Jeanie London – Frankie's Back in Town (страница 3)

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 Greywacke 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 where he’s used his cards recently. But I’m putting a Clearinghouse Alert out first since we’re dealing with national transactions. Maybe another agency can help me fill in the blanks.”

“Sounds good,” Jack finally said. “Any clue what we’re looking at yet—credit card fraud or identity theft?”

“No. But I should know after looking at Hickman’s records. A lot will depend on who had access to his credit card.”

Precisely the problem. Jack already knew of one person who had access—the Greywacke Lodge employee who had found the missing wallet. That employee would be seen as an obvious connection to Frankie Cesarini. Throw Kevin Pierce into the mix, and this situation could become a train wreck fast.

But neither Rick nor Brett Tehaney would be effective—either at getting answers or as damage control. They were good cops without question, but neither had Randy’s experience at producing the sort of results that routinely blew open cases.

Still, Gary was right about one thing. A trusted local would go a long way to reassure folks the BMPD had the situation well in hand. A trusted, high-profile local, who could appease folks both in the cab and the caboose.

With a sigh, Jack lay across the tracks. “Randy, looks like I’ll be working this case with you.”

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS ONLY TUESDAY, and already the piles on Francesca Raffa’s desk were so high she would need the rest of the week to dig her way to the bottom. If she took work home.

Six months had passed since she’d become director of operations at Greywacke Lodge. She oversaw the three-hundred-plus-employees who made retirement living in Hilton style grandeur a daily reality. She liked the position. But, quite honestly, her years of experience in healthcare had helped her juggle the demands of upper management so she’d had some quality of life. This move was proving a real challenge. What had she been thinking?

That, at least, was no mystery. She’d been thinking about doing what was necessary. As usual.

One of the job perks had resolved her grandmother’s living situation. After Nonna had spent her eightieth birthday rehabilitating a broken hip, it had been obvious that she couldn’t live alone anymore. Not when she’d grown so forgetful that Francesca feared her grandmother might forget to turn off the stove. Now Nonna was safely ensconced in her own apartment on-site.

Another job perk was leaving behind the big city of Phoenix for the smaller town of Bluestone Mountain, where Francesca had grown up. And a dose of small town would—hopefully—be good for her daughter, who’d taken an interesting turn after starting high school.

By the end of Gabrielle’s freshman year, the circle of friends who once competed for ranking in the National Junior Honor Society had morphed into a group of teens who competed to see who could pierce the most body parts. Gabrielle had passed her AP Algebra class by .8%.

Francesca suspected the problem had a lot to do with her ex-husband, Nicky, who’d barely made time for his daughter after the divorce. Not because he didn’t love Gabrielle, but because he was too busy sneaking around town with his girlie-girl so he wouldn’t have to answer his daughter’s questions about why their family had broken up.

Francesca hadn’t seen fit to share the grisly details. Their fifteen-year-old hadn’t needed to know that her father had thought it morally acceptable to cheat on his wife with their daughter’s teacher in the very school he worked at and their daughter attended. To Francesca’s knowledge, Gabrielle had never suspected, which she was eternally grateful for.

Thank God for small favors.

The move was both necessary and good, Francesca reminded herself. If she could survive the first year, she’d get her feet under her again. Just the way she had as a single parent. It was only a matter of time.

Time that obviously wasn’t on her side this morning because she didn’t get a chance to dive into that pile of work when her administrative assistant’s voice sounded over the intercom.

“Ms. Raffa, June just called. The BMPD is on their way up to see the Hickmans.”

Bluestone Mountain Police Department.

So they were back to the Mystery of the Reappearing Wallet. “Thanks, Yvette. I’m on my way.”

Casting a bleak glance at her desk, Francesca headed out the door. She bypassed the corridor leading from the administrative offices to the main lobby and made for a service elevator and a ride to the sixth floor, where she immediately spotted two men. They stood at the far end of the spacious hallway, where each recessed doorway was embellished with decorations that reflected both the season and the occupant.

For Valentine’s Day, Mrs. Humble of G-611 had a Victorian theme, complete with a designer topiary and a wreath of bright red hearts and sparkling angels.

Mr. and Mrs. Butterfield of G-610 had gone Western. Cutouts of cowboys with lassos had been artfully arranged with hearts and roses on a large bulletin board. The centerpiece was a glossy eight-by-ten photo of themselves in younger years astride horses.

All in all the effect made for a festive, if quirky, stroll. Francesca usually admired the creativity that went into the doorway displays. Today’s stroll was a little different.

The men in front of the Hickmans’ door seemed to swallow up the hallway. She assumed they were from the BMPD although neither wore a uniform. One wore a fashionable, and obviously expensive suit, while the other was more casually dressed in blue pants and a sport coat.

As she approached, she heard a door creak open and an elderly voice say, “Hello.”

The man in the sport coat flipped open a badge to reveal his credentials, a flash of gold that Francesca caught even from several feet away. “Are you Mrs. Bonnie Hickman?”

“Yes.”

“Detective Tanner, ma’am. And this is Chief Sloan. Is your husband at home?”

“Is this about his wallet?” Mrs. Hickman’s voice faltered. “We cancelled the report.”

“What’s that, Bonnie?” a gruff voice boomed from inside the apartment. “Are you going on about my wallet again?”

The detective peered into the doorway purposefully. “Sir, we need to ask you some questions.”

“What’s that?”

“Questions,” the detective repeated louder this time. “Chief Sloan and I need to ask you some questions about the wallet you reported missing. But first, sir, I need to see your identification.”

The door of apartment G-606 opened, and Mrs. Mason popped out her coiffed blond head and glanced curiously around. Both detective and chief gave her casual glances before turning back to the Hickmans.