I'll Protect You (Clueless Resolutions Book 1) (13 page)

Francine went on to explain to Carrie that direct sales by the office staff were rare and usually the result of just dumb luck.  Stanley Realty listings, other than Maggie’s distressed short sales, were mostly co-brokered, splitting the sales commissions with other office staffs who showed the Stanley Realty listings and sold them to their own buyers.  It was Maggie’s higher supply of distressed property listings that allowed the real estate operations volume to appear normal, thereby escaping undue scrutiny within the community.

Carrie had calmed down somewhat but she seemed quite interested in hearing whatever else there was to know about the other staff members.  Francine decided any information beyond what she had already shared was more than needed. 
Carrie doesn’t need to know that Maggie’s volume of listings and sales, all on public record, keeps the IRS auditors off my case.
Francine thought.  She often mixed the prostitution money with her company accounts to hide the identity of the saleswomen’s ‘special clients’ knowing that this co-mingling of funds, in a brokerage operation, was totally illegal.

“Well, for one thing, Maggie’s back on track,” Francine continued, “and we should have plenty of locations to pick from.  I think we should hold off for a week, though.  Let’s see if this investigation crap cools off, what do you think?” Francine asked.  Carrie agreed to that and told Francine that she would come into the office for a few days, just for a change of scenery.

“We’ve got a good thing going here,” Carrie said in an all-business tone now, “I wouldn’t want it to get messed up.”

Once Francine pulled out of the condo complex parking lot she called a contact number on her cell phone. As always, names were never used at this number.

“Yes?” was the response as the answerer took the call.

“Our best ‘model’ is freaking out over what’s going on. I suggested that we back off for a week; Agreed?” Francine asked.”

  “Agreed.” was the response.

Francine turned off her cell phone and headed back to her office, feeling a little tired as she drove back to East Wayford.

The good-will tour of finance contacts that Maggie had recently undertaken paid off, it seemed, since she had received several leads and had signed up four short-term listings for emergency sales.  This week she had to make three appointments to inspect properties for potential auction value estimates.  She and Max decided to meet for a late lunch/planning session for the week ahead.

For a change of pace they had driven northeast together to lunch at a trendy restaurant which was located on the shores of the Mystic River, near the well-known Mystic Whaling Museum. The setting, on an outside patio with its gentle breezes, was a perfect precursor of the up-coming summer days.

“Oh, wow, this place is beautiful.” Maggie said of the surroundings as they had just been seated. They were under a large, year-round canvass canopy, no further than fifteen feet from the river bank.  “The whole atmosphere here is so quiet, she added.

“The original use of the river was as a seaport for the whaling industry.” Max said, reading a short bio of the nearby museum on his table place mat.

“It’s really a peaceful, off-the-beaten-path location right now, Maggie commented, but I’ve been in this area during the peak of the tourist season. The museum and the harbor area is a really popular attraction.” she added.

The meals and drinks were ordered and, with seagulls squawking and river buoys clanking in the background, they conversed about several small sailboats which were moving northward along the opposite river bank.  They sailed in unison in an apparent race, utilizing a brisk breeze which was skimming over the wide, placid river.

The word “race” was relative, they agreed, since, from their vantage point the boats seemed to be unmoving, almost frozen in time against a picturesque backdrop of colorful mixed commercial marine properties and residential cottages.  The scene was framed from behind by the outline of newly foliated maple trees along the raised riverbank, which formed a contrast to the hazy but cloudless blue sky.

The scenario had a very relaxing effect on the twosome.  They enjoyed a leisurely late lunch and cocktails as they planned appointments around the other activities in their itineraries.

Back home in East Wayford the heat was on, but here it was cool, both figuratively and literally.

At approximately that same time, on this Wednesday afternoon, Donald Chase got back to his office in East Wayford.  He had attended a commendation presentation at the state police headquarters and he had been anxious to leave before his superiors or contemporaries quizzed him on the recent killings.

On his desk he found a thick, sealed, tag-stock envelope addressed to him and marked ‘CONFIDENTIAL’. Upon opening the courier-delivered envelope, he could see that it was from the local office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

There was a gray F.B.I. folder inside containing approximately sixteen pages of background information, fingerprint impressions and mug shots of the subject, Francine Louise [Hickman] Stanley, A.K.A. “Fanny” Hickman, A.K.A. “Franci” Stanley. The inspector was becoming energized as he read on.

Francine had quite a long and interesting background.  From 1972 to 1983, as a single woman with no visible means of support, Francine Louise Hickman, a resident of White Plains, New York, had been arrested three times for ‘loitering for prostitution’ in Manhattan. She turned states witness against her pimp and was given a twenty-month probation period.  She skipped out on reporting to her probation supervisor in 1985.

On November 11, 1985, Francine had married an older man, Horace Stanley, a retired stock broker from Long Island and they relocated to Grandford, CT.  Mr. Stanley passed away on February 4, 1987, after having willed a six figure estate to Francine.

