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

  Stragglers from the cash bar?

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

  “Music blaring from a loudspeaker system.”

  The music could have masked conversation, or maybe the confrontation Jeremy described had taken place while Carlin still sat in the cab.

  He shifted in his seat. “Are we done yet?”

  “As the note instructed, you waited fifteen minutes and called for a taxi?”

  “I didn’t wait that long,” he growled. “It was a waste of my time. I summoned a cab after about ten minutes.”

  Detective Jackson had the cell records and could confirm the exact time. My thoughts turned to Megan frolicking with Ricky next to the pool.

  “Does Megan know you’re coming to Boca?”

  Carlin glared at me, his right hand balling into a fist. “That question keeps me out of prison how?”

  I turned my palms face up signaling you’ve-got-me-there.

  The captain leaned out of the cockpit door. “Ms. Khatri has arrived.”

  I recognized the last name of Trambata’s Bethesda-based doctor.

  Carlin beamed. “Wonderful. Help with her bag, ask Mr. Vicary to come aboard, and prepare for our departure.” Turning to me, he said, “I must ask you to leave. Ms. Goodling will know how to reach me.”

  I stood. A beautiful young woman dressed in a jade-colored sari sauntered down the aisle. Unlike the captain and myself, she did not have to bend to cope with the cabin height. She approached Carlin, palms pressed together, and dipped her head. “Namaste.”

  “Ah, Zoya, mai theek hoon. I trust your mother is well.”

  “She sends her blessing.”

  Given their greetings, I assumed Zoya was the daughter of Dr. Khatri. Perhaps she would continue his herb and acupuncture treatments once they arrived in Boca Raton.

  As I prepared to leave, Trambata reached for his soda. Zoya slapped his hand. “No.” She snatched the can of Dr. Pepper from the table top. “Green tea. Only green tea.”

  Maybe I should have been as direct with him.

  34

  I waited next to Todd’s car, reflecting on my meeting with Carlin Trambata. For a man facing life in prison, hubris could prove his undoing. Joel once told me, “Jurors like to see humility in witnesses and the defendant.”

  Todd lumbered toward the car, looking somber. When the remote door locks clicked, I jumped in the passenger seat. Todd sighed as he slid behind the steering wheel.

  I turned to him. “You get everything accomplished?”

  He snorted. “Mostly.”

  “Same here.”

  Todd avoided small talk as he maneuvered past the convenient airport hotels on Island Avenue. He grumbled about “crazy drivers,” nearly colliding with the car in front of us as he raced onto I-95, then cut across to the far lane of traffic. He weaved back into the middle lane because the pickup ahead of us wasn’t moving fast enough. My right foot pumped the non-existent brake pedal on the passenger side.

  It didn’t take a private detective to figure out something troubled him. Given my own contentious meeting with Trambata, I was willing to lay odds that his boss had upset him.

  Todd turned on the radio in time for us to hear that The Backstreet Boys and 'N Sync would join Bon Jovi, Michael Jackson, Aerosmith and others for United We Stand, an all-star concert at RFK Stadium in Washington in honor of the victims of the September 11th attacks.

  By the time Todd guided the car onto the less busy I-476, he seemed to breathe a little easier and didn’t grip the wheel quite as much.

  “Lucas Emmanuel thinks Carlin was set up in Baltimore,” I explained. “We’re looking at who might have had a motive to make him a fall guy in Joel’s murder. Can you think of any suspects at Herron Industries?”

  Todd snapped his head in my direction. “Seriously?”

  “We have to look at all the angles. I wondered if you had any ideas.”

  “No.”

  The brusqueness of his response surprised me.

  Britney Spears’ Oops!...I Did it Again played on the radio. He turned up the volume, proclaiming, “I love this song.”

  After the tune ended, hoping he might be in a better mood, I shifted tactics. “How long have you worked for Herron?”

  “Nine years. I joined the company right out of college.”

  “Where did you go to school?”

