I'll Protect You (Clueless Resolutions Book 1) (8 page)

In the meantime, approximately 130 miles to the east, at a bed and breakfast just two blocks in from the Falmouth Massachusetts coastline, the Monday holiday had begun with a gloomy, chilly fog.

Maggie and Max had awakened a little late and, having showered, were dodging each other as they moved around their suite getting dressed.  The breakfast had begun at 7:00 AM sharp and, according to the plastic encased direction sheet, would end at 9:30.  They had 10 minutes to go downstairs and put in the order.  It was too chilly to eat out on the observation deck overhead on the roof so they were going to have their coffee and food in the snug little dining room with the enormous old fireplace.

As the rested couple had just selected breakfast from the choice of two items, a bright sunbeam came streaming in through the wrinkled antique window beside their table.

“Man, what a view!’ commented Max as the pair looked out over the roofs of two side-by-side, one story bungalows.  The vista was magnificent. Beyond the blue-grey harbor waters they could see the outline of the “West Chop” section of the island of Martha’s Vineyard, approximately two and one half miles across Nantucket Sound to the south.

The first ferry to the islands was plowing through the choppy water carrying a load of passengers, mostly seated in the wind-protected lower deck.  The shoreline waters here did not warm up until mid-July and, even then, never reached the warmer temperature found along the Rhode Island and Connecticut south shores.

On the plus side, summer heat waves along the inner Cape were rare and on the outer Cape, nonexistent.  The torrent of tourism seeking cool weather on Cape Cod from inland Massachusetts and neighboring states was relentless, even in the modern days of air conditioning.

The Memorial Day three-day weekend was unusually busy each year due to the graduating or soon-to-be graduating, high school and college students’ migratory celebrations.

Max and Maggie didn’t have an abundance of available accommodations from which to choose when they arrived late Friday afternoon, but they were enjoying their first stay at a refreshingly quiet, low-keyed bed and breakfast establishment.  After breakfast on Saturday morning Maggie had made contact with the friends in Hyannis.  As it turned out, the couple was having their bathrooms and their pool refurbished.  They apologized for not being ready for company but suggested a dinner at the tennis club, their treat, Saturday evening.  Maggie had accepted for her and Max since the friends had a minimum monthly dining room fee, as part of their membership requirements, and they had to use it or they would lose it.  Plus the food was great there.

Later on Saturday, during dinner, Maggie and Max had explained that, at this part in their lives, they had made a joint decision, to open up to their employers as to their personal relationship.  The friends had not been aware of the details of their friends’ employment and business arrangement.  They were surprised and a little confused, but totally supportive since they had known Maggie and Max as a couple for some time.  They were more than a little shocked at the news about the killings, however.

As they were dining, an organizer of tournaments had approached their table and asked if anyone would fill in for a set of couples who dropped out of the club annual ‘Kick Off” tournament the next day, on Sunday afternoon.  When Max good naturedly expressed their agreement to fill in “because in that way, he and Maggie would feel a little less guilty about the free dinner,” the group enjoyed a hearty laugh.

On this Monday morning, the final day of their mini vacation, they were both a bit hung over.  The tennis tournament dinner and awards session hadn’t finished until after 11:00 the night before.  The older members had left at that point but Maggie and Max hanged on with their friends along with two other couples for a “last” drink.

Maggie, who was teamed with an older woman during the tournament, had won second place in the final doubles matches.  Feeling somewhat overly exuberant, Max had accidentally spilled a drink at their table during the awards session when he rose to applaud Maggie as she walked back to their table waving the winners certificate and her prize, a sleeve of tennis balls, over her head.  Max took a real razzing for the spill and the group of revelers had insisted that he buy yet another round of drinks as punishment.  A bit looped as they left the Hyannis clubhouse, the “Double-Ms”, as they were dubbed that evening, still had to negotiate a fifteen mile drive back to Falmouth. 

When they had made their way back to the Inn, Maggie tripped over a bench in the main foyer, creating a loud crashing sound that echoed though the old building.  As lights came on in the sitting room, she and Max tip-toed hurriedly up the stairs and after momentarily fiddling with the key, stumbled into their suite, both stifling laughter as they quietly clicked the door closed behind them.

On this morning after, they wondered aloud to each other whether they would be welcomed if they decided to stay there at some future date.  Feeling that they were being watched, and that they might have broken some expensive antique,  they finished breakfast and went to pack their belongings so that they could, at least, make sure to check out before the 10:00AM “deadline”, thereby avoiding ‘disgracing themselves’ even further.

