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

  “Thai Magic. They have a take-out joint in Fells Point.”

  “How about a contact name?”

  “I dealt with a guy named Rick.”

  “Last name? Phone number?” Jeremy seemed slow.

  “Give me a sec.” He put me on hold.

  Instead of the usual background music, I was treated to the sounds of trains clickety-clacking across rail joints, vintage steam whistles, and clanging bells at railroad crossings. Made me smile.

  “Found the number. He’s from Thailand—his name unpronounceable, to me anyway, he goes by Rick.” Jeremy rattled off the phone number before disconnecting.

  I tried the number. Busy signal. No voicemail.

  Dammit, Nick. Call!

  I grabbed a soda from the mini-bar and paced my hotel room. No revelation came.

  Once more, I tried calling the restaurant.

  A woman answered. “Thai Magic. You place order?”

  “Is Rick available?”

  “He no here. Delivery.”

  “When will he be back?”

  Silence.

  In the distance, she rang up a customer. “Sorry. Three...no, four more delivery. Maybe six thirty.” After a pause, she asked, “You want place order?”

  An incoming call sounded. I took it.

  “It’s Nick.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Zalinski left his apartment carrying a small suitcase about twenty minutes ago. I’ve been following. Tough to do in the neighborhood without being spotted, especially when he stopped at a food mart. I had to keep circling the block.”

  Horns blared in the background. “You’re on the highway?”

  “The sure kill.” The nickname locals gave the Schuylkill Expressway. “Except nobody’s getting’ killed today with us traveling three miles an hour.”

  “Are you headed toward the city?”

  “Yeah.”

  A siren wailed.

  “Gotta go. I’ll call when I know more.”

  Shortly after five, I drove to Fells Point, keeping my cell phone nearby while I waited to hear from Nick.

  I spotted Thai Magic on the north side of Thames Street and lucked into a newly-vacated parking spot on the south side. Not much more than a hole-in-the-wall, the neon sign flashed “Thai Takeout.” A couple of couple of stools stood next to a counter at the front windows. A wall-mounted chalkboard detailed the menu selections, including a “special” with choice of appetizer, entrée and drink for $8.99.

  A young woman stood next to the cash register.

  When I’d lowered my eyes to her level after studying the board, she asked what I wanted to order. She sounded like the same person I’d spoken with on the phone. Beyond her, the other side of a pass-through, two chefs worked in a tiny space.

  I pointed at the stools. “I’d like to eat here.” I ordered the chicken satay appetizer, pad Thai with shrimp, and jasmine iced tea before asking, “Is Rick around?”

  “You man who called?”

  I nodded.

  “He on way back. You wait.”

  She must’ve read my mind. I smiled.

  From the vinyl-covered bar stool, I watched drivers slow their vehicles along the busy street as they searched for available parking in the trendy neighborhood.

  The restaurant’s phone barely stopped ringing. She took a half-dozen takeout orders, before delivering my meal.

  The satay looked bigger than an appetizer portion, two pieces of chicken served on slender skewers with peanut sauce on the side for dipping. I took a bite.

  My phone rang.

  Dragging a napkin across my mouth, I swallowed before answering. “Hello.”

  “Zalinski may be gettin’ outta Dodge,” Nick began. “Looks like he’s headed for the airport. We’re on 291, about two miles from there. He’s in my sights, three cars in front.”

  “You can still use the tracker.”

  “That’s just it. If he pulls into airport parking, the tracking device won’t be of any use. I’ll try to follow him on foot, but without knowing which airline, where he’s flying, it’ll be a challenge. I’ll stay in touch.”

  He left no time for me to offer words of encouragement.

  The phone rang again just as I finished the chicken satay.

  “Change in plans.” Nick spoke before I could squeeze out hello. “Zalinski veered off 291 and is aiming for general aviation. I’d be too obvious if I followed him to the terminal, so I pulled over to find out what you’d like me to do.”

  “Can you see any aircraft from your vantage point?"

  “His car disappeared around the corner. I’ll pull a little closer.”

