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

  Gene had a malformed jaw causing a severe under-bite, whereby his front teeth of his lower jaw jutted past his uppers. Enunciating words which contained the letters f, p or v. gave him trouble. When speaking he compensated by blowing through closed lips to make those sounds. Phonetically, ‘F’ sounded like ph. ‘P’ sounded like wh. ‘V’ sounded like bph.

  Attorney VanDyke was a successful contract lawyer, had a keen legal mind and was well regarded in the community. If it wasn’t for his speech problem he might have been appointed as a judge in the local or state judicial system.

  “Lou, how the hell ‘habph’ [have] you been? I ‘habphen’t’ [haven’t] seen you this riled up ‘phor’[for] years. Is it the ‘wphressure’ [pressure] of the killings?” he asked.

  “The same kind of heat you’re getting Gene, it’s been quiet around here for too long, I guess.” Lou responded.

  The two longtime associates discussed the progress of the investigation, the limited confidence that the chief had in his only detective, Salvadore, and the prospect of calling in the State Police. They both agreed that another press briefing was necessary, and needed to happen quickly.

  “I know that it’s a ‘bphery’ [very] hot spot you’re in and it won’t be ‘phun’ [fun], but, it is what it is”, Gene said as the chief was turning to leave.

  “I know somebody in the Governor’s ‘ophice’ [office] ‘iph’ [if] you need any ‘helph’ [help] with the State Cops.” he offered, wiping away a slight drool from his speech defect with his handkerchief.

  “Thanks Gene, I’ll make the request and let you know if I run into any resistance.” Lou answered.

  Ten minutes later and back at his office, Chief Lou Devaro had his secretary call the local media to schedule a news briefing at noon. He had the dispatcher summon Lieutenant Salvadore back to the station, “ASAP.”

  At noon on this eventful Thursday a local TV news release from the East Wayford Police was shown live, from in front of the police headquarters, in the windswept rain.

  Chief Lou Devaro introduced Detective Lieutenant Joseph Salvadore as the officer in charge of the recent homicides. Salvadore was wiping rain from his face and glancing at notes on wet paper in his hand.

  In a rather high-pitched tenor voice, the Lieutenant began his announcement;

  “The investigation is proceeding quite well. We have identified similarities between both of the recent deaths, and have persons, or a person of interest in mind. Further information pursuant to the cases cannot be discussed so as not to hamper, or jeopardize the investigation. Thank you.”

  With that, six or seven reporters started simultaneously shouting out questions rapidly and boisterously. Salvadore was losing his composure because he did not count on answering any questions. He stood dumbly looking at the rain soaked media pack with a blank, startled look.

  Chief Devaro, waiting for a few seconds which seemed an eternity to Salvadore, stepped in front of him and, in his calm, commanding deep voice he addressed the throng.

  “Lieutenant Salvadore is following standard procedure here. He is working diligently gathering facts which will be helpful as the investigation goes forward. I have asked the Connecticut State Police for assistance. Their files are more complete on a state-wide and a state-to basis than ours here in East Wayford. An officer, or officers, from the State police Homicide Investigation Unit will be on hand by tomorrow. We will release further information as it becomes verified.”

  The chief abruptly turned, grasped a transfixed Salvadore firmly by the arm and escorted him back into the headquarters foyer

  Once the main doors closed behind them Chief Devaro glared at his stunned, dripping homicide detective and said sternly; “In my office, now!”

  After six or seven minutes of taking care of incidentals, getting himself a cup of coffee, and allowing Salvadore to ‘marinate’ in his own sweat, Lou Devaro strode into his office. He got seated in his high backed leather swivel chair, set the coffee cup down on the desk facing his nervous underling and glanced up.

  Salvadore was fidgeting and sitting on the edge of his chair facing the chief’s desk.

  “Lou, I didn’t…”he started, but Lou Devaro put up his hand as if stopping traffic, interrupting him.

  “Hold it” he boomed. Then he lowered his voice and, with a steely stare at his self-declared protégé, he went on, “Right now you will address me as ‘Chief Devaro’ or ‘Sir’. Do you understand me?

