“You’re getting harassed because you’re investigating the case in town. That’s what I meant.”
“Maybe we wouldn’t have to do so much investigating if the cops in town did a better job,” she answered, although she couldn’t really find fault with the job the police were doing.
The policeman left with the door slamming behind him. He shook his head as he squeezed into his car.
Fatso. Needs to get into shape. Good gracious, I’m thinking like a kid.
Dutch’s truck pulled into the space left by the patrol car. Kate watched him stretch his long, muscular legs as he walked around his truck and stepped onto the pavement. The doorbell jingled as he hurried through the door.
“What else can happen to you?” he asked. “You poor girl.” He wound his arms around her and stroked her hair. “It’ll soon be over.”
“What do you mean?” She unraveled herself out of his arms. “What’s all over?”
“This whole mess. The lieutenant just called and told me they’re about to execute the warrants on the parties’ homes,” Dutch said. “They’re executing all of the warrants between seven and eight this evening.”
“Great.” She clapped her hands.
Kate grabbed Dutch around the waist and hugged him. “I’m so happy,” she said. “I’d better call Mum and tell her.”
“I already called her. She was so nervous I thought I owed her—she was pleased.”
“Thanks, Dutch. Abigail, did you hear the news?”
“I did. It’s great,” Abigail answered while putting on her sweater. “Time for me to go home. My husband may tell me to quit when he hears about today’s shooting.”
“I certainly hope he doesn’t. You’re the best assistant I’ve ever had.”
Abigail grabbed her handbag and in a few steps was out the door. “Goodnight,” she called out to the couple.
“Goodnight. Thanks so much for sticking around today,” Kate called back. “All I need is for her to leave.”
“Wanna go out to dinner?” Dutch asked to change the subject.
“Yes, but I’m too stressed to go home and change into something fancy. Why don’t we go down to the diner?”
“Good enough for me. I don’t feel like dressing up either. We’ll have a really fancy dinner with cocktails, all dressed up, when everyone’s in jail,” Dutch said.
With that, they locked the store’s door, Kate drove her SUV and Dutch followed in his pickup truck to the town’s diner. The eatery was hopping—as if half of Stonington ate dinner at the place that served good home-style cooking at a reasonable price. They found a cozy booth with high-backed seats—it was warm and snug. It had turned chilly that evening.
Dutch’s cell phone rang. It was the lieutenant. “Hi,” Dutch said. He repeated what the police chief said. “They have four teams about to raid the defendants’ homes. They have the search warrants for any evidence, including guns, to do with the bank loans or real estate deals.”
“That’s fantastic,” Kate said when Dutch had stopped feeding her information. Dutch nodded. He thanked the lieutenant and hung up.
“The man is almost jumping up and down, he’s pleased with the progress on the case,” he said.
“They wouldn’t have gotten this far if we hadn’t done such a great job,” Kate noted quietly.
“I guess that’s true, but they did a lot of work on the case. We have to figure out who we’re going to bill for all of this footwork.” Dutch picked up the menu.
“We’ll do it first thing tomorrow morning, then,” Kate said. “You need some income to pay for those renovations to your new office.”
Dutch ignored her remark about income. “The salad platters look good on the menu, but I’m going to celebrate and order some artery-clogging food. I think I’ll have french fries with gravy and meatloaf.”
“I’ll make sure you eat salads for a few days after this,” Kate said. “I want to keep you around a bit longer.”
“Really? You’ve never said you cared before.” Dutch stared at her. She is the light of my life, and I thank the Lord for every day I have with her. He held her hand across the table.
“I’ll have the chef’s salad, please, Harriet,” Kate said to the waitress. “Plenty of onions.”
“You won’t be kissin’ her tonight, Dutch,” Harriet said, nudging his shoulder.
“Looks like it,” he said.
“Sorry, kiddo. I fancy loads of onions tonight. Must be an estrogen thingy,” Kate said.
