Yard Goat (A Brad Frame Mystery Book 7) Read online

  I recalled the report of his dining with an Indian woman at Tandoori House.

  “Have the treatments shown any beneficial effects?”

  His face turned grim. “I have good days and bad days, but that was true before the treatment.”

  My next question was a shot in the dark. “Why did you keep Tanesha Goodling in your confidence and no one else?’

  Carlin laughed, resulting in a coughing jag. “The premise of your question is wrong. I expected better of you, Mr. Frame. She keeps me informed—with appropriate bonuses in her paycheck for her trouble—not the other way round. That’s how I knew my office had hired you to find me.”

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  On the way back to the hotel my taxi passed a Ford F-150 with American flags proudly flapping from the rear of the cab. The cabbie saluted the display with a toot of his horn. We were soon joined in a cacophony of patriotic honks from nearby vehicles.

  I called Lucas to update him on my session with Carlin Trambata and see what investigative avenues he might want me to pursue. I had to leave a message.

  Over a lunch of iced tea and a tomato stuffed with tuna salad, I pulled out my notebook and reviewed the list of suspects in Joel Driscoll’s murder. I scratched Carlin’s name because of a gut feeling about his innocence. A few names remained.

  Cecilia Driscoll – Joel’s widow

  Jeremy Nulph – her new lover?

  Mike McMillan – Joel’s law partner

  Sal Zalinski – Trambata’s PI

  Megan Trambata – tired of Joel?

  Since it looked like someone wanted to frame Carlin for the crime, I wondered if Joel’s death was merely collateral damage in a larger plot to discredit Trambata. His depiction of Tanesha Goodling as a paid informant fueled my speculation. I added another line to my list.

  Herron Industries intrigue

  I lingered at the lunch table hoping to hear back from Lucas. Finally, when no return call came, I decided to do a little snooping.

  I drove to Parkin Street and the location to which the mysterious caller had instructed Carlin to take a taxi on the night of Joel’s murder.

  The area felt less secluded than I’d imagined, with cars parked on both sides of the street. A six-story apartment building stood to my left, while the train museum was visible through trees popping with red and orange leaves on my right. After parking the car, I paced the sidewalk taking in the sights.

  I had a clear view of the rusted yellow paint on the yard goat, no more than fifty feet away, as well as the area where Joel’s dunking booth and other games had been set up for the fundraiser. When I’d spoken with Detective Jackson, Parkin Street had drawn my attention as a possible location from which the murderer might have attacked. In daylight, the eight-foot chain-link fence bordering the museum seemed a formidable barrier, especially for a man into his sixties with Parkinson’s.

  Carlin had been instructed to arrive at 7:50 p.m. That timing wasn’t coincidental, since the game booths were scheduled to shut down at 7:45 p.m. Had Carlin seen Joel? If so, would he have recognized him? I recalled that they had only met once—at Carlin’s wedding to Megan. Since Carlin had Joel under surveillance, perhaps he’d seen a more recent photograph.

  For the fundraiser, pathways between the trains were illuminated with multi-colored Christmas tree lights. In the view from Parkin Street, such lighting would have silhouetted figures in the foreground.

  Carlin was told to leave after fifteen minutes if no one showed up. No one had any intention of showing up. This was merely a ruse to draw Trambata to the scene of the crime. Taxi records and tracking of data from cell towers would then incriminate him.

  Those instructions for his arrival and departure revealed the real killer’s premeditated timeline for murder—at a point after Carlin had left, but while the auction kept fundraising participants occupied.

  I kept coming back to the question of where was Joel while Carlin lurked on the neighboring street. If Joel had lingered at the dunking booth, giving a few more players the chance to send him into the tank, the backboard would have obscured any view of him from Trambata. On the other hand, a man shedding wet clothes and toweling off would be hard to miss at fifty feet. I needed to ask Carlin for more details about his observations from that night.

