Embalmed (A Brad Frame Mystery Book 6) Page 11

  Brad looked at his watch. It had been nearly ninety minutes since he’d dropped Nick at the station. The TV anchor had said the train incident had occurred within the hour. He knew that trains ran less frequently on the weekend, but he wondered if Nick might have already caught one and was safely at home.

  He pulled out his cell. Nick hated cell phones, and probably no longer had his department-issued phone during his suspension. Brad decided to call Nick’s home number and hoped he would answer.

  The call went into voice mail. Damn.

  Brad pondered what to do next. An announcement over the public address system called out the next Acela train to New York City departing on track five, and hordes of people scurried to line up.

  His cell buzzed, and he quickly answered it.

  He heard Ruth’s breathless voice. “Brad, I’m sorry to have missed your call. I was out walking the dog.”

  “I was calling for Nick.”

  “I thought he was with you.”

  Over the tops of heads blocking the entry to SEPTA trains, Brad saw a uniformed officer and a man in a suit, whom he presumed was a detective. They lumbered down the ramp in his direction. Between them was Nick Argostino.

  Brad could barely contain his relief. He let out a whoop of joy until Ruth’s persistent “Are you still there?” shook him from his celebration.

  “Yeah…” Brad sputtered. “We’re running a little later than I thought. Nick should be home by dinner.”

  She thanked him for the “heads-up” and ended the call.

  Nick and the two officers ducked under the yellow police tape, and Brad saw the uniformed policeman direct Nick toward alternate bus service.

  Brad called out to him.

  Nick pivoted, trying to determine from which direction the voice came. He finally spotted Brad and walked toward him.

  “What are you doing here?” Nick asked.

  Brad wasn’t about to admit that he feared Nick had thrown himself in front of a train. “I heard about the SEPTA tie-up and figured I could offer you a ride.”

  Nick eyed him skeptically.

  “Well, whatever brought you here I’ll take that ride and maybe a stiff drink on the way home.”

  “You got it.”

  Brad removed the ticket from his car’s windshield. In spite of having a good reason for not taking the time to feed the meter with coins, he’d be stuck with a fine. Life isn’t always fair.

  “Why were those officers escorting you?” Brad asked when they’d settled into the car.

  “I was a witness.”

  “That must’ve been awful.”

  Nick shrugged. “If a guy wants to off himself that way I’m not about to jump in after him. But he tried to drag his girlfriend onto the tracks with him.”

  “Mind sharing the story?”

  “No. But I should stop and call Ruth, and I thought we could pay a visit to McMenamin’s Tavern on Germantown Avenue.”

  “You’re covered with Ruth. I spoke to her a few minutes ago, and she’s not expecting you till dinner time.”

  Nick looked at his watch. “That gives me three hours to get drunk.”

  Brad took the nearby on-ramp for the Schuylkill Expressway. “Uh, then maybe you better fill me in before we get to the bar.”

  Nick leaned back in his seat, laced his fingers behind his head, and exhaled. “After you had dropped me off at the station, I checked and my next train wouldn’t be for about forty-five minutes. I wasn’t in any rush, so I decided to grab a coffee. About a half hour later, I walked up to the B platform to wait for my train—which was still fifteen minutes away. I found a seat, minded my own business, and tried hard not to think about everything that’s happened to me in the last few weeks.”

  “Understandable.” Brad looked over and saw Nick’s eyes were shut as he recalled the scene.

  “I heard a woman scream and turned to see this guy dragging her over to the edge of the platform. He was tall and had a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. His right hand was wrapped around her wrist. I stood up and yelled for him to let her go. I had no idea of his intentions to jump, and thought I was witnessing a kidnapping. I moved closer and once more commanded him to release her.

  “There were about a half a dozen patrons in that area and a few further down the platform. Most of them froze and watched. The woman shouted to me ‘He’s gonna jump’ at the same time as I saw the train approaching the station.”

  Nick stopped talking. Brad saw him gritting his teeth.

