“Not a fan of his?”
“I’ve grown to hate him although he’s a good father to the kids. I can’t stand him any more.” She took the nameplate out of the sergeant’s hands and placed it face down on the desk. “I hope they send him away for a long time.”
Back in the living room, the team mingled as they told the team leader that no other items had been found.
“We have some evidence implicating our target, so saddle up, boys and girls,” the sergeant called out to the team.
The policemen and women gathered together, laughing and doing congratulatory high-fives and peculiar handshakes.
“Come with us, Mr. Oldham,” the sergeant said while he hauled the man to his feet.
“Ouch, easy on the arms,” the man complained. His wife leaned on the doorjam, arms folded, and stared with disdain at her husband. “I suppose you won’t call my lawyer to get me out of jail?” he asked.
“I’m assuming you’re asking a hypothetical question. You’re right,” she answered. “You’re on your own, sweetie. The kids and I will be gone when you get back.”
Oldham nodded in resignation, hanging his head while the sergeant shoved him ahead to a waiting patrol car.
Team Three waited inside another van parked on Montclair Street. It was a street lined with expensive homes built in the nineteen thirties or earlier. The residence they watched was a rambling house of local stone with one wing topped with a turret shaped like an upside down ice-cream cone.
“Wish I could afford a place like that,” said the sergeant, the team leader, to no one in particular. “Even the landscaping is enviable.”
The other policemen and women in the van nodded more out of politeness than acquiescence. There was only one woman on this team; she was tall but with a chunky frame and a crew cut of dark brown hair with bleached blonde tips. She elbowed her neighbor. “Move over. I’d like to sit for a change,” she said curtly.
The team leader’s cell phone rang. “Right,” he answered after listening for a few seconds. “Time to hit the bricks,” he told the team and closed his phone.
He opened the rear doors and jumped down onto the pavement. The other police members followed quietly until they reached the front door. A brass plaque screwed onto the side wall next to the door gave the resident’s name: Sam Donell. One man turned the doorknob and the door flew open. The team tumbled into the foyer and, like other teams, yelled, and banged their feet, with weapons raised, to scare the occupants.
They were successful in scaring the daylights out of the two teenaged boys and a man, spread out on a couch watching television.
“Your name?” screamed the sergeant.
The man raised his hands. “Sam Donell. What are you doing in my house?” The female cop handcuffed him.
“Search warrant.” The sergeant waved a piece of paper in front of the man. He knew where he wanted to look first—the man’s study or office. “Where’s your office?” he asked him. The man pointed straight ahead.
The team spread out throughout the house while the team leader searched the office. Sitting in plain view was a corporate book emblazoned with the name in gold: Valhalla Real Property Corp. He opened the large black book with his pen. It included some corporate minutes, bylaws and amendments. At the back of the book—there they were—corporate stock certificates.
The sergeant swooped the book up under his arm and approached the forensics man who inserted the book into a large evidence bag, which he signed and dated.
Dutch answered the phone.
“Three down. One more to go,” the lieutenant said.
“I’ll wait for the details. Thanks again,” Dutch answered. He clicked off the phone.
“Tell me what’s going on,” Kate demanded.
“When it’s all over, I’ll let you know.”
“That’s so childish.”
He grinned and sat.
Mildred got up and stashed her knitting in a bag. “Goodnight, darlings.” She yawned.
In nearby Glen Woods, a fair-skinned man, with brown hair in a crew cut, stood in the middle of his living room with his hands handcuffed behind his back.
The team leader wrung his hands in delight. “I can’t believe we found the guns immediately,” he said.
“It shows I wasn’t hiding anything,” snapped John Winchell, the gentleman in the cuffs.
“Not necessarily,” the cop said, holding him by the arm.
The revolver had been secured in an evidence bag. The rifle had been wrapped and secured.
“Why do you want my old gun and rifle?”
“They’re going to be tested,” the forensics cop answered.
“For what?”
“We’ll compare the barrels with marks on a couple of shell casings we found at a couple of murder scenes.”
“I have no clue what you’re talking about.” He stumbled in his sloppy shoes as he was pushed through the front door of his two-storey townhouse toward a waiting police car.
Dutch snatched the ringing phone off the coffee table. It was the lieutenant. “Hi,” Dutch said. He was quiet while he listened to what the policeman had to say.
“What is he saying?” Kate whispered.
Dutch held up a finger. “Hush.” He tried not to, but a grin had crept across his face.
“Come on.” Kate nudged him. She was impatient now.
Dutch grunted a thank you and closed his phone.
“You’d better tell me how all the searches went down,” Kate snapped. She poked him. “Stop tormenting me.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, raising his hands in submission. “Don’t get your British knickers in a wad.”
“Nice way to talk to a lady. Come on, do we have the crooks or not?”
“You know about Thomas Berkeley. Well, Patrick Oldham had the deed on his desk. In plain view.”
“Great.”
He winked at Kate. “Do you believe he’s a disbarred lawyer?”
