To Sleep... Perchance to Die

  At the head of each bed was a fixed metal dresser. Folding chairs allowed the dressers to double as desks. Because of space requirements, the dresser on the right, the side with the toilet and sink, was smaller than the one on the left. Sammy was using the larger dresser, so Bret emptied his sack on the cot with the smaller dresser.

  If his appeal wasn’t successful, the small space with its utilitarian atmosphere was the latest substitute for his lovely country home on Lover’s Lane, a name not the good omen it portended.

  That afternoon, he visited the recreation area and struck a conversation with an old non-parole who went by Tommy Boy. Judging by his appearance, Bret figured Tommy Boy was nearing the end of his sentence. When Bret asked about Sammy, the old con shook his head and said, “Reason I even talkin to you is we in the same boat. Otherwise, I don’t give you the motherfuckin time of day.”

  Bret turned to leave.

  “Hold on,” said Tommy Boy. “Said we in the same boat. We go’in to be here after Sammy gone. Don’t hurt to get to know each other.”

  Bret faced him.

  The lifer said, “He a fuckin nasty one, that one. Glad you, not me in a cell with him. Ice pick he carry, stick you with it as look at you. What I see, he be wantin’ to put somethin else in you. Ain’t talkin bout his pick.” Tommy Boy’s cackles revealed his few remaining teeth.

  Bret scrunched his face in disgust.

  “You got a wom’n?” Tommy Boy asked.

  “Yes . . . I mean, no . . . I don’t.

  “Well, what is it? Eitha you got one or not.”

  “Had one once. No more.”

  “Same here. Didn’t work out.” Tommy Boy said. “Means no con-gell visits ’less you strike it up with a pin pal. Some wom’n willin to come in for them. Not many. Eitha can’t find a man or think they helping society.”

  Tommy Boy looked at one of the TVs in the corner. A sit-com was beginning. “Gotta go,” he said. “Don’t forget what I say bout Sammy.” Bret didn’t see a connection, but the man added, “Rumor is, he go’in to be rollin in green when he outta here.” Sputum from Tommy Boy’s cough sprayed as Bret moved to avoid the droplets.

  While he assumed Hubie Santos worked pro bono in his efforts to clear Dr. Manley’s name, Bob Dillon, P.I., received his usual hefty fee. He and Hubie Santos were sitting in the attorney’s private office at 51 Russ Street in Hartford. Hubie at his desk and Bob across from him.

  Surveying Hubie’s office caused the P.I. to smile. In addition to his laptop, the desk held piles of case folders that had to be swept to the side in order for the men to see each other without standing. One of the legal secretaries had joked the hardest job was clearing the boss’s desk at the end of the day and replacing the scattered files in their secure cabinets.

  Hubie was a collector of presidential campaign memorabilia and antique clocks. Banners and pins of various campaigns were strewn about, and two valuable antique timepieces sat on tables in separate corners of the room. Many of the campaign mementos were souvenirs of the Connecticut campaign of a presidential hopeful that Hubie ran. No matter the clutter of the office, Bob Dillon knew Hubie’s mind was organized and brilliant, befitting one of the top lawyers in the country.

  “I appreciate all you did to help us, Bob.”

  “Thanks. Just sorry we didn’t get a better result. I haven’t given up on the case. With your permission, I’d like to keep digging. See if I can come up with something to help the appeal. There’s got to be undiscovered evidence out there for me to find.”

  “You took the words out of my mouth. We’re down but not out. I want you to continue your investigation. Take all the time you need. I’m not concerned about cost. You’ll be compensated at your usual rate.”

  “Hubie, you’ve made my day twice.”

  The P.I. left the attorney’s office determined to see justice done in the Frankie Grimaldi murder. Although the woman had died in Dr. Manley’s surgical chair, Bob Dillon was certain Dr. Manley hadn’t killed her. It couldn’t be proven, but he believed Dr. Warden and his lover, the former Mrs. Manley, were the murderers. He was sure they enlisted Warden’s assistant, Corrie Hunter, to help them. In addition to other information he had uncovered in his investigation, it explained why the testimony given by the three was similar, and in instances, word for word. It couldn’t be coincidence.