  My love of trains persuaded me that I needed to make another stop at the museum. After all, it was close by. I’d have a chance to observe Jeremy Nulph in his native habitat, maybe “accidentally” bump into him and learn more about his budding romance with Joel’s widow.

  West Pratt was one-way, so I circled a few blocks until I pulled into the museum’s parking lot. After I disconnected my seat belt, another car glided into a spot two away from me. Glancing over, I saw Sal Zalinski in the driver’s seat. He had the same dark blue Buick I’d seen him use on the night he was staking out Joel at Trambata’s mansion.

  What’s he doing here?, quickly evolved to, Is he following me?

  Sal climbed out of his car without paying any attention to my vehicle. He wore the same tough-guy scowl I’d witnessed during my encounter with him in DC.

  My rented SUV had tinted windows, which I hoped would conceal me. As Sal headed in my direction, I bent toward the center console to further cloak my appearance. He walked past the front of my car aiming for the museum’s Roundhouse. Moments later he entered without a look back at the parking lot.

  My mind raced to figure out the reasons for his visit. Carlin must have reached out to him between the time he landed in the Baltimore jail and the attack that resulted in his hospitalization. Carlin would have no way to communicate with him since then, and I’d been at the hospital when the trach was removed. If Lucas Emmanuel knew about Zalinski’s involvement, he hadn’t shared the news with me.

  I didn’t think Sal had spotted me. Perhaps I should just follow him into the museum and ask my questions directly. Before I had time to formulate a plan, Sal Zalinski emerged, moving as fast as his limping gait would allow toward his car. He’d been in the building for less than five minutes.

  The rental car company left a map of Maryland in the center console, which I used to help mask my identity. Sal only seemed anxious to get into his car and leave.

  I decided to see where he was going, starting my engine right after him, but waiting until he pulled out before following.

  He’d have to make a right turn on West Pratt, and I was banking on the idea he would head for the Baltimore jail to see Carlin—unaware of Trambata’s hospitalization. I was thankful it wasn’t rush hour as the three lanes of traffic traveled east, allowing for better maneuverability. Sal stayed in the middle. His blue car was easy to follow with its gold and blue Pennsylvania license plate. I eased into the left lane, since either the jail or hospital destination would require a left turn.

  Sal sped past the intersection for Greene Street, so he wasn’t planning to visit the hospital.

  I got stuck at a traffic light when the car ahead of me braked suddenly. I figured I’d lost him, but up ahead Sal’s car stopped at the next light.

  I caught up, staying several car lengths behind, still in the left lane. If Sal thought he was being followed, he didn’t act like it.

  Pratt Street widened to four lanes. Without warning, Sal shifted one lane to the right, forcing me to alter my strategy and cross two lanes of traffic to move in behind him. If he wasn’t planning to visit the jail, I sure as hell wanted to know his destination.

  Traffic thickened. Sal put a blinker on, signaling a change to the far right lane. An opening in the traffic allowed me to make the lane change before he did. He turned right at the next intersection.

  We passed Camden Yards, home to the Orioles, and soon traveled south on I-395 at Interstate speeds. I didn’t have a clue where Sal was heading.

  He aimed for the on-ramp for I-95 North, a route I’d taken before. I followed, almost immediately seeing signs announcing the toll for the Fort McHenry Tunnel. It looked as if Sal was returning to Philadelphia—adding even more my
stery to his brief visit to the train museum.

  I bailed out ahead of the tunnel at the exit for the Cruise Terminal, then circled back toward Downtown Baltimore.

  31

  Still puzzled by my sighting of Sal Zalinski in Baltimore, I returned to the railroad museum, hoping to learn why Sal had visited and to catch up with Jeremy Nulph.

  The man at the ticket counter, dressed like a railroad conductor with a name badge labeled Milt, pointed at the antique wall clock behind him. “We close at four and don’t admit visitors with less than an hour till closing.”

  “Jeremy Nulph. Is he available?”

  “Let me check.” Milt picked up a walkie-talkie. “Have you seen Jeremy?”

