Dying to Meet You

By B. Robert Anderson

Dying to Meet You revolves around a signature killing, in fact around several killings. Why the signature? Who is using someone elses identity? Stephen Eliot lived by the clich. He also died that way.

Again, Lieutenant RC Frane and his partner, Sergeant Greta Rogers track much of the mystery through the food industry, but in a new direction. Thousands of canned tomato products destined to top pizzas in Philadelphia. Food broker, Stephen Eliot also has some interesting needs, before he is murdered.

Overlapping crimes complicate figuring out who did the deeds. Through gentle persistence, the two officers peel away events to solve what originally looked like serial murders.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 2, 2001
• ISBN: 9781465314659

B. Robert Anderson

B. Robert (Bob) Anderson has finished his sixth RC Frane/Greta Rogers mystery. “After all this time they seem like my friends. So, when a ‘cop’ is murdered it rests heavily on Frane’s shoulders.” After more than 20 years in Foodservice Distribution and another 35 years as a Management Consultant all this background led to a third career. Along the way he has written two college text books and over 600 articles ranging through all the addictions; drugs, alcohol, gambling and even parental abuse. These combined with management articles lead to tracking the facts needed to find the killer. Anderson grew up in Philadelphia and finds the city a perfect setting filled with interesting buildings, diverse neighborhoods, great restaurants and plenty of history. He lives with his wife, Joyce, who is also an author, in Linwood, New Jersey.

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DYING TO MEET YOU

B. Robert Anderson

Copyright © 2000 by B. Robert Anderson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

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DEDICATED TO MY WIFE

JOYCE

Also by B. Robert Anderson

Professional Selling

Professional Sales Management

Boardsmanship

(New Jersey School Boards Association)

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any

resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

1

It’s crimson. It’s red.

It’s burgundy.

It’s red.

It’s cranberry.

No matter what you say, you bought a red car. Just look at it. It’s red! How can a cop have a red car?

Frame shrugged. Why not. Some of the best cops have red cars. Besides, I’m not a cop. I’m a detective and that’s different.

Try telling that to Captain Bailey, Rogers laughed. I guess it’s not too bad. It isn’t bright red. It’s sort of subdued. How do you think it’ll work if you’re tailing somebody?

Greta, how many times do I have to tell you, I don’t tail people? I’m a detective. I think about the crime and ask questions. Then, I try to put to pieces together. You know, motive, method, opportunity, stuff like that.

Well, are you going to take me for a ride?

Tell you what. Next weekend let’s go down to the shore. Where do you want to go? How about Atlantic City? Try a casino. Maybe have dinner.

Sergeant Greta Rogers stood admiring the new car. A trip to the shore sounded great. In fact, any kind of getting together with Lieutenant RC Frane sounded great. It just didn’t happen. When they were in the middle of a case there never was a time when they were alone and not worn out. It took those two components. A chance to think of the social side unencumbered by the pressures of pursuing a killer.

Today would prove no different. The newly installed radio crackled its first message. Okay, he said to Rogers. Your first ride in my new chariot will be for business. Let’s go.

There was no need for sirens or flashing lights to clear the way. The call that interrupted their scrutiny of Frane’s new red-crimson-cranberry-burgundy Chevy told them of a problem. Since homicide was their business, the need to rush to Elkins Park was important. And they knew the body would be there when they arrived.

Three police cars filled the driveway. And the gray coupe belonging to the Medical Examiner, Homer Longstreet, was angled in such a way that it blocked any other cars. Early morning calls tended to upset Longstreet. He always said, I like to work up to the day. You know, start quiet, maybe even read the ball scores. Then, when a body comes along, I’m set.

When RC Frane and Greta Rogers arrived he was just about to leave.

What did you find? asked Frane.

A body.

Dead?

Of course dead. Why do you think they called me?

Rogers started to say something when Frane signaled to let it go.

How dead?

As in a bullet behind the left ear.

Doesn’t sound like suicide.

Anything else, Longstreet moaned. Gimmee a break. I only took a quick look. They’re taking pictures already. He’s curled up like a baby, taking a long nap. All I could see at the moment is the hole in his head. Not much blood. Probably shot elsewhere and then nestled into the trunk.

Nestled? queried Rogers.

Sergeant, doesn’t that sound better than dumped. Besides, it appears as if the body was handled gently. Don’t ask me why. The suit jacket is neat. Looks like the perp smoothed it out so he would look nice for the picture taking.