  “Okay..er,….yes sir.” Salvadore replied meekly. The chief sternly continued,

  “Now you listen to me. I warned you that I’d throw you to the wolves at the next press release if you didn’t stick to detecting and forget throwing your weight around on some hunches you got into that pig head of yours. I found out that you decided to sic one of your stoolies on Max Hargrove and Maggie Marshall to tail them after hours one day last week. The dumb ass was in plain view and they got his plate number. Did your goon tell you that?”

  Salvadore gulped and turned pale. After a few seconds hesitation he spoke;

  “Not about being spotted” he admitted.

  “Okay, so did this brilliant detective work produce enough solid evidence for those two to be considered ‘persons of interest’?” the chief asked, imitating Salvadore’s voice as he mimicked the statement given at the press briefing, fifteen minutes earlier. With nothing but a blank stare in return, the chief pressed on with a slightly louder tone.

  “Well, detective, did you get any solid evidence… you block- headed bastard, Did you?” Salvadore lowered his eyes and shook his head. Oh, my God, what’s going to happen if he sees the interview I did earlier, after roll call, when I was leaving!, he was thinking.

  “I can’t hear you!” the chief boomed, becoming even more agitated now, with Salvadore, for not standing his ground.

  “No…s-sir.” Salvadore stammered, warily looking up at the chief.

  “Then, when I get pressed to produce the ‘person’, or ‘persons’ of ‘interest’, is there any other ‘party’ or ‘parties’ that I should know about?” the chief yelled, making quote marks in the air with his fingers.

  After a pause, Salvadore replied, resignedly, “No Sir.” Calming down, Chief Devaro finalized the ass-chewing session;

  “Alright, if you had the sense to ask, before the live news release, you would have been told about my request for assistance from the State Police people. They’ll be in here by tomorrow afternoon. I expect you to brief them fully and stand by to assist them from that point on.”

  The chief then lowered his voice and almost whispered to Salvadore;

  “Now, get your sorry ass out of my sight and go try to become some semblance of the public servant that you’re paid to be.”

  Shame faced, and pale, Salvadore rose slowly and, after hesitating to determine that the chief was finished, walked quietly out of the office, gently closing the door behind him.

  Alone now, the chief, with his elbows resting on his desk, held his lowered head in both hands as he let out a long, heavy sigh.

  Chapter 13

  Friday got off to a better start. It was sunny and dry in East Wayford. Like most everywhere in the U.S., folks in the community were getting ready for the Memorial Day long weekend.

  Maggie and Max were finishing an inspection of a vacant unit of a duplex residential condominium. It was their last appointment for the day.

  “Well, Max, that does it”, she said while locking the entry door, “Are you and the family having the annual cook-out?”

  Max shook his head. “Not this year.” he answered somberly. “My mother’s heart bypass hasn’t gone as well as expected. I stopped in last Sunday, on her birthday, and she told me that another operation has been scheduled. She’s a little down, right now. It doesn’t look good, so my sisters and I decided to pass the holiday and wait for the outcome before we get together.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Maggie said, sympathetically. Then, with a sudden impulse, she proffered a sugge
stion to Max.

  “I haven’t got anything planned either. Do you feel like taking off for Falmouth, or somewhere else on The Cape? Or are you too bummed out with your mother’s heart problem?”

  “No, I’m okay, this has been going on for a while now.” he replied. Then, with a quizzical, one-raised-eyebrow half smile, he asked Maggie, “What else have you got in mind?”

  After a quick discussion about her going to her apartment to change and pack an overnight case and tennis racket, and he checking on his apartment building, they agreed to meet at “Jerry’s” for a late lunch.

  Twenty minutes later they were at the bar having a one martini lunch, watching TV as they ate. The local news re-ran a segment from the noon news broadcast. When it showed the image of Detective Salvadore being interviewed through his police cruiser driver’s window, they both stopped to listen to his comments.