  “LaSalle for undergrad computer science, and Wharton for my MBA.”

  “Impressive.”

  He scoffed. “Only if you can get a job. We were coming out of a recession the summer I graduated. A bunch of my buddies hunted six months or more before landing a position. I was lucky.”

  “Did you have an inside connection?”

  He shook his head. “The VP of Finance hired me at a Wharton job fair. They were expanding their accounting department. Like I said, lucky.”

  “When did you become VP of Finance?”

  “I’d only been here three years when the guy who hired me died suddenly. They gave me a shot.”

  “Never mention a sudden death to a private detective.” I laughed. Todd shot me a sideways glance.

  He grew quiet again, continuing to be much more guarded on the return trip. Interaction with Trambata had altered his mood.

  “My brother mentioned how much he admired your work with Herron’s subsidiary in Houston.”

  Todd smiled. “That’s my baby. I hired a fraternity brother from undergrad days to develop a new service line. It’s worked out.”

  “How much do you deal directly with Mr. Trambata?”

  “I report to Mr. Armstrong. When Mr. Trambata wants to stick his—” Todd abruptly changed the subject. “Did I miss our turn?”

  “No. It’s a couple of miles away.”

  If he was about to speak ill of the CEO, he’d caught himself. I wondered if I could find another way to determine rifts inside the company.

  “Where did the name Herron come from?”

  “Thirty years ago, Carlin bought a small company founded after World War II by Gabriel Herron. It had a history of working with Grumman. Since Herron was known in the defense contracting realm, Mr. Trambata decided to keep the name.”

  “When did Herron go public?”

  “Twenty years ago. Mr. Trambata is the majority stockholder.”

  “I think that’s when Iggy Armstrong joined the company. Iggy’s a neighbor of mine, although I don’t see him too often.”

  Todd tapped the brake. A state trooper’s blue and red lights flashed on the side of the road. Todd sped up again when it became evident the trooper already had a vehicle stopped.

  Earlier Todd had laughed about his future as potential CEO. Revisiting the idea might open him up more. “Given Mr. Trambata’s health, is the company making succession plans?”

  “I’m not in a position to discuss it. I hope you appreciate my discretion.”

  “Of course.”

  Todd squared his shoulders and gripped the wheel for our exit onto the Schuylkill Expressway in the direction of Valley Forge.

  We neared Herron’s headquarters, and I tried to wrap up our discussion on a positive note. “As I said earlier, my brother is excited at the prospect of striking a deal to acquire your Houston subsidiary. He feels it’s a good fit with the strategic direction our company is taking. We look forward to a strong alliance.”

  Todd looked grim. “It pains me to say this, Mr. Frame, but there won’t be any collaboration with Joedco. Mr. Trambata ordered me to cease all discussions. I’ll be calling your brother once I’m back in my office.”

  Andy would probably take the news harder than me. I know that look in my brother’s eyes when he sees dollar signs.

  Not sure how far their negotiations had progressed, I said, “Well, if circumstances change, we’d be open to future talks.”

  Todd drove another mile before turning down the volume on the radio. “There’s something else.” His eyes remained glued
to the road. “Mr. Trambata called Attorney Emmanuel while I was on the plane with him. He wants a more seasoned investigator to work on his case.”

  I pivoted and stared at him.

  “I’m afraid you’ve been let go. Carlin asked me to tell you.”

  35

  Todd pulled into his reserved parking spot at the side of the headquarters’ building. The media vans I’d seen earlier in the day were gone. Either Herron’s PR department had tossed them a bone, or security had run them off.

  I unbuckled, climbed out, and walked to the driver’s side. I extended my hand. “No hard feelings. This isn’t your doing.”

  Todd gave me a handshake and a halfhearted smile.

  I walked toward my car feeling a mixture of hurt and anger. By the time I looked back, Todd had disappeared into the building. Carlin Trambata may have lost his confidence in me, but this case had never been about making money. With or without a client, I’d find justice for Joel.