The will was successfully contested, and by 1991 the terms had been reversed in favor of Horace Stanley’s biological family. The family gave Francine a several thousand dollar pittance and sued to have the marriage annulled. That action was unsuccessful. Francine retained the last name Stanley.

Francine L. Stanley was listed as the sole proprietor of “Busy Hands Custodial Service”, located in Grandford, CT, in January 1992. She was arrested for running a prostitution enterprise disguised as a maid service, operating in Greenville, CT, while going by the name “Fanny Hickman.”

She was charged with transporting illegal aliens to and from, Brooklyn, NY, for the purpose of performing sex acts while providing maid services for some wealthy and influential Greenville residents.  All charges were later dismissed when she cut a deal to cease operations and move away from the area.  The record showed no updates since August 1992.

Looking at the pictures of her in her younger years, Chace could see, by comparison with her present age of 71, the years hadn’t been easy on Francine.  Good looking as a younger woman, she was hardly recognizable now.

Having spent almost an hour going over the F.B.I. folder, Inspector Chace released a sigh of satisfaction.

This might be what we need to start meaningful conversations with some of the names on this connect-the-dots diagram,
he thought while staring up at the chart in his wall. 
Still, it doesn’t seem likely that anyone on the list could be placed at the scenes of the crimes at the time of the deaths.  There has to be someone else in the puzzle. I will have to be real careful here, I don’t know who else around here has this information.

At that point Chace realized that, although he kept his office door locked when he was out, the janitorial service had pass keys. He pulled the chart down, folded it and slipped it into his attaché case as he left for the day.

On a gray and dreary mid-June morning Inspector Chace was in his office early. His mind was made up as to how to proceed with the circumstances presented by the F.B.I. profile on Francine Stanley.  His next step was to present the portfolio contents to Chief Devaro and, based on his reaction to it, proceed from that point.

If the chief was aware of Francine Stanley’s past, he should have expected that she was likely still in the prostitution business.  That information might have been shared with Salvadore and definitely should have been provided to Chace.

If the chief had no prior knowledge of the prostitution, or of her past New York and Connecticut police records, Chace would move ahead with confidence and try to develop a plan to proceed with the chief’s, and only the chief’s, involvement.

Don Chace had his diagram unfolded on a worktable in his office. The confidential F.B.I. envelope was on his desk.  He made himself a cup of coffee and, a few minutes later, Chief Devaro looked in.

“Good morning,” he said to Chace while walking by the door.  Chace didn’t reply.  There was a silence and then the chief came back to stand in the doorway.

“Something wrong?” he asked in a perplexed tone.

  Chace grinned and said, “I’ve got something to go over with you when you get the time.”

“Can I get myself a cup of coffee first?” the chief asked mockingly.  Chief Devaro could see by Chace’s upbeat manner that something positive must have occurred and he was anxious to see what Chace was referring to.

“You’d better make it quick, I don’t want this to cool off” kidded Chace.

When the inspector gave the chief the F.B.I. dossier, he closed the door to his office. The chief sat down and began deliberately reading the pages one at a time.  Chace was studying Chief Devaro’s body language.  It took the chief four to five minutes to get through the information and he hadn’t raised his eyes from the pages even once. 
Man, what a cool customer this Lou Devaro is, C
hace was thinking.

Finally the chief looked up straight into Chace’s eyes and broke out with a broad grin.  He raised his open hand with the palm facing Chace and said,

“Put five right-here, my boy!”  The two exchanged slaps. Chace was more inclined toward the more chic fist bump that his generation claimed as their celebratory rite, but he allowed himself to be slapped anyway.

The two police professionals went over the record again and the chief was amazed at how this woman, Francine, could have a past like hers and have the East Wayford community thinking of her as a kindly old aunt.  He hadn’t gotten surprised very often during the latter years of his police career but this information on Francine’s background had taken him totally off guard.

“She’s a real pro!” he said incredulously.  The chief had taken her as an inept, bumbling older woman who stays in business only because people feel sorry for her.

“From time to time some of the patrolmen have talked about the Stanley Realty salesladies as ‘loose women’ and ‘boozers’, but nothing on this scale!” he commented.  “Now, as I think back, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to find out that she’s still pimping. Nobody around here would suspect that.”

Chace went over to the work table and brought the diagram back to his desk.

“Lou, I think we can connect some dots here. What do you think?” he asked.  The chief’s mind was still spinning while he was trying to think back over the recent years for instances where he might have missed something.  He pondered the possibility of Francine’s workers using the unoccupied listings for illicit dealings.

“I don’t know, I see what you mean with her office having the properties listed where a couple of the homicides occurred, but we’re talking about screwing people here, not killing people,” he said logically.  Chace paused realizing that he, having had this new information rolling around in his head all night, might have been getting a little bit ahead of himself with the chief. He backed off and let the chief sort out the facts for a few moments and then he proposed an idea.

