Embalmed (A Brad Frame Mystery Book 6) Read online

  Brad and Nick waited in the kitchen, next to the dining room, while Detective Rooney stood inside a three-season porch opposite them.

  The doorbell rang.

  He heard Segundo open the door and say. “Hi. I’m Loretta, one of the neighbors.”

  “I’m Jerry.”

  “When I heard about what happened to Riley, I came right over.”

  “I’m an old friend of the family from Delaware days,” Murray said. “I heard the news, too, and wanted to help out.” After a pause, he added, “I can stay if you have somewhere to be.”

  “Well, my kids will be getting home from school shortly. I thought I’d bring a casserole over later for dinner.”

  “That’s nice of you.”

  “Is Christine upstairs?” Murray asked.

  “No. She’s sitting in the dining room.”

  “Okay, thanks again for your help,” he said.

  Brad heard the front door close. He expected Loretta would descend the front stairs and move toward the side of the house in case Murray was watching her. She’d return after a few minutes to block his escape.

  An agonizing silence as the seconds ticked by and he waited for Jerry Murray to spot Sharon posed as Christine.

  “We did it, Christine.” Jerry exhaled loud enough that Brad could hear it two rooms away. “We fuckin’ did it. Everything worked out exactly how you planned it would.”

  Brad looked at Nick. He couldn’t believe what he’d just heard, and disbelief registered in the deepening folds between Nick’s eyes.

  “You should’ve seen the look on Riley’s face when he thought we were headed for the strip show and then realized otherwise.”

  Brad heard a rustling sound and realized Jerry had just tossed aside the bouquet he’d brought with him.

  “And your best idea was having me use the name of Kip all these months. That private detective called your dumb brother about Truit, and if he’d dropped my real name, I would have been screwed.”

  Brad could tell from the sound of Murray’s voice that he was getting closer to the dining room.

  Having gotten caught up in his own revelry, Jerry finally said, “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  Sharon turned around at that point, Brad could tell since Jerry emitted an audible shudder.

  “You’re not Christine.”

  “No. She’s at the hospital having Riley’s baby,” Sharon said.

  Murray started to laugh, and in the midst of the laughter Brad thought he heard a cell phone brought to life. Murry couldn’t seem to stop laughing. “It’s not his baby. It’s mine.”

  Detective Rooney stepped from the shadows with a gun aimed at Murray, and at the same time spoke into the cell phone in his left hand, “I need officers dispatched to West Suburban Medical Center for protective custody of Christine Truit, suspected accomplice in a triple homicide.”

  Nick walked out of the kitchen with cuffs in hand, and Brad followed him into the dining room.

  Murray bolted toward the entrance but managed only two steps before he slowed in the face of Loretta Segundo’s weapon.

  Nick pulled Murray’s hands behind his back and slipped on the cuffs, saying, “You have a right to remain silent….”

  “Are you sure I can’t fly you and your suspect back to Philadelphia by way of Houston?” Brad said.

  Nick shook his head. “Two plane rides in luxury like that on one day and Ruth won’t be able to live with me.”

  Brad laughed.

  Brad turned to Sharon. “Philly via Houston?”

  “Actually, if you don’t mind, I have a sorority sister here in Chicago I haven’t seen in ten years. I texted her while we were on the plane. She’s invited me to spend the weekend.”

  “Have fun.”

  Brad rode alone in the taxi to Midway airport. The complications of the case had kept them debriefing with the Oak Park police longer than he’d anticipated. It would be 4:45 p.m. Central time before he’d be on the way to Houston and, as a result, late for the meeting. Another notch against him in his checkered history with his brother.

  He’d gotten into this business to bring justice to others. In this instance, those needing justice were either dead or, in the case of Grace Haller, incapable of comprehending.

  Earlier, he’d shared his concerns with Nick, who said, “In my business, there are days when the bad guys win. But when we prevail, the winner is a more civil society.”

  Brad’s cell buzzed with a text message.

  Ah, Andrew has a few choice words.

  “Felix is running late. Won’t arrive until 8:15 p.m.”

