I'll Protect You (Clueless Resolutions Book 1) Read online

  I’ll Protect You

  By W B Garalt

  Contents

  I’ll Protect You

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Copyright 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher. The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Author: W B Garalt

  Cover design: Joseph Comeau

  Preface

  In the spring of 2006 following an uneventful, typical winter season, a small town in Northeastern America was suddenly rocked by the eruption of a vicious crime spree. The local populace, bored with the news and talk-show media coverage of un-exiting economic problems and political issues, became fixated on the barrage of constant TV and newspaper accounts depicting horrendous acts. The sometimes-hyped descriptions intensified the concern among the townspeople. The situation was quickly getting out of hand as the fireworks began.

  Chapter 1

  It was a seasonably chilly April afternoon in south central Connecticut as Clarence Maximilian “Max” Hargrove was driving to a 5:00 PM appointment with Margaret Louise “Maggie” Marshall. The appointment was at a vacant residence located in a trendy, upscale neighborhood of East Wayford. The purpose of the appointment was to have Max inspect the property for his employer, a successful, well known auction house.

  In his position as a real estate consultant he rated properties which were being considered for public auction.

  Maggie, in her capacity as a Financial Expediter with a local real estate brokerage, would have a property description in her attaché case along with the entrance keys.

  The pair of professionals, employed by the separate companies, had teamed up successfully for this type of assignment for several years now, and they were respected within the local business community as a capable and compatible duo.

  Arriving at 230 Whitmore Lane a few minutes early, Max stowed a flashlight, a measuring scanner and a voice recording camera into his canvass shoulder pack. Maggie pulled up exactly at the appointed time. The two associates exchanged greetings, chatted briefly and then tended to the business at hand. An exterior tour provided Max with the information and pictures he needed.

  The early springtime evening sky had turned to twilight as they entered a darkened foyer. Maggie felt for the light switches. One after another, she flipped all of the switches but no lights came on. Max was following closely behind Maggie as they edged through the foyer toward the main great room. As Max was retrieving his flashlight from his shoulder pack, Maggie suddenly stumbled and fell forward, landing on her hands and knees. Max was unable to avoid tripping over Maggie’s outstretched feet and he toppled onto her. Startled, but unhurt, they both burst out laughing while Max helped his colleague to her feet.

  “I thought that I might fall for you one day” he quipped.

  “But not on me” Maggie replied in mocked indignation. Max had his flashlight working now and he swept the beam around behind them to see what had caused the embarrassing collision. Training the light on what appeared to be a pile of dark clothing Max suddenly jerked upright and gasped as his jaw dropped open.

  “Oh my god” Maggie shrieked, “Is he dead?”

  Guardedly they walked around what appeared to be a male body. Max nudged it with the tip of his shoe and hastily pulled his foot back.

  “He’s stiff, so I think he’s been here for some time” he responded disconnectedly. The laughing mood had quickly evaporated.

  “Call 911 to report this to the police,” Maggie dictated in a take-charge mode, “I know where the circuit box is so give me the light and lets find out if we can get some lights on, follow me” she continued.

  “Oh, of course, let’s do that!” Max snapped back as he handed her the light.

  “Don’t be an ass,” she retorted, “Get serious.”

  The main circuit breaker had been tripped, perhaps by the electrical storm the previous night. A reset restored the power. Within a few minutes two East Wayford police cruisers arrived on the scene, with lights flashing, as Max and Maggie waited on the front doorstep. A rescue vehicle and a fire truck were close behind. As soon as the police patrolmen radioed a report to their station commander, Max and Maggie were asked to stand by while the detective division and the medical examiner came on the scene. They obliged the officers and waited for the responding parties to arrive.

  After the area was inspected and the state medical examiner’s assistant had checked the corpse, the patrolmen stapled a yellow, no-access crime scene tape around the entire house.

  Max asked one of the officers if he and Maggie could finish the inspection of the interior of the house but the request was denied at that time. Maggie was asked for the keys and she and Max were invited down to the police station to each give a detailed account as to why and when their involvement in the matter had occurred.

  Max was given permission to leave his car in the driveway temporarily and Maggie drove them both to the police station. As they drove away from the house, a late model luxury sedan, apparently the victim’s, was being towed away from the curbing at the property street frontage.

  Two hours later Maggie and Max had both been cleared to leave. They were famished by then and decided to have a meal and cocktails at one of their favorite pubs which was located in the East Wayford ‘Village’ section, just down the street from the Police station. Maggie was given back the Stanley Realty pass keys to the property, along with a reminder; “Do not enter the crime scene until further notice”. She and Max were glad to get out into the refreshing, slightly chilly evening air as they walked the two blocks to “Jerry’s Jug”.

