He turned to Kate. “I’ll make you a cup of your favorite tea. Then I’ll tell you my tale.”
“Stop delaying, will you?”
He put the kettle on the stove to heat. It quickly boiled with a whistle. Dutch poured it over the English Breakfast tea bag. He added sweetener and milk and took it over to her. He placed it on the coffee table near her and pushed her further over on the couch so he could sit next to her.
“So, I went to the Stonington Savings and Loan and met the loan officer, Sidney Magee.”
“What was he like?” She sat up and sipped the tea.
“Skinny, pimply, lanky kind of a guy.”
“That’s a lot of adjectives,” she said, laughing. “Did he know anything about the land scam?”
“He denied knowing anything about a loan at first, but when I told him about the murders, he soon changed his mind. He’d given the group a line of credit without checking on the details of the land. Another sloppy business deal.”
“So, finally, he did own up to the loan?” She adjusted the bag of peas on her knee.
“Yep. I told him that we need to meet with the board of directors to get them in the loop.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t come to the same ending that Paul did.”
“Right. I’m waiting to hear from him with the date and time of the directors’ meeting.” Dutch bent over and took her in his arms.
“My knee’s feeling a lot better,” Kate said. She circled her arms around his neck and pulled him toward her. Her cleavage peeped over the top of her shirt, taunting him, asking to be touched. He kissed the soft curves of her breasts. She shivered. With tiny, nibbling kisses he worked his way up to her neck—his breaths came in short bursts.
“I love you, Katie,” he said hoarsely.
She ran her hands over his back. “I love you too.”
His hands moved down her hips. “Baby-making hips,” he said.
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that.” She was quiet. “My clock has struck midnight. Like Cinderella.”
“It’s never too late, my love. There’ve been medical advances recently. You’re barely forty-one.”
“Then we should be more careful.”
“I wear protection. That should be enough.” His hand continued downwards and caressed her thighs. She covered his hand with hers, pressing it against her body. She moaned as he squeezed tighter.
Rring, rring. The phone in the kitchen rang out loud and clear. “Ignore it,” Kate whispered.
“Can’t. That’s my business line.” He jumped to his feet and took long steps into the kitchen. “Hello,” he said. “This is Dutch.”
She could hear someone talking to Dutch but not what he or she was saying. “Damn,” he declared. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Then more buzzing of the voice on the other end of the phone. “I’ll be right over,” Dutch said. He clicked off the phone and turned to Kate.
“Sidney Magee’s been shot,” Dutch said.
“You have got to be kidding.” She swung her feet off the sofa and stood.
“No, I’m not kidding. I wish I were.” His voice was shaky.
“Oh, dear Lord. This is getting out of hand. That’s an understatement, but it’s all I can say. I’m deathly afraid of you being attacked.”
“I’m going to be okay. I’m too mean to get shot.”
“Stop joking. I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“Where was he killed? At the office like Paul?” she asked.
“No. He was killed in the parking lot. They found him lying next to his car—had the car keys in his hand. Never had a chance by the looks of it. Shot through the head like the others. Probably long-range shot,” Dutch answered.
“How awful. I’m really worried about you. You could get shot too.”
“I’ll be okay,” he said quietly. Hoping that what he said was going to be true, he crossed his fingers for extra luck.
“I love you,” she said. She plopped the bag of peas back into the freezer. “Call me when you get back. I’m going home to do some research. We have to find out who these people are.”
“How are you going to begin? I’m ignorant about searching on the Internet.”
“I’ll run the searches through the corporate name registrations.” She reached up and kissed him, and put on her brave face. “Please take care of yourself. I wouldn’t know what to do if something happened to you.”
“I promise I’ll be careful.”
The police lieutenant walked over to Dutch’s pickup truck. “Don’t get out,” he said. “I’m keeping this whole area free of spectators. We found shell casings here and there.” He pointed to casings circled in white chalk with a number plate standing next to them. “More are scattered on that high slope up there overlooking the parking lot, which indicates the killers were on that hill shooting at the victim.”
Dutch was disappointed. He looked across the parking lot at the ambulance with flashing lights parked in the driving lane next to Sidney’s car. Probably waiting for the body after the forensics team has finished inspecting the scene. “I’ll need to meet with you tomorrow,” he said to the policeman. “This is the third murder, and they all appear to be connected. We need to diagram this whole scheme out together.”
“Okay. I’ve got a lot on my mind now. Call me in the morning to set up a time.” With that curt response the policeman went back to interviewing the eyewitnesses who stood in a semicircle around him.
“Kate has some information too, so I’ll bring her along,” Dutch called out.
He backed his truck out of the parking spot and headed home. This is a living nightmare. I feel like a pariah—Typhoid Mary comes to mind. Everyone that gets close to me, gets killed. Right at that minute, he wished he hadn’t quit smoking. A cigarette would calm him down, he thought. Wonder how Kate is making out with those searches?
Chapter Eighteen
Kate says: Can’t stand that dark, old-fashioned wood paneling? Then, just sand it and remove all of the dust with a tack cloth or damp towel. Next, give it a good coat of paint primer (use a brush to get into the grooves) and let it dry overnight. The following day, paint the wall with a color of your choice.