By 10:30 AM, Ms. Marshall and Mr. Hargrove were on the way back from their spontaneous weekend of enjoyment and goof-ups.  They were both deep in thought as they went along the boring drive amid low shrubs and dwarf evergreens which dominate the growth on the rural, sand based outlands of inner Cape Cod.

Maggie was driving Max’s car. Max, having reclined his passenger seat halfway had drifted off into a catnap.  Maggie, with her tinderbox of a temper, and her strong sense of self-worth, was slightly miffed at being ignored and with having been left with the driving.

Just for laughs, she had an impish temptation to slam on the brakes, blow the horn and yell
Max
, just to see his stunned, half-asleep expression.  Then, as the common-sense Maggie prevailed, she glanced over at the dozing man that she had strong feelings for.  He was at least peaceful, during a tumultuous time that had invaded both of their lives during the last months
.  I’ve got to be careful about making everything about me. I’m strong, but he’s a strong guy too, both physically and mentally, and he feels the same way about me. I’ll cut him a little slack right now,
she thought.  She tuned to her favorite satellite station on the radio and did another half hour of driving.

Max woke up and struggled to focus as Maggie was slowing the car behind the usual going-home traffic snag, leading up to the narrow, circa 1930 Bourne Bridge which spanned the Cape Cod Canal. Glancing at some of the license plates around her she could see Rhode Island, Connecticut, Vermont, New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania logos.

“Okay Max”, time to rise and shine”, she said intentionally loudly, “Do you want to wait until we get over the bridge, or do you want me to pull over so that you can take over the controls now?” she asked the still groggy Max.

“No, Mag, pull over, at this pace we won’t miss too many spaces, I’ll do the bridge”, he responded, rubbing his eyes briskly with his knuckles.  “Do you want to stop at that chowder house on the other side for lunch?” he asked.

“Yeah, that and the rest room, if you know what I mean” she answered in her “tough girl” tone.

The stop for lunch proved to be a good idea.  Not only were they relieved, and full of good clam chowder and clam cakes, the traffic had thinned out some and they were making good time heading west on Rte. I-195. Max was driving now, feeling somewhat rejuvenated from his nap.

Their conversation took on more of a business like tone now that the holiday was coming to an end.  Tomorrow it was back to the grindstone, starting a new week, and starting some dialog with their employers.  Here and there throughout the weekend Maggie and Max had touched on the real motivation for the trip.  Their long standing policy to mask their personal involvement so as to avoid suspicion of collusion in their business pursuits, had worked nicely until the two mysterious murders occurred.  Since then, the volume of referrals to Francine from lenders had dropped off and the requests for auction appraisals from Carl had almost stopped.

Max was knowledgeable enough in business practices to know that, although he was a salaried employee, if the need for his specialized services decreased, his employer would have to consider alternatives.  That concerned Max.

The drop off in contacts from the three primary mortgage lenders which Maggie had cultivated meant less listing contracts of financially distressed properties for Francine’s brokerage, as well as less need for auction services.

This recent slump might be caused by a down cycle, but the timing, which coincided with the recent killings, seemed too coincidental, they reasoned.  Both agreed that each of them would discuss this with their respective employers during the first week after the holiday.  The discussions would also include shedding some light on the personal connection between Max and Maggie, to fish around for a reaction from their employers regarding that information.

The two returning holiday travelers had gotten through the Providence Rte. I-95/I-195 intersection and were motoring south on I-95 when, on a New Haven Connecticut radio station, a news bulletin grabbed their attention. Max turned up the volume.

“Another killing has occurred in south central Connecticut. This is the third mysterious death within the past five weeks which seem to be connected.  Concern is growing among local residents about the possibility of a serial killer prowling in the area.  A meaningful response by local law enforcement is being demanded.  And now back to our scheduled programming.”
Max turned down the resumed music.

“Christ Max,” Maggie exclaimed, “we can’t seem to escape this crap!  Did he say similar circumstances?”

After a momentary hesitation, Max replied, “All I can say, Mag, is that before you talk to Francine, and before I talk to Carl, we had better have a talk with Lou Devaro, or maybe we should get working on getting legal advice.”

Inspector Don Chace was busy early on Tuesday, the first weekday following the short holiday break.  The day before, after he had returned to the East Wayford headquarters, he spent the most of his remaining work time organizing his agenda for people to see and places to go, in pursuit of answers.  The mysterious deaths had taken on a new urgency now, with the Sheffield case.