  “Hey mates, short time no see.” This was the usual greeting to regular customers by Jerry Pippin, the proprietor.

  “How’s the ‘Terrific Twosome’ faring tonight?” he asked, as he pulled two martini glasses down from the rack and filled them with ice to chill.

  “We’re fairing fairly well, Jerry” responded Max with a grin.

  He left his coat across a corner bar stool and headed for the “Mates Room” to wash his hands. After indicating to Jerry that they would need menus along with the usual drinks, Maggie went towards the “Sheila’s Room”, Australian slang for ladies room.

  Ambiance was not the allure with “Jerry’s Jug”. The smallish, dimly lit cocktail lounge had a dat
ed look and, as typified by the labels on the rest room doors, had an overall sophomoric overtone, as did the owner. Nevertheless, Jerry, a transplanted Australian since his discharge from a military tour in the US Navy at the Groton, CT Naval Base, was considered a good and trusted friend. The place was antiseptically clean, mixed one of the best martinis in the area, and the food was always great.

  Once they were seated around a corner of the u-shaped bar, Max ordered the meals for he and Maggie and they both took long sips on their martinis.

  “This afternoon really sucked” Max declared. With pursed lips and her mouth still savoring her second sip, Maggie nodded in agreement as Max continued, “I’ll have to talk to Carl in the morning and fill him in on this incident.” Maggie had done business with Carl Jenson, the owner of “Jenson & Associates” auction house, and knew that he would want to pump his employee, Max, for all the details.

  Acting as liaison in auction arrangements and as a communication link with lenders was part of Maggie’s job, and she had recommended Jenson’s auction company to her employer in almost every stressed-sale situation where a property was facing foreclosure. Her main reason for selecting Jenson & Associates was because of Max. She had liked working as partners with Max ever since they met in 2000, six years earlier. The feeling was mutual with Max but neither of them had allowed this to become apparent to their respective employers. They had yielded to impulse and had been intimate in their relationship, but they went out of their way to insure that their private life did not interfere with their professional lives.

  Maggie said, referring to her boss, “I called Francine while I was in the interrogation room at the station. She got all paranoid thinking of adverse publicity. She got me really pissed-off because she didn’t give a damn about what I had to go through. I’ll straighten her ass out tomorrow.”

  Max knew Francine Stanley, the Principal Broker at the agency. He didn’t have the highest personal regard for her but he appreciated the assignments that Maggie was able to steer his way. Max knew that Maggie had a way of handling Francine, a heavily made up, false-looking, older woman, but he never understood exactly what the relationship was between these two strong-willed females.

  A second martini followed Maggie’s meal while Max had an after dinner coffee and Irish liqueur topped with whipped cream.

  After bidding adieu to Jerry, they walked briskly through the night chill back to Maggie’s car near the police station. The usual chatter between them was rather subdued during the drive back to retrieve Max’s car at the Whitmore Lane house. Each was reprocessing the events of the evening. After dropping Max off at his car, Maggie U-turned and departed on the 20 minute ride to her condo apartment.

  As Max pulled out of Whitmore Lane to take the interstate back to his apartment building, he didn’t notice the late model, dark colored sedan fall in behind his car, tracing his route but maintaining a good distance between them.

  Just after 9:30 PM Max was slowing down to turn off the freeway onto the exit ramp which would merge with White Boulevard, the street of his residence.

  In his rear view mirror he noticed the dark silhouette of a car, framed by other headlights further back. It was rapidly approaching from his rear with its headlights off.

  Suddenly there was a loud whooshing, screeching sound as the speeding auto came along side on the left and cut directly into Max’s path. This was an obvious attempt to force him into an upcoming abutment at the exit ramp.

  Instinctively he steered hard to the right and stomped on the brake pedal. His car scraped along the concrete safety barrier spewing a shower of white sparks into the night air and came to a jolting stop.

  Max was shaken. His mind was racing franticly as his thoughts were consumed by the possibility of gas spillage, and fire. He had to exit the car immediately. His hand was trembling as he reached to turn off the ignition.

  The encroaching speeder turned down the ramp and, with headlights now lit, continued onto White Boulevard, heading in the direction of Max’s apartment building.

  After jumping out onto the pavement, a dazed Max inspected his car to check for damages.

  The passenger side front fender and door were a mess. Finding no evidence of gas or oil leakage, Max got back behind the steering wheel and started the engine. He reversed away from the ramp retaining wall and then drove forward off the highway shoulder and down the exit ramp to a safer spot.

  “Wow!” he murmured aloud, “What in hell was that about?”

  Sweating now, he reached for his cell phone and dialed 911 to report the incident to the police.

  Max knew now that tomorrow’s agenda was going to include a trip to the insurance adjuster, then a drop-off at the body repair shop and then a car rental office. Since his life had been relatively uneventful lately, the intensity of the adrenaline rush due to this event surprised Max. With temples pounding he waited in his car at the bottom of the off ramp for the arrival of the police.