  Doubtful that Todd would have roamed through the building bragging about firing me, I took out my cell and called Tanesha Goodling. She answered on the second ring.

  “Were you able to contact the head of security?”

  “Yes, Mr. Frame.” She sounded excited. “I gave him the date and time, and he’s going to queue up the video for us to watch when you get back.”

  “I’m in the parking lot. Where’s his office? I’ll meet you there?”

  Banking that security wouldn’t have an office on the executive floor, I breathed a sigh when she told me the video equipment was in the basement. “I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

  The receptionist recognized me, and I informed her how I was to meet Ms. Goodling at B-102.

  “You could take the elevator,” she explained, “but the room you want is at the bottom of these stairs to your left.”

  After returning her smile, I trotted down the flight of steps. I’d soon be persona non grata at Herron Industries and intended to make the most of my final few minutes.

  A plain wooden door greeted me—the room number in relief on the adjacent wall. I entered.

  A uniformed guard sat at a desk with two computer monitors. His mail-order badge came embossed with “Security Officer” along with a five-pointed star raised off the shield. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m meeting Tanesha Goodling here.”

  “Yes, Mr. Frame, have a seat. She’s been detained by a phone call and wanted you to know.”

  Hope Todd hasn’t called her.

  One more scenario to worry about as I sank into an upholstered chair near the door—easier to make my escape if the goons come after me. The windowless space felt confining as the time crept by.

  When Tanesha finally showed up, her face registered no concern. She nodded to the officer, who made a call saying, “Everyone’s ready.”

  Howard Trexler was Chief of Security for Herron Industries. He entered from a back room carrying a VHS tape like ones I’d bought from Radio Shack. Labeled T-120, it could be used to record two, four, or even six hours of video depending on the recorder’s speed setting. I suspected they captured six hours of video on a 120 tape, making for less than optimal quality.

  Trexler motioned us over to a 13” Panasonic TV VCR combo set up on a nearby table. The equipment, which looked a few years old, made me less confident we’d be able to make out who delivered the note asking Carlin to go to Baltimore.

  The security chief warmed up the player and inserted the VHS tape. “I set this up to play beginning with 3 p.m. on Friday, September 28th.”

  The image came to life, and I was surprised to see color video. At the top of the screen, a date and time stamp confirmed what Trexler had said.

  On the other hand, the camera used a fisheye lens—similar to the view through a hotel room door’s peephole—providing a wider, but slightly-distorted picture. A three-story glass atrium jutting from the southeast corner of the building contained the reception area. The camera revealed the back of the receptionist’s head, her desk surface, and persons lined up to see her.

  My cell phone chirped. I ignored it.

  They can leave a message.

  “I noticed two cameras behind the desk. Does this include both feeds?”

  Trexler gritted his teeth. “One of the cameras hasn’t worked for several weeks. We just have this image.”

  All three of us watched the small screen.

  “I think what you’re looking for is coming up.” Trexler pointed. “See the guy moving in behind the woman? You can see the top of his head.”

  Tanesha and I nodded.

  “He’s wearing a Phillies baseball cap.”

  The man was mostly hidden by the woman in front of him, but I could make out the white Phillies logo. The receptionist gestured toward the elevators, and the woman headed that way, revealing the man. However, the bill of the cap shielded his face. He wore a suit, light blue dress shirt, and no tie. The red cap, incongruous with the rest of his wardrobe, underscored his awareness of the video system and he’d taken steps to avoid identification. The man reached for his inside jacket pocket and produced a white envelope.

  My phone went off again.

  “If you need to take that call,” Trexler said, “I can pause the tape.”

  I shook my head. “They’ll call back or leave a message.”

  Andy was calling, his modus operando. Keep calling until I answered. He’d undoubtedly heard from Todd and wanted to find out what happened—fix the blame on me for the failed acquisition. He could continue to call.

  Tanisha blurted, “That looks like the envelope for Mr. Trambata.”