  The weakest link in their three-linked chain was Corrie Hunter. Jake Warden and Mai Faca had each other, but Corrie had no one. He had spent a good deal of time investigating the two lovers without results. It was time to concentrate his investigative efforts on Corrie. Exposing her lies and uncovering her role in the murder would give him the other two. She was bound to screw up. Everyone in her situation did. He’d be there when it happened.

  The July Fourth holiday was around the corner. It had been six months since Corrie had testified against Dr. Manley, and every day took forever to pass. She continued working as Dr. Warden’s office manager, but their relationship had changed. Although he continued to supply her with drugs, he became distant. Most of the time he didn’t say a word unless it related to business and patients.

  As for Mai Faca, Corrie had not heard from her since the trial ended. Was the bitch avoiding her? She hadn’t agreed to be a part of their scheme because of Mai. It was for the narcotics and the money . . . and Jake Warden. The money would allow her to atone for a wrong she had done.

  Corrie was guilt-ridden for having stolen her dying mother’s diamond ring and pawning it for a tenth of its value. She had been fired from the convalescent home and needed the money to support her uncontrollable drug habit. Her intention was to repurchase it when she found another job. That became impossible when the pawn shop owner sold it and wouldn’t tell her the name of the buyer. The drugs bought with the ring were gone within a short time, but the guilt remained.

  It galled her that a commoner like Pearlie kept the stupid necklace her father made. Had changed her name because of it. Every time she saw the pearl, it reminded her of the terrible thing she had done. She hoped to make amends by replacing the ring with a comparable piece of jewelry worn in her mother’s memory.

  Corrie told Dr. Warden about Mai’s emotional collapse in the office. Said it was fortunate she was there to rush her home. To make matters worse, she had to tolerate Mai’s screaming insults on the way. The women in the office asked questions about Mai’s strange behavior in the waiting room before Mai could have known what was happening to Frankie. Brittney wondered if she had a premonition. It was tricky, Corrie said, but she was able to cover for Mai before anyone became suspicious.

  Prior to the trial, Dr. Warden had coached them on what to say when in the witness chair. Several facts had to be memorized. He had authored their separate stories ensuring each meshed with the testimony of the others. If all went as planned, Dr. Manley would appear guilty of the murder, and they’d have cemented the case for the prosecution. Each had an important role in the frame. Because her role was to be the eyewitness who saw the drug switch, the prosecution lawyers said her testimony was the most crucial for a guilty verdict.

  Dr. Warden had asked her to visit him at his condo where he turned over a key to a lock box. “At the end of this month and every month from now on until you have all your money, two thousand dollars will be placed in a box at the main Hartford train station that this key opens.”

  Angered by the unexpected restrictions on the money she felt was hers, Corrie vented her displeasure, “Bad enough I’ve had to wait six months. You never said I wouldn’t receive it all at once. If you had, I’m not sure I would have helped you.”

  Corrie was upset. She could tell Jake’s mental wheels were spinning trying to think of something to placate her.

  “It’s the safe way, Corrie. I’ve had to borrow the money to pay you, and I’m not talking from a bank. These are the restrictions placed on me. The thinking is that giving you two thousand a month won’t raise suspicions on where it’s coming from.”

  “But . .
. but, I wanted to do things with it. Like buy a nice piece of jewelry or something.” Making a quick calculation, “Besides, it’ll take more than two years to get the money. What if, God forbid, something happens to you in the meantime?”

  Jake answered, “Nothing is going to happen, but if something does, I’ve made arrangements for you to continue receiving payments until you get everything you’re owed. And you can still do something nice with the payments. Just on a smaller scale.”

  Continuing his effort to placate her, he said, “Think how it would look if you suddenly took a trip to, say, France. People might wonder where the money came from. There’d be no problem with going to a place like Williamsburg or Disney World. As far as jewelry is concerned, there are many inexpensive but quite beautiful pieces.”

