Frankie's Back in Town

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.

Francesca strode toward the men, extending her hand.

“Hello, gentlemen. I’m Ms. Raffa, the facility director.”

The men turned to greet her, but Francesca only had eyes for the one in the expensive suit. For a protracted instant, she could only stare. Deep russet hair, an unusual color that made dark eyes seem almost black. The hard lines of a face she remembered from high school, an older version of a face no less striking today than it had been all those years ago.

Jack Sloan.

He swept a gaze over her, one of those classic law-enforcement looks that summed her up in a glance. He didn’t register any recognition, but that didn’t surprise her. She hadn’t exactly been part of his crowd back then.

When her brain finally kick-started into gear again, she connected the man in front of her with the introductions she’d overheard. Chief Sloan was a blast from a long ago past, a memory she hadn’t even realized had still been inside her brain until coming face-to-face with the grown-up version of a boy who’d been legendary in Ashokan High School.

Jack Sloan—valedictorian, quarterback, prom king and voted most likely to succeed.

And here he was, wearing an expensive suit that showcased shoulders even broader than they’d been in high school, padded as they’d usually been by football gear. He’d been gorgeous all those years ago and was no less gorgeous now. More so, if that was even possible.

It was, she decided. Definitely. He towered over her, extending his hand…. She mentally shook herself and slipped her fingers against his. “Is there anything I can help with?”

His grip was warm and strong. “We’re here to ask the Hickmans some questions.”

Jack raked his dark gaze over her again, taking in everything from the top of her head to the hand she had to remind herself to release.

She greeted the detective, relieved for the distraction, and glanced at his credentials before smiling through the open doorway. “How are you today, Mrs. Hickman? Captain?”

“Just fine, dear. I’m so glad you’re here.” Maturity had honed Mrs. Hickman’s femininity to a soft patina, and when she met Francesca’s gaze with faded blue eyes, the worry eased. “You can explain to these police what happened to Joel’s wallet.”

“We already did,” the captain said in nothing less than a dull roar as he offered the offending wallet to the detective.

“Why don’t you invite us all in?” Francesca suggested. “We can find out exactly what these gentlemen need?”

Captain Joel Hickman had once been a man who’d stood taller than six feet, evidenced by his photo in full military regalia that hung beside the door’s nameplate.

Now extreme age had bowed him until he wasn’t much taller than his wife. He gave a nod, stepped back from the doorway with a shuffling gait and held the door for his guests.

Mrs. Hickman led them into an apartment with windows that overlooked the mountain and a living room filled with family photos and mementos from love-filled lives.

Francesca stepped inside and found herself so close to Jack that she could smell his aftershave. Just the barest hint of something fresh and masculine. She eased back on her heels a bit to put some space between them, but there was barely room to move in the small foyer.

She wasn’t the only one who’d noticed their proximity. A quick glance brought her face-to-face with Jack’s dark gaze and the amusement softening the edges of his chiseled expression.

Oh, he’d noticed their proximity, all right.

And it looked as though Jack Sloan was the same charming rogue he’d always been. Not that he’d ever turned his charm her way. She hadn’t been worthy of his notice back in high school, but a girl would have had to be dead not to notice him. And everyone in Ashokan High, whether on top or bottom of the food chain, had known about Bluestone’s golden boy.

“Please make yourselves comfortable.” Mrs. Hickman finally cleared the foyer and motioned toward the sofa.

“No, thanks, ma’am.” Detective Tanner stood his ground on the edge of the living room. “Our questions won’t take long.”

“What questions?” The captain’s raised voice rebounded off the walls in the apartment’s confines. “I already told your desk sergeant the report was a mistake. I only called the police because that television program…What’s the name of that program, Bonnie?”

“Dateline, dear.”

“Dateline. Those folks had a program on identity theft. They said the only protection a person has is to file a police report. My driver’s license was inside my wallet. My Social Security card, too. So I filed a report.”

“Then your wallet turned up?” Jack asked.

The captain nodded.

Detective Tanner pulled a notepad from inside his jacket and jotted down a note. “How long was your wallet gone?”

“Less than a day. I already told the desk sergeant.”

Detective Tanner nodded. “Humor me, if you don’t mind, sir. You noticed your wallet missing right away then?”

“Of course I did. Well…” The captain narrowed his eyes, clearly reconsidering. “I didn’t actually need it until we were at the mall in Kingston. But I’m sure it was in my pocket before then.” He raised a hand that trembled slightly and motioned to the coatrack behind the detective. “I keep it in my jacket pocket right there.”

Mrs. Hickman didn’t look so sure, and both Jack and Detective Tanner appeared to notice.

“Had you used anything in your wallet during the week prior to the mall trip?” Jack asked. “Your driver’s license or a credit card maybe? Is it possible your wallet had been missing before you noticed?”

“No.” The captain shook his head emphatically.

Mrs. Hickman backed him up. “I bought peach preserves at church on Sunday. He used his check card to pay.”