  A reply crackled that he’d just left the train shed heading for the roundhouse.

  “He’ll be coming in shortly. If you’d like to look around while you wait, go ahead. No charge.”

  I stepped away, drawn by JOHN HANCOCK in gold lettering on the side of a vintage engine dating from the first half of the 19th century.

  As I admired one of the oldest trains in the museum’s collection, Milt came over.

  “Mr. Nulph’s been delayed...just a few extra minutes.”

  “No problem. I’m enjoying the trains.”

  Milt launched into a spiel about the Hancock being called a “Grasshopper.”

  “A half-hour ago a guy visited the museum, five-eight, broken nose, salt and pepper hair in a widow’s peak. Do you recall him?”

  “Yeah. Strange guy. He comes in, buys a ticket, marched through the roundhouse and out into the rail yard.” Milt gestured to a door on the opposite side. “Less than two minutes later, he comes strolling back through. Gave me a salute with his index finger and left.”

  “You didn’t see him with anyone else?”

  Milt shook his head. “Here comes Mr. Nulph.”

  I turned. Jeremy slowed in his tracks when he saw me.

  “What brings you here?” He managed a smile.

  “Do you have time to chat?”

  “Sure. Let’s go out here.” Jeremy led the way outside to a wrought iron and wooden bench overlooking a model railroad display. The sun felt warm on my back, and a light breeze carried the sounds of nearby traffic. “It’s too nice a day to be cooped up inside.”

  During our initial small talk, Jeremy seemed on edge, waiting for me to pounce. He’d never cultivated a poker face.

  Following a lull, I asked, “Do you know Sal Zalinski?”

  His blank stare answered before he shook his head.

  “How is Cecilia getting along?”

  Jeremy uncrossed his legs. “I know Joel was a friend of yours. Cecilia needs someone in her life right now.”

  “I’m sure she does.”

  “You probably hate me.”

  “I don’t blame you for developing a relationship with Cecilia. She’s an attractive woman. Joel said they’d grown apart in recent years.”

  Jeremy nodded. “Cecilia told me the same thing. We were friends before...becoming intimate.”

  “I’d like to get to the truth of who killed Joel. If it was you, then, yes, I hate you.”

  He recoiled on the bench next to me. “No, I didn’t. Besides, they arrested a guy for the—”

  “That guy was framed. I want to find the real killer.”

  “I don’t know,” he sputtered.

  “You’re concealing something—acting strange ever since I met you at the funeral home. You were supposed to help with the auction on the night of the fundraiser. Cecilia and the auctioneer delayed the start, apparently looking for you. What haven’t you told me?”

  Jeremy’s shoulders slumped. “Joel and I got into a fight that night.”

  Cocked my head in his direction. “I’m all ears.”

  “I guess it was about ten to eight that evening when Cecilia asked me to make sure the games were shut down.”

  I pictured Carlin’s cab arriving at the same time on the neighboring street.

  “She wanted the maximum number of people participating in the auction. When I got to the dunking booth, Joel was still sitting there goading a couple of stragglers to knock him into the water. He’d already been in the water at least once, and soaking wet.

  “I didn’t say a word to Joel, but reminded the players the auction was about to start. Joel gave me the finger and said, ‘Aw, come on, it’s for charity.’”

  I’d been the recipient of Joel’s middle finger that night too, and recalled the kind of mood he’d been in.

  “The players left. Joel climbed down from the dunking platform and started jabbing me in the chest with his finger. I think he’d had a few too many beers, since his words sounded slurred.”

  I would check Joel’s blood alcohol in the medical examiner’s report. Given the scenario Jeremy painted, how much of this confrontation might Carlin have witnessed from across the street? Another reason to check with him. “Was Joel yelling?”

  “No. Derision through gritted teeth, calling me a douchebag, stuff like that.”

  I pictured Joel’s colorful taunts.

  “Joel was pissed. His face flushed. I figured he suspected about me and Cecilia. I told him he should get outta the wet clothes, and then I turned to leave. He came after me. Punched me in the face. The fury went out of him and he backed off.”

