Jack Sloan, chief of police, set the phone back in the
cradle then reached for the intercom that connected him
directly to his assistant.
"The mayor's on his way over," he said. "Just
tell him to come in when he gets here and hold my calls."
"You got it, Chief," the upbeat voice shot back.
Jack got up from the desk and went to stretch before the
window. He had a view of a street lined by shop fronts whose
colorful awnings were now indistinct beneath a leaden gray
sky. Mounds of dingy snow covered the curbs and spilled over
onto sidewalks of the main street that wound through town
center and bisected with Route 45, the primary highway into
the valley.
Once a quarry town, Bluestone Mountain was now a fair-sized
community, popular with writers, artists, musicians and
sports enthusiasts because it lacked the commer-ciality of
the nearby, and more widely known, hamlets of Woodstock and
Bearsville.
Even now, in the dead of winter, folks came to town to enjoy
some of the best skiing around. When the ice finally melted,
Bluestone would attract people from all over who wanted to
enjoy a renowned Catskill summer.
A good portion of his town's population consisted of
part-timers from Manhattan—business people eager to
escape the city for densely wooded hillsides and
mountain-tops, sports and outdoor activities, all only a
convenient few hours north.
Another portion of his town's demographic was made up of
deeply rooted locals. Well over a century ago, people had
surged to the area when miners had discovered feld-spathic
greywacke, the rare, dark blue sandstone that made Bluestone
Mountain unique, and wealthy.
Even now, when the whole Catskill region had been earmarked
as part of New York's Forest Preserve, not all the land
around here was publicly owned, which made Jack's
jurisdiction an interesting mix of big- and small-town
politics. A mix that had its share of plusses and minuses. A
plus was the freedom to run his department the way he saw
fit. A minus was being at the beck and call of the good old
boy network. Some folks considered themselves the local
monarchy.
Like the mayor.
Gary Trant was Bluestone homegrown—Ashokan High class
of '92, a year Jack's senior and, also like Jack, an alumnus
of the football team. Those were the kinds of ties that
bound tight. Since the mayor had appointed Jack, he could
pick up his phone any time and inform his police chief he'd
be dropping by to discuss whatever was on his mind.
That was how things worked in Bluestone.
Fortunately, the timing was good. Jack had just returned
from observing a SWAT class at the police training academy
and wasn't due to meet with the assistant chiefs of the
Professional Standards Bureau for another forty-five
minutes. Plenty of time if Gary didn't get waylaid by folks
who recognized the mayor's smiling face. No question whether
he'd stop and chat.
Jack didn't have to wait long, though. He'd barely sat back
at his desk to review some proposed changes to the
departmental budget when the door opened and Gary strode
into the room, hand extended.
"Good to see you, Jack."
Gary Trant radiated the kind of energy and personality that
played well to the media. On the football field, too. Jack
knew exactly how well because he'd followed in Gary's wake
and had found the helmet a challenge to fill.
"Have a seat," Jack said. "What's on your mind?"
Gary didn't sit. He only cocked a hip against the desk,
folded his arms across his chest and leveled a serious gaze
Jack's way. "Heard about the trouble at Greywacke Lodge.
Credit card fraud, is it?"
"We're not sure what we're dealing with yet."
"I pushed hard for that senior-living community to be
built. Folks get old. Made sense to bring in developers to
provide facilities instead of forcing people out of
Bluestone to retire. Don't want anything to reflect poorly
on that decision."
Not with reelection around the corner and Kevin Pierce
looking to step up from the town council. Pierce was already
generating buzz about the town needing a change. Since the
Bluestone Mountain Gazetteer was giving him ad
space, Jack knew which way that wind would blow.
"I've got people on it," he said. "No need to
worry. You know as well as I do in this electronic climate,
credit cards get stolen all the time."
"Agreed," Gary said. "But that's what I wanted
to talk about. Who you've got on the case."
"Randy Tanner. Assigned him when Chuck Willis realized
there was a problem with a routine stolen wallet report."
"You think Randy's the best man to put on this?"
"Randy's the best I've got."
Gary nodded. "I know. I know. No question there."
"Then what's your concern?"
"Randy isn't a local, Jack. You have half a force made
up of people born and bred here. Couldn't you assign one of
them?"
"How does being homegrown factor?"
Surprisingly, the answer didn't come fast. In fact, Gary
hesitated so long Jack guessed he couldn't find any
diplomatic way to say what was on his mind. Not a good sign.
"You heard that Frankie Cesarini's back in town."
Jack had heard all right. Frankie hadn't been in town for
twenty minutes before he'd gotten his first phone call
reporting the news—from his long-ago ex-girlfriend.
And Karan Kowalski Steinberg-Reece didn't pick up the phone
to call him without a reason. Not since their second year of
college when he'd disappointed her by realizing his calling
wasn't law, but law enforcement. A huge difference
in Karan's book.
