Embalmed (A Brad Frame Mystery Book 6) Page 15

  A waiter approached to ask if he wanted another drink, but Riley waved him off.

  “I had suspicions about who Sterling really was when I was in high school. He and my mother kept up the charade. Apparently, in all the trust agreements my father signed, and in which he named me his heir, he continued to refer to me as his nephew and with my legally adopted name.” Riley shrugged. “Older people think differently, I guess.”

  Brad wasn’t that much younger than Sterling, which likely put him in Riley’s “older people” box. “When did you find out the truth about him being your real father?”

  “My mom told me shortly before she died. She developed an aggressive form of cancer. Once diagnosed, she didn’t last long.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “The other day I confided to Kip about Sterling being my dad. He told me Grayson knew the truth but slavishly stuck by my father’s written instructions. In our earlier meeting, you seemed about to say dad instead of uncle. I appreciate your efforts searching for Sterling, and I wanted you to know the truth.”

  “Thanks,” Brad said. “What time is your flight tomorrow?”

  Riley’s face brightened. “Twelve-fifteen. Mr. Grayson offered to drive me to the airport. I can’t wait. I’ve enjoyed being back in familiar territory, but…” Riley’s voice trailed off.

  “But what?” Brad asked.

  Riley shook his head. “Saturday night I went out for a walk and kept seeing a white cargo van. I’m not saying it was following me. Maybe I’m just overly sensitive after what happened to Sterling. I’m sure it passed me at least three times.”

  “Maybe three different vehicles that happened to look alike?”

  “No. It was the same one. There was a blue graffiti streak above the left rear tire.”

  “Could you see the driver?”

  “No. It was dark out and the van’s windows were tinted.”

  Brad’s mind traveled to the image of Wes Taylor’s son hosing down a white van in the garage of the funeral home. Would Maurice Wright have had a similar van he used to transport victims to their dumped locations? The notion that Wright might have been following Riley Truit troubled him.

  Riley added, “Let’s say I was glad they caught the guy that killed Sterling.”

  “Always good to be alert,” Brad said. “Are you traveling far for dinner?”

  “They haven’t said. Maybe I’ll talk them into eating here at the hotel.”

  20

  A Ritz-Carlton doorman hailed a cab, and Brad provided the address for Phil Bertolini’s condo building. The driver headed east on Chestnut passing by Independence Hall.

  Since he was a few minutes early for his scheduled meeting, Brad requested to be dropped off at the corner of Chestnut and Front Streets. He asked the driver for his card, saying he would need a ride to Bryn Mawr later.

  Brad walked around the block to get a feel for the area. The condo building sat adjacent to I-95 Park in Old City. If Phil’s fifth-floor condo were located on the Front Street side, he’d have great views of Penn’s Landing and the Delaware River.

  Brad stepped into the lobby a few minutes before seven, found Phil’s name on the directory, and pressed the intercom. He heard no voice communication, but he recognized the click of the inner lobby door unlocking and he pulled it open.

  A young couple exited one of the elevators, and Brad stepped aboard and went to the fifth floor.

  Phil was waiting at the end of the hallway, beer in hand and his apartment door propped open. “Mr. Frame?” he said as Brad approached.

  Brad nodded.

  Phil re-entered his apartment and held the door.

  The place reeked of cigarette smoke. A few years earlier a new law had prohibited smoking at restaurants and bars in Philadelphia, but a man’s home is his castle, and Phil smoked up the joint.

  At Ruddigore’s, Phil had had on an apron with the bar’s logo. Now he wore jeans and a too-short navy blue T-shirt that rode up when he sat on the sofa, exposing his belly. He looked more like a slob than a man who’d been a police officer for two decades.

  Phil directed Brad toward a chair opposite him. Before sitting, Brad paused and gazed out the window toward views of Old City rooftops. From that vantage, he couldn’t even see the lights of Philly’s skyscrapers.

  Phil butted out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and swilled more beer. Brad noticed two empty bottles on the living room’s coffee table.