  “Doesn’t sound like that took more than five minutes. Why were you a no-show for the auction?”

  “My nose started bleeding from the punch. I couldn’t get it to stop. My handkerchief was soaked with blood. I spent the next half hour in the washroom next to my office, head tilted back, and applying wet compresses.”

  Did he just confess to having a bloody handkerchief?

  I must’ve looked skeptical.

  He extended an open palm. “Honest.”

  “Does Cecilia know about the confrontation with Joel?”

  Jeremy nodded.

  “Did you tell all this to Detective Jackson when he questioned you?”

  Jeremy gazed at the brick walkway. “No.”

  Of course he hadn’t. Mention of it would have led to a search of the washroom, confiscating the bloody handkerchief as evidence, testing it for Joel’s DNA.

  I reached into my wallet and found Sal Zalinski’s business card. I showed the side of the card with Zalinski’s photo to Jeremy. “Do you know this man?”

  He reached for the card, but I didn’t relinquish it. Jeremy produced a pair of glasses from his inside coat pocket and studied the photograph more closely.

  “He doesn’t look familiar.”

  I put the card back in my wallet. Another dead end.

  I called Lucas Emmanuel’s office while still sitting in the museum’s parking lot. He’d had a busy day, according to his secretary, was currently with a client but aware of my calls and would contact me this evening.

  With the visit to Parkin Street fresh in my mind, I decided to pay another visit to Carlin Trambata’s hospital room to learn more details. Maybe he could also shed light on Sal Zalinski’s presence in the city.

  For convenience, I pulled to the valet parking stand in front of the hospital. The attendant asked how long I’d be, and I said less than an hour.

  I approached the receptionist’s desk for a visitor pass to the ICU. Unlike my previous visit, she asked for the patient’s name.

  After consulting a computer screen, she informed me Trambata had been discharged.

  The valet was surprised to see me so quickly.

  Back at my hotel, I recorded a few notes from the day. Lucas called about 5:30, and I filled him in on the salient points I’d learned. He’d only seen a preliminary report from the Medical Examiner, which didn’t include toxicology results. I suggested it best for me to return to Philadelphia and speak directly with Trambata to fill in specifics of his time near the scene of the crime. Lucas agreed.

  I didn’t share with the attorney my suspicions about a person or persons at Herron Industries who might have wanted to frame Mr. Trambata. Todd
Vicary, in upper management, had hired Lucas. I doubted the attorney would want to run the risk of losing his generous retainer by casting suspicions on those paying the bill.

  On the other hand, Tanesha Goodling, who Carlin set up as a paid snitch, might be willing to share information with me, if I dangled cash in front of her. It’d be worth it to get to the bottom of Joel’s murder.

  I looked at my watch. Dad would be back in his room, since they served supper nightly at five. I called, and he answered with a firm, “Hello.”

  “Hey, Dad. What’d ya have for dinner?”

  “Lasagna. Mondays are most often pasta night. I got these cooks figured out.”

  I laughed. Funny how the skills of a lifetime had become focused on anticipating the nursing home menu.

  “Andy visited this morning.” Dad spoke flatly.

  “That’s good.”

  “For about fifteen minutes.”

  Why does he do that?

  I tried to reassure him. “He’ll probably be back in the morning.”

  “Don’t think so. Andy said he’s flying back to Houston tonight.”

  “He’s been busy working on an acquisition.” Don’t know why I felt the need to act like an apologist for my brother. The tension between them had only escalated since Andy moved the company to Houston. “I’ve been in Baltimore for a few days, but I’m heading home tomorrow. I’ll stop and visit—probably late afternoon.”

  “That’ll give me something to look forward to.”

  I hadn’t always been the best son. His comment reminded me how, throughout my life, I’d enjoyed having events to look forward to, whether vacation, a sporting event, or concert. Dad and I had similar temperaments. I vowed to appreciate and learn more while he was still a part of my life.

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