I'll Protect You (Clueless Resolutions Book 1)
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Authors: W B Garalt
Contents
Copyright 2015
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher. The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Author: W B Garalt
Cover design: Joseph Comeau
Preface
In the spring of 2006 following an uneventful, typical winter season, a small town in Northeastern America was suddenly rocked by the eruption of a vicious crime spree. The local populace, bored with the news and talk-show media coverage of un-exiting economic problems and political issues, became fixated on the barrage of constant TV and newspaper accounts depicting horrendous acts. The sometimes-hyped descriptions intensified the concern among the townspeople. The situation was quickly getting out of hand as the fireworks began.
It was a seasonably chilly April afternoon in south central Connecticut as Clarence Maximilian “Max” Hargrove was driving to a 5:00 PM appointment with Margaret Louise “Maggie” Marshall. The appointment was at a vacant residence located in a trendy, upscale neighborhood of East Wayford. The purpose of the appointment was to have Max inspect the property for his employer, a successful, well known auction house.
In his position as a real estate consultant he rated properties which were being considered for public auction.
Maggie, in her capacity as a Financial Expediter with a local real estate brokerage, would have a property description in her attaché case along with the entrance keys.
The pair of professionals, employed by the separate companies, had teamed up successfully for this type of assignment for several years now, and they were respected within the local business community as a capable and compatible duo.
Arriving at 230 Whitmore Lane a few minutes early, Max stowed a flashlight, a measuring scanner and a voice recording camera into his canvass shoulder pack. Maggie pulled up exactly at the appointed time. The two associates exchanged greetings, chatted briefly and then tended to the business at hand. An exterior tour provided Max with the information and pictures he needed.
The early springtime evening sky had turned to twilight as they entered a darkened foyer. Maggie felt for the light switches. One after another, she flipped all of the switches but no lights came on. Max was following closely behind Maggie as they edged through the foyer toward the main great room. As Max was retrieving his flashlight from his shoulder pack, Maggie suddenly stumbled and fell forward, landing on her hands and knees. Max was unable to avoid tripping over Maggie’s outstretched feet and he toppled onto her. Startled, but unhurt, they both burst out laughing while Max helped his colleague to her feet.
“I thought that I might fall for you one day” he quipped.
“But not
on
me” Maggie replied in mocked indignation. Max had his flashlight working now and he swept the beam around behind them to see what had caused the embarrassing collision. Training the light on what appeared to be a pile of dark clothing Max suddenly jerked upright and gasped as his jaw dropped open.
“Oh my god” Maggie shrieked, “Is he dead?”
Guardedly they walked around what appeared to be a male body. Max nudged it with the tip of his shoe and hastily pulled his foot back.
“He’s stiff, so I think he’s been here for some time” he responded disconnectedly. The laughing mood had quickly evaporated.
“Call 911 to report this to the police,” Maggie dictated in a take-charge mode, “I know where the circuit box is so give me the light and lets find out if we can get some lights on, follow me” she continued.
“Oh, of course, let’s do that!” Max snapped back as he handed her the light.
“Don’t be an ass,” she retorted, “Get serious.”
The main circuit breaker had been tripped, perhaps by the electrical storm the previous night. A reset restored the power. Within a few minutes two East Wayford police cruisers arrived on the scene, with lights flashing, as Max and Maggie waited on the front doorstep. A rescue vehicle and a fire truck were close behind. As soon as the police patrolmen radioed a report to their station commander, Max and Maggie were asked to stand by while the detective division and the medical examiner came on the scene. They obliged the officers and waited for the responding parties to arrive.
After the area was inspected and the state medical examiner’s assistant had checked the corpse, the patrolmen stapled a yellow, no-access crime scene tape around the entire house.
Max asked one of the officers if he and Maggie could finish the inspection of the interior of the house but the request was denied at that time. Maggie was asked for the keys and she and Max were invited down to the police station to each give a detailed account as to why and when their involvement in the matter had occurred.
Max was given permission to leave his car in the driveway temporarily and Maggie drove them both to the police station. As they drove away from the house, a late model luxury sedan, apparently the victim’s, was being towed away from the curbing at the property street frontage.
Two hours later Maggie and Max had both been cleared to leave. They were famished by then and decided to have a meal and cocktails at one of their favorite pubs which was located in the East Wayford ‘Village’ section, just down the street from the Police station. Maggie was given back the Stanley Realty pass keys to the property, along with a reminder; “Do not enter the crime scene until further notice”. She and Max were glad to get out into the refreshing, slightly chilly evening air as they walked the two blocks to “Jerry’s Jug”.
“Hey mates, short time no see.” This was the usual greeting to regular customers by Jerry Pippin, the proprietor.