  In the rearview mirror, Brad spotted two cars dodging in and out of traffic. He steered to the right until they had passed.

  Nick brought his hands down from behind his head and swiveled in Brad’s direction. “I knew I had to act. I spotted this husky guy in a Penn sweatshirt—probably a student—and called out to him. Told him I was a cop and asked him to come and hold on to the woman—tightly around the waist.

  “With the train rumbling into the station, panic grew in the woman’s eyes.

  “I reached for my Swiss Army knife and tried to open a blade. My fingernail slipped, and the blade snapped closed. I managed to yank out the corkscrew and jabbed it into the assailant’s arm six or seven inches above his wrist.” Nick pointed at the location on his arm. “I must’ve struck his radial artery since blood spurted on my pants.”

  Brad glanced over and noticed the blood stains for the first time.

  “The man yelped in pain, let loose his grip on the woman, and tumbled backward onto the track just as the train rolled over him. I didn’t hear anything more from him.”

  Nick fell silent.

  “You saved that woman’s life,” Brad finally said. “You’re a hero.”

  “I’m no different than when I got out of bed this morning.” Nick rapped his knuckles on the car’s center console. “Tell me the real reason you were at 30th Street.”

  Brad breathed a sigh. Things didn’t turn out the way I feared. Nick deserves the truth. “When I was at Ruddigore’s a news bulletin interrupted the baseball game with a report that a middle-aged man had jumped in front of a SEPTA train. Given how down in the dumps you were when I dropped you at the station, I worried it might be you.”

  Nick grunted.

  “Don’t believe everything you read in the media. The jumper was in his twenties, not much older than the college guy who helped out. And get this straight, I am nowhere near middle age.”

  Brad thought he saw a smile forming on Nick’s face.

  “Besides, if I were going to put an end to myself, it wouldn’t be today.”

  Brad took the bait. “Why not?”

  “Ruth’s making lasagna for dinner tonight.”

  15

  The Sunday newspaper once again proved Oscar Wilde’s aphorism: “No good deed goes unpunished.”

  The two-column heading on the front page of The Philadelphia Inquirer screamed SUSPENDED DETECTIVE SAVES WOMAN FROM TRAIN JUMPER.

  Brad sat at his kitchen table sipping coffee and reading the article for the third time. Outside a steady rain fell on his well-manicured backyard.

  The reporting mirrored what Nick had told him about the incident, but then veered to focus on Nick’s recent suspension for “assaulting a fellow officer.” The article noted that Argostino had summoned a bystander to help by stating “I’m a cop.” It went on to quote a Department spokesperson, “It is disingenuous for a detective under suspension to identify himself to the public as an officer.”

  Buried on page 17 of the A section were words of praise for Nick from the young woman he’d saved from certain death and the first-year med student Nick had enlisted to help.

  Brad could only imagine how well the Inquirer article had gone over at the Argostino household. Ruth would likely be more livid than Nick, who’d take this new development in stride. When Nick first spoke of his suspension, he said they’d try to keep it quiet. Who leaked the news? Sanders? Barkow?

  Brad hoped this might put Nick in more of a fighting spirit when he returned o
n Monday morning.

  A second article on the front page also commanded Brad’s attention: SERIAL KILLER IN GRUESOME DEATHS.

  Sterling Haller’s murder had barely caught the attention of the paper, the story buried on a back page of the local news section. But a second death by embalming brought a sensationalized account. Community leaders urged quick action in finding the killer who had “struck terror in the neighborhood.”

  Brad tossed the newspaper onto the upholstered bench, filled his mug with fresh coffee, and headed for the office.

  He usually avoided working on Sundays so he could spend time with Beth. Her absence and the gloomy day persuaded him otherwise. He sat at the partners’ desk and began making notes on the next steps in their investigation of the trumped-up assault charges against Nick.

  Even as he sketched out a few ideas, he couldn’t keep his mind off the embalming deaths of Sterling Haller and Henry Lucas. Two weeks earlier he’d never heard of Sterling Haller, and barely recalled Grace from when she’d worked for Joedco. Then he’d gotten a call from Irene Del Greco.