  Corrie acquiesced, “Okay, exactly how do I get the money? With a sigh, “What do you want me to do?”

  Jake reviewed the arrangements that had been made and ended with, “You have to collect the money at Union Station in downtown Hartford during the first few days of the month. The collection has to be done at a time when activity is high. Like early morning or late afternoon when a lot of buses and trains are arriving and departing. You’re the only one allowed to make the pickup.” He warned, “If you don’t do it without an excuse that’s deemed legitimate, payments will stop. If we find you’ve made a big-ticket item purchase, payments will stop. Your actions will be monitored to insure compliance with our instructions.” Jake’s final admonition was, “And, don’t doubt we can do it.”

  Jake knew there was no real mechanism to monitor Corrie’s actions. If Corrie failed to make a pickup, it would be a month before Carlton’s man discovered it. He was sure that if she made a fuss, the money drops wouldn’t be terminated. It would be dangerous to anger her. Intimidation and lies were his weapons.

  Corrie was fuming and determined to bypass the odious restrictions. She could collect and save monthly allotments until there was enough to buy an expensive piece of jewelry. She’d make the purchase in another state and in cash. To honor her mother and to justify the risk taken by helping Dr. Warden and his mistress, it had to be of great value. Something to be proud of. She had put her life on the line and deserved to do what she wanted with the money.

  The weekend after her meeting with Jake Warden, Corrie discovered Sparkling Ice, a jewelry store in Newport, Rhode Island. It carried gems of exceptional quality and required a high level of security. The entrance consisted of bulletproof glass double doors that were never unlocked at the same time. A buzzer opened the outer door after a visual inspection by a security guard.

  Cabinets were stocked with beautiful and expensive jewelry, including precious stones in every imaginable setting. In one of the cabinets she spied a multi-stoned sapphire bracelet. It was the most gorgeous piece of jewelry she had seen. Corrie was determined to have it. Sparkling Ice was a candy shop, and Corrie was the proverbial kid in it. As a child craves a piece of candy, she craved the bracelet.

  The French speaking proprietor, Mr. Joseph . . . Jos-ceff, accent on the second syllable . . . was short and rotund with classic male pattern baldness and a pencil mustache. Corrie visited the store several times and found he possessed a wealth of information about the items in the display cases. She insisted upon dealing with no one but him.

  Listening to the history of the piece intensified her desire to have it. Mr. Joseph held it in the palm of his hand and became animated, “This bracelet, ooh, la, la, she contains an extremely rare assortment of pastel colored sapphires. Oui, it took many years to collect zee stones before they can be incorporated into zee lovely piece you have ’ere. Putting them in a bracelet has resulted in, how you say, creation of a true masterpiece. There is no other like it.”

  “I can see it’s really a work of art,” Corrie agreed. Pearlie’s pearl is less than insignificant compared to it. Mother would be proud.

  “If you are to be considering its purchase, I am most happy in encouraging you to do so.”

  Corrie responded, “Like how?”

  “Umm,” thinking, “I sell it to you for thirteen thousand dollars, although its value, as anyone can see, is considerably more. You are to be made aware such a price is for you alone, as it is obvious you appreciate and desire it very much.”

  “Why so cheap?”

  The proprietor gestured with his hands. “Zee economy, what else?”

  “Can I put it on layaway with a deposit of five hundred dollars and pay the rest six months from now?”

  Mr. Joseph shook his head, “For one thousand dollars, I will hold it for six months, no longer. Of course,” he informed her, “You must have full payment at that time, if you are not to forfeit zee deposit.”

  “I understand,” Corrie said, and without hesitation said, “It’s a deal. I’ll return tomorrow with the deposit.”

  It would be another insufferable wait, but in six months she’d have collected enough money. Purchasing with cash would minimize the chance that Dr. Warden and whoever he was working with, would learn what she had done. Corrie could feel goose bumps. Jewelry of its quality had been an unattainable fantasy.