  The interview had taken place two days before, as Salvadore was leaving the police station parking lot.

  “Here’s your favorite cop on the beat.” Max said to Maggie, teasingly.

  After the interview concerning the mysterious killings signed off, Maggie couldn’t contain her incredulousness.

  “Do you believe that pompous jerk?” she asked rhetorically. “That pretentious, arrogant, freaking asshole is talking down to the public like that when he hasn’t got a clue as to who’s responsible!” “No wonder the State had to be called in.” she said loudly enough for anybody to hear.

  Jerry Pippin, washing glasses at the other end of the bar overheard Maggie’s comments.

  “Now, now mates, do I hear dissatisfaction with our local men in blue?” he directed toward Maggie.

  “Just with one of them, if you can call a jackass a man!,” Maggie quipped. She knew that Salvadore was a sometimes patron of Jerry’s Jug because she had noticed him there a few times when he was off-duty. She also knew that Jerry would never take up sides with, or against, a customer.

  “Big plans for the holiday, you two?” asked Jerry, tactfully changing the subject.

  “Nothing formal, we’re heading out to The Cape for a little R and R. …well, a little rest but I don’t know about the recuperation” Max jokingly responded, “Are you ready Maggie?” he asked, as he stood up to pay the tab.

  “Let’s hit the road…catch you later Jerry.” she responded with a wave to him.

  Within ten minutes they were on highway I-95 north, keeping up with the traffic, typically at 75 mph, ten miles over the speed limit. Doing what had become almost a habit, of late, Max watched the rear view mirror.

  “God dammit!” Max exclaimed, “There’s a dark blue car that seems to be sticking to our ass. He’s hanging back but keeping a steady pace.”

  At that, he accelerated and moved past several cars. Max then pulled to the right travel lane and slowed down after going over a small rise in the road. When the blue car came along side Maggie and Max strained to see the driver.

  “Those freaking tinted windows, I can’t make out what he looks like.” Maggie complained. As the car swung into the lane directly in front they could see, through its rear window, the silhouette of a woman driver with a cell phone held to her ear.

  “Well, he is a she, and doesn’t look that dangerous.” Max said. The blue car slowed and exited the highway at the next ramp.

  “False alarm” said Max tensely.

  “Jesus, are we getting paranoid, or what!” Maggie stated in the form of a question.

  After a few quiet moments Maggie broke the silence.

  “I hope the usual back up going through Providence has thinned out a little before we get onto I-195.” she wished out loud. She hated sitting in heavy traffic. There were alternate routes having fewer traffic tie-ups but they were not nearly as direct.

  As they drove on toward Rhode Island both Max and Maggie began to relax. They felt relieved leaving behind the non-stop pressure cooker that their lives had become. Once tuned in to their favorite oldies music on a satellite station and feeling a little giddy, they passed the time for a while singing along like teenagers having their first experience with unsupervised freedom, each laughing at the other when the lyrics or the tune were botched up.

  The tension lines on Maggie’s face were disappearing. Max loved that after-hours smile of hers and he was thinking ahead to a relaxing dinner. He stepped up the speed just a notch.

  After crossing the state line into Rhode Island and having cruised through portions of Hopkinton, West Greenwich and Coventry, the travelers entered Warwick as they approached Providence, the state capital.

  At the point that they passed the exit leading to Green Airport, the traffic began to thicken. For two miles after that they were in four lanes of an inching along, stop-and-go mixture of commuter cars and semi-trailer rigs. All were struggling to squeeze through a major highway intersection which was under a re-design construction project. Also, it was during the Friday-after-work rush.

  One way to avoid this bottle neck while driving to Cape Cod from Southern Connecticut, or from New York, was via Interstate 295 around Providence to connect to I- 495 in Wrentham, Massachusetts and then south to the Cape Cod Canal bridges. The other alternative was by crossing Narragansett Bay through southern Rhode Island to Jamestown and Newport via route RI 138 which crossed I-95 in Richmond. That route was on a two lane, rural road until it reached Jamestown. After that there were two suspension bridges, one of which charged a toll. This picturesque drive offered travelers a gorgeous view of Narragansett Bay and a hint of what colonial America looked like. When taking that route, however, travel time was hard to estimate. This was great for vacationing through New England, but for two pass-through motorists, intent on reaching an idyllic setting on outer Cape Cod in record time, it was a non-choice on this day.