  Brad couldn’t imagine that sweet, Rosary-saying lady drawing him into a sinister plot that would lead to the deaths of two people. He’d promised to take her to lunch, which he would add to his TO DO list for the week.

  Grace, Irene, and Henry all had a connection to Joedco. Rhonda Lounsbury, too. He couldn’t forget her. He could access their personnel records in case work histories raised any red flags. Were the embalming deaths a subtle attack on the family business? An attempt at bad PR, which could damage its reputation? Brad would need to alert his brother, Andrew.

  Who benefits from those deaths?

  In the case of Sterling Haller, Riley Truit looked like the beneficiary. But Henry Lucas couldn’t have had much money. Lucas had paid restitution to the insurance company for funds he’d bilked. An ex-con’s job prospects weren’t likely to yield a vast income. Plus, the allegation that he’d been romantically involved with Grace Haller suggested Lucas might have been on a gold-digging expedition.

  Perhaps money isn’t the motive.

  Brad opened the website for the colonic hydrotherapy service. After less than a minute of browsing, a pop-up again asked if he wanted to chat. He closed the window and continued to read complete descriptions of the procedure. Although the idea repulsed him, he might have had more confidence if their site had spelled “dehidrated” correctly, or had he not spotted the sentence beginning “You haft to remember…”

  He punched *67 on his phone to block caller ID before calling the therapy unit on his cell.

  After two rings he heard, “Our hours are noon to eight p.m. daily. If you receive this recording during regular business hours, we may be with a customer. Please leave your name and number at the beep and we’ll call you back.”

  Brad glanced at his watch, noting it was already past noon. He left his first name and the same prepaid cell number that he’d posted at Ruddigore’s.

  It reminded him that he needed to find that phone and check if there were any messages.

  He retrieved the prepaid phone from a desk drawer, prayed that it still held a charge, and turned it on.

  There were two messages and the battery life displayed at 15 percent, so he connected the charger and listened to the recordings.

  The first was a hang-up and details for the number were unknown. Brad felt sorry that he hadn’t activated the phone sooner.

  The second one made him wish it’d been a hang-up. A male voice said, “Who the hell do you think you are? I’m running a respectable business and don’t need assholes posting signs to turn my customers away. I pulled it down, so don’t expect any calls.”

  That has to be Phil. In spite of what his tirade said, there had been a call—an uncompleted one.

  Based on what Nick and Sharon had told him about Phil, the vehemence in his voice surprised Brad. Perhaps he’d read too much into the tone, which sounded both angry and bitter.

  If Steve, who worked for Phil, hadn’t had an issue with Brad posting a sign, what had changed? Did Phil receive a complaint? Why hadn’t he torn down the sign and forgotten about it? If the story Phil had given Internal Affairs wasn’t the “whole truth,” that could account for how pissed off he seemed.

  As Brad pondered these questions, the cell phone buzzed in his hand.

  “Hello.”

  “This is CHT Visions returning your call,” a man’s voice announced.

  He hadn’t expected a call back that quickly. “Ah…yes, a friend recommended your services. I wondered when Guido would be available and if I could schedule an appointment.”

  “This is Guido. I just had a cancelation for three o’clock. Or I could see you Tuesday after four p.m.”

  “This afternoon would work.”

  “Great. I’ll mark you in the book. What’s your last name?”

  “Bertolini,” Brad said, using Phil’s last name.

  “We have a special for new clients of fifty dollars for the first treatment. That’s a thirty-five-dollar savings. Depending on your condition, we usually recommend a minimum of three treatments in the first week to ten days.”

  “Okay.” Brad smiled. I don’t intend to have treatment number one, let alone three of them.

  “Plan to arrive fifteen minutes in advance,” Guido explained, “I’ll have paperwork for you to fill out. You have our address?”

  “Yes. From your website. Is there convenient parking?”

  “There’s a parking lot at the rear of the building.”

  “I’ll see you at two-forty-five p.m.”

