“Good heavens,” Paul said taken aback. “All of that?”
“Yes, appearance is important.”
“I’ll get moving on calling the board meeting.” He picked up the phone.
“Good, I’ll see you then,” Dutch said as he exited the office. “Don’t mention a word about this deal with a soul.”
On the way back to his office he dialed a number on his cell phone. “Kate, meet me at my cabin,” Dutch said. “Big news.”
When Kate let herself into the cabin, Dutch was on his computer, updating his case notes.
“Hi, honey,” he said without looking up.
“Whatcha doing?” Kate asked. She shrugged off her sweater and hung it on the back of a kitchen chair. She bent down and hugged him around his shoulders. He turned and their lips touched gently in a kiss.
“Ooh. You make my toes curl,” he said.
“I wasn’t aiming at your toes.” She laughed and straightened up.
“Not to change the subject, but I have super news.” He spun his chair around to face her.
“What’s this super news?”
“I went to see the loan officer at the North Eastern Bank today.”
“To investigate the money he supposedly inherited?” Dutch had told her about the bank director’s request.
“Correct,” he began. “I met him, Paul Hanchett, and at first he denied knowing about the scheme, but then when I told him that the realtor had been murdered, he changed his mind.”
“I’m shocked.”
“So he’s setting up a meeting with the bank’s board of directors for tomorrow. I’ll set out all of the facts and ask for their support. Then we’ll need to discuss it with the police.” He filled her in with the small details.
“Good job.” Kate stood next to him and took the contract out of Dutch’s hands. “So this is the news too?”
“I told Paul how to dress tomorrow—sharp,” Dutch continued. He stood and faced her. “I’ll look professional, and I’m going to drive my Jag.”
“You’re amazing,” Kate said. She reached over and kissed him.
“I’m better than that.” He pulled her by the hand toward his bedroom. They moved together—as one. She submitted to his tugging. When they were next to his bed, he laid her down on the cushiony comforter. His mouth covered hers and she eagerly responded, nibbling his lower lip. That familiar twinge started in her stomach, and moved slowly down her body. Oh, hell. Forget the flab. His hand ran over her breasts, and she shivered at his touch. Her breathing came in quick gasps.
“Let me show you how great I am,” he whispered.
“Please do.” She was breathless from his soft, passionate kisses. His arms enveloped and caressed her. They kissed passionately. “Please, please, please,” she moaned. I can’t control myself any longer.
He slipped her blouse off. He touched her tenderly. “My God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured. He buried his face between her naked breasts.
She lost herself in his embrace as she let her emotions overtake her body.
Chapter Ten
Kate says: If English Country is your style, colors are taken from nature but use pale and muted shades. As accessories, use overstuffed comfy furniture, flowered chintz and family heirlooms.
The English Cottage Tea Shop on Main Street was a quaint shop where boxes and packages of teas from all over the world were lined up on shelves. On the back of the menu, printed in dark brown ink, were descriptions of where each tea originated and the flavor in each brew. Tea in teapots with rose-decorated cups was served to their customers who were seated at tables covered with rose-colored tablecloths overlaid with ecru lace.
The group of older women buzzed with their chatting. Each wore a hat decorated with pink silk roses to coordinate with the décor. They had given themselves the title of the Old Biddies Club, and they met once a month at the tea shop for gossip and light refreshments.
Mildred Turner, Kate’s Mum, was the so-called leader who usually set conversations off onto a certain subject. Today, the discussions naturally centered around the murder at the real estate office.
Agnes Smythe, the librarian in town, was holding court, hogging the limelight. The library was a few blocks away in a Victorian-styled house. Several generations of her family had lived in the same house over the past hundred years, and consequentially, she became a source of local history. Agnes was a tiny bird-like woman, with blue eye shadow and a pin-curled hairdo. As usual, she wore a cardigan draped over her shoulders and bifocals balanced on the end of her nose.
“It’s scandalous,” Agnes proclaimed. The other ladies nodded their white permed hair in agreement.
Mildred disagreed. “I find it fascinating. Just like on television—forensics and all that stuff,” she said. “The broker had to be mixed up in a bad plot otherwise why would someone murder him?”
“That’s true. But no one should die that way though, dear. Don’t you agree?” Sally Gorman asked. She was a friend from across town.
“You get what you deserve, I say,” Mildred said crossly.
“Let’s change the subject,” Sally said. “I hate to talk about death.”
“I don’t. I was talking to my cousin the other day. We’re going to be buried next to each other in a little English village churchyard. I was joking, saying that when we’re dead we can sit on our gravestones and smoke cigarettes without worrying about the health effects. We can then tell cancer to sod off.”
Sally looked at her disapprovingly. The other ladies tittered.
“Another sandwich?” Mildred said. She held the two-tier plate in front of Sally.
“I wonder what that one is?” Sally asked, pointing to a small triangle of bread.
“Looks like sandwich spread with garden cress sprinkled on top,” Mildred said matter-of-factly.
“I think I’ll try it.”
“My daughter—you all know her—Kate, is helping her friend, Dutch, to find out what’s going on.” She took a sip of her tea.
