I'll Protect You (Clueless Resolutions Book 1)

by W B Garalt

  “Lou, I think that there may be things going on here which could provide one missing piece to this puzzle, which is motive. I haven’t seen anything else that could lead to motive yet, have you?” he asked rhetorically.

  “No, I haven’t either.” admitted the chief.

  “Here’s another dot to connect;” stated Chace, “The last victim came here from Greenville. Francine used to pimp in Greenville with her ‘maid service’,” he said, drawing quote marks in the air. “I heard that Carl Jenson and some unknown partner bought a house-cleaning service in Grandford, about the time that Francine got forced out of that town. That could have been her operation that was purchased by Jenson. Also, the properties where two of the homicides occurred were up for auction with Jenson,” Chace went on. “Then, in the homicide in Sheffield, the victim was from Greenville.” Chief Devaro listened to this chain of facts thoughtfully.

  After a short pause, Chace continued. “I realize that you know some of these people Lou, but under the circumstances, I don’t think this should go beyond me and you right now. Who knows who else could be involved? We don’t want to tip off whoever is actually killing these people. I think we have to continue like we have been as far as everyone is concerned, and just keep ‘dribbling the ball’ until we have an open shot.” After pausing for a moment the chief agreed. “You’ve got it. It’s your call, Don,” he conceded.

  Later that day Inspector Chace got a call on his cell phone from his state police buddy in south-west Connecticut. He called from Grandford and asked if Chace wanted to take a ride down there to have a chat with an employee who had worked for the same maid service, which they had discussed, that served clients in Greenville. Chace agreed and was traveling west on Rt. I-95 within ten minutes.

  Arriving in Grandford at 2:10 PM, he located the tavern in the west end of the town, the place at which his friend had arranged the meeting with the ex-maid, and entered into its gloomy interior.

  Chace had been instructed to order a beer at the bar and ask for “Jasmine.” Having done that he was tapped on the shoulder by a well-dressed, fairly attractive middle aged woman who was, as Chace discovered when he stood up to meet her, almost six feet tall. They sat in a corner of the dimly lit bar lounge and, as she began to speak, Chace realized that ‘she’ was a ‘he’.

  Chace had been trained to deal with homosexuality, and he was not homophobic. He was never comfortable, however, in dealing with transvestites, or opposite-sex impersonators.

  Either way, this person apparently had a grudge against somebody and wanted Chace to listen to what he/she had to relate, so Chace listened to the story. He wanted to jot down some of the details but the transvestite balked. Not having brought a recorder was an error, he silently reminded himself. When Chace put his pad and pen away, ‘Jasmine’ began the story:

  Carina Slavonic, called “Carrie” by her family, was a pretty brunette of average height. She was of slim build and had a perfectly formed female figure.

  When she had first come from New York to Connecticut, she worked in Greenville, just over the state line from New York. Carrie worked there for a household service company based in Grandford, Connecticut, the adjacent municipality to the east. It was primarily a maid-service which catered to the elite, rich residents of Greenville.

  Jasmine pointed out that the company was actually a front for a prostitution ring. The company director had soon recruited his new, good-looking worker from New York into prostitution.

  Breast implants, which Carrie had wanted, were funded by the company and, in return, she had to perform a number of sex acts with the company’s “clients” until she repaid the cost. She had also inherited the title to a two-year-old Porsche roadster as a gift from one of the appreciative clients along the way.

  After having paid back her debt, Carrie indicated her intention to leave the ‘company’ operation and to go on her own.

  The director of the household service company, who was in partnership with the company’s secret sponsor, was the Police Commander-in-Charge at a neighborhood station in Grandford, near to where the service company’s office was located. Upon hearing that Carrie wanted out, the director-police commander threatened to; “run her in and throw the book at her.”

  Savvy enough to realize that she had no recourse, Carrie packed her bags and left town hurriedly, driving as far north on Rt. I-95 as the gas in her Porsche would last. She rented a room at a roadside motel in New Haven.