"I heard," he said.
"Then you know she's running Greywacke Lodge?"
"I also know that the man who reported the missing
wallet lives there. Are you saying Frankie has something to
do with my investigation?"
Gary pushed away from the desk with a sharp sigh, and Jack
stared at him, waiting. Call him stupid, but he just wasn't
making the connection here.
"There's speculation Frankie is involved with the
crime."
Now it was Jack's turn to sigh. "Do you mind telling me
how you heard there was a crime? To my knowledge Randy and
Chuck haven't even determined that yet."
"How can you not know?"
"We have suspicion of a crime." Jack tried not to
sound impatient when Gary had sidestepped his question.
"Hence the investigation. Until we determine whether or
not an actual crime has been committed, we can't determine
jurisdiction. Credit card fraud goes to the Secret Service.
Identity theft stays with us."
Gary closed his eyes and groaned. "Secret Service? Jeez,
Jack. That's the last thing we need. Can't you keep the
outsiders away from this?"
Not unless he wanted to commit a crime of his own.
"Don't you think you're putting the cart before the
horse? All we have right now is an elderly man who misplaced
his wallet and a string of hits on his credit report."
"Credit card fraud, then." Gary looked sick.
"Maybe. Maybe not. Like I said, I got my best man on it.
We should know something soon."
Gary seemed to reconsider. "Okay, the sooner the better.
This is a delicate situation. I think it'll be best handled
that way. The rumor mill is already grinding."
"About Frankie Cesarini?"
"She goes by Francesca Raffa now."
"Married?"
Gary shook his head. "Divorced. Has a teenage daughter."
"Anything else I need to know?"
"Just buzz. But don't you think it's awfully
coincidental the town bad girl comes home and now we have a
crime?"
"We don't know that we have a crime yet, remember?"
Jack sank back into his chair and rubbed his temples.
"And the town bad girl, Gary? Since when do you
deal in melodrama? I don' t remember Frankie ever doing
anything all that bad."
"What do you call tear-assing down Main Street on a
stolen tractor?" Gary snorted.
"The tractor wasn't stolen. Not exactly. She worked for
Ray Hazzard at the farm for a summer."
Gary's eyebrows shot halfway up his forehead. "What does
that mean? She borrowed it for a joyride? She was
like the Harriet Tubman of Ashokan, Jack. Every slacker in
high school used to pay her to get them off property when
they wanted to skip class. She knew every crack and crevice
in the place and exactly who'd be monitoring the halls and
when. She ran that racket for the better part of my junior
year before Happy Harry finally shut her down."
"One could call it enterprising." Jack knew his fair
share of students who'd paid big bucks for the service.
"Frankie Cesarini never touched the juveniles this
precinct deals with now. Curfew infractions. Skipping class.
Leaving campus to smoke. I should be so lucky." He'd
take Frankie's sort of rebellion any day compared to the
middle school kids Randy Tanner brought in when they busted
a meth cookhouse last week.
"You're defending her?" Gary looked genuinely surprised.
"I'm not defending her. I didn't know her. Hell, Gary, I
wouldn't have even known she existed if not for Karan and
her cheerleading posse. They obsessed over everything
Frankie did."
Gary rolled his eyes. "You know what I'm talking about,
Jack. She ran off to some third-world country with a guy two
days before graduation, never to be seen or heard from
again… until a few months ago. It's no wonder people
are talking."
Folks did too much talking around Bluestone, as far as Jack
was concerned. "Even if Frankie had been on the wrong
road in high school, she must have cleaned up her act.
Unless your developer hires felons for upper management.
They must run background checks. If she'd been in any
trouble—"
"My developer doesn't hire anyone for anything. They
partner with a management company who does that."
"So Frankie works for the management company?"
"Same company Susanna has been with for years."
Bingo. Mystery of the rumors solved. And Jack glanced at the
clock, wondering if he had time to kill one henpecked patrol
cop before his appointment with the assistant chiefs. He
knew exactly where the rumors had started.
The cheerleader connection. Susanna Adams had been close
friends with Karan since high school. If she'd mentioned to
Karan that the police had come to Greywacke Lodge asking
questions about the missing wallet report, then Karan would
have been all over the news because of Frankie. Karan had
probably called her buddies from the cheerleading
squad—most were still friends—and started up the
gossiping. The only way they could have known of any
potential crime meant that Becca had grilled her husband,
and that henpecked patrol cop had dished out enough details
to satisfy his wife.
Damned small town.
"Listen, Jack." Gary spread his hands in entreaty.
"I'm not saying Frankie has done anything wrong, then or
now. But I don't like the way people are talking."
"You've got that right. First and foremost, no one
should know about this investigation. And I don't like that
people are placing blame. I can't even say a crime's been
committed yet."