  Brad headed for South Philly. Once more he found himself within the twenty-square-block area where Grace Haller lived, two embalmed bodies had been discovered, and Ruddigore’s tavern was located. On this trip, he hunted for the CHT Visions location, where for fifty bucks a first-time customer could get an enema.

  Oy.

  Descending address numbers told him he was getting close. To his left he spotted a three-story brick building labeled “Medical Arts.” He parked in a nearly deserted lot at the rear of the building.

  Brad studied the secluded area, surrounded by a high concrete block fence, and decided it would provide sufficient cover late at night for loading a body.

  Only two other vehicles were there, an Audi and a Jeep. Unless he walked to work, one of those cars belonged to Guido—most likely the Jeep. Neither were conducive to the transport of a body.

  Brad noticed closed circuit cameras above and on opposite sides of the locked front door, next to which was a directory. Tenants included a blood lab, two family physicians, a cardiologist, massage therapist, and CHT Visions situated in Suite 303. Several of the suites had no names next to their buzzer buttons and were apparently vacant. He pressed the intercom button for 303.

  A voice crackled, “Can I help you?”

  “It’s Brad,” he announced. Seconds later, the door buzzed open.

  In the lobby, a hand-lettered sign on a manila file folder and taped to the elevator door stated: Out of Service. Please use stairs, underlined by an arrow pointing left.

  As Brad climbed the stairs to the third floor, he wondered how long the elevator had been out of order. Taking a body down those flights of stairs would have been a challenge even with the use of a handcart.

  Suite 303 was directly in front of him when he emerged on the third floor. A chime dinged as he entered.

  Brad found a waiting area typical of a doctor’s office. No one staffed the receptionist’s desk. There were a few upholstered chairs. On one side of the room was a door marked “Therapy Room #1,” with “Therapy Room #2” on the opposite side.

  Given the nature of their business he expected the offices to smell like, well, a latrine. They didn’t.

  Likewise, Brad sniffed the air for formalin. After spending time in Wes Taylor’s embalming room, he felt confident of his ability to detect the chemical. He didn’t notice any peculiar odors.

  A man carrying a clipboard came out of room
one and announced, “You must be Mr. Bertolini. I’m Guido.”

  He had assumed a guy named Guido would look like a cross between Paul Bunyan and the Incredible Hulk. This guy reminded him more of Bart Simpson, with a slight build, spiked hair, and bulging eyes. He couldn’t have been taller than five foot four, and Brad doubted the man was capable of wrestling a body the size of Henry Lucas.

  “How long has the elevator been out of service?” Brad asked.

  “Sorry about that,” Guido began. “We’ve been trying to get it fixed for a month. My boss keeps calling the landlord.” Guido extended the clipboard toward Brad and instructed. “Fill out this fact sheet, including the health questions, and then we’ll get started with your treatment.”

  Between the broken elevator and the man’s puny size, Brad no longer suspected Guido of involvement in the deaths of Sterling Haller and Henry Lucas. He switched tactics.

  Brad reached into his wallet and extracted five twenty-dollar bills. He laid them on the clipboard. “I’ll pay you for your time, but I don’t really want a treatment. I understand you worked with Sterling Haller, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Uh…I, uh,” Guido stammered. “We’re not allowed to discuss our patients.”

  “I appreciate that.” Brad handed Guido one of his business cards. “I’m a private detective. Perhaps you haven’t heard, but Mr. Haller was murdered last week.”

  It was clear from the shocked expression on his face that Guido was hearing this news for the first time.

  “I, uh…hadn’t heard.”

  “The police are investigating. I know Sterling’s sister, and I’m hunting for answers.” Brad hoped the explanation would preclude any further questions regarding his involvement. “I’m aware of Mr. Haller’s liver cancer, which is probably why he used your services.”

  Guido nodded.

  Brad hoped that might mean an opening for more conversation, and gestured toward a chair. “Please, have a seat.”

  Guido sat, and Brad noticed that, in the process, he’d slipped the twenties in his pocket.