  Silence engulfed the room until Phil finally said, “What do you want, Mr. Frame?”

  Brad laughed. “You invited me.”

  Phil extracted a cigarette from the nearby pack, lit it, and took a deep drag. He blew a smoke ring in Brad’s direction.

  Brad stood. “I’ve got better things to do. I’ll see myself out.”

  He had taken several strides toward the door when Phil said, “Wait. I don’t know very much.”

  Brad turned back to him, looked at his watch, and said, “You’ve got two minutes to prove my coming here wasn’t a waste of time.”

  “I think you should talk to Saul.”

  “Saul Kasheski?”

  Phil nodded.

  “Why?”

  “The week before the incident, Saul was visiting the bar and he asked me if I knew Nick Argostino.” Phil spoke slowly and slurred an occasional word. “I told him I did, and he asked me to give him a call the next time Nick visited Ruddigore’s.”

  “Did you call Saul when Nick showed up on September third?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “They showed up about fifteen…twenty minutes later.”

  “When you say ‘they,’ are you referring to Kasheski, Sanders, and Barkow?”

  “That’s right.” Phil tried to stand but fell back into the sofa. Pointing at Brad, he said, “You’re up; fetch me another beer.”

  Brad sat back in his chair. “You can have a beer when we’re finished.”

  Phil pouted.

  “Tell me about the incident between Nick and the other two guys,” Brad said.

  “I told you, I didn’t see much.”

  “You were asked to alert them if Nick showed up, he did and you notified them. Then they arrived, and shortly afterward an altercation breaks out. How did you assess that situation?”

  Phil shrugged.

  “You were a cop for twenty years, right?”

  “Twenty-one and a half, but—”

  “Then don’t play dumb. What does the scenario I described suggest to you?”

  “A setup.”

  Brad leaned forward in his seat. “Now we’re getting somewhere. What did Sanders and Barkow do that night?”

  “Like I told the guys from Internal Affairs, I wasn’t standing there when the assault happened.”

  “How do you know there was an attack if you weren’t there?”

  “I’m going by what they told me.”

  “They being?”

  “Sanders and Barkow.”

  Brad stood. “How long have you known Nick?”

  Phil cocked his head. “Thirty years.”

  Brad took a few steps toward Phil and hovered over him. “And you believed what Sanders and Barkow told you versus Nick?”

  “Get off my fucking back.” Phil belched and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I was in my office when everything went down. I didn’t talk to Nick. The guys told me what happened.”

  Brad pointed at him. “You mean the office at the end of the bar—the one not six feet from where the incident happened?”

  Phil couldn’t look him in the eye as he mumbled, “Yeah.”

  Brad paced as he considered what else stunk about the scenario Phil was spinning.

  “Your relief bartender, Steve, said you instructed him that Nick Argostino was no longer welcome at Ruddigore’s. Why?”

  “That was Saul’s idea.”

  “Is Saul your godfather that you take all your orders from him?”

  Phil turned h
is hands palms up. “He owns most of Ruddigore’s.

  Brad was confused. Nick had told him that Phil purchased the bar with money he’d received from the city in a settlement due to a work-related disability—specifically, shrapnel from a stray bullet lodged in his spine.

  The disbelief must have shown on Brad’s face, since Phil added, “Sixty percent…he owns sixty percent.”

  “Since when?”

  “It’s been a couple of years now. When I bought the bar, business was booming. I encouraged first responders to visit and business got better. I’d sunk all the money I received from my settlement with the city…you know about that, right?”

  Brad nodded.

  “I put that money into buying Ruddigore’s and this condo. Things went so well I overextended my credit. Then a few years back business dropped off. Cops, in particular, weren’t visiting as much.”

  “Why?” Brad asked.

  “I don’t know. Steve speculated growing terror concerns kept cops from congregating in one place. Once business nosedived, I was in financial trouble. I had known Saul from the days when he filed suit against the city for his injuries…you know about that, right?”