If life didn't dish up enough drama, then some folks weren't
happy unless they manufactured their own.
Frankie's return was news to warm up a cold winter.
"High school was a long time ago, Gary. What do you know
about Frankie now?"
With a frown Gary settled back against the desk. "She's
been running Greywacke Lodge since the doors opened and must
be doing a decent job. I worked closely with the developer
when they were putting together the deal for the property.
The management company is top-notch. The investment bankers,
too. I had no idea senior living was such big business."
"Makes sense," Jack said. "Baby boomers grow
up."
"As far as I know they're running a first-rate community
up there. Really, Jack, Frankie is the director of
operations. The whole property answers to her. Including
Susanna. Frankie must know what she's doing or we'd have
heard something."
"You'd think."
Jack tried to remember back to the "good old days,"
when he, Karan, Susanna and her then-boyfriend Skip had been
a frequent foursome. Susanna hadn't seemed much for
instigating gossip, but as a member of Karan's cheerlead-ing
squad, she'd been part of a group that obsessed about Frankie.
Jack had never understood why. In fact, he really didn't
remember much more about Frankie than she'd been orphaned
young and reared by her grandmother. With the obtuseness of
a teen who'd been more interested in football than girl
drama, he'd only listened hard enough to figure out how to
shut them up.
Especially Karan. When she started to rant, she could go on
for hours, working herself up so much that nothing he did
could bring her down again. That much he remembered.
The good old days. A chill ran down his spine.
"All right," Jack conceded. "I know why you
don't want to add any more fuel to the fire, but I still
don't understand your concern about Randy running the
investigation."
"I don't want to add any more fuel. That's the
whole point. Randy's the best you've got, no question, but
that doesn't change the fact he isn't local. If people are
on fire already, I don't want to give them anything else to
speculate about. If you put another detective on the case
with Chuck, say Rick or Brett Tehaney, then no one can say
your people didn't cover all the bases. Rick or Brett knows
the history around here. They're not likely to miss
anything."
"Neither is Randy." To hell with anyone who even
thought his department wouldn't run a tight investigation.
"I'm not telling you what to do, Jack. Just consider
what I'm saying. Greywacke Lodge is a draw to Bluestone.
Half the movers and shakers in this county have sent their
old folks to live there. Kevin Pierce called my office an
hour ago asking if he should be worried about his
grandfather. He didn't come out and question my integrity,
but he made it loud and clear that he knew something was
going on up there."
Bull's-eye. The real reason for this visit.
Pressure from the competition.
"I hear what you're saying," Jack said. "And
I'll take another look at the situation, but I can't
jeopardize an investigation—"
"I don't want a few malcontents who can't get their
heads out of the last millennium starting up bad press about
Greywacke Lodge." Gary checked his watch. "I've got
to go. So as long as you know you're sitting on a powder keg
here, I trust you'll deal with it. Do me a favor, though.
Keep me up on what you learn. I don't want to be sideswiped
by anyone else."
"No problem."
"Good luck then."
The door had barely shut behind Gary before Jack followed.
"I'm heading over to Professional Standards," he
told his assistant, without adding that he'd be making a pit
stop on the way. If he managed to restrain himself from
throttling a patrol cop who couldn't keep his mouth shut, he
would at least insist on some answers from his best detective.
Chuck was off duty, but Jack found Randy working at his
desk. "Where are you on the Hickman case?"
"You got ESP?" Randy leaned back in his chair and
tilted the computer monitor toward Jack, who glanced at the
display.
"The Federal Trade Commission. You got something."
It wasn't a question. The FTC's Identity Theft Data
Clearinghouse ran a complaint database that catalogued
identity theft victim and suspect information nationwide.
"Not yet, and let's hope I don't. Just got a call from
one of your council members who heard we were up at
Grey-wacke Lodge. Says his grandfather is there, and he'd
appreciate it if we'd keep him up on how the investigation
is going."
Jack winced against the dull ache starting in the recesses
of his head, the foreshadowing of what promised to be a
headache unlikely to go away any time soon. "Kevin
Pierce."
That also wasn't a question.
"I gave him your cell number," Randy said with a
chuckle. "But I'm guessing I better not drag my heels on
this."
Randy didn't know the half of it.
"Don't worry, Jack," Randy said. "Natural for
folks to worry after that grocery chain got hacked.
Two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand debit card numbers. Friggin'
nightmare. I'm heading back up to the lodge. I've got more
questions for Hickman. If this does turn out to be identity
theft, I'll walk him through the process. He'll have to file
a fraud alert because I'll need his help to have a shot at
nailing the perp."
When Jack didn't reply, Randy kept going.
"If he'll give me authorization, I can get his
theft-related transaction records from creditors without a
subpoena, which will save me some time. We need a list of
the places