Homer, I think you need some time off. When you go to sleep at night, do you count bodies jumping over the fence?

After what I just went through putting together all the bodies from those shrimp boxes you had imported from all around the country, it’s nice to have just a complete, whole body nestled in the trunk of a car,

The two detectives were not anxious to discuss the shrimp boxes. They had surfaced all over the country during an investigation into the icing of the chef at The Captain’s Table. Icing in that Chef Dorrit was found dead in the freezer, buried under boxes of frozen shrimp.

Homer, has anyone identified the deceased?

Yep. He belongs to the house. Name of Stephen Eliot. Seems to me like and open-and-shut-trunk case.

Very funny

Longstreet has been with the department as Medical Examiner for over twenty-five years. At one time he was slated to be Chief ME, but he turned it down. Don’t want to get caught up in all the detail of running the department. Just happy playing around with the corpse and trying to figure out what happened. The bodies tend not to talk back.

While he was not a pathologist, his reputation for quick opinions and guessing right were legion in the city. In fact, he often had trouble helping street cops to understand that being a pathologist took an extra ten years of training. All my experience doesn’t count. Except that I know more than they do coming out of school. Only once did he get caught short, when DNA first emerged as a defining weapon in the pursuit of criminals. The idea of tracking killers through blood samples that explained everything, didn’t appeal to him. Now, the more sophisticated methods of matching, took samples that could stand up in court as well as fingerprints. He still preferred to use his own sense of how the crime unfolded and left the proof to others in the department.

There’s not much else I can tell you now, he said to Frane. Time of death is only a rough guess. I’d say maybe between ten and midnight. But, wherever it took place, that’s where you’ll find the blood. Nice plastic liner used to keep the floor of the trunk clean. Who would want to dirty the trunk of a new Cadillac?

With a wave and a small grunt, he left.

Moving up the driveway, they stopped to speak with George Ambler, head of the forensic team. Find anything interesting? Frane asked.

Just the usual stuff, he answered. We got a bunch of things out of the glove compartment. Got to take them downtown so we can correlate everything. Most of the prints off the trunk and the steering wheel look alike. Can’t tell for sure. Have some info for you before the end of the day. You looking for anything in particular?

How about the name and address of the perp.

Rogers added, The ME thinks it was done somewhere else. Maybe the plastic bag or something on his shoes can help identify where it happened.

Dirt in the tires?

All the good stuff you can find.

Thanks George. We’ll talk later. Anybody in the house?

Couple of blue coats and I guess the wife.

Before we go in to see the widow, Frane said, Let’s take a stroll down the block and talk to a neighbor or two."

2

The sun was out, pushing its rays through the branches of the overhanging trees. An early morning chill had slowly become a pleasant warming day. The row of houses each set back from the street was filled with flowers coming to bloom. There was no traffic on this street; the properties were filled with young executives on their way to the top. This was a good first stop before the jump to suburban living. For Stephen Eliot it had been the last stop.

They were standing in the garage next to Eliot’s blue Cadillac.

Just remember, Lieutenant. If you so much as touch the bottom of the door, it stops.

You sure you measured right? asked Frane.

"Yes sir. It’s exactly twenty-two feet from the switch on the wall to the overhead door. Not counting that you might have to go a foot or two to the right to get around the car. Of course, you can stretch, you know, the length of your arm and keep your feet ready to run.

RC Frane nodded. He took his jacket off and handed his Smith & Wesson .38 revolver to one of the blue coats. Hold this, he said.

He extended his arm to the switch. Set his feet. Then, with a rush, he flipped the switch and ran toward the front of the garage trying to beat the overhead door as it slowly descended. In the very first steps he began to crouch, hoping to slip under the door and make his getaway.

Even with a crouch he wasn’t low enough. If he practiced, he might have been able to throw himself to the floor of the garage and roll under the door with an inch or two of clearance. Stooping over just didn’t do it.

Retrieving his coat and gun he turned to the two officers and asked, Either of you think you could do it?

One was a twenty-year street cop who had already developed enough hanging belly to qualify for Beer Watchers. The other a young, newly trained, college educated vision of the future said, I could try, Lieutenant. Probably with practice and maybe rolling under I could do it. Do you think that’s the way he got out?