The store was quiet. Not a customer in sight so Kate signed on to the Internet and Googled for the New Jersey Corporate name search site. Several pages showed up in the search. She clicked on a few until the fifth one opened up the correct page. Found it. She typed in “Valhalla Real Property Corp.” on the business entity name search blank and waited. A few seconds later, the search revealed in red type THERE WERE NO RECORDS FOUND WHICH MEET YOUR SEARCH CRITERIA. Darn it, there’s no such corporation filed in New Jersey. What to do next? I guess, now I’ll have to search in the surrounding states.
Google then gave her the site. She signed onto the Pennsylvania Department of State page, thinking it could be in Pennsylvania because the property they mentioned was near the Poconos. She typed the information in the space noted on the business name search page. Seconds later, the dreaded response popped up on the page NO RECORDS WERE FOUND FOR THE SEARCH CRITERIA “VALHALLA REAL PROPERTY CORP.” For cryin’ out loud, it’s going to be a pain in the butt to find information on this group. I may never find them. This is depressing. She pushed herself back from the desk. I need a break.
In the little back room she used as a lunch room, she put the kettle on to boil. She plopped a tea bag into her mug decorated with a blue-colored whale. She took the time to run the search results through her brain and came up with another approach. Good. I’ll try that next. The water soon boiled. She poured it into her mug, added some sweetener, and milk and went back to her computer.
She knew from her job in the detective agency years ago, that many attorneys used the State of Delaware to register a corporation because of the lack of red tape. She went onto Delaware’s corporate web site, but she received the same message—it hadn’t been registered in that state either. The site advised her that t
he name was still available if she wanted to register it and use it on a corporation.
Not one of the searches uncovered a corporation with that name. Kate called Dutch and told him the news.
“They told the loan officer that it was a New Jersey corporation. The stock certificates have it on the front,” Dutch said.
“Dutch—what you just said—you’re brilliant.” She giggled. “Why didn’t you mention it before?”
“What did I say?”
“You mentioned printed stock certificates. I have an idea on how to get the name of the person who ordered the corporate book with the stock certificates in it,” Kate said.
“You can do that?”
“I sure can, just stick with me, kid,” she joked. “There are only a few legal supply companies. I can call them all and ask who placed the order for the corporate book.”
“I think we may need the police behind us to get the name of the person who ordered the book.” Dutch didn’t want to overstep his authority.
“No, we don’t need the cops involved at this point. I can call around and if they say yes, they took the order, then we can get a subpoena or warrant or whatever is required,” Kate countered.
“Good. I’m going out for about half an hour. I’ll call you when I get back.”
“Okay. I’ll get busy in the meanwhile.”
She spun around in her desk chair, took a sip of her tea and turned back to her computer. She went onto the search engine site and requested web sites for legal supply companies in New Jersey. According to one site, a corporate kit included a corporate book for amendments, minutes, a corporate seal and such, plus stock certificates, if the corporation had stocks.
She called the company at the top of the list. A woman answered on the second ring. Kate inquired if Valhalla had ordered a corporate kit. “No,” the woman said. “No one has ordered a corporate kit with that name.”
Kate moved down the list. “No,” she was told. “We have nothing in our records under that name.”
She continued, but was losing confidence when told that each supply company had no knowledge of the corporation. That is, until she reached the sixth company on the list. “Yes,” she was told by a young woman, “Valhalla has ordered from us.”
“Who ordered the corporate kit?” asked Kate. She tried not to act excited on the phone, but inside she was jumping up and down.
“It was a New Jersey attorney—a man. He ordered the for-profit corporate book with stock certificates,” came the answer.
“Did he pay with a credit card?” Kate was hopeful.
“It’s our practice not to insist on immediate payment,” the woman volunteered. “So we billed him. Our accounts show that he hasn’t paid for the kit yet.”
“Where did you send it? Surely you have an address that can be traced.” Kate was annoyed at this news.
“It was sent to a post office box in Newark, New Jersey.”
Of course. Nothing’s simple. “May I ask for the attorney’s name?” she asked. “Unless you’re not allowed to give me that information.”
“It’s public information on the New Jersey corporate web site,” the woman answered, “so I can’t see why I can’t tell you that.” She giggled. “You could go online and look for yourself.”
Kate didn’t tell her Valhalla hadn’t been registered and that, to her, the information was as valuable as gold. “To save me time, would you give me his name and address?”
“The attorney’s name is Alan Bocce. That’s B as in ‘boy’ O-C-C-E. It’s spelled just like bocce ball—my Italian granddad used to play that game.” She then gave Kate the attorney’s address—the post office box, that is. No phone number was available.
As soon as she’d hung up the phone, Kate pulled the thick Newark telephone directory from off the shelf over her desk. “Bocce, Bocce, Bocce,” she said, running her finger down the list of names. No Bocce. Damn! These people really know how to cover their tracks. I know what I can do.
Next, she called the New Jersey Bar Association. “No, we have no attorney named Alan Bocce in the state. That name isn’t on the list of active attorneys or on the inactive list.” Another dead end. No such attorney and a post office box for an address. Can anything else go wrong?