  In nearby East Wayford, she drank herself nearly into a drunken stupor at the first pub she came across. There, she was advised by Jerry, the proprietor of “Jerry’s Jug”, to contact Francine Stanley, a local real estate broker. Francine Stanley, she was told, was sympathetic to young women in distress and might hire her as a sales trainee.

  The transvestite informer, who apparently had known Carrie quite well, had not heard from her since then.

  Abruptly, as quick as it began, the conversation was over. Without any further conversation the informer rose from the table and was quickly out of the back door of the bar. Chace was sitting there in the dim light furiously jotting down all parts of the conversation that he could remember. He was still angry with himself for not ‘wiring’ himself with a recorder prior to this meeting.

  What a day! Chase thought, with a shiver going up and down his spine. He went into the men’s room to wash his hands. Then he headed home for the day.

  Chapter 26

  On Friday morning, the sun pierced through the last of some lingering clouds as they drifted off to the east. Inspector Chace’s mood reflected the refreshingly clear, bright weather as he drove to his East Wayford temporary field office.

  Chief Devaro was on his way to the briefing room as Chace entered the police headquarters and the chief invited him to attend the briefing session.

  “I’ll hold up starting for a few minutes so you can get yourself a coffee.” he offered to Chace.

  The roll call and morning briefing went as usual. The chief updated the squads on the homicide investigations, omitting the details and events of the day before, as he and inspector Chace had decided.

  There were several contributions from patrolmen as to complaints and sour moods they were encountering on their patrols and traffic duties, and it was always about the unsolved killings. Inspector Chace suggested that the best response would be to listen, and then ask that the complainers stay alert for any person, or persons, who are strangers to their neighborhoods, especially after dark, and to then point out that a prompt report to 911 about suspicious activity might have made a difference in the recent homicides and could possibly help to prevent another.

  “In this way,” Chace said, “you can get them pulling together with us rather than pulling against us.” The patrolmen seemed to accept that in a positive way.

  The chief agreed wholeheartedly and adjourned the briefing with a parting comment;

  “Lieutenant Detective Salvadore will be back with us on Monday. That will help us cover more ground with this investigation.”

  While walking back to their offices, Chace told the chief that he had picked up a few more interesting tidbits the previous afternoon. They went into the chief’s office and closed the door. Once seated, Chace took out his note pad and related the story he had gotten the afternoon before.

  “Well, that seems to fold right into the F.B.I. report on Francine Stanley,” said Chief Devaro, not surprised, “See that, now you’re getting me to think like a detective”, he added with a chuckle. “Maybe it’s time to have a chat with ‘Mr. Clean’, Carl Jenson.” Chace agreed and indicated that, as the chief had pointed out the day before, they had enough now to clamp down on the apparent prostitution operation, but their primary problem was finding a murder suspect, or at least a person of interest.

  Just before noon, Chief Devaro suggested a private lunch to Chace. “I’ve got an idea rolling around in my gray old head.” he said with a smattering of confidence.

  Rose Devaro was at the tennis club
with three of her woman friends. They were playing a doubles match for exercise. One thing that they all had in common was that none of them cared who won or who lost the tennis match; it was more about running around on the court to lose some weight so that the lunch they were going to have wouldn’t add to the waistline.

  In the meantime, her husband Lou Devaro drove himself and Don Chace to his and Rose’s home located in the town of Hamden, a small town north of New Haven where he and Rose had lived for twenty seven years. Along the way they discussed Lt. Salvadore’s return.

  The chief had spoken to Salvadore on the phone twice since he went to Pittsburg. The first conversation had been after his first day of special training. Salvadore had, as usual, prematurely judged the situation and spoke like he was going to teach them about how to handle the media.