“How’s the ‘Terrific Twosome’ faring tonight?” he asked, as he pulled two martini glasses down from the rack and filled them with ice to chill.
“We’re fairing fairly well, Jerry” responded Max with a grin.
He left his coat across a corner bar stool and headed for the “Mates Room” to wash his hands. After indicating to Jerry that they would need menus along with the usual drinks, Maggie went towards the “Sheila’s Room”, Australian slang for ladies room.
Ambiance was not the allure with “Jerry’s Jug”. The smallish, dimly lit cocktail lounge had a dated look and, as typified by the labels on the rest room doors, had an overall sophomoric overtone, as did the owner. Nevertheless, Jerry, a transplanted Australian since his discharge from a military tour in the US Navy at the Groton, CT Naval Base, was considered a good and trusted friend. The place was antiseptically clean, mixed one of the best martinis in the area, and the food was always great.
Once they were seated around a corner of the u-shaped bar, Max ordered the meals for he and Maggie and they both took long sips on their martinis.
“This afternoon really sucked” Max declared. With pursed lips and her mouth still savoring her second sip, Maggie nodded in agreement as Max continued, “I’ll have to talk to Carl in the morning and fill him in on this incident.” Maggie had done business with Carl Jenson, the owner of “Jenson & Associates” auction house, and knew that he would want to pump his employee, Max, for all the details.
Acting as liaison in auction arrangements and as a communication link with lenders was part of Maggie’s job, and she had recommended Jenson’s auction company to her employer in almost every stressed-sale situation where a property was facing foreclosure. Her main reason for selecting Jenson & Associates was because of Max. She had liked working as partners with Max ever since they met in 2000, six years earlier. The feeling was mutual with Max but neither of them had allowed this to become apparent to their respective employers. They had yielded to impulse and had been intimate in their relationship, but they went out of their way to insure that their private life did not interfere with their professional lives.
Maggie said, referring to her boss, “I called Francine while I was in the interrogation room at the station. She got all paranoid thinking of adverse publicity. She got me really pissed-off because she didn’t give a damn about what I had to go through. I’ll straighten her ass out tomorrow.”
Max knew Francine Stanley, the Principal Broker at the agency. He didn’t have the highest personal regard for her but he appreciated the assignments that Maggie was able to steer his way. Max knew that Maggie had a way of handling Francine, a heavily made up, false-looking, older woman, but he never understood exactly what the relationship was between these two strong-willed females.
A second martini followed Maggie’s meal while Max had an after dinner coffee and Irish liqueur topped with whipped cream.
After bidding adieu to Jerry, they walked briskly through the night chill back to Maggie’s car near the police station. The usual chatter between them was rather subdued during the drive back to retrieve Max’s car at the Whitmore Lane house. Each was reprocessing the events of the evening. After dropping Max off at his car, Maggie U-turned and departed on the 20 minute ride to her condo apartment.
As Max pulled out of Whitmore Lane to take the interstate back to his apartment building, he didn’t notice the late model, dark colored sedan fall in behind his car, tracing his route but maintaining a good distance between them.
Just after 9:30 PM Max was slowing down to turn off the freeway onto the exit ramp which would merge with White Boulevard, the street of his residence.
In his rear view mirror he noticed the dark silhouette of a car, framed by other headlights further back. It was rapidly approaching from his rear with its headlights off.
Suddenly there was a loud whooshing, screeching sound as the speeding auto came along side on the left and cut directly into Max’s path. This was an obvious attempt to force him into an upcoming abutment at the exit ramp.
Instinctively he steered hard to the right and stomped on the brake pedal. His car scraped along the concrete safety barrier spewing a shower of white sparks into the night air and came to a jolting stop.
Max was shaken. His mind was racing franticly as his thoughts were consumed by the possibility of gas spillage, and fire. He had to exit the car immediately. His hand was trembling as he reached to turn off the ignition.
The encroaching speeder turned down the ramp and, with headlights now lit, continued onto White Boulevard, heading in the direction of Max’s apartment building.
After jumping out onto the pavement, a dazed Max inspected his car to check for damages.
The passenger side front fender and door were a mess. Finding no evidence of gas or oil leakage, Max got back behind the steering wheel and started the engine. He reversed away from the ramp retaining wall and then drove forward off the highway shoulder and down the exit ramp to a safer spot.
“Wow!” he murmured aloud, “What in hell was that about?”
Sweating now, he reached for his cell phone and dialed 911 to report the incident to the police.
Max knew now that tomorrow’s agenda was going to include a trip to the insurance adjuster, then a drop-off at the body repair shop and then a car rental office. Since his life had been relatively uneventful lately, the intensity of the adrenaline rush due to this event surprised Max. With temples pounding he waited in his car at the bottom of the off ramp for the arrival of the police.
While waiting, he called Maggie’s number.