“Yes, I do. Someone early in the case had suggested that one person involved could be an attorney. Who was the third man?” Kate asked.
“Sam Donell. Had the corporate book in his office. Stock certificates in the back of the book.”
“And the fourth person?” Kate was excited at this news.
“They found a revolver and rifle at John Winchell’s house. They’ll be tested against the bullets.”
“Wow—incredible. What luck,” Kate said, “but they wouldn’t have much evidence if it wasn’t for our detective work.”
He nodded. “Kate. I have no way to thank you for your support in this case. You’ve been invaluable.”
“I didn’t do too much for you on this job,” she said.
“Maybe not physically, but your insight and knowledge in these matters were of a great help. I’d still be struggling trying to find the names of the Valhalla principals if it wasn’t for your assistance.”
“So we’ll just wait for the results from the police.”
“The wait will seem forever.” He pulled open the top of the bag of potato chips that was on the coffee table.
“There’s so much salt and oil in those. You’re going to die young at this rate,” Kate said.
“I promise to clean up my ways if you answer one more question,” he said.
“Okay and what will that be?”
“You know I love you very much.”
“Yes, you’ve told me many times before.”
“In the old days I’d be asking you to go steady with me. I don’t know what I should be asking you today.” He closed his eyes—against what he wasn’t sure. Rejection? He waited for her answer.
“So what is your question?”
“Will you go steady with me?” He laughed a nervous chuckle.
“If I say I’ll go steady with you, will I have to wear your class ring on a chain around my neck?” she teased.
“Only if you want to.”
“I thought I was already your steady date,” she said.
�
�Not officially.”
“I assume this will now make it official?”
“Yes. You know I’m not interested in anyone else,” he said. “I’m serious, Kate.”
“Sorry. I don’t mean to be flippant.” She reached across the table. “I think I know you better now. When you asked me a year ago, I still felt like it was cheating on my husband—though he’d been dead for five years.”
“He was my best buddy,” he said quietly. “I think he would approve of our relationship.”
“I think he would. But please, don’t rush me into marriage. I have my mother to consider. Right now, she’s my main concern.”
“I understand.” He picked up her hand and kissed each finger.
Chapter Thirty-One
Kate says: Add feet to an old chicken crate or wooden lobster trap to use as a unique coffee table. Add a safety-glass top and it’s instantly a useful conversation piece.
The four arrested men arrived about the same time at the Newark police station. One yelled that he hadn’t been given his Miranda Rights.
“You’re a liar,” a sergeant yelled back, “but I’ll give all four of you the rights before we go any further.”
He arranged the handcuffed men in a line before him as he recited:
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can, and will, be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense. Do you understand?”
The men nodded. “Say you understand. A nod is as good as a wink to a blind man,” the sergeant said.
“What are you talking about?” Donell asked.
“Do you understand your rights?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Winchell?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Mr. Oldham.”
“Yep. Understand.”
“Mr. Berkeley. Do you understand?”
“Yes. I understand.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Kate says: Would you love to have your breakfast nook resemble a Paris bistro? To begin with, you’ll need plants such as ivy and geraniums spilling over the sides of terracotta pots surrounding a painted bistro table and chairs. Use candles on the tables and counters and use beaded lampshades on little lamps. At many houseware outlets, you can find wall art that show French shops and wine bottles. Or, decide on a print of a rainy day in Paris. Voilà —your own café!
Mildred prepared their usual Sunday dinner of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with gravy. Dutch always showed up for the weekly feast, even though he was busy with a job to attend to.
“I’m thrilled,” Mildred said after she was told about their relationship. She bustled in from the kitchen, carrying two bowls full of green peas and roast potatoes. She kissed Dutch on the forehead as she leaned in to place the bowls on the table. “I’m very fond of you, dear.”
“Likewise,” Dutch replied.
“All right,” Kate added. “That’s enough of the mutual admiration society.”
Mildred chuckled.
“You want the well-done end of the roast beef?” Kate asked Dutch.
“Yes, please.” He looked up at Mildred who’d taken off her apron, her pinny as she called it. “Mildred, I can’t thank you enough for all of the Sunday dinners you’ve served me lately.”
“Don’t want you to starve up at that cabin of yours,” she said with a laugh.
“Kate makes sure I’m well fed,” he said. “She’s always stocking up my freezer and refrigerator. I’ve gained weight over the past year.”
“You needed some fat on those bones,” Mildred said.
Kate passed the bowl of peas to him. “Your favorite veggie so we’ve made a lot.”
“Thanks.”
“So, you have a successful ending to your last assignment?” Mildred asked.
“Yes, thanks to Kate. She was an invaluable assistant,” he answered. “And you weren’t bothered much at all. Unfortunately, Rachel, Kate’s friend, was terrified by a visit paid to her by Patrick Oldham. She said he looked like a scary Viking.”
“She’s still not happy with me,” Kate added. “Although she says she’s over it, I still feel she’s upset with me. I have to take her out to lunch, send flowers to her or something.”