“I’ll have fries with gravy on the side and meatloaf with green beans,” Dutch said.
Harriet scribbled on her order pad. “Been busy lately, you two,” she said. “You guys are in the newspapers just about every day. What’s new today?”
“There’s lots of good news for a change. Read it in the papers tomorrow. In the meantime please bring me a large coffee.”
“High test?” Harriet dipped her hand into her apron pocket and dumped several little plastic creamers on the table.
“Yes, I need the caffeine,” Dutch said.
“Thanks, Harriet,” Kate said.
Harriet hurried off to place their order under a clip on the order carousel for the cook to take down. She returned with a glass coffee carafe and poured coffee into their two cups.
Chapter Thirty
Kate says: Use only the best-you-can-buy paint brushes recommended for the type of paint you’re applying. Also, read the instructions on the can. It should tell you how much paint you’ll need to cover in square feet. Colors yellow, blue and red may need more coats.
Later, Lieutenant Johnson called Kate and Dutch again and told them he’d be in his office that evening until the raids were over. He promised to call them immediately when news was received of the successes or otherwise of the searches.
“I owe it to you two. It’s the least I can do,” the lieutenant said. “I would be on pins and needles if I went home, and I bet you’ll be nervous.”
“Kate’s a wreck. Nervous as a whore in church, as the saying goes.” Dutch looked at Kate who frowned. “Sorry for the language, dear.”
The lieutenant laughed.
“We’ll be at Kate’s house after dinner,” Dutch said. He gave him the phone number. “I really appreciate getting a blow by blow report.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Maybe we’ll be able to wrap up this case soon.”
“I hope so too. Talk to you later.”
It was called Operation Valhalla, made up of police officers from several areas of Essex County. The operation was to plan a raid on each of the four places to search for any evidence. The police were dressed in their SWAT uniforms. They wore visored black helmets and body-armor vests covered with T-shirts emblazoned with “Police” in reflective paint on the back. The whole group was in black, including the vans with no markings to indicate they were from a police department.
That evening, all team members met at police headquarters in Newark and from there went to their destinations. The first, Team One, arrived at the street address of Thomas Berkeley in the darkened suburban town of Beechton. The driver pulled the van close to the curb and parked it as they waited for instructions from headquarters.
It was very dark on the street since only a few lamps pooled light down on the scene. The policemen huddled in a sweaty bunch in the back of the airless van—waiting for the signal. A cell phone rang in the vest pocket of the sergeant. Nerves jangled along with the ringer.
“Hello,” the sergeant said into the phone. He looked at his watch. “Right. It’s a go.”
He nodded to the men crouched in the van. “We’re ready.”
He opened the double doors on the back of the van slowly, checking the street to determine if it was empty of people. Satisfied, he jumped onto the blacktop and beckoned for the others to follow him.
A hefty cop carried a large, heavy, metal battering ram. They ran in a bunch up to the front door of the two-storey house. No one rang the doorbell. Instead the co
p heaved the battering ram with all his might against the door lock. One pounding of the battering ram, another pounding of the battering ram with thousands of pounds of force, and the door splintered and flew open.
The men rushed into the house, screaming warnings, “Go, go, go!” yelling expletives, roaring any words to cause total confusion on the part of the occupants in the house. A woman in her forties jumped up off the sofa where she’d sat watching TV.
“What’s going on?” she squealed. “Tom. What the hell have you done now?” She shoved the cop next to her and flailed her arms like a windmill as she attempted to strike anyone within her reach.
“Cuff her,” the sergeant ordered one of the policemen.
“But I haven’t done anything,” she yelled as she resisted the handcuffs by twisting her arms.
“Stop moving,” the cop growled. “You’re just making it more difficult for yourself.” He clicked the locks as he managed to close the cuffs on her wrists. “I’ll take the cuffs off when you prove you can behave yourself.”
“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer,” she said, leaning into his face.