  “Yes. He received a lot more money than you.”

  Phil laughed. “Hell, yeah. Back then he came and talked to me about my beef with the city. I told him I settled too quickly and not to make the same mistake. Anyway, I confided in Saul about my financial problems and he offered to invest in Ruddigore’s…pulled my chestnuts out of the fire. And even though he’s the majority owner, Saul wasn’t interested in running the place. He left day-to-day operations for me.”

  “Until he started dictating to you about Nick Argostino,” Brad said, not expecting an answer.

  Phil pawed the air, scoffing at Brad’s comment.

  “I’m sure he earns sixty percent of the monthly profit.”

  “Yeah,” Phil said, barely above a whisper.

  “And you’ll never be in a position to buy the place back a hundred percent?”

  Phil fidgeted and reached for another cigarette.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” Brad said. “After Saul invested, did cops start reappearing at Ruddigore’s?”

  “Not really. I mean he brought a couple of his buddies with him.”

  Brad tried to avoid sneering as he said, “You mean like Sanders and Barkow?”

  “And another friend of Skull, Alejandro Elverson. They usually play pool together.”

  Brad wondered if that was the guy Sharon had described in the game with Skull the night she had visited.

  Phil added, “Those guys don’t come in dressed like cops, like when we first opened. Now, even the detectives ditch their suit coats and shirts in favor of a sweater or sweatshirt. We actually started attracting a younger crowd.”

  “You mean the underage drinking bait who’ll get you shut down by the Liquor Control Board.”

  “You’re full of shit. I run a reputable place.”

  “So you say, but others may prove different. Tell me, Phil, if it’s so reputable, then why couldn’t I meet you at the bar tonight or across the street at Starbucks?” When Phil didn’t respond, Brad said, “What are you afraid of?”

  “Get off my back. I told you on the phone, they’re watching me.”

  “Who?”

  “Saul’s buddies. Ever since that night with Nick. I see them looking at me and exchanging whispers. They know Nick and I go back a few years.”

  “Here’s what I’ve learned so far,” Brad began, “based on your years as a cop, you suspect Nick might have been set up that night. You were smart enough to stay out of the way and let your partner call the shots—and his buddies do the dirty work. You knew you could deny seeing anything. But now you’re conflicted because Nick is getting the short end of the stick and your new bar buddies are paranoid and think you’re going to squeal.”

  “Fuck,” Phil muttered.

  Brad could see Phil agreed with him. “What did you hear that night?”

  Whether from the tenor of the conversation or the belch he’d given up a few minutes earlier, Phil appeared more sober. “Like you said, when Sanders and Barkow approached Nick, I sensed it was time to disappear. They started by accusing him of not appreciating the free beer they’d sent him. They taunted him, kept repeating what Nick said, stuff that would have pissed me off. Nick asked, ‘What’s going on?’ Later I heard him tell the guys to fuck off. Then I heard Barkow shout something like, ‘Watch it,” and ‘Look what you did.’ One of the other patrons yelled ‘Hey, bartender.’ I came out of the office in time to see Sanders on the floor grabbing his elbow and Nick was on his way out the door. Barkow went nuts and kept repeating, ‘He hit him.’ I glanced over at Saul. I wondered if that’s what he expected to happen when he asked me to alert him to Nick’s visit. Saul looked away, but stepped forward and told Barkow to cool it, then they both helped Sanders off the floor.”

  Brad had heard enough and prepared to leave. “Nick Argostino is a friend. In case your buddy Saul Kasheski inquires, I’m doing everything I can to clear Nick’s name.”

  Brad called the taxi driver as the elevator took him to the lobby. He asked to be picked up at the corner of Chestnut and Front, and the cabbie promised to be there in seven minutes.

  He deeply inhaled the crisp fall air, a welcome relief after Phil’s smoke-filled condo.

  Next he called Nick.

  Ruth answered and handed off the phone to her husband.