“I agree, dear,” Mildred said. “Friends are a precious commodity, and you must make it up to her soon.”
“Plus, I have to convince her she won’t be threatened again because the case is over,” Kate added.
I’m glad it’s over.” Mildred poured some gravy on the potatoes on her plate. “Do you have any updates?” She looked at Dutch.
“Yeah, I do,” he answered.
“Have the trials been scheduled?”
“No. Not yet. The bank scam will be heard in a federal court, but everyone is out on bail.”
“Really? What are the charges?” Mildred asked.
“The gang as we shall call them,” Dutch said, “has been accused of conspiracy to defraud the various banks, bank fraud and for using overvalued collateral for loans.”
“What about the murders?”
“They’ve taken DNA from all four men to test against the DNA found under the broker’s fingernails. Plus the guns are being tested by the forensics team to see if the bullets were from the weapons owned by John Winchell.”
“So, once they have those test results, and they’re positive, they’ll arrest him again?”
“Yep. Sounds simple, doesn’t it, but it’s complicated and must be foolproof evidence,” Dutch said.
“Bet they all have big-gun lawyers,” Kate added.
“Yes, I saw some of them visiting their clients before they were released on bail.”
“White collar crimes—they’ll probably get let off,” Kate said with disdain.
“Patrick Oldham filed bankruptcy prior to being indicted to avoid making restitution if ordered by the Court,” Dutch said. “The others have probably done the same.”
“That stinks,” Mildred said.
“The bankruptcy judge could put that aside, so it only delays things,” Dutch added.
“That really does stink, Mum,” said Kate. “The remaining bank manager will get punished more than the gang.”
“She will?”
Dutch picked up the day’s newspaper. “There’s an article in today’s paper about her.” After scanning the paper, he found the piece on the third page. “It’s off the front page already.”
“They have to cater to the fickle public, you know,” Kate said.
He quickly read the short news piece. “Let me see.” He paused. “Patricia Blake is the only manager alive and she’s been indicted for misapplying bank funds, receiving benefits from bank transactions—taking kickbacks.”
“You’re right. She probably will get more time than the others who have high-powered attorneys. They all should be punished equally, though,” Kate noted.
“At least the banks have all paid me for my services,” Dutch said.
“Oh, they have, have they?”
“In full,” Dutch teased.
“Then you owe me for my time,” Kate said with a laugh. She leaned back in her chair. “I’ll send you my bill. I have a PI license now.”
“No,” Dutch exclaimed. “You sneaky woman. So that’s what you were doing in Trenton that day you refused to tell me why you were going there. That’s great.”
“Yep. I decided that I’d like more freedom on the cases—free to go into certain places where only a PI’s allowed to enter. I took a course online. I studied an hour a day.” Kate’s face was flushed with excitement.
Dutch squeezed her hand. “I’m proud of you.”
“Congratulations, dear. That’s terrific,” Mildred said. She piled up their dinner plates. “Ready for a spot of tea?”
“No. We’ll pop the cork in a bottle of champagne. It’s time to celebrate Kate’s success,” D
utch said.
“I’ll help, Mum,” Kate said.
“No—you stay here. Sit and relax,” Dutch answered.
He got up and kissed Kate on the nape of her neck. “Love you.”
His cell phone rang. He tugged it off his belt and flipped it open. “What the hell…?”
“What?” Kate mouthed.
He held up his hand.
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” he said. He snapped his phone closed.
“What’s going on?”
Dutch stood stock-still. He didn’t move for several seconds.
“Dutch.”
“Sorry, my mind was miles away. The guns they found in the searches haven’t been used for years. Forensics has done the tests and the bullets don’t match those guns.”
“So then who is the damned shooter?” Kate demanded from him. “It’s an understatement to say I’m frustrated. Seems like after all of our work, the results are zero—we didn’t find the perpetrator.” She slumped onto a kitchen chair and let out a huge sigh.
He patted her shoulder. “Cheer up. All’s not lost.”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Dutch. I’m serious. So disappointed.” I feel like crying, but hell, I won’t behave like a silly girl. She pulled away from his touch.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Kate says: Want to change your plain door into a classy French door? Measure your plain door and have a mirror cut smaller than the door. Mount wood strips or grilles to the mirror with double-stick tape. Have a friend hold the mirror while you attach it to the door with mirror clips. Voilà—a French door!
Kate and Dutch were wrestling a heavy oak dresser into a corner when a couple strolled into the store. He looked familiar. He approached her as she walked toward the cash register. “The penny dropped,” she said. “Hi, Sergeant Bowers.”
The sergeant looked at her. “Sorry? The penny dropped?”
“Only means I recognized you after awhile,” Kate answered. “I don’t see too many of our boys in blue wearing civilian clothes. Not many shop in here either. Can I help you find what you’re looking for?”
“My wife…” he began. He turned and beckoned to a woman who was inspecting a basket full of lacy potpourri sachets. “Christie, come over here. I want to introduce you to Kate, the owner.”
Fleeced in Stonington Page 16