  Not nearly enough exclamations.

  Brad responded: “Me either! Eat cake!”

  AUTHOR’S BIO

  Ray Flynt is the author of Brad Frame mysteries, as well as KISSES OF AN ENEMY, a political thriller. A native of Pennsylvania, Ray has also written a one-man play based on the life of Ben Franklin and is available for performances of the play. Ray is a member of Mystery Writers of America and active with their Florida Chapter. He is also a member of the Florida Writers Association.

  Ray retired from a diverse career in criminal justice, education, the arts, and human services. He lives in central Florida. You can find more information at www.rayflynt.com.

  BRAD FRAME MYSTERIES

  #1 – UNFORGIVING SHADOWS

  #2 – TRANSPLANTED DEATH

  #3 – BLOOD PORN

  #4 – LADY ON THE EDGE

  #5 – FINAL JUROR

  #6 - EMBALMED

  SUSPENSE NOVELS BY RAY FLYNT

  KISSES OF AN ENEMY

  COLD OATH (2016)

  Read the opening chapter of

  FINAL JUROR

  #5 Brad Frame Mystery Series

  1

  Rachel Tetlow’s tan, gray and green camouflage bore the insignia of a corporal, with tapes at each breast identifying her as TETLOW and US ARMY. Rachel perched across from Brad Frame, on one of the leather sofas in his office, her long brown hair pulled back. She had a pretty, freckled face, but the uniform robbed her of a distinctive shape.

  Brad studied his client. Rachel wasn’t what he’d expected based on their brief phone conversation. He decided the uniform was the reason. She seemed composed, except for the constant fidgeting with her cap.

  Sharon Porter, seated next to Brad, also hovered on the edge of her seat, gazing intently at the young woman who had come to them for help. Sharon had worked in his detective business for several years. When it came to analyzing cases, they often thought alike, so it was no surprise to Brad when Sharon said, “Seventeen years is a long time. I’m not sure what we’ll be able to find.”

  Rachel sighed. “I know. It might take a miracle. My whole life has been filled with questions. I need to know who killed my dad.”

  Sharon glanced at Brad before she added, “My concern is that a lot of witnesses will be dead or they’ll have moved away from the area, which will make the investigation very expensive.”

  “I don’t care about the cost.” Rachel sounded determined. “I’ll make E-5 next month and will get a bonus for re-enlisting. And there’ll be my mother’s estate; she recently died.”

  Brad detested the idea of Rachel using her service bonus to pay for his services.

  “I never thought about hiring a private detective,” Rachel said. “I took a few days off to get Mother’s house ready to put on the market. While I was there, I heard astory on KYW News about the Alex Nagel case.”

  Alex Nagel was a young veteran of the Afghan war who returned to Philadelphia after his third tour of duty in the war zone, found his wife in bed with a city councilman and shot them both. Archibald “Archie” Greer, Philadelphia’s most famous criminal defense attorney, had asked Brad to investigate the background of the woman’s lover, at-large Councilman Calvin Morrissey Jr.

  “The reporter mentioned that you’d become a private detective because of the murder of your mother and sister,” Rachel continued, “I figured you were the type of
person who would understand what I’ve been going through all these years.”

  Sharon shot Brad a pointed look. Corporal Tetlow had just tugged at Brad’s emotional core, and Sharon knew he’d be taking the case.

  “Let’s not worry about money right now,” Brad said.

  Sharon heaved a sigh as she leaned back in her seat. He knew she’d complain later—after the client left—about how he was turning the detective agency into a charitable endeavor by refusing to accept fees for his services. Brad had sufficient wealth that he didn’t care; justice was what mattered most to him. If she weren’t so valuable to his work, Brad would happily tell Sharon that she could open her own agency and charge whatever she wanted.

  Brad gave Sharon a knowing smile, before turning to Rachel. “Over the phone, you told me that your mother lived in Manayunk. Is that the same house where you grew up?”

  Rachel nodded.