“Lou, I think that there may be things going on here which could provide one missing piece to this puzzle, which is motive.  I haven’t seen anything else that could lead to motive yet, have you?” he asked rhetorically.

“No, I haven’t either.” admitted the chief.

“Here’s another dot to connect;” stated Chace, “The last victim came here from Greenville.  Francine used to pimp in Greenville with her ‘maid service’,” he said, drawing quote marks in the air. “I heard that Carl Jenson and some unknown partner bought a house-cleaning service in Grandford, about the time that Francine got forced out of that town.  That could have been her operation that was purchased by Jenson.  Also, the properties where two of the homicides occurred were up for auction with Jenson,” Chace went on. “Then, in the homicide in Sheffield, the victim was from Greenville.” Chief Devaro listened to this chain of facts thoughtfully.

After a short pause, Chace continued.  “I realize that you know some of these people Lou, but under the circumstances, I don’t think this should go beyond me and you right now. Who knows who else could be involved? We don’t want to tip off whoever is actually killing these people.  I think we have to continue like we have been as far as everyone is concerned, and just keep ‘dribbling the ball’ until we have an open shot.”  After pausing for a moment the chief agreed. “You’ve got it. It’s your call, Don,” he conceded.

Later that day Inspector Chace got a call on his cell phone from his state police buddy in south-west Connecticut.  He called from Grandford and asked if Chace wanted to take a ride down there to have a chat with an employee who had worked for the same maid service, which they had discussed, that served clients in Greenville.  Chace agreed and was traveling west on Rt. I-95 within ten minutes.

Arriving in Grandford at 2:10 PM, he located the tavern in the west end of the town, the place at which his friend had arranged the meeting with the ex-maid, and entered into its gloomy interior.

Chace had been instructed to order a beer at the bar and ask for “Jasmine.”  Having done that he was tapped on the shoulder by a well-dressed, fairly attractive middle aged woman who was, as Chace discovered when he stood up to meet her, almost six feet tall.  They sat in a corner of the dimly lit bar lounge and, as she began to speak, Chace realized that ‘she’ was a ‘he’.

Chace had been trained to deal with homosexuality, and he was not homophobic.  He was never comfortable, however, in dealing with transvestites, or opposite-sex impersonators.

Either way, this person apparently had a grudge against somebody and wanted Chace to listen to what he/she had to relate, so Chace listened to the story.  He wanted to jot down some of the details but the transvestite balked.  Not having brought a recorder was an error, he silently reminded himself.  When Chace put his pad and pen away, ‘Jasmine’ began the story:

Carina Slavonic, called “Carrie” by her family, was a pretty brunette of average height. She was of slim build and had a perfectly formed female figure.

When she had first come from New York to Connecticut, she worked in Greenville, just over the state line from New York. Carrie worked there for a household service company based in Grandford, Connecticut, the adjacent municipality to the east.  It was primarily a maid-service which catered to the elite, rich residents of Greenville.

Jasmine pointed out that the company was actually a front for a prostitution ring.  The company director had soon recruited his new, good-looking worker from New York into prostitution.

Breast implants, which Carrie had wanted, were funded by the company and, in return, she had to perform a number of sex acts with the company’s “clients” until she repaid the cost.  She had also inherited the title to a two-year-old Porsche roadster as a gift from one of the appreciative clients along the way.

After having paid back her debt, Carrie indicated her intention to leave the ‘company’ operation and to go on her own.

The director of the household service company, who was in partnership with the company’s secret sponsor, was the Police Commander-in-Charge at a neighborhood station in Grandford, near to where the service company’s office was located.  Upon hearing that Carrie wanted out, the director-police commander threatened to; “run her in and throw the book at her.”

Savvy enough to realize that she had no recourse, Carrie packed her bags and left town hurriedly, driving as far north on Rt. I-95 as the gas in her Porsche would last. She rented a room at a roadside motel in New Haven.

In nearby East Wayford, she drank herself nearly into a drunken stupor at the first pub she came across.  There, she was advised by Jerry, the proprietor of “Jerry’s Jug”, to contact Francine Stanley, a local real estate broker.  Francine Stanley, she was told, was sympathetic to young women in distress and might hire her as a sales trainee.

The transvestite informer, who apparently had known Carrie quite well, had not heard from her since then.

Abruptly, as quick as it began, the conversation was over. Without any further conversation the informer rose from the table and was quickly out of the back door of the bar. Chace was sitting there in the dim light furiously jotting down all parts of the conversation that he could remember.  He was still angry with himself for not ‘wiring’ himself with a recorder prior to this meeting.

What a day!
Chase thought, with a shiver going up and down his spine. He went into the men’s room to wash his hands. Then he headed home for the day.