Yard Goat Page 15

  The steady pulse of steel wheels against the rails lulled me back to Philadelphia. Vistas through the windows revealed a diverse landscape shifting from farmland, to suburbia, and neighborhoods that had witnessed more prosperous times.

  During our stop in Wilmington, I phoned Tanesha Goodling to arrange a visit at Herron Industries. I wanted to talk with her, Todd Vicary, and Carlin. She knew of his bail but wasn’t sure if Mr. Trambata would be in the office. She explained he wasn’t a “morning person” and suggested I arrive at one.

  A taxi took me from 30th Street to the cobblestone driveway in Bryn Mawr crowded with a painter’s van, pickup, and a flatbed landscaper’s truck.

  Amidst the pungent smell of fresh mulch, the addition of holly trees, boxwood, and snapdragons gave the new addition a finished look. I’d also asked for daffodil bulbs, my mother’s favorite flower, to bloom in the spring.

  Inside the new office I found two painters, just as the architect promised, transforming the drywall. For the first time, I climbed the spiral staircase to admire the tile floor in the second level exercise room. It wouldn’t be long before the delivery of the new treadmill, weight machine, and stationary bike.

  Back on the ground floor, I imagined how the furniture would look in the completed office.

  I walked through the breezeway and bent to pick up The Philadelphia Inquirer before unlocking the kitchen door.

  The headline in the lower left corner of the front page jolted me: “Accused Billionaire Industrialist Released on Bail.”

  My early years in the detective business taught me a lot about following leads from point A to point B. In those initial cases, I worked in relative obscurity without high-profile clients and achieved clear-cut results on their behalf. Joel’s murder investigation raised the bar on multiple fronts—ones I hadn’t seen coming—leaving me feeling naïve and vulnerable.

  The morning headline should have prepared me for the media vehicles—their satellite antennas hoisted for best signal—in Herron Industries’ parking lot. It didn’t. Not only did Carlin Trambata have a tracking device strapped to his ankle, he now had the media snipping at his heels.

  Two uniformed security officers stood guard in the lobby. Muzak filled the empty space with a variety of classical selections. Reporters who must’ve been shooed out earlier, awaited sightings of Trambata from their vehicles. One of the officers directed me to a U-shaped desk.

  There, a smartly dressed young woman eyed me warily. I was tempted to identify myself as a producer with the Today show. Instead, I played it straight, asking for Tanesha Goodling.

  While the receptionist buzzed the executive offices to announce me, I observed two security cameras mounted on the wall behind the main desk. If they maintained video tape from those cameras, perhaps I could see who had delivered the anonymous note to Trambata purporting to be from Joel. Why hadn’t Tanesha thought to mention their surveillance system?

  The woman hung up the phone. “Tanesha will be right down to escort you.”

  Procedures differed from my prior visit when I’d breezed past the desk and taken the elevator to the eighth floor. I wondered whether the new routine was related to the gathering media, or indicative of security upgrades across America since 9/11.

  Tanesha emerged from the elevator wearing a tight smile. She spotted me as I moved in her direction.

  “Things are a bit crazy today,” she began.

  “Is Carlin here?”

  She shook her head and gestured for me to board the elevator. When the doors closed behind us, Tanesha said, “We’re not sure where he is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The press showed up about eleven clamoring for an interview. Todd called Mr. Trambata to alert him, suggesting he might want to delay his arrival. Mr. Trambata called back a half-hour later. Reporters had staked out his house. He was trying to figure out what to do. Twenty minutes ago, he called to say he was on the way to the airport.”

  Wait till Lucas Emmanuel hears this.

  “Do you know where he’s headed?”

  “Not sure. He mentioned Megan, so maybe Boca Raton.”

  Fearing he might be headed to the south of France, I breathed a little easier.

  We exited the elevator. Tanesha led the way to her office. She sat at her desk, folding her hands in front of her. “You requested a meeting, Mr. Frame. What can we do for you?”

  “His attorney and I believe Mr. Trambata was framed for the murder of Joel Driscoll.”

  “Of course he was.”

  “We have to consider that it could be a person here at Herron Industries.”

  I expected a gut punch reaction, but Tanesha nodded and maintained her composure.

  “I’ll talk with Todd directly for his thoughts,” I continued, “but as Carlin’s personal secretary, you probably have a pretty good idea who’d like to get him out of the way.”

  She joggled her head from side to side. “My boss isn’t here to win a popularity contest. He built this business from scratch and personally picked most of the top leadership. Everyone knows what to expect.”

  I tried to reconcile her words with Carlin’s depiction of her funneling him inside information.

  “What about Iggy Armstrong?”

  Once again she shook her head. “He and Carlin are of the same generation. When it’s time for Carlin to retire, I expect Mr. Armstrong will leave as well. I’ve heard him say as much.”

  I asked if she’d had any luck on a description of the man who delivered the anonymous note to Trambata.

  “I checked with most of the ladies who staff the downstairs desk. None could recall what he looked like, except it was a man.” After a pause. “It’s been over a week.”

  “While waiting in the lobby, I noticed two security cameras mounted on the wall behind the desk. Might they have captured an image of the guy?”