Sergeant Rogers answered. We’re just testing a couple of ideas, officer. You got any thoughts, we’d be happy to listen.

Kirby, the officer with the beer-belly knew that when a homicide sergeant and a homicide lieutenant asked for an opinion they didn’t really want to hear anything. Especially from a young cop. He made a mental note to advise his partner. Just listen. Until you have at least ten years in. Maybe by that time, when you’ve seen a whole bunch of murders, you’ll be allowed to have an opinion.

Frane and Rogers walked through the garage. A door leading to the house proper was locked from the inside. The security system didn’t go into action until that door, or the one at the front of the house was opened. As soon as either door opened a beeping sound ticked off the time. If this system were like others they had seen, in about thirty seconds a wailing clamor would erupt. Probably wake up the whole neighborhood, and also alert the security company. Then they would call the house and ask if everything was all right. They would also ask for a code number. The correct answer brought a, Have a good night. The wrong answer brought a police car.

Looking at her notes, Rogers said, "When she was asked, Mrs. Eliot said the system was armed when she went to bed. That was about eleven. Mr. Eliot was due home from a dinner meeting after midnight.

Further, Mrs. Eliot says she’s a sound sleeper. So, she didn’t hear the garage door open-or close. Sometime in the early morning, maybe five o’clock, she wakes, realizes her husband isn’t home gets worried.

Frane took up the tale. "So, she goes downstairs, notices that the alarm is on, and goes to the door which leads to the garage.

The alarm is on in both places. She turns off the alarm, opens the door and sees her husband’s car. The overhead door is closed. No husband."

The two detectives were very comfortable with their style of back and forth dialogue. After more than four years together they has begun to finish each other’s sentences. If we think alike, Frane said, We’re not going to be challenging each other. We have to disagree. We have to argue.

Greta Rogers answered this with a smile. I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we practice when to agree and when to argue? We could even set up some kind of signal. Like making a tee sign with your hands. Or, holding up a palm like a stop sign. Or, maybe just fingers. One means it’s okay. Two means let’s talk more. Three means …

Gothcha, said Frane. What kinda signal you want to use for let’s get to work?

3

Greta Rogers spent the first eight years on the police force as a street cop. Most of the time she was in a car with her partner, Randall Jordon, roaming the streets of Philadelphia. He was a veteran and taught her many things, such as the need to have escape valves. Any job has it’s routine, he would tell her. Things you do over and over till you just get fed up with what seems like working on a production line. But, police work has the advantage of the unexpected. Important things happen. That’s why we do what we do. So, after a while you gotta have a way to laugh at some of the bad things going down. People ain’t cops would think we’re crazy trying to laugh at something horrible. Thing is, we’re not laughing at the bad stuff. We’re just doing something off the wall to break the tension. It’s like stepping outside your skin for a minute or two. After that, you can come back and do cop work.

After hearing this over and over all those years, Rogers became a true believer. When she was assigned to RC Frane she tried to hide this behavior because of his reputation as a Dour Detective. Slowly. During the past four years she realized that everybody in the department had some kind of nickname, or reference. Her own had moved from Kid Cop to Tough Shooter. That happened when she took down a two-bit robber who was about to blow her partner away. Kid to Shooter with one bullet.

While Frane didn’t become any less dour, Rogers has learned that a strange laugh didn’t always mean something funny. It just broke the deadliness of the moment. Frane had come to respect her for what she was, as well as grateful for being a Tough Shooter. There were other reasons he liked being with her.

RC, she said. We have us a conundrum.

Is that something dirty?

Look, the car is in the garage. All doors are locked or covered by the alarm system. How did the car get in the garage?

Getting in was easy. Getting out through a locked door is a problem.

So.

I tried running for the door. Didn’t do too well, did I?

Maybe he—or she had the combination to the alarm system. Drove the car in. Went into the house. Disarmed the alarm system. Then exited through the front door after resetting the alarm.

Maybe that person simply went upstairs to sleep for a couple of hours before calling the cops.

Maybe that person who was supposed to be sleeping let the driver in after turning off the alarm and then let the perp out the front door.

This is old news, added Frane. Been in all the detective novels. How did the killer get out of the locked room? No big deal. We just have to figure it out.

I’m leaning toward Mrs. Eliot.

One thing we know for sure.

Yes, it’s a lot easier to get out of a locked garage than it is to get out of a locked trunk.