  Engine noise drifted through the phone.

  Nick needs a new muffler.

  “I see an executive jet.”

  “Can you make out the logo on—”

  “Oh yeah, Herron Industries. Ain’t that a coincidence?”

  “Is the door to the cabin open? Steps down?”

  “Yup.”

  “Stay put. Let me call you back.”

  “I made it clear yesterday, Mr. Frame, you don’t work for us anymore.”

  “No, I’m working with the Baltimore police on a murder investigation. Right now, you’re obstructing it.” An overstatement, but I was desperate for information.

  The young woman handed me another jasmine iced tea. I mouthed, “Thanks.”

  Todd Vicary stammered. “W...wait.”

  “I asked a simple question. Who at Herron Industries authorizes use of the corporate jets?”

  “Mr. Armstrong or Mr. Trambata.”

  “Would Tanesha Goodling be able to arrange it on Carlin’s behalf?”

  “Yes.”

  “Call her and find out if she ordered a jet for Sal Zalinski, a private investigator. Then get back to me.”

  Twenty minutes passed before I could return the call to Nick.

  “He’s gone.” Nick sounded dejected. “The plane already took off.”

  “You ever been to Boca Raton?”

  “Too rich for my blood. In the seventies, after my dad retired, he and mom spent six weeks each winter in Pompano Beach—south of there. I visited them a few times. I’ve driven through Boca and smelled the money.” He laughed.

  “Zalinski’s headed for Boca—Carlin’s estate.”

  “Jesus. They working together?”

  “Looks shitty to me. Don’t know who’s pulling whose string.”

  “Sorry Zalinski got away.”

  “I just got off the phone with my travel agent. She’s arranged a first-class seat for you on US Air flight 5271 to West Palm Beach. By the time you get there, she’ll have a rental car and hotel lined up.”

  The line fell silent.

  “I’d like you to start surveillance on Trambata’s place.” Nick didn’t react. “You said you were off work for a couple of days.”

  “I’ll, ah, need to call Ruth.”

  “You’ll have time. The flight doesn’t leave until seven-forty-five.”

  “I have a change of clothes in my trunk.” He spoke with little enthusiasm

  “I’ll wire money to your hotel, in case you need to buy more.”

  “Oh, okay.” Reluctance hung in Nick’s voice.

  “Herron’s offering a $100,000 reward for information leading to the arrest of Joel Driscoll’s real killer. We can split it.”

  “What time’s that flight again?”

  After refusing another jasmine iced tea, I stared out the front window. Dusk arrived. Street lamps came to life, neon signage glowed on the parapet of a nearby bakery, and a tourist ferry chugged down the Patapsco River. When I first called the restaurant, she said it would be six-thirty before Rick returned. She was right.

  A van pulled into an open spot in front of Thai Magic. An Asian man exited, marching toward the front door. When he entered, the woman behind the counter addressed him in Thai. I recognized the tonal quality of the language from time I’d spent in Bangkok. Her gestures toward me underscored this was t
he guy I’d been waiting for.

  Rick smiled broadly and sat on the stool next to me. In impeccable English, he asked, “What can I do for you?”

  I explained that I was investigating the murder of Joel Driscoll, who was killed on the night of the train museum’s fundraiser.

  Rick nodded. “I heard about that tragedy.”

  “Do you remember a customer at the end of the evening, perhaps when most of the traffic disappeared to attend the auction, who placed an order?”

  He gazed at the ceiling, furrows deepening on his forehead. His index finger twitched. “There was one. I’d almost forgotten.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “I had put away most of my equipment and placed the leftover chicken and peanut sauce in plastic containers. A man came up behind me. He startled me, saying he’d just arrived and wanted chicken satay. I told him all the food and supplies had been put away. He scowled and stood in my way as I tried to move one of the large storage boxes. He reached in his pocket and flashed a twenty-dollar bill.

  “I told him the chicken wasn’t hot, that we’d been closed for at least fifteen minutes. He gestured gimme with his hand. I finally fixed the guy an order.”

  “Did he head back toward the roundhouse?”