  Miraculously, by the last day of the training course he had made a transition to a more controlled, calculating, but logical policeman. Chief Devaro related to Chace that, after the chief had finished that last phone conversation, he had raised his arms to heaven and thanked the “Good Lord” aloud.

  The chief and Chace agreed that Salvadore should be taken at face value and put back to work as an asset, if possible, rather than a hindrance.

  On the way to his house the chief stopped off at a delicatessen near his street to pick up lunches for the two of them. One half mile beyond the deli they pulled onto a circular drive in front of his home, a two-story white clapboard-sided Georgian Colonial style house. “What I want to talk about is for our ears only,” he told Chace, “I wouldn’t trust any other place.

  While opening the side entrance Lou Devaro explained why they were there; “My wife Rose is at the club playing tennis. There’s nobody home but ‘Butch’, our dachshund. The old boy is deaf as a doornail, the poor bastard.”

  They took their grinders, along with four beers from the refrigerator, and went out back onto a quiet European-styled patio, where Butch lay sleeping in the sunshine.

  Within the surrounding ivy covered concrete walls and shrubbery, from where they sat down at an outdoor cocktail table, not one other neighborhood structure could be seen except for the Devaros’ own garage. The abundance of surrounding masonry also eliminated most of the neighborhood sounds. A water feature bubbled and trickled off in a far corner.

  “Quite a spot you have here, Lou, it seems like a perfect place to relax.” commented Chace.

  “Having been in small-town police work as long as I have, if I didn’t have this hole to hide in every now and then, I’d be up at the rest home sitting in a rocking chair, singing to the flowers.” said the chief. “I passed up two city-chief jobs that paid better and which I qualified for, but they had residency requirements. My town didn’t have an opening for chief, and I wasn’t about to move from here. “I’ll give you the grand tour of the house later, right now let’s eat lunch and get down to business.

  After the grinders and beers Lou Devaro took two long cigars out of a silver plated holder kept in his hip pocket. They lit up and each created clouds. Through the thick blue-white smoke, the chief began.

  “Time is running out Don. I can see it coming as plain as day. I’ve heard from a few friends in the Police-Chiefs Association who have tried to console me, I can feel it. All hell is going to break loose on the ‘doddering old police chief from East Wayford’ over these serial killings”, he said with conviction.

  Chace listened to what he was beginning to believe was a last- will-and-testament being developed. Chace knew that a move to drive Lou Devaro from his job would inevitably reflect on him. Don Chace’s only defense would be to join the dissenters and blame the chief. He had to make a choice here and his inclination, right now, was to go with his gut feelings and hear the chief out.

  Chief Devaro, speaking factually, resumed. “It has been over six weeks since the first killing. There have been three killings. We don’t have a clue as to who is doing the actual killings. It seems to surround the prostitution scheme but many of our leads involve prominent citizens, and we have no real proof. We only have past history and hearsay, that’s only to the prostitution, not murder.”

  “Our back is to the wall because, although murders can, many times, take more than six weeks to solve, our immediate problem is public safety. We have no idea how to prevent another loss of life. We have to do something or another victim could die and the game is over. I lose my job, but more importantly, you have years of what I see as an important contribution to law enforcement at stake, and I don’t take that lightly, believe me!”

  Chace chugged on his beer and thought about what he had just heard. Both he and the chief had played college football and the chief was sounding like a college quarterback who, with the season championship, and a potentially lucrative pro career on the line, and with one second left on the game clock, was about to propose a “Hail Mary” pass into the end zone. Everything would be riding on one last play to win or lose the game.

  Lou Devaro had been a back-up quarter back in college and Don Chace, in a more recent generation, had been a deep pass receiver. Both had experienced the human ability to, under extreme pressure, be successful and victorious against overwhelming odds. They had also sampled the sour taste of defeat.

  Chace was silent for a seemingly long moment and then he asked, “What’s your call, Chief?”