  Her mouth gaped. “Honestly, I never thought about it. I’ll call our head of security.”

  I laid $50 on the edge of her desk.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Your trouble.”

  She bristled. “It’s no trouble. I’m not taking your money.”

  Tanesha glanced toward the open office doorway. Her eyes widened.

  Todd’s voice boomed from the hall. “When Mr. Frame gets here, tell him I’m on my way to the airport. Carlin asked me to bring him a file folder.”

  Todd appeared. “Oh, you’re here.” He glanced at the fifty then shifted his gaze between Tanesha and me.

  I scooped up the bill. “I’ll invest this in the lottery.”

  Todd braced his hands against the doorframe. “You probably already heard. I’m going to the airport.”

  “Which one?”

  “Philly International.”

  “Can I hitch a ride? I’d like to consult with Mr. Trambata before he leaves town.”

  Todd shrugged. “Sure, I’ll be ready to leave in five.”

  As he disappeared down the hall, I turned back to Tanesha. “See if you can round up the surveillance tape. We should be back in about two hours.”

  It would take forty minutes to the airport. If we wrapped up our business with Carlin in a half hour, my return estimate would be correct.

  The trip provided time to get better acquainted with Todd. He raced to the airport, gripping the steering wheel and cursing at traffic en route.

  “Your brother drives a hard bargain,” Todd announced, as he sped up the ramp to I-476.

  “I haven’t talked to him since your meetings.”

  “We don’t have an agreement yet. Our legal department is balking at his demand for a two-year non-compete provision if we spin off that division.”

  Andy hadn’t made me privy to the substance of their conversations, so I didn’t want to engage. “Where do you see yourself with Herron Industries in another five years?”

  “CEO.” He laughed as quickly as the word left his lips, though it may have been more truth than he wanted to admit.

 
On our return trip, I’d try to nail him down on who might want to frame the boss. “Who are the most promising executives to succeed Carlin?”

  He didn’t give a direct answer. Instead, rambled on about a busy afternoon and how he didn’t need this side trip. That must’ve accounted for his lead foot on the gas.

  Todd bypassed the exit I would have taken for the airport, and took the next ramp toward Island Avenue. We followed signs for general aviation.

  He pulled into a parking spot and pointed at a white Learjet with the Herron Industries logo painted in red on the tail.

  “Carlin’s on Herron One.”

  I chuckled. “Nice name play on Air Force One.”

  Todd shook his head. “Nah. We have two jets. He’s on number one.”

  33

  Todd asked me to remain on the tarmac while he boarded the plane to review the file Trambata had requested. Except for the pungent aroma of jet fuel, the sunshine and crisp fall temperatures would have made the wait bearable.

  In a nearby hanger, a maintenance crew worked on the companion Learjet they dubbed Herron Two. Andy would be jealous. Joedco used a Merlin, manufactured by Swearingen, which Dad purchased in the early 90s. It would only be a matter of time before Andy wanted bigger, newer toys.

  The events of 9/11 had shut down a couple of general aviation airports near DC over fears that terrorists might use private planes in the same way the big jets had been turned into weapons at the World Trade Center and Pentagon. Scrutiny in general aviation wasn’t nearly as intense. The airlines shouldered the responsibility for airport security. In the case of private or corporate planes, the owners were believed to have a good handle on their customers. That scenario seemed likely to change, with the government taking a bigger role.

  A man, dressed like he might be the captain and carrying a Styrofoam cup, approached Herron One. He walked around the aircraft doing a visual inspection. Before boarding, he turned to me. “You coming with us?”

  I shook my head. “Waiting to see Mr. Trambata. Mr. Vicary is with him now.”

  “Okay. We’re waiting for somebody else.”

  “What’s the range on this Learjet?”

  “Nineteen hundred nautical miles.”

  There would be no trips to the French Riviera on this plane.

  Moments after the captain boarded, Todd ducked through the door and descended to the tarmac.

  “He’s ready for you. I’m gonna grab a coffee.” He pointed toward a vending machine in the adjacent hanger. “Meet you at the car when you’re done.”

  I climbed the stairs, immediately lowering my head. Based on my degree of incline as I walked down the center aisle, the cabin couldn’t have been more than five feet in height. Eight leather chairs were arranged in club seating, two rows facing each other, a configuration I’d seen on Amtrak, but not in planes. Carlin sat at the rear next to the lavatory door—the only passenger.

  He grinned. “I don’t have to bend down nearly as much as you, Mr. Frame. Please, have a seat.”

  To avoid bumping knees, I sat facing him on the opposite side of the cabin. He had a work table strewn with papers—most likely the ones Todd Vicary had brought.

  “You look better than the last time I saw you.” He still had a flesh-colored bandage at the front of his neck and was freshly shaved. Color had returned to his cheeks.

  “Home and fresh air agree with me.” He cleared his throat. “Get to the point of your visit.”

  His directness surprised me. “I’m assisting Lucas Emmanuel with your defense. It was a challenge communicating in the hospital. Now that you’re feeling better—”

  “Who says I’m feeling better?”

  Carlin’s cantankerous side showed up.

  “The hospital must’ve thought so or they never would have released you.”