  Rick shook his head. “He went the other direction. Toward the games.”

  “Do you remember how he was dressed? What he looked like?”

  “Dark sweater maybe...not sure. Tall, but lean. Mid-thirties to forty.”

  I stood to thank Rick.

  “Oh, and he had this pencil mustache.”

  Sounded like the guy I’d seen getting off the Island Temptress at Carlin Trambata’s Boca mansion.

  42

  “I’m at the gate,” Nick announced, when I called his cell shortly after 7 p.m.

  “Any problems?”

  “Me not having luggage and traveling on a one-way ticket raised suspicions. The agent called her supervisor over to question me. I flashed my badge. One of the airport security guards knew me.”

  I filled Nick in on what I’d learned at Thai Magic. “I haven’t pieced it all together yet, but the nexus of responsibility for Joel’s death appears to be gathering at Carlin Trambata’s place.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “There’s a car waiting for you with Hertz at the Palm Beach airport, and you’re booked in the Boca Raton Beach Resort—on expense account.”

  “La dee da!” Nick laughed.

  “Don’t get too comfortable. I want you on surveillance tonight at Trambata’s estate.” I gave him the address.

  “I’m a cop. I’ll find it. No worries, I’m a night owl and will catch a few winks on the plane.”

  “Next, I’ll reach out to Detective Jackson and update you when you get to Palm Beach.”

  “They’re getting ready to board the flight. One more thing.”

  Nick sounded urgent.

  “Sure.”

  “I stuffed my extra clothes into a tote bag from a 1996 police conference in Atlantic City. It’s gonna stick out like hell in Boca Raton. Thanks for the expense account. I’m thinkin’ Gucci.”

  “Jackson.” The detective barked into his phone, while theme music from Jeopardy played in the background.

  “It’s Brad Frame.”

  Did he just groan?

  I relayed the updates on Zalinski’s movements and confirmed Todd Vicary’s news that Sal was bound for Boca Raton on Herron Two as a result of a late-afternoon request from Carlin Trambata via Tanesha Goodling. Recounting my prior visit to Trambata’s Boca estate, I mentioned the two hunky brothers, one with a pencil mustache, then told the detective about my meeting with the chicken satay vendor. Finally, I shared that my associate was on his way to Boca to keep an eye on things, revealing for the first time Nick’s status as a Philadelphia homicide detective.

  The news transformed Jackson’s attitude, as he sounded more engaged. “When’s Nick getting there?”

  I glanced at my watch. “His plane doesn’t leave Philly for a few more minutes. It should land by ten-thirty. Maybe it’s because I spotted that guy on the yacht, but I’m thinking Zalinski intends to flee the country.”

  “Do you have a name for Mr. Mustache?”

  “No. His brother’s first name is Enrico. I don’t know the—” I had an idea.

  “You still there?” Jackson asked.

  “I might be able to find out. Let me call you back.”

  I ended the call and dialed Todd Vicary.

  Chastened from my earlier call and astounded to learn how Carlin had commandeered a plane for a non-employee, Todd Vicary offered to find the names of the two guys working on Trambata’s estate. I didn’t give him much to go on except the first name of Enrico.

  Todd surprised me with a return call in ten minutes.

  “That was fast.”

  “I have a backup of our payroll records on my home computer,” Todd explained. “I think the men you’re looking for are Enrico and Rosario Hébert.”

  I know that name.

  Russ Hébert was the employee who screwed Dad and Joedco by jumping ship to Herron Industries with trade secrets, before disappearing to Martinique. Rosario figured to be the same guy. Carlin had kept him on the payroll.

  I’d be joining Nick in Boca. This just got personal.

  43

  Thursday, October 11, 2001

  Shortly after midnight, the chartered Beechjet 400A crossed the Virginia/North Carolina border, with the pilot advising 686 nautical miles remained to our destination. At top speed, we’d land at the Boca Raton Executive Airport in an hour and forty-five minutes.