  Chief Devaro pulled his patio chair up to the marble-topped table and downed the last half of his second beer. The fierce intensity in his eyes would convince anyone that he meant business. Lowering his booming voice to a hoarse whisper, he spoke, “A sting!” he hissed.

  Chace was startled. He double-thought to make sure he heard correctly.

  “How could a sting help us? Do you mean trying to flush out the killer, or killers?” he asked. The chief was just staring at Chace without saying anything. It was his way of playing poker, play a card and judge the opponent by the reaction.

  “I’ve been involved in a few stings,” Chace said. “Buying guns during an amnesty period and booking known offenders on unrelated outstanding charges, things like that, but it takes a lot of manpower and a lot of time to organize. We used money as bait. What bait could we use here to lure a killer who is motivated by something we haven’t figured out yet?” Chase rattled off in a quick sequence.

  Easing his intensity now, the chief could see that Chace was on board.

  “I’ve got some questions, too, but I can almost hear the wheels spinning in your head.” he said, kidding. You’ve probably already answered some of your own questions while you asked another. Here’s my idea so far.”

  Chief Devaro went on to explain how the plot could be set up without involving too much time. The key, he thought, would be secrecy. No one but himself and Chace would be physically involved. Like Chace, he felt there was a tempo to the killings and that within a week or so, the sting operation would have to be ready to go.

  They could stage all of the things that were common to the three cases. Time of day, day of the week, place of opportunity, etc.

  One of them could be hidden on the inside of the selected structure during the staged event and they could watch for anyone who might approach the site.

  After a few puffs on his cigar, Chace questioned, “We would need an ‘unsuspecting victim’ for bait, Lou, am I right? Who could we get to do that?

  “You, Don.” answered the chief.

  The inspector and the chief went back and forth with possibilities and ideas about how the sting could be structured. By 3:30 PM they both had headaches. Both of them were in deep thought as Chief Devaro drove them back to the headquarters building.

  “We’ll sleep on it over the weekend, call me if you get such a hot idea that it can’t wait till Monday.” said the chief as they entered the building. “Salvadore will need to be brought up to speed on Monday, but let’s not go into anything beyond the F.B.I. dossier for now”, he added.

  Chapter 27

  Chief of Police Lou Devaro was not himself on this Mon
day morning because he had spent the weekend mentally going over the plan that he and Inspector Chace had discussed the previous Friday.

  Although he felt it was the best course of action under the circumstances, he had some doubts. For one thing he realized that the odds, of getting the perpetrator of the recent killings to expose himself, or herself, or themselves, were not good.

  The sting would be a long shot, at best, and if not successful, the set-up would have to be repeated. Considering the arrangements that would have to be made, and made in strict secrecy, they may be able to set it up twice, at the most, before it leaked out.

  The other main concern that the chief had was that he had an intuition that Carrie Slavonic fit the mold and was somehow implicated in the killings whether she was aware of it or not. In order to simulate the scenario of the three killings, she would have to participate. How could they expect to get her cooperation without Francine being involved?

  Don Chace had likewise been digesting the idea of a limited-scale sting operation over the weekend, and the more he considered it, the more he felt that Chief Devaro was right. They were in a box and the box was shrinking.

  On the surface the sting idea seemed to have a chance of revealing a person of interest, a motive, or at least a clue to the mystery. But in order to replicate the circumstances under which the previous killings had occurred, a thorough analysis of the factors in each of the three cases would have to be undertaken.

  Chace had gone over and over his diagram of similarities. The revelations about Carrie, which were fed to him by the transvestite in Grandford, filled in a lot of blank spaces to the puzzle.

  Motive for the killings was still elusive but a triangle between Francine, Carrie and Carl Jenson was beginning to come into focus. Maggie Marshall and Max Hargrove were the visible operatives of Francine and Jenson in the legitimate property sales business. Carrie was under the direct control of Francine. Carrie was a flagrant and willing female prostitute who probably commanded fees that only wealthy individuals could afford.