  Brad pointed to the pile of yellowed newsprint on the table next to him. “Aside from the newspaper clippings you brought, what do you remember about his death? You were only a nine-year-old at the time.”

  Rachel laid the well-crumpled cap on the seat next to her. “I’ve thought about this a lot, as you can tell. I’m not sure what my actual memories are, or what might be something my mother said or that I’ve read about. I’ll do my best. It was summer, because I wasn’t in school—July 1995. My parents took turns reading me bedtime stories, and the night before his death my dad read from A Celery Stalks at Midnight. That’s the third book in a series about a vampire bunny, and I loved them. A few years later, when Mother got me a kitten, I named it Chester after the cat in the stories.”

  “I remember Bunnicula,” Sharon said, and the two women shared a laugh. Brad wasn’t familiar with the stories.

  “I didn’t sleep very well that night,” Rachel said. “At one point I heard a crash. Sounded like the lid had blown off the garbage can. I remember that my dad had taken the garbage out after supper.”

  “What night of the week was that?” Brad asked.

  “It was a Monday. Shortly after I heard the noise, my dad came into my bedroom. I pretended to be asleep, but I saw him walk over to the window to make sure it was locked.”

  “Did you live in a one- or two-story house?” Sharon asked.

  “Two-story. The bedrooms were on the second floor.”

  A gust of wind shook the windows in Brad’s office, and mini-tornadoes of fallen leaves swirled on the cobblestone drive outside. About half of the leaves still remained on the beech tree, and they glowed golden yellow in the sunshine.

  The rattling windows pulled Rachel’s attention away for an instant before she resumed her story. “After he checked the lock, Dad stared out the window for a long time. Finally, I asked him, ‘Is everything all right?’ He apologized for waking me—I never told him I was already awake—and then he bent down and kissed me on the forehead. ‘No worries,’ he said, and those were the last words I ever heard him speak.”

  Rachel told her story earnestly, Brad thought, but without much emotion. It had been nearly fifteen years since his own mother and sister were kidnapped and murdered. He had recounted the details of those events many times; even if his own story now sounded well-rehearsed, deep down he still felt the ache. Brad suspected Rachel did, too.

  “You didn’t see him on the morning he died?” Sharon asked.

  Rachel shook her head. “I heard him go out the front door the next morning, but I must have fallen back to sleep. Then I heard Mom calling, ‘Rachel, breakfast.’”

  “What time was that?” Sharon asked.

  “I only know from reading the news reports that my mother was notified about the crash at 9 a.m., and the police arrived at our front door just as I sat down to eat breakfast.”

  Brad laced his fingers together as he listened.

  “There were two police officers, a man and a woman. I don’t remember their names. Mom went into the living room to answer the doorbell, and I was still at the kitchen table. I couldn’t make out their conversation, but I wasn’t really paying attention. Then I heard my mother scream.”

  Brad saw Sharon scribbling a few notes. As he turned his attention back to Rachel, he noticed the camouflaged cap was back in her hands. She tightened her grip on the bill.

  “After Mother screamed,” Rachel continued, “I jumped up from the table and ran into the living room, still wearing my pajamas. The female officer was helping my mother to a seat. But when my mother saw me, she leapt up from the sofa and ran toward me. I remember that she kept saying ‘Oh baby… oh baby,’ and she hugged me so tightly it hurt. The police never sat. I remember thinking, why are they staring at us? I still didn’t know what had happened. Finally, they asked my mother if there was anybody else they should call. Mother told them to call my Aunt Kay—that’s her sister. The male police officer used the phone in the living room, and that’s when I heard him say that Martin Tetlow had died. I started crying.”

  An eerie silence settled over Brad’s office, located in a wing of his Bryn Mawr estate. A log on the fireplace crackled, and the resulting shower of sparks drew Brad’s attention.

  “When did you learn the cause of your dad’s death?” Sharon asked.

  Rachel puckered her lips. “It was a blur after that. All I knew was that he’d been killed in a car crash. For the next three days people were coming and going, neighbors bringing food, friends stopping by to offer their condolences. Grandma and Grandpa came and stayed in my room, and I slept with my mother. Of course, there were the hours spent at the funeral home. I… can’t…” For the first time that morning, words caught in her throat. “I can’t get the image of that gray metal casket out of my head. His injuries were so bad that they couldn’t have an open casket.”