  Across the aisle, Dwayne Jackson struggled to keep his eyes open, sipping a Diet Coke from the plane’s mini-bar. In the seat across from him, he stowed the holster with his service weapon, a Glock 17 9mm. The pilot looked askance when he’d first seen the weapon. To his credit, Jackson offered his police credentials, which dispelled the pilot’s concern. If we’d flown commercial, travel with the pistol might have brought more challenges than it was worth.

  This jet was smaller than Herron Industry’s plane, but nicely appointed with leather seats, cherry paneling, and plush carpet.

  When I called Jackson with the identity of the man with the pencil mustache, I suggested we fly to Florida. He moaned about the paperwork, saying it could take forty-eight hours for approval up the chain of command—half that if he called in a few favors. I offered to arrange for the charter at my expense.

  “Must be nice,” Jackson said, agreeing to make the trip. “By the time I alert the chief to where I am, we might already be headed home.”

  Before departing, I spoke to Nick following his arrival in Boca. I made him aware of our plans, and he agreed to leave me a voice mail with anything we should know.

  Detective Jackson alerted the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s office of our plans. One of their officers would meet us at the airport.

  Jackson and I talked ourselves into a frenzy with various scenarios, starting with the occupants at Trambata’s compound: Carlin and Megan Trambata, the Hébert brothers, and Zalinski, in addition to household staff and Zoya, the Indian therapist, whose last name I couldn’t remember.

  Unlike Nick, we had the advantage of a prior visit to Trambata’s estate, meaning we knew the layout and potential escape routes.

  “The crime lab lifted a partial print from the cheek of the knife used to kill Driscoll,” Jackson said. “If Rosario Hébert was the man the satay vendor saw, then I bet we match his print to the knife.”

  “I can’t figure out Zalinski’s role. I thought he and Trambata were like that.” I crossed my index and middle fingers.

  “Maybe he got paid better?”

  “Yeah, but by whom? I doubt Rosario. Trambata’s been his patron for years.”

  Jackson shrugged. “You think his brother, Enrico, was involved?”

  The image of “Ricky” snuggling with Megan popped into my head. “Not sure. Let’s confirm how and when Rosario a
rrived in Baltimore. Maybe his brother came with him.”

  “Megan told me that the brothers were going to pilot Trambata’s yacht, the Island Temptress, to Martinique. They planned to leave last Sunday. Plans changed when Carlin was arrested. If Rosario knows he’s facing a murder rap, he might bolt for the yacht.”

  “When we land, I’ll ask the Sheriff’s department to alert the Coast Guard.”

  I anticipated the scene in front of Trambata’s Casa de Antigua. We’d have law enforcement from three jurisdictions, although Nick would be there with PI status, one young and still-green-at-the-gills private detective, and the prospect of the Coast Guard off shore.

  Maybe we should call in the Marines too.

  I went to the mini-bar, grabbed a ginger ale and a bag of Doritos. “Can I get you anything?”

  Jackson shook his head.

  From my seat, I munched on the chips and stared out the window. The captain told us our cruising altitude was 32,000 feet. Over the ocean on a cloudless night there was little to see, except for the occasional ship, its lights glistening like a crystal on a bed of black velvet. The world below looked calm. My stomach churned. The Doritos didn’t help much.

  I glanced over at Jackson, gripping his can of soda, staring straight ahead. “Penny for your thoughts.”

  He sighed. “A month ago, nobody would have imagined how planes crashing into buildings would change our world.”

  I nodded.

  The captain’s announcement that we would be landing in ten minutes shook me from a nap. He advised making sure our seatbelts were fastened. I looked at my watch. 1:40 a.m. Skies remained clear. The moon, in its last quarter, looked as if it was rising out of the ocean. We were over land, sandy beaches to my left.

  The landing gear locked into place. Streetlights came into sharper focus below, with little traffic navigating the roadways.

  The pilot negotiated a smooth landing. As we taxied to the terminal, a roof-mounted digital temperature display read 78 degrees. I spotted the Herron Industries plane on the tarmac, pointing it out to Jackson and speculating whether Zalinski’s next move might be by air. If so, who would accompany him?