  As she walked to her car, she imagined the reaction of her friends. They’ll be terribly impressed and so envious. When they ask where I got it, I might be evasive and let them think a mysterious lover gave it to me. Seeing their reactions will make it worth having put my freedom on the line for Dr. Warden.

  She would have loved to show the bracelet to the women in her office. They’d be ravenously jealous. No, someone would mention it to the doctor. He’d get angry and stop her payments. Overcome by a fit of temper and knowing she had blackmail power, she thought, Let him try.

  An advantage a modern private detective has over those of past eras is the ability to utilize electronic and wireless surveillance monitoring equipment. In Bob Dillon’s business it was essential to know what the latest surveillance techniques were, and he had acquaintances who supplied the information. If the general public were aware of the devices employed by those in his profession, people would demand the equipment be removed from the investigator’s tool kit. They’d be correct in thinking rights of privacy were violated.

  Using a secure cell, Bob Dillon was making his weekly report to Hubie Santos. “I’m using two of my gadgets on Hunter. The same ones I’m using on Faca and Warden, but getting nothing. No doubt they assume they’re under surveillance and don’t say or do anything that would incriminate them in the Grimaldi murder. Hunter may be different.”

  “You’re the expert, do what you feel is appropriate,” Hubie replied. “I’m curious, though, what are they?”

  “One is a Sony listening device I’ll stick on her living room window. Maybe tomorrow night while she’s sleeping. There’s no dog around to alert anybody so it’ll be safe to snoop around. It’s no bigger than a flyspeck, but it turns the entire window into a voice activated audio receiver. It’ll pick up sound from almost anywhere in the house. It’s especially helpful when she’s on the phone.”

  “How do you record and retrieve what it picks up?”

  “The listening dot transmits everything to a wireless remote receiver that I’ll fasten to a tree or a utility pole about a hundred yards away. A utility pole is best because the receiver looks like it belongs there. It’s a three by five by one inch black box that has “Official Use Only” and “Penalty for Removing” stamped on it. It’s always left alone. Inside is a long playing mini CD. I can retrieve it whenever I want.”

  He detailed the other piece of high tech equipment. “It’s a Garmin GPS recorder designed to be attached to the underside of an automobile. Super-sticky pads fasten it securely in place, and its battery lasts up to a year. If someone tries to remove it or the battery nears the end of its life, it sends out a burst of energy that fries the electronics in the unit. After that, any information recorded can’t be recovered. The device is made of a material designed to disintegrate and, in time, begins to fall off the car in unrecognizabl
e pieces. You never have to remove it.”

  “Impressive,” was Hubie’s response.

  “That’s not all,” Bob said enthusiastically, “It’s movement sensitive and turns on when it detects a fifty foot change in position of the car. Once activated, every thirty seconds it records its GPS position in longitude and latitude until five minutes after it no longer senses changes. In other words, it turns on when the car moves and off soon after it stops.”

  Bob explained the automobile’s position was known at all times. When desired, the cumulative information gathered by the GPS was wirelessly transmitted and downloaded onto a Garmin laptop dedicated to the transmitter. He had to be within half a mile of the transmitter when he wanted to receive the data.

  The computer displayed the positions and times in a 24 hour clock format. In another window of the Microsoft Windows program, the coordinates were plotted as points and connected into lines on a map of the northeast United States. The scale was adjustable allowing for in-depth viewing of any route a car took. The coordinates were synchronized into a Google Earthlike picture resulting in comprehensive displays of roads and their associated structures.

  Repetitive routes appeared as dark lines on the map. The more use, the darker the line. In the Google Earth setting, adjusting the scale revealed details such as turning in a driveway. The information garnered gave a complete picture of a person’s travels.

  “I’ve used the device several times and am always impressed by the confirmation that people spend most of their lives within a relatively small geographic area.” Bob lowered his voice, “Your ears only. Next generation of devices includes drones. They’re working out the bugs, but should be ready in a year or two. Can’t wait.”