  He grunted. “I want to get out of here...say what you have to say.”

  “Most of what I know about why you were charged in Mr. Driscoll’s murder I learned second-hand from Detective Jackson. I’d like your version.”

  He sighed and reached for a Dr. Pepper. As he lifted the can, his hand trembled. Following a long, slow, sip, he said, “Where should I start?”

  “What do you remember about the note inviting you to Baltimore?”

  “Nothing special. Typed on plain paper. No watermark that I could tell. Mr. Driscoll invited me to Baltimore to, in his words, ‘Clear the air.’ He suggested a hotel at the convention center and indicated he would contact me there on that Saturday night.”

  “Do you remember how the note was signed?”

  Carlin squeezed his eyelids shut and made a chewing motion with his jaw before speaking. “It wasn’t. It began something like...this is Joel Driscoll. He wasn’t trying to keep his identity a secret. One of Driscoll’s business cards was included with the note.”

  “Did you keep it?”

  “Yes. Took them with me to Baltimore. The police are in possession of both those items.”

  “Had it been typed on a typewriter, or printed from a computer?”

  Trambata arched a brow. “How the hell should I know?”

  “You mentioned no watermark. I thought you might have paid attention to typeface.”

  He pawed the air. “Well, I didn’t. You sound a lot like that Columbo fella...from TV.”

  He wasn’t giving me a compliment.

  “Did you tell Megan about the note?”

  Carlin roared with laughter. “You mean the person about whom we were clearing the air?”

  I took that as a no. He enjoyed toying with me. I was witnessing the arrogant Carlin Trambata that Dad had warned about.

  “Did you alert Sal Zalinski?”

  He scowled. “Why?”

  “You had Zalinski stalking Joel. Maybe he’d have a few pointers about Mr. Driscoll’s habits.”

  Once again, he dismissively swiped the air. He pressed a button on the bulkhead next to his seat. Behind me, I heard it signal in the cockpit.

  “Tell me about the call you received after you arrived in Baltimore.”

  Carlin paid no attention, focusing on the center aisle. Footsteps approached.

  “Yes, sir, what I can do for you?”

  “Captain, I’m ready to leave. Mr. Frame will not be going with us.”

  The captain, already stooped due to the restricted cabin height, looked intently at me as if wondering if he’d have to give me the boot. “Yes, sir, but we’re still waiting on the other passenger.”

  Carlin scowled and massaged his forehead with his right hand. “Let me know the minute she arrives.”

  Trambata slumped in his seat, resigned to spend a few more minutes with me.

  The captain nodded and returned to the cockpit.

  “You were instructed to take a taxi to Parkin Street,” I continued. “What can you tell me about the caller?”

  He tightened his jaw. “I did not know the caller.”

  “The voice. An accent? Distinct speech patterns? Soft spoken versus authoritative? What do you remember?”

  Carlin took another sip of his soda. “You’re like your father.”

  He had my attention. “In what way?”

  “Everything with him was A, B, C.” Carlin plunked the edge of his hand against the table punctuating each letter. “Joe managed a passable game of checkers when the competition demanded the instincts of a chess player. Linear thinking doesn’t cut it in a world of complicated algorithms.” He pursed his lips in a surly smile.

  I tried to recall the sympathy I felt for him when he lay in a hospital bed with a trach shoved in his neck.

  I aimed a finger toward him. “Except it’s not games or deals we’re talking about. We’re trying to keep you out of prison for the rest of your life. If the jail hadn’t screwed up, there’s no way the judge would have let you out on bail. Attorney Emmanuel and I would like to keep you out.” I raised my palm. “Okay, let’s skip all the rest of the letters of the alphabet and get to X, Y, and Z. What did you see in the r
ailroad museum yard while you waited on Parkin Street?”

  Carlin sighed, complete with heaving shoulders. “I didn’t see a murder, if that’s what you’re asking. When I arrived, I asked the taxi to wait. It was chilly and I preferred to sit in a heated vehicle. But I didn’t know who might be watching me. Figured nobody would approach if I was in the cab. So I got a number from the driver I could use to call for another cab and let him go.”

  “Where, precisely, did you wait?”

  He moved his hands back and forth. “I paced in front of a brick apartment building. After a while, I sat on concrete steps.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “I don’t know.” He squinted, as if trying to remember. “A young couple pulled up in an SUV and went into the building. They were fifty feet away.”

  “Picture the museum across the street. What could you see?”

  “A chain link fence.” The strength of his voice tapered off. “A big blue tarp covered about ten feet of the fence.”

  I’d forgotten about the whipped cream pie toss.

  Carlin drummed his fingers on the table. “There was a trampoline and a big inflatable slide,” he continued, “along with a four-by-eight piece of plywood propped up with two-by-fours.”

  I nodded. That would have been the backing for the dunk pool.

  “Further away, Christmas lights stretched between the rail cars.”

  “Did you see any people?”

  He shook his head. “Oh, wait. There were two guys who stumbled from an old Pullman car. One had a plastic cup in his hand.”

  Stragglers from the cash bar?

  Recalling Jeremy’s admission of confronting Joel, I asked, “Could you hear anything?”