“Hello, Dutch,” Kate said sharply. “I can’t find any leads to this damned group.”
“No luck online?” Dutch sounded disappointed.
“Not a smidgeon. I’m really ticked off. Wish I could say something stronger but I don’t want to shock you.”
“Sorry you’ve had a bad morning,” Dutch said—sarcastically. “Smile.”
“I can’t smile. We’ll have to go back to the drawing board on this case. See you later.” She hung up and went back to attending store customers, thoroughly ticked off.
Chapter Nineteen
Kate says: Buy a small tester can of paint and paint a portion of the wall next to your furnishings. The colors of the upholstery sometimes cast a different hue onto the painted surface.
Dutch was determined to find the gang involved in the bank scams. Surprisingly, the Board of the next bank also invited him to visit their establishment since it was on the broker’s list. One of the directors mentioned that all of the local banks had been notified of the scam. I wish that old boy Andy was still alive. He’d save me hundreds of miles on my car and shoe leather. But it wasn’t so. Andy, Paul and now Sidney, all murdered. Where was this going to end? He was one worried private investigator.
It was late afternoon before he shaved. He then took great care with his shaving—didn’t want to have a bunch of little cuts on his chin when facing the bank executives. He dressed in his best suit, and drove his shiny Jaguar car over to the next bank, Stonington Star Savings Bank, located across town. He parked in the visitor’s parking spot and entered the bank. He asked to talk to the loan officer, or whoever was responsible for approving loans. He was shown to a waiting area furnished with cold, slippery leather chairs and a sofa with chrome legs. After about a five-minute wait, an attractive woman approached him with her hand extended. “Hi, I’m Patricia Blake, a loan officer.”
Dutch shook her hand and introduced himself. He wished the executive wasn’t a woman because he felt that females had to be treated with more decorum. Although it may have been regarded as weakness on his part, he didn’t like to run roughshod over a woman despite her having a responsible position. I suppose I’m a little old-fashioned—no, respectful is a better description.
“And what can I do for you today? Need a loan? With this economic downturn mess, we’re not approving many loans until the government bailout is finished.” She didn’t wait for an answer. She preceded him into a glass-surrounded office and offered him a seat opposite her.
Dutch closed the door behind him as he looked around the office. Rather conservative for a young woman executive.
“No. Not a loan.”
“So, what is it you need?” She unbuttoned her grey jacket as she sat in a high-backed chair.
“Just some information,” he started out saying.
“What kind of information?” The woman leaned back in her chair. It appeared that she was attempting to act nonchalant, but Dutch had a feeling that she was a nervous wreck inside. She was picking at her fingernails—a dead giveaway.
“To begin, your board has hired me to look into this matter.”
She nervously continued to peel the red polish off her fingernails. “Go on.”
“I need to know if you’ve done business with the Valhalla Real Property Corporation recently—have you?” He stared into her eyes. She turned aside from his gaze.
“Why are you interested in a confidential business dealing?” she asked after a long pause.
To counter the woman’s arrogant manner, Dutch poured out the whole story beginning at the broker’s death. He told her the bloody details of the murders of Paul and Sidney, the other loan officers. Three people killed so far—was she about to be the fourth? He didn’t care if he was
crossing some line of sensibility. It seemed that she wasn’t going to admit anything without being shocked into it.
She leaned forward. She was silent for a while and then turned to Dutch. “I wish I could say that I haven’t, but, yes, I’ve done business with this company.” Patricia looked worried.
“You now know it’s a bogus company.”
The loan officer nodded.
“What kind of transaction did you enter into with this group, if I may ask?” Dutch had his note pad out and was ready to receive all information, any information, about the deal.
“It was a million dollar loan. I took stock certificates in their company as collateral. They’re building a high-end townhouse community in the hills of New Jersey—Sussex County. They paid me ten thousand dollars to hurry it through. I was greedy, and now I’ll be punished,” she said matter-of-factly.
“That’s a big loan,” Dutch said, waiting for more information.
“They negotiated for a loan wherein the payments wouldn’t begin until next year, which I accepted because then we’ll be able to gauge how much building had been accomplished.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“Not really. I used the loan origination fees to be counted as income,” she explained.
“How does it work? I need to know so I can unravel this mess you’re now in.”
She looked downcast and tapped her long artificial fingernails on the desk. “The trick is to lend one-point-two million dollars for a million dollar loan and get the two hundred thousand dollars to cover the first year’s payment in a reserve account so it doesn’t look like it’s in arrears.”
“So it makes you look good. Like the loan is a good investment,” Dutch noted.
“Yes, if it is a good investment. Looks like I’ve made a huge mistake.”
“Is this money depositors’ money?”
“It was brokered funds.” She jiggled her folded leg nervously.
“Explain what that means. I’m not educated enough in the world of finance,” he told her.
“Brokered funds come in from deposit brokers. They look for investments for their institutional clients who are looking for profitable places to park their money. We had the highest interest rate at the time.”
Fleeced in Stonington Page 9