  Fifteen minutes after being slowed by traffic Maggie and Max crossed into Massachusetts and were up to speed again on I-195 East, almost half way to one of their favorite long weekend getaways.

  They had mutual friends in Hyannis who owned a year-round shingle style cottage near the waterfront. Between their cottage and the water they had a guest house, a swimming pool and a tennis court. The friends were also members of a local beach/tennis club. Although the plan was to stay in Falmouth, Max and Maggie would not turn down an invite to stay with the friends, if asked.

  The Memorial Day celebration was in full swing in East Wayford on a sunny, but cool, late-May holiday morning.

  Around 8:30 AM, two police squad cars with sirens burping and all lights flashing were heralding a parade. It started with a local Boy Scout troop, the East Wayford high school band, a platoon of American Legionnaires and two cars carrying senior war veterans. Then there was a squad of the local police led by Chief Lou Devaro, in full dress regalia, flanked on his left by Detective Joe Salvadore and on his right by Arlene, Chief Devaro’s secretary. They were followed by Mayor Gene VanDyke, swaying along on arthritic legs, accompanied by five of the seven- member town council. Next there was a U.S. Coast Guard honor guard and station crew, trailed by the fire chief in his glittering red and chrome fire car. Two fire trucks with horns blaring, and finally, a totally lit up police squad-car brought up the rear.

  As the parade wound through the village heading to the World War I Memorial on the town common, a smallish, spread out crowd of spectators lined the sidewalks. Many were seniors sitting on aluminum lawn chairs waving small American flags.

  A street vendor with his huge, waving, helium-filled balloon bunch had previously hawked quite a few colorful, overpriced mementos of the day to the youngsters. He was making his second pass when Chief Devaro’s black personal police cruiser pulled up beside the marching chief and his squad.

  Police Chief Devaro halted the squad and a brief conference ensued. The chief turned to Salvadore and instructed him to take over the lead. The chief entered the passenger side of his cruiser, still closing the door as the cruiser abruptly turned up a side street and sped away.

  Salvadore, caught up in the
ceremonial spirit of the day, and feeling very important filling in for the chief, barked the order for attention to the squad, turned on his heel very military-like and ordered the squad to march.

  Salvadore was out of step with the band tempo as he strode proudly along with his best official face on. His following squad marchers were stifling smiles and some of them deliberately double-stepped two or three times to exaggerate the confusion. A camera man from the local TV channel eagerly caught the action.

  As Chief Lou Devaro entered the police headquarters he was met by Inspector Donald Chace, the state police investigator assigned to assist the East Wayford police department relating to the recent homicides. Chace was starting his fourth day in East Wayford.

  “Our main barracks got a call around 7:50 AM from the Town of Sheffield police. A dead body was reportedly found outside a residence and death by natural causes was doubtful. They relayed the call to me since I’m assigned here in East Wayford. I spoke to the head constable there and, based on his description of the scene, I thought you would want to check it out. The body was still warm at the time it was found.” he stated.

  “You’re right about that, let’s go.” a grim-faced Chief Devaro said.

  They went out to the black cruiser and Chief Devaro proceeded to drive eastward out of town toward the First Selectman’s office at the Sheffield Town Hall.

  He knew Everet Franklin, the First Selectman, from the N E A C P meetings, an association of New England police chiefs. A first selectman’s authority was similar to that of a mayor.

  Franklin was known as “Doc” Franklin to practically everyone in the area. Doc was a retired veterinarian in his early eighties and he had been First Selectman of Sheffield for over twenty years.

  During the drive to Sheffield Don Chace briefed the chief according to the information he had received about the male victim. There were some similarities to the evidence in the East Wayford homicides.