“Good. He’ll be telling me about your husband’s case.”
The other team members were searching the house room by room. Their objective was to find the perpetrator and any evidence pertaining to the case. Each man moved carefully through the house with their revolvers held pointing upwards as they flattened themselves against a wall next to a door. Then they’d slide into the doorway with revolvers held in front of them as they looked in closets, under beds and any other hiding place.
“Found him,” one cop called out. “In here. The study.”
The sergeant walked quickly to the back of the house. In the book-lined room sat a man in a high-backed chair with a cocky smirk on his face. He stood as the sergeant entered the room.
“Thomas Berkeley?”
“Yeah. What’s going down, Sergeant?” he asked sarcastically.
“It’s like this, Mr. Berkeley. We have a warrant and we’re going to search your house,” the sergeant answered.
“For what?” Thomas snapped back. He got up and walked around the desk. He stretched out his arm to pick up the phone, but the sergeant grabbed him, twisted the man’s arms behind his back and snapped on some handcuffs. “I haven’t broken any laws. Why are you treating me like a criminal?”
“No comment.”
The team of cops spread out throughout the large house. They split up. A few went upstairs while others concentrated on the downstairs. The sergeant pushed his captive into a chair while he searched the study.
He went through the desk drawers beginning with the bottom ones and then moving up—like a professional burglar. No files of interest in the side drawers, and then he opened up the long, narrow center drawer. There sat the framed water-colored painting of the community. Emblazoned with the architectural-styled printing in the upper left corner was the name of Valhalla at the Lake.
“Found it,” he yelled out. An older policeman came forward and placed the painting into a paper evidence bag, which he closed by rolling down the top, signed, noted and stapled shut. “That’s a number one find,” the sergeant said as another cop did the high-five with him.
He opened the drawers of the file cabinet. He searched the names on the file folders, looking for correspondence or documents pertaining to the Valhalla community or bank loans. Nothing in the bottom two, but he moved his fingers slower in the top drawer containing files beginning with the letter “B”. He drew his fingers along the tabs. “Baby furniture; Back surgery; Bank loans. Yes,” he hissed as he grabbed the thick manila folder out of the drawer and slapped it down onto the desk.
“Hey, that’s personal,” yelled Berkeley from the chair where he leaned forward to accommodate the handcuffs.
“No shit, Sherlock. It’s evidence.” The sergeant shuffled through the papers inside the file. He pulled out a sheaf of documents all of which referred to a recent loan made from the Stonington North Eastern Bank of New Jersey. “I can’t believe the luck I’m having tonight,” he said loudly to the older policeman who once more was placing evidence, the bank papers, into an evidence bag.
The remaining members of the team poured into the study, filling up half of the room.
“Find anything?” the sergeant questioned them.
“Nope. No guns. No papers,” one of the cops answered. “We’ve let the wife go.”
“Good.”
“She’s a feisty one. Still giving us trouble.”
“Good job, men. Let’s get out of here. Bring the evidence with you,” the sergeant ordered the older cop who picked up the paper bags carefully. “I’ll call headquarters when we’re back in the van.”
He pulled Thomas Berkeley to his feet. “You’re under arrest. You won’t have to ride in a smelly old van. A nice policeman is outside with his pretty patrol car waiting to give you a ride.”
“I want my attorney.”
“You’ll get a chance to call him when we get to the station,” the sergeant said gruffly.
“It’s a woman.”
“Wonderful. Get going.” He shoved the man to move him out of the house.
“Why are you arresting my husband?” Mrs. Berkeley screeched. “Let him go.”
“Call my lawyer,” her husband yelled at her over his shoulder. “She has to arrange bail for me.”
Mrs. Berkeley merely nodded with tears pouring down her cheeks. “I will, darling.”