  “If you’re calling about the Mercedes,” Nick began, “it’s sitting safely in my driveway. Not a scratch.”

  Brad chuckled.

  “When Ruth saw me pull in with the new car she thought I’d hit the lottery. What d’ya need?”

  “I just finished my meeting with Phil and wanted to run a name by you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Alejandro Elverson.”

  Brad heard Nick breathing, followed by “Uh…”

  After a few moments, Nick said, “It’s not ringing a bell. Who is he?”

  “Apparently a young cop who’s a buddy of Skull and Barkow.”

  “Sorry, Brad. I’m drawing a blank.”

  “It’s okay. I recall you telling me that you didn’t frequent Ruddigore’s like you once did. How often would you say you visited before the incident?”

  “Maybe once every two weeks. Usually on a night I got stuck at work late and had already missed dinner at home. Why?”

  “Not sure. Trying to sort out things Phil said.”

  Brad went on to summarize his meeting with Phil, including what he’d learned about Saul requesting notification when Nick visited Ruddigore’s. Brad also informed Nick about Saul being the bar’s majority owner. “What did you do to tick off Saul Kasheski?”

  “Schedule him for a double shift?” Nick laughed at his own joke. “I don’t know. I’m suspicious of Saul’s tie-in with Skull, Barkow, and this other guy—Alejandro.”

  “Yeah, I had the same thought. Listen, my cab just pulled up. If you have any revelations about Elverson, call me.”

  By the time he returned to Bryn Mawr, Brad couldn’t wait to shed his smelly clothes. Washable items went into the hamper. He tucked his suit and necktie into a nylon draw-string bag for his next trip to the dry cleaners. He jumped into the shower before putting on fresh clothes and heading for the office.

  It seemed like forever since he’d seen Sharon. She’d left him a message about her preparations for Ruddigore’s Halloween party.

  He penned a short response: “Ask me about Alejandro Elverson.”

  The TracFone on his desk signaled a voice mail message.

  He listened. “Hello. This is Ellie. I saw your flyer in the restroom at Ruddigore’s over the weekend. Sorry, I couldn’t call until now. I was there that night and saw what that old guy did.”

  Brad thought Phil had removed the flyers, but apparently he’d only taken down the one in the men’s room.

  Ellie left her number. It was after nine-thirty and Brad d
ebated whether to call, finally deciding to give it a shot.

  Her phone had rung at least eight times and still not gone into voice mail. Brad decided he’d wait for three more rings and then hang up. He heard a woman’s voice bark, “Hello.”

  “This is Brad Frame. You left a message for me about what happened at Ruddigore’s.”

  “Yeah, I did. Hold on.”

  Brad heard a commotion in the background as he waited anxiously for what she knew.

  “Listen, I can’t really talk right now. I’m a nurse at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. I get off at seven in the morning. I could meet you at 30th Street Station at seven-thirty. That’s where I catch my train. You were offering a reward right?”

  “Sure. Where should we meet?”

  “How about McDonald’s? I usually grab breakfast there.”

  “Great,” Brad said. “I’ll wear a rust-colored sweater.”

  “Pink Scrubs with bunnies on them.” She laughed. “You can’t miss me.”

  21

  Although he usually retired after the eleven o’clock news, Brad’s mind pinged with too many issues for him to sleep.

  It dawned on him that he’d have to get an early start in the morning for his meeting with Ellie. Without his car, he could catch a cab to the Bryn Mawr station and take a SEPTA line to 30th Street.

  Brad visited his third floor, a place of retreat where he could think. As a teenager, his parents had surprised him and his brother with a model train set, which took up half the attic. Andy was never impressed, but Brad loved it and kept adding sections over the years. HO gauge track on multiple levels now filled the attic in a replica of the villages along the Main Line.

  Between his meeting with Phil and the call from Ellie, Brad felt closer to unraveling the mystery of Nick’s suspension from the police force. It was clear to him, Nick, and even Phil that the incident on the night of September 3 was a setup.