  While waiting, he called Maggie’s number.

  Chapter 2

  The cool northeast morning breeze and grayish skies gave Max that seasonal New England feeling, as he drove toward his office, that a late-spring snow or cold rain was likely. It was 8:15 AM as he pulled into the Jenson & Associates parking lot.

  Max hoped that he could get into his cubicle before Carl came in. There he could fix a cup of coffee for himself and prepare to pass on the news of the previous evenings events. As he passed through the office entryway, he could see that his coffee would have to wait, however. Carl was just walking into his own office cubicle.

  Carl Jenson was a heavy-set man in his late fifties. Like many of those with his Scandinavian lineage, his face was usually a robust red. The upper wrinkles on his forehead ended at what was once his hairline. Reading glasses were almost always in a breast pocket or parked on his smooth, shiny dome above the wrinkle line.

  Max hung up his overcoat and exchanged pleasantries with the office receptionist while he checked his message box for any notes or mailings. Finding none, he stepped into Carl’s cubicle and sat on a folding chair just inside the entrance opening. Bypassing any greetings, Carl handed Max some paperwork.

  “Here’s the auction agreement on the Haverhill property on Whitmore Lane, ready for signatures, did you finish your recommendation report on the property?” Carl asked, referring to the house that Max had inspected the previous afternoon. Max drew a breath and cleared his throat.

  Where do I start?” he began, “The weirdest thing happened yesterday afternoon.” He went on to relate the finding of a corpse during the inspection appointment with the Stanley Realty Financial Expediter and the subsequent thorough questioning by the police. He deliberately omitted the Stanley Realty specialist’s name and especially the tripping-and-falling-on-Maggie part. Carl seemed stunned, but not shocked, upon hearing the news about the corpse.

  “Did you meet there with Maggie Marshall?” Carl asked. Before Max could answer, Carl pressed on with; “Is she okay?” Max, faking an air of nonchalance, replied, “She seemed to handle it pretty well, actually.” At that point Carl’s demeanor seemed to shift.

  “She’s a real cool broad; I wouldn’t mind getting a piece of that.” he said with one eyebrow raised and a sort of half smile, half-sneer on his face. Max was caught off balance by this uncharacteristic, men’s-locker-room sort of sexual jargon from Carl.

  Max knew the man quite well through his employment, and from social encounters. Carl was a married, church-going family man who was highly respected in the community. Based on the assumption that Carl was not aware of his close relationship with Maggie, Max masked his resentment of the crude comment. His mind started to conjure up all kinds of questions.

  Carl is acting sort of weirdly. Why all the interest in Maggie? Does he realize that under the present circumstances there would probably be no immediate auction contract? Normally this would bother him. Has he already heard about the dead body from someone else? If he had heard about it, why would he
ask if I had finished the recommendation report?

  Max rose from his seat.

  “Well Carl, I think we should be expecting some delays on getting an agreement to sell this one” he blurted out as he dropped the unsigned contract papers on Carl’s desk. With no response from Carl, Max continued, “I’ll check with Stanley Realty on the status of the property and I’ll get back to you as soon as I get further word on it.” He turned to leave and saw Carl gazing out through a side window in a detached sort of way.

  “Okay Max” was all that Carl said.

  Ten minutes later Max left word with the receptionist that he was leaving to drop off his car for repairs and to arrange for a rental. He asked to have any calls relayed to his cell phone. He buttoned his coat and stepped out into the brisk air. While driving out of his office parking lot, Max called Maggie’s number on his cell phone. Recognizing Max’s number when her phone beeped, she answered,

  “What’s up Max?” Normally Max would have come back with a personal and humorous wisecrack but, with a subdued tone he asked Maggie if she had talked with Francine.

  “I not only talked to her,” she replied, “I also got a visit from lieutenant Salvadore, the police detective. He asked me some of the same questions he asked last night. Maybe the jerk lost his notes. I don’t know what’s going on here, Max. It seems that they don’t believe what I tell them.”

  “Can you get away for lunch?” asked Max. Maggie replied in the affirmative and they made plans to meet at a place they called “out of town” at 12:30 that afternoon.

  Having both taken care of business during the rest of the morning, the preoccupied couple met at a fenced-off public park-and-ride lot, just south of Bridgeport, adjacent to on-ramps and off-ramps to Interstate Route 95. Maggie left her car and Max drove the recently rented compact coupe south on the freeway to the exit for the town of Clinton. Once there, Max exited the freeway and drove south through Clinton to an out-of-the-way seafood restaurant, located in an un-known town, on an unnamed alleyway which ended at a wharf on the northern shore of Long Island Sound.