On this day Chace, sitting at his desk in the temporary office provided for him, was busy working on his laptop filling in addresses and phone numbers on the list he had compiled the night before.  His office was in a former storage room adjacent to the chief’s office.

The courier who was sent to retrieve the Sheffield victim’s personal effects had been informed that, until next of kin had been contacted, the items could not be released.  Chace had gotten the name and driver’s license number from the hospitals head nurse.  The driver’s address showed a Greenville CT address.

Don Chace had been the first one in on this morning. Chief Devaro came in next, followed by Detective Salvadore.

Salvadore’s office was across the central hallway, toward the front of the building.  Chace could overhear Lieutenant Salvadore when he came down the hall to the chief’s office.  Salvadore had gone to a holiday party after the Memorial Day parade and was expecting the chief to commend him this morning on taking over leading the police platoon.  He was not aware that Don Chace and Chief Devaro had gone to the scene of the Sheffield killing.

Without a greeting, or without excusing himself, Salvadore started right in asking the chief questions about the previous nightly news regarding the Sheffield incident.  He wanted to know if the chief expected him to make contact there to investigate any connections with his two cases.

Ignoring the lieutenant’s questions about Sheffield, the chief said to him; “I understand you did a great job with the parade detail yesterday, I appreciate it.”

Faking modesty, Salvadore answered; “No sweat Lou…, er, Chief, it was a snap.” Then Chief Devaro instructed him to check back with him before he went out, after the morning briefing.  Satisfied that he could get more info about the Sheffield case later, Salvadore acknowledged the instructions and went to the briefing room.

Inspector Chace looked around the corner.

“Do you want me to fill him in on yesterday’s action?” he asked.

“No, I’ll take care of it; I’m going to talk to him later, after the briefing.” the chief stated flatly.

“Well, I’ve got a lot of ground to cover.” said the inspector. “I’ll catch you later and fill you in with whatever I turn up.”

As Inspector Chace left the headquarters parking lot he entered, into his GPS, the address of “Gormley Properties”, the real estate office handling the sale of the Sheffield property where the last killing occurred.  He had called earlier to arrange an interview with the manager.

On his cell phone he noticed a voicemail from a friend who worked in the State Medical Examiner Division.  Playing back the voicemail he learned that he needed to call his friend to get the info he requested.  He pressed redial and his friend answered.

“I’ve got some interesting stuff here, Don. Your victim died the same way that the two in East Wayford did, blunt force to the neck. It ruptured a carotid artery, compressed the jugular vein and fractured the trachea. The trauma from the strike probably caused instant unconsciousness, resulting in cardio and respiratory arrest within four-to-ten minutes.”

“Okay, thanks for the heads up. I know the formal report isn’t ready yet. I owe you one, man.” Chace replied.  Mentally he began to assemble some pieces of the puzzle.

We have serial killing going on here for sure.  All three took place in vacant or unoccupied buildings.  They occurred in the late night or early morning.  They took place within a sixteen mile radius.  All victims were male with identical causes of death.  Now we’re getting somewhere
.

Chace’s GPS was leading him back to Sheffield on the same route used the day before.  After a fifteen minute drive he pulled into the parking spaces of Gormley Properties.

The office building was located at the entrance to a complex of six or seven three-story brick apartments. It served as a real estate brokerage as well as the apartment rental and management office.

The interview revealed that the property on Old Persia Road had been listed for sale six days prior to the incident.  An open house for brokers was held on Sunday, the day before Memorial Day.  It ran from 1PM till 3PM.  Seven local real estate offices or practitioners were represented according to the sign-in register.  Chace asked for, and was provided with, a copy of the register.

He asked if there was anything unusual reported and he received a negative reply.  Based on the informal report from his friend the medical inspector, Chace was now considering this as a case of homicide.

The next stop on Chace’s list was with the property owner, or owners.  He called Doc Franklin to advise him of the situation and that he could have the police barrier tapes and posted warnings removed from the crime scene property.  The owners could return to their home now as far as the inspector was concerned, but he wanted to ask them a few questions.

As he drove to the Old Persia Road location, his cell phone beeped.  It was Doc Franklin calling back to tell him that he had pulled the constable off the scene and removed the police paraphernalia.  He also told Chace that the Jaguar automobile at the scene had been towed to the State Police Barracks.

According to Doc, the property owners seemed a bit distraught.  Their young children hadn’t been allowed home yet, had missed a day of school, and were quite confused, as were the parents.  They requested a future date for the interview with the inspector.