“What do you mean?” Agnes asked while munching on a finger sandwich of goat cheese and chives.
“Dutch is looking for a place to set up as his office, and he and Kate went to Andy Giamgello’s real estate office. They found a place for Dutch on Magnolia Road. It was that night Andy was shot.” She looked smug. I have more information than these housewifey women.
“Do they have any idea who did it?” timid Sally Gorman asked quietly.
“No, but Dutch is a private investigator. My daughter is his assistant. He’s very good at it, too, so I bet he’ll do a great detective job—better than the local constabulary will do.”
“Watch it,” Agnes warned. “The sergeant is a relative of mine.”
“Only kidding,” Mildred lied. She was serious about the ineptness of the police department in Stonington. “I’ll be mother—tea, everyone?” She held the ornate teapot aloft while each lady held her cup and saucer underneath the spout to be filled with exotic-tasting tea.
The rest of the tea party progressed without any more controversial subjects being discussed, so Mildred was bored. She stifled a yawn as the conversation centered around the women’s aches and pains, household hints and snotty-nosed grandchildren.
Chapter Eleven
Kate says: This generation entertains much more casually, thus making a formal dining room mostly unused. Instead, newly designed homes are using the old dining room space as a family room, office or study, and in some houses, as a guest room. Comfort is the main objective with new, soft fabrics on the furniture but also needed are materials that are durable and kid/pet-friendly fabrics.
Earlier in the morning, Dutch had waxed and polished the burgundy-colored Jaguar until it shone brilliantly. He’d picked up his best suit from the cleaners and it hung on a hanger slung over the bedroom door. Then he’d showered and shaved and made sure his hair was impeccable. He stood in front of the long mirror to check his appearance. He couldn’t believe he was preening. Kate and he had made ex
quisite love yesterday, leaving him with a positive slant on their relationship. He felt like a matador checking his colorful suit of lights prior to entering the bullring. It passed with flying colors. It was his bullfight—he would control the meeting that afternoon. Trumpet flourish! Olé.
He ate a small lunch to abate his stomach’s growling, then drove carefully to the bank across town. An inopportune accident would upset everything on this important day. He pulled the Jag into a parking spot marked for visitors right next to the pathway leading to the main doors of the bank.
Once inside the bank he was directed to the second floor boardroom. A secretary told him to wait outside the formal meeting room until the board was ready to meet him. He turned when a bell went ting. It was the arrival of Paul. He walked out of the elevator, looking like he’d stepped out of a man’s magazine advertisement.
“You look great,” Dutch said quietly as he shook his hand. “Do you have your file?”
“In here,” Paul said and patted his briefcase. His forehead was covered with sweat.
“Try not to be anxious. I know it’s easy for me to say, but try.”
Paul dabbed his face with a white handkerchief. “I’m a nervous wreck. I didn’t sleep a wink last night.”
“It’s going to be interesting to say the least,” Dutch said. He wasn’t worried about the meeting. He had no inkling why he wasn’t anxious, but he usually was calm before an endeavor that would have successful results. His guardian angel would perch on his shoulder and guide him through the day, and the angel would calm him down if it were to be a good day, otherwise…
The secretary’s intercom buzzed and she picked up the phone. “You may go in,” she said to the two men.
“Here we go,” Paul said under his breath.
“Keep calm,” Dutch answered.
They entered the imposing boardroom. Mahogany wood paneled the walls and a huge oval conference table took up most of the floor space. The chairman stood at one end and nodded at Dutch.
“I’m sure you both know me. I’m Eric Tonald. That’s pronounced Donald with a T,” he said.
Each member introduced themselves while Dutch and Paul stood.
“Please have a seat,” the chairman said, indicating two chairs at the opposite end of the long table.
Dutch would have preferred a seat closer to Mr. Tonald. This end of the table puts us psychologically separated from them. I’ll have to overcome it with a strong report.
Paul took out a blue folder from his briefcase and then sat. Dutch sat and rearranged the pad and pen in front of him.
Dutch introduced himself, giving a short biography of his past background with the New York Police Department and present business as a licensed private investigator. He then told the group about being hired by the chairman to look into Paul’s sudden flush of money.
Paul turned to stare and frown at Dutch. “You never told me that,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.
Dutch ignored the remark and launched into the story of his meeting with the realtor, what he learned about the possible fake appraisal and the information collected pertaining to the community, which would probably never be built.
“It’s difficult to understand how we could have been swindled this way. It reminds me of Dallas in the nineteen eighties,” said Chairman Tonald, the oldest board member. He leaned back in his chair and tapped his pen on the table.
“That’s before my time,” said Max Moreland, a younger member of the board. “What were the details of the problem in Dallas?”
“It all happened after President Reagan signed into law the deregulation of the savings and loans by which they lifted the controls on interest rates. They were able to offer high rates, which attracted investors,” Tonald responded. “The insurance on each depositor’s account was increased to a $100,000, which was one of the first mistakes made.”
“Why was that a mistake?” Dutch asked. “I’m ignorant about banking.”
“The savings and loans immediately put insured money in blocks up to a $100,000 each. They could wheel and deal this money with no risk to the account holder because they were insured for that amount.”
