went down, it could have been someone Joel didn’t even know.”

  If Jackson and I felt more like collaborators, it might have been time for a high five.

  “I’ll have my team track down the chicken satay vendor and see if he remembers anyone making a last-minute purchase before the auction.”

  “You mentioned meeting Megan Trambata. Is she still a suspect?”

  Jackson lowered his voice to a whisper. “There were a few times today I would have liked to slap the cuffs on her. She’s a complete phony in my opinion.”

  Based on my limited interaction with her, I could see how Jackson would feel that way.

  He continued. “She has an alibi for the night of the murder, spending her time in Boca Raton—a thousand miles from the scene of the crime. A maid and two other staff vouched for her whereabouts last Saturday night.”

  I wondered if the staff from the Philly mansion traveled with her.

  “Megan didn’t impress me either, but Joel loved her.”

  He deadpanned. “She seems to have gotten over her loss.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The guy she chased around the patio this afternoon didn’t act like the pool boy.” Jackson smirked.

  I couldn’t keep the scowl off my face.

  22

  Thursday, October 4, 2001

  The following morning, I slept in. Thanks to my travel agent, I had a room at the Boca Raton Beach Resort, a fact I neglected to mention when Detective Jackson and I parted company at 12:30 in the morning—especially since he was about to head for the nearby Days Inn.

  I wanted to arrive at Trambata’s estate ahead of my brother. Andrew hadn’t mentioned staying in Boca the night before, so I suspected he’d take the corporate jet into the executive airport my travel agent had described. Besides, he wasn’t known for punctuality and would most likely make a grand entrance after eleven. This would give me time to assess Megan’s demeanor following Joel’s death and meet Carlin Trambata first hand.

  I expected Detective Jackson would be there as well. He wanted to talk with Carlin about his recent trip to Baltimore.

  A short drive across the El Camino Real Bridge brought me to A1A for the turn north to Trambata’s vacation home. Casa de Antigua was a misnomer. I expected a Spanish hacienda with tiled roof and aging adobe walls. Instead, I found a white contemporary—even larger than his Philly estate—sprawled at the edge of the Intracoastal Waterway. My rental looked shabby compared to the Rolls Royce parked in the driveway. Beyond the tennis courts, a sixty-foot yacht with Island Temptress emblazoned on the stern was moored at the dock. A man with dark hair, wearing a white T-shirt scrambled up a ladder to the bridge.

  I rang the doorbell and waited.

  Voices, raised at times, sounded beyond the frosted glass of the front door. When it opened, I recognized one of the servants from the Philly mansion, and from the look on his face he remembered me.

  “Brad Frame to see Carlin Trambata.”

  “Please wait here.” After a half-bow, he disappeared through a door to the left. Like the outside, the interior gleamed with Carrara marble floors and painted white walls. Two sets of curved stairs framed an archway with a view to the back of the house, where a wall of windows revealed a pool deck.

  Out of my vision, a man’s voice said, “What time did all this happen?”

  “I was asleep.” Megan squealed, followed by sounds of panting.

  “You need to calm down. I can’t help you if you’re going to be hysterical. Approximately what time?” I now recognized Todd Vicary’s voice, which made sense with Andrew’s imminent meeting about acquiring one of Herron Industry’s subsidiaries.

  The sound of a man clearing his throat, followed. “Excuse me, Ma’am, there’s a Brad Frame here for Mr. Trambata.”

  A beat followed before she shrieked. Megan appeared in the archway wearing a short sun dress. She rushed toward me, threw her arms around my back, and cried, “Oh, Brad, thank God you’re here.”

  A somber looking Todd Vicary followed her into the foyer. As Megan sobbed over my shoulder, I glanced at Todd with an inquisitive what’s-going-on?

  “Perhaps you’ll get the full story. From what I can gather, the police arrived early this morning and arrested Carlin.”

  Megan removed her fingernails from my shoulders, stood back, and bobbed her head.

  I gestured toward the furniture overlooking the pool. “Please, let’s sit.”

  After we’d done so, the same maid who served us juice in Philadelphia appeared to ask if we cared for anything to drink. Todd and I declined. Megan ordered a Manhattan.

  I leaned forward. “Take a deep breath and tell me what happened...in your own words.”

  Todd rolled his eyes.

  “C.J, arrived late last night, after midnight. I was still up watching There’s Something About Mary on cable. Almost immediately, he headed off to bed. I wasn’t tired. I fell asleep later with the TV on...not sure when...then this morning I heard the doorbell ringing. I figured it was college kids, you know, coming home drunk and doing pranks.”

  “What time?”

  She shrugged. “Don’t know exactly. It was still dark.”

  A quick glance revealed no clocks in the room, though a TV reception box displayed digital time in glowing yellow numbers.

  “They must’ve woken C.J. The next thing I knew he opened the front door and the police rushed in.”

  “How many?”

  She pressed fingers against her temple. “Two from the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Department and a plainclothes black guy.”

  Detective Jackson?

  “What did they say?”

 
Megan’s Manhattan arrived, and she took a generous gulp. “The officers asked if he was Carlin Trambata. He said yes, and they told him he was under arrest for Joel Driscoll’s murder.”

  So much for Jackson bringing me into his confidence. And to boot, I’d given him the tip about Carlin being in Baltimore at the time of the murder. They must have found more than the hotel he stayed at in Baltimore for them to charge him with the crime.

  “They wouldn’t even let Carlin get dressed,” Todd interjected.

  “Were you here in the house too?”

  Todd shook his head. “I arrived ten minutes before you. She told me about them not letting him change.”

  “C.J. wore pants and a T-shirt to answer the door,” Megan explained. “They allowed him to put on shoes and socks.”

  “Had you seen the plainclothes officer before?”

  Megan bit her lower lip. “He was here yesterday talking to me.”

  Todd went ballistic. “What? You didn’t tell me that. Did you implicate Mr. Trambata in Mr. Driscoll’s murder?”

  “No. No,” she cried, in a higher pitch. “I didn’t even know where C.J. was when Joel was killed.”

  I sank into the sofa and kneaded my forehead. Before I made a mess of this conversation I had to figure out how much Todd knew about Joel’s relationship with Megan. He was aware of Joel’s murder, probably because I’d informed Tanesha Goodling. Was Todd privy to the details of Sal Zalinski’s investigation on Carlin’s behalf? Until I could have a private conversation, I had to assume he did.

  Without confessing to my prior interactions with Detective Jackson, I asked Megan to describe the kind of questions the plainclothes officer had posed during his visit the day before.

  “Um, he wanted to know how I knew Joel.” She shot me a glance while tilting her head toward Todd, making it clear she didn’t want to get into those details with him present. “Mostly he asked about my whereabouts last Saturday night.” Her voice grew more confident. “I was here. The staff will vouch for me.”

  The doorbell rang. The man who admitted me quickly appeared and headed for the door.