  Given the video resolution, we saw writing on the envelope, but could not make out the precise words.

  The receptionist took the envelope. The man turned and raised his left hand to shield his face, underscoring his intent to avoid detection.

  Damn.

  I stared at the screen as he walked away, wondering if the man’s shoes might provide a clue. They weren’t distinctive, just black dress shoes that worked with his suit.

  Trexler stopped the video.

  “Is that what you were looking for?” Tanesha asked.

  I nodded. “Wish we could have seen his face.”

  My mind processed what I’d seen—or not seen—on the tape. Then a realization.

  I looked at Trexler. “Would you mind rewinding so we can watch him walk away?”

  He grabbed the remote control, hit rewind, and then play. Once again, the receptionist took the envelope and the man shielded his face as he turned.

  Pointing at the screen, I asked, “Can you see his limp?”

  In unison. “Yeah.”

  The same limp I’d observed on the streets of Washington, DC, two weeks earlier, the right foot moving forward with the left dragged to catch up.

  I knew the mystery man. Sal Zalinski.

  36

  Sal Zalinski kept popping up, as Dad would say, like a bad penny. His role in delivering the note to Carlin Trambata, and his recent visit to the railroad museum weren’t coincidences. Sal had no apparent motive to kill Joel, but perhaps he’d been hired to do so and set up Carlin—a man who did have motive—as the fall guy.

  I contemplated this sitting in my car in the Herron Industries parking lot. At a minimum, I needed a sounding board to help figure out my next steps. I called Nick Argostino and asked if I could stop by for a visit later that evening. He’d be free after seven and promised to chill a few beers. In the meantime, I would catch up with Dad.

  There were no voice mail messages on my phone, which meant it would only be a matter of time before Andy would call again.

  Turning out of the lot, I opted for back roads. Traffic would be less stressful, and it would let me think about the latest developments with Carlin, Todd, and the security video—and how I’d lay it all out for Nick.

  I lowered the window and inhaled the fresh air on a beautiful autumn day. More fall color had crept onto the trees over the several days whi
le I’d visited Baltimore.

  I found Dad, ironically enough, playing chess with his buddy Oscar in the library.

  Dad beamed when he saw me.

  Oscar winked. “I’m almost done whipping his ass.”

  Dad captured Oscar’s rook with a pawn. “Don’t be so sure old man.”

  I patted Oscar on the back. “Yeah, it looks like your queen is in trouble. Let me alert the desk that I’m staying for dinner.”

  After a short jaunt down the hall, Loretta, the dining supervisor, spotted me. “Hi Brad. You joining us tonight?”

  I nodded. They’d gotten used to accommodating me during my visits. I made sure Dad had money in his activity fund so he could go on planned outings, like a Phillies game or a museum trip. If I shared a meal with him, they added the cost to his tab.

  “Pork chops or salmon?” she asked.

  “Your choice as long as it comes with mac and cheese.”

  “Ah, that’d be the pork chops.”

  “Great.”

  I turned to leave. She stopped me, her expression somber. “Your dad’s been acting different lately. Like he’s worried. He doesn’t joke around as much as he used to. Several of the staff have noticed. We were talking about him this afternoon in the break room.”

  His emergency trip to the hospital came to mind. They fixed blame for his symptoms on anxiety. “I’ve been traveling and haven’t seen him in more than a week. I’ve talked with him a few times. My aunt visited, as well as my brother.”

  Loretta’s face turned quizzical. “We saw your aunt but not your brother. One of the ladies heard your dad complaining about a trombone...but she didn’t hear any music.”

  Trambata!

  “I think I know what that’s about. Thanks for sharing your concern.”

  I returned to the library in time to see Dad plunk a bishop stolen from his opponent on the table and yell, “Checkmate.”

  Oscar looked crestfallen. “I’ll get even tomorrow.”

  Dad patted the arm of his wheelchair, signaling he was ready to move. Since dinner wouldn’t start for another half hour, I rolled him back to his room.