Especially if you’re dead.

You want to see a neighbor?

Yes. I know one of the blue coats has been around to talk to them, but I feel a need. We just might get lucky. We’ll see Mrs. Eliot in a bit. Gives her a chance to get her breath. Anybody with her now?

Just a policewoman, Rogers added. We’ve kept the family and other outsiders away.

Let’s go next door. Got a name for these people?

Rogers flipped her notebook open and said, Harvey and Thelma Lewisher. He’s a sales engineer and she is, ah, she works in an office, some sort of manager with a small company.

"This is not exactly what you would call next door. Look at the ground between these properties. What’dya figure, maybe half an acre?

This is pretty expensive territory, noted Rogers. See how the grounds are kept around here. Don’t believe the man of the house takes care of the pool, if there is one.

We’ll take a look in a little while. Let’s see if anybody’s home.

The path to the front door curved parallel to the driveway. Parked toward the rear was a silver Mercedes convertible. Standing at the front door Frane looked at the Eliot house and saw that there was no view of the Eliot garage. Even as he raised his finger to the bell, the door opened. The woman appeared tense.

Yes, can I help you? I’m on the way out.

Holding out his ID he said, "Mrs. Lewisher, I’m Lieutenant

Frane, this is Sergeant Rogers. We’d like to ask you a few questions."

Lieutenant, I was just on my way to my office. Besides, I already spoke to a police officer. Can’t this wait?

Only take a minute.

Standing in the doorway, she asked, Well, what did you want to know?

Mrs. Lewisher, how long have you lived here?

We built this house three years ago.

And the Eliot’s?

I think they came in right after us. Does this have anything to do with what happened?

Just trying to get some background. From your upstairs rooms can you see the Eliot garage?

No. As a matter of fact, our houses are very similar, came from the same floor plans. So, what we see is their bedroom window and a bathroom window. That’s about all. Can’t really see anything, just that the windows are there.

Now, Mrs. Lewisher, this may seem personal, but we can find out downtown. Save us a little trouble if you answer now. How much did you pay for this house?

She stood there, thinking, defensive of her private affairs. I don’t really like this intrusion into our privacy. But, I guess you can find out easily enough, it’s in the public records. We paid $325,000. Why do you want to know that?

So, if your house is similar to the Eliot’s, they must have paid about the same.

She smiled. I think we may have done a little better than they did. But, about the same. I don’t know for sure. She added pointedly, You can find out downtown.

Is it possible that you or Mr. Lewisher heard anything during the night. A garage door opening? A car starting up? Anything, shall we say, out of the ordinary?

Absolutely not. We had a nightcap and then went upstairs around midnight. We both slept through till the noise of all the police cars this morning.

So, you heard them as they arrived?

Not exactly. We don’t get much traffic in this neighborhood. Five or six police cars at one time are a lot.

Did they have their sirens on?

No, it wasn’t that. It just seemed that there was a lot doing for that early in the morning. So we took notice. Really, Lieutenant, what has all this to do with the murder?

Did the police officer tell you there was a murder?

Mrs. Lewisher recoiled at this question. Her face turned dark, not flushed but dark as if she feared she had over spoken. Why, yes. I think the officer did say something about a body being found.

Did he say anything about murder?

Indignant, she responded. If you find a body and the police come around asking questions, what else can it be but murder.

Rogers interposed. Guess you’re right. Unless maybe somebody simply died and there you have a body.

Are you friends with the Eliots?

I wouldn’t call us friends. We’re neighbors. From time to time we may have a cookout. Or, invite them in to dinner. Very casual.

Have you ever been to their home for dinner?

Lieutenant, I can’t figure out what this is all about.

Greta Rogers offered, Investigations sometimes seem to go far a field. You just never know when you learn something useful. Did you ever have dinner in their home?

Only once that I can recall.

In three years.

Yes.

Mrs. Lewisher, do you have the same kind of alarm system in your home as the Eliot’s?

I really don’t know, she answered, visibly annoyed.

Would you please describe how yours’ works.

She shook her head in a form of disbelief. You punch in a four-number code and then punch in whether you are staying in or going out. It takes less than a minute for the system to go active.

Suppose you come into your garage and the alarm is on?

"Oh, the garage door isn’t on the system. You simply drive in, close the overhead door and when you go through the inside door to the house the