Mildred’s knitting needles clicked as she turned out yet another pair of gloves to give to the homeless at Christmas. The log fire reflected in her eyeglasses, glinting off the cups and saucers on the coffee table. They listened to music as they tried to relax. Suddenly, the phone rang, causing Kate to jump. “Oh, no, I’m not nervous.” She laughed.
Dutch reached for the phone. “Hello, this is Dutch.
“Hi, Lieutenant Johnson here. One of the teams has reported in.”
“And…”
“At the residence of Thomas Berkeley they found a colored sketch of the Valhalla community and papers regarding the loan from Northeastern Bank. The sketch was stamped ORIGINAL in the top margin.”
“Terrific. The original sketch proves that he was in Andy’s office. Can’t wait to hear about the other units.”
Meanwhile, Team Two also waited in a stuffy black, non-descript van but on a darkened street in the town of Nazerona this time. The van was parked opposite the Patrick Oldham’s residence, which was a skinny, two-storey brick building with a garage taking up the ground floor.
The sergeant in charge of this team looked at the house through his binoculars. “We have to charge up about fifteen concrete steps to reach the front door,” he told his team. “The garage takes up the whole first floor.”
He got headquarters on his cell phone. He nodded as he listened to the instructions being given on the other end. “Right,” he said. He clicked off the cell phone.
“It’s a go on this end. Team One finished quickly. They said their search was successful.”
The team murmured complimentary remarks while each person tightened their bulletproof vests and jiggled their helmets to judge the security of the straps. The sergeant opened the van doors and dropped quietly onto the street surface. The others followed suit. Two female officers toted the heavy battering ram between them.
At a signal from the team’s leader, they rushed up the steps and smashed into the door with the steel battering ram. The door needed several rams by the equipment.
“Why don’t you let a man do that?” a policeman teased the women.
“It’ll only take one more smash,” one of the women snapped, and to prove her correct, the ram crashed through the door, splintering the lock and door post.
The women kicked the door open and the whole team scrambled into the hallway, screaming and yelling to scare the occupants. A blond-haired man jumped up from an easy chair, wild-eyed and crazed. “What’s going on?” he shrieked. “Who are you?
”
The sergeant turned his back to the man. “Read this—it says police. Any more questions?”
“Yes. Why?”
“What’s your name?” the sergeant yelled.
“Patrick Oldham.”
“Put your hands up. Your nickname’s Gus?”
He nodded his head. The tall, heavyset man walked away from the policeman. The sergeant grabbed him by the arm. “I said, put your hands up,” he snarled.
Oldham reluctantly raised his arms. One of the cops twisted his left arm behind his back to be joined with his right arm where they were snapped shut in a pair of handcuffs.
“Why am I being arrested? I was only visiting, Rachel, a friend of the PI in Stonington. No charges were brought against me,” Oldham demanded.
“I have no idea what you’re blathering about. We have a search warrant—we’re going to search your home,” the sergeant informed him.
“For what?”
The document was held in front of him to read. “Go ahead. I can’t fight a warrant.” Handcuffed, he sank back into his easy chair, shaking his head.
The sergeant ordered the team to spread out and search the whole house while he headed toward the study, which he could see through its open door. He looked at the contents on the desktop. Framed photos of an attractive woman and two blond children gazed back at him. An empty outbox occupied one side of the surface and a full inbox on the opposite side. On top of the papers was a folded parchment document with DEED printed in curlicue writing on the cover. The Grantee was typed in as Valhalla Real Property Corp.
“Evidence envelope,” he called out to one of the cops in the hallway.
The policeman, wearing gloves, carefully inserted the deed into an evidence envelope and then closed the top, dated and signed the front. “Excellent,” he said. “Great evidence—can’t get any better.”
“You’re right,” the sergeant said. He picked up the nameplate displayed on the desk. “Patrick Oldham, Attorney at Law,” he read out loud. “Good Lord. He’s a lawyer?”
A woman, the same one as in the photograph, entered the room. “He was disbarred—permanently,” she said with contempt.
Fleeced in Stonington Page 15