Chace agreed and asked Doc to arrange a meeting at his office at Sheffield Town hall, if that was Okay with him.  Agreement was reached and Chace said he’d wait for the call.

The change in his plan for the day called for a U turn which Chace executed perfectly, a legal and easy maneuver for a police officer trained in defensive driving maneuvers.  He then pulled over and stopped in order to re-shuffle his agenda for the day.

A call to the main State Police headquarters provided information on the Jaguar ownership.  As it turned out, the auto was registered to a well-to-do woman with a primary residence located in Greenville CT, an upscale town located at the Southwestern Connecticut/New York state line. The Jaguar owner’s attorney had filed a missing person report for her husband the previous day.

The Greenville police department was an elite force which was adept at protecting a wealthy and politically influential segment of the Connecticut citizenry there.  They cooperated with the State Police, although at arm’s length, usually in a respectable, fair and equitable manner.

Meanwhile, back in East Wayford, once the morning briefing was completed Detective Salvadore went to Chief Devaro’s office. “Come in Joe, shut the door and have a seat.” offered the chief.  Thinking that he was going to get some confidential information about the killing in Sheffield, Salvadore was ‘all ears’.  The chief, however, had other news. “Sal”, he started, “I’ve got you enrolled in a three week course in Pittsburg, PA.”

Across his desk he handed Salvadore a portfolio titled “Capital Crime and Public Relations.” Salvadore was stunned.

“When does it start? He asked.

“Next Monday”, said the chief, “Take the rest of the week off and get yourself prepared for it. It’s paid for and you’ll be on a per-diem, so you’ll do Okay.”

“Isn’t this a bad time to pull away from the investigation and all?” inquired an uncharacteristically concerned Salvadore.

“No problem, we’re covered for a while with the state inspector in house. We’ll bring you up to speed when you get back.”  The chief rose from behind his desk. “Have fun, Sal.” He said.

A chagrined Detective Salvadore turned and left the office with a distracted, bewildered appearance. 
Thank God for small favors!
  Chief Devaro thought. 

Before noon, special deliveries of “Recommendations” came down from the Connecticut Governor’s Office, simultaneously, to Eugene VanDyke, Mayor of East Wayford and Everet Franklin, First Selectman of Sheffield. It suggested that they consider a joint press release along with the area State Police Homicide Inspector.  The Press release was to address the recent mysterious deaths in the south central Connecticut region.

“Perhaps a video press conference would be the best approach” was the advice offered by the author of the mailing, the Governor’s Press Secretary.

A phone call for Chief Devaro came at 12:10 PM., just as the chief was leaving for lunch.  Mayor VanDyke asked him to meet for a confidential lunch, if possible.

“Sure Gene, why don’t we meet at the tennis clubhouse, your treat!” responded Lou Devaro in a jesting tone.  The mayor agreed and deferred any details until they met.  Ten minutes later, the two community leaders were seated at the meeting table in one of the small conference rooms at the club.

The Mayor showed the chief the recommendation from the Governor’s Office.

“You know, Lou, I don’t do a lot of phublic spheaking” [public speaking], he said with his defective diction, “I’m fine with chairing the Town Council and phrivate [private] meetings, but a TV ‘turkey-shoot’ is something] else.  I was wondering if you would do the phress compherance [press conference] with Doc Phranklin [Franklin]”.  Without hesitation Chief Devaro accepted.

The Mayor had helped him out several times during his tenure as chief and he knew Gene VanDyke to be not only an honorable man, but a practical one as well.  Because of this, he had been re-elected to seven consecutive terms as Mayor of East Wayford.  Jokingly, and in private, he would often claim that his political success was due to the fact that he made very few speeches.   As a lawyer, however, Gene had decided to operate his office specializing in corporate law for a reason.  He would have made a great trial lawyer but his speech defection would have detracted from his efforts.

While they ate lunch, the chief told the Mayor about sending Lieutenant Salvadore to Pennsylvania for the course in public relations.

“This whole thing over these killings was probably made a little worse by the way Salvadore handled the last press release”, the chief stated, “With the State Inspector here, I’m thinking it’s better if he’s out of contact for a few weeks.”  Mayor VanDyke agreed without question.

With the meeting finished, the chief reminded the Mayor about the free lunch promise.

“Okay Gene, put this one on your social members meals tab. A deal is a deal.”

“You’ve got it Lou, said the Mayor, after a hearty laugh.