  Sharon coughed.

  “I’ll get to your question,” Rachel said.

  “I’m not rushing you,” Sharon apologized. “I’m getting a cold.”

  “The day after the funeral, a Friday I think,” Rachel continued, “was very quiet, especially after all the activity over the previous few days. It seemed like my mother never left my side after the news about Dad, like she was trying to be strong for me. I remember sitting in the living room watching TV. Ironically, the O. J. Simpson trial pre-empted All My Children, which my mother watched religiously. She loved Susan Lucci and was upset she couldn’t watch the soap. The doorbell rang, and it was a police officer. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but he showed his badge. Mother offered him a seat, and pulled me onto her lap.” Rachel smiled. “The officer pointed to the TV and said, ‘Could you turn that off?’ He seemed gruff to me.”

  From her brief description, Brad wondered if the plainclothes detective might have been his mentor and business partner Nick Argostino. If so, it might offer them a head start on the investigation.

  “The officer told Mother they’d examined the car my dad died in. It appeared as if the brakes had been tampered with and his death had not been an accident. He asked her if she knew anybody who might want to harm him.”

  Sharon took more notes as Brad asked, “Are you remembering the specifics from when they happened or a later re-telling?”

  Rachel sighed. “I don’t remember much of what the officer said, except for him asking her to turn off the TV. But I can still picture my mother’s face—shifting in slow motion—as she absorbed what he told her. She looked apprehensive, then surprised, shocked and finally like she’d seen a light bulb lit, when she said, ‘It must have to do with that jury he was on.’” Rachel pointed to the newspaper articles.

  Brad figured there was a reason Rachel had shared the story of her dad visiting her bedroom and double-checking the window to make sure it was locked. “Had your dad received any specific threats?”

  “Back then I never heard. By the time I was thirteen I started investigating. I found a box with the newspaper stories my mother had saved. I practically memorized them. I started questioning my mother, and she shared her own memories about Dad’s dea
th. At family gatherings I’d ask questions—made a pest of myself, really—getting everyone’s theories.” Rachel laughed. “One day I asked my mother if Dad had ever been threatened. She hemmed and hawed a lot. Finally, she told me that during a break in the trial Dad wanted to go outside for a smoke. He got on the elevator, and another man followed him on. Dad hadn’t paid attention to what he looked like, but just before the elevator doors opened on the ground floor, the man said, ‘I hope Rachel sleeps well tonight.’”

  Sharon took a sharp breath.

  “Did your mother say any more?” Brad asked.

  Rachel shook her head. “Whenever I’d ask her about it after that she’d say, ‘I already told you.’”

  Brad leafed through the clippings Rachel had brought and spotted a story titled, “Juror’s Death Prompts Mistrial in Drug Kingpin Case.” He scanned the lead paragraph before passing the article to Sharon just as Rachel consulted her wristwatch.

  “Are you pressed for time?” Brad asked.

  “I’m on duty this afternoon,” Rachel said. “When I requested last Thursday and Friday off, the tradeoff was that I would work a shift on Veteran’s Day. It’s a two-and-a-half-hour drive from here to Fort Meade, Maryland, where I’m stationed. I have to be back by 2 p.m.”

  Brad hadn’t considered that November 12th was a Federal holiday when he’d scheduled the meeting, and Sharon never complained when he added it to her calendar. He’d watched a story on the news that morning showing the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknowns in Arlington Cemetery, along with the announcement that the President would lay a wreath at the tomb later that morning.

  “We won’t keep you. I’ll go through all this material,” Brad said, as he rose from his chair. “I’ve been summoned to jury duty myself tomorrow morning, but they don’t pick detectives like me for a jury, so I’ll probably be home in an hour. And then we’ll get working on your case. I just want to make sure we have your e-mail and phone information, since I’m sure we’ll need to talk further.”