“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 cheerleading 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 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,