Dutch looked puzzled. “Then how would they invest the money?”
“Earlier, they could only lend to local home buyers, but they had changed the rules and were permitted to lend to commercial builders. Billions of dollars were suctioned out of federally insured banks. Dallas was the first bank to show up as being cheated by fake appraisals.”
Dutch shook his head in disbelief. “That’s just like today. I noticed some nice-looking townhouses in town that had half-built buildings next to them. The builder can’t sell in today’s market so he has stopped building and abandoned the site.”
“But some scammers are still doing it—it’s called a land flip. The land is sold on paper only—no cash ever changes hands—several times during a week or two with a new deed and a new higher price recorded each time. It makes the land appear to have increased in worth. They then go to a bank and get a loan based on this inflated price.”
“I should have known that Dallas story,” Moreland said. “I remember it was covered in one of my business courses in college.”
Tonald continued, “At one point the FSLIC was forced to pay out many billions—with a B—dollars to close down the insolvent Savings and Loans and pay back their depositors. The FSLIC went bankrupt. All that taxpayers’ money wasted.”
“And it’s happening again with the hundreds of billions of dollars’ bank rescue plan.”
“All due to lending money to people not qualified. They lent irresponsibly to buyers who borrowed irresponsibly. Now this country is wallowing in foreclosures due to greed and bad management. Even Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac are in trouble and under government protection.” Tonald grimaced.
“Hard to believe isn’t it?” Dutch added. Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac? So that’s what Aunt Carmella saw in my future. The old gal is not all hogwash after all.
“Whoever thought it would return in the new millennium?” Tonald questioned. “I guess it’s like fashion, the schemes come and go. There’s never really any new ones, just updated and changed a little.”
“So if the same schemes begin all over again, except in the banks this time, then the FDIC will be forking out millions of dollars. It doesn’t help us here,” Peter Wills, another board member, spoke up. “We have to come up with a plan of what we’re going to do now.” He slammed his fist on the table to punctuate his point. Everyone jumped at the noise.
“Agreed. This is a shocking situation this bank’s in, thanks to Paul here. We’ll have to notify our attorneys first of all,” Tonald said. “It’s my opinion that we should do all we can to retrieve our money before we notify the FDIC.” He turned to face Dutch. “That’s the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation. They took over the job of insuring banks and savings and loans.”
Dutch nodded. “I knew that,” he said. “Their sign is plastered on the door at my bank.”
“And what is it you want us to do, Dutch?” Wills asked, changing the subject.
“It’s this way, before you report this matter to the FDIC, as you mentioned, to ask the board to sign a retainer agreement for me to find the perpetrators of the fraud on your bank.” Dutch waited for a reaction.
“Why should we pay you to investigate when the police department will do it for nothing?” Tonald demanded.
“Because to the police this is just a bad business deal,” Dutch answered. “Why should they look for these people? But, if you find the suspects, you can file a complaint for fraud, et cetera. Naturally, the FBI will be notified due to the FDIC having federal links.”
“I think this should be discussed in camera, so if you and Paul would be so kind and step outside of the conference room, we’ll discuss this matter.” The chairman pressed the intercom. “Bring in some bottles of sparkling water, please.”
Dutch and Paul looked at each and left to wait in the foyer. Dutch pulled
Paul aside. “Looks like they may go for it,” Dutch said.
“I hope so,” Paul said as he shuffled his feet nervously. “I’ll probably get fired for this.” He looked forlorn. “It could ruin my marriage too.”
Dutch patted him on the shoulder.
“Try not to worry,” Dutch said. He strolled over to the water cooler and poured himself a paper cup of iced water.
Paul tapped his toes nervously. A secretary pushed the conference room door open with her butt and carried in a tray full of bottled water.
The bank board members took their time to come to a meeting of their minds, but after about half an hour, Dutch and Paul were summoned into the boardroom. The eight men looked very glum. None of them looked them straight in the eyes. Dutch was apprehensive. Doesn’t look good.
“Please be seated,” Tonald said as he stood.
The two men sat.
“It appears that our institution has faulty underwriting practices.” Tonald cleared his throat. “In fact, there’s a procedure manual that is so out of date, it’s worthless. This loan is a good example. The loan officer failed to get an independent appraisal of the property, and no credit report was run. We’ll deal separately with the loan officer involved. Also, if a real estate professional had visited the proposed site, it would have been divulged that the land is worth a fraction of the claimed value.” He paused. “We will follow through with the procedures, or lack thereof, but meanwhile we have made a decision.
“We’ve decided we will retain your services to seek out the perpetrators of this scheme, which fraudulently took two million dollars of our bank’s depositors’ money.” He paused—a long pause. “You may have to coordinate your evidence and movements with our law department as well as the FBI. Please keep that in mind.” Tonald tugged on his jacket lapels as he rocked back and forth on his heels and toes.
Reminds me of my history teacher. Dutch let out his breath. “Great. I’ll do my utmost to perform my job in order to apprehend these criminals,” Dutch said. He whipped out a completely filled-out retainer agreement from his briefcase. “If you and the members would kindly sign this agreement. I took the liberty and prepared it ahead of time.”
Fleeced in Stonington Page 6