Francesca knew what Jack was looking for—a time discrepancy. She’d reviewed the reports herself, but before she could think of a diplomatic way to mention that there had been one, Jack asked, “So you didn’t actually look for your wallet after you used your check card at church on Sunday until you were at the mall on Thursday?”

“That’s right.”

“The report stated you found your wallet here at the lodge on Friday, is that correct, sir?”

Another nod.

Detective Tanner scribbled a note on his pad. “Have you ever misplaced your wallet before, sir?”

That was a loaded question. Sure enough, the captain sputtered his response, bristling, and Mrs. Hickman cast a worried gaze Francesca’s way.

That was her cue. She needed to cut off this questioning before the captain got upset. He’d just completed a stint at the lodge’s nursing center, weeks of physical and occupational therapy to declare him fit enough to return to independent living after a flare-up of a heart condition. He’d been home only a few days before the wallet incident.

Accidents happened. It wasn’t easy to make peace with the physical limitations of aging. Francesca hadn’t even crossed the hump to thirty-five, and she was getting a glimmer. Those extra five pounds she was suddenly unable to starve off had made her a target for her daughter’s comments about “muffin tops.”

For this once-vital man to admit, let alone accept, that he needed help with routine daily tasks couldn’t possibly be easy. So Francesca sidled close to Jack, leaving the detective to his questioning, and whispered in a voice she hoped the captain couldn’t overhear. “He has misplaced his wallet before.”

Understanding flared in that dark gaze, and Jack lowered his own voice to a throaty whisper. “Often?”

“Just once. An employee found it.”

“You have that employee’s name?”

The warning bells in her head starting clanging. “I’ll give you a copy of the report before you go.”

“You’ll tell us who has access to this apartment?”

“Of course.” Those alarm bells were shrieking loud enough to kill off brain cells now. More was going on here than these men were sharing. A lot more.

He inclined his head then asked, “Captain, we need to know if you’ve made any trips out of state recently.”

The captain reached for his wife’s hand and muttered something Francesca couldn’t make out. Mrs. Hickman seemed to understand, though, and asked, “Detective, is my husband in some sort of trouble?”

Even Francesca found herself awaiting that answer. Neither Jack’s nor Detective Tanner’s expressions gave anything away. But Jack produced a business card. “We just had some questions that needed answers, sir. We’ll be back in touch.”

“And if you wouldn’t mind,” Detective Tanner added. “Will you make us a list of all the places you’ve used your debit and credit cards recently? Online purchases, too, if you’ve made any. Call the number on that card when you get the list together. I’ll swing by to pick it up.”

Francesca was not happy with that answer, which said nothing and everything all at once, and left a nice couple looking confused and worried.

“Ms. Raffa.” Jack turned to her.

He didn’t need to say another word. Reaching for the door, she politely refused his bid to hold it for her. She waited while both men strode through then used the moment to address the Hickmans. “Don’t worry. I’ll see what I can find out.”

She slipped into the hallway and shut the door behind her. Neither man said a word while awaiting the elevator but, once the door hissed shut and the elevator began its descent, Francesca took advantage of her captive audience.

“Frankly, gentlemen, you’ve got me worried. I can’t imagine the police department has the time or staff to investigate every reappearing wallet. I assume you’re concerned about something else.”

What other explanation could there be? True, Bluestone Mountain hadn’t grown up all that much in the sixteen years she’d been away, but she read the papers. There was enough crime in and around town to keep the police force busy.

“I’m sure you understand we can’t discuss an open investigation, Ms. Raffa.” Jack sounded cordial enough.

“Precisely the problem since the investigation had been closed the last I heard.” She wasn’t going to be sidetracked. “We outsource our personnel screening with a highly reputable firm. I’ve worked with them in the past with another management company. I need to know if you’re concerned about theft, Chief Sloan. I’m responsible for ensuring the residents’ safety.”

“Do you have reason to suspect any of your employees of dishonesty?” Jack asked.

“If I did, the party or parties in question wouldn’t be on my staff.”

The corners of his mouth twitched as if he was holding back a smile. “You have to do a lot of documenting before you can let an employee go.”

“True enough.” That thought was enough to distract her from his almost grin. Terminating an employee potentially opened up the property to a claim with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. Defending one claim cost nearly eighty person-hours in information gathering alone. Greywacke Lodge was a well-staffed facility, but administration had enough on its hands without that additional workload.

“Let me rephrase,” Detective Tanner said. “Are you in the process of documenting to terminate any of your employees for suspicion of theft?”

“No, Detective, I’m not.”

“I understand your concern,” Jack said, and something in that whiskey-warm voice assured her he did. “You have my word that if suspicion falls on any of your staff, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Thank you.”

“Will you tell us about Greywacke Lodge,” Jack asked as the elevator stopped at the first floor.

Francesca moved through the lobby, catching June’s inquisitive gaze as she circled the desk and led the way down the administrative corridor.

“What exactly would you like to know?”

“Who lives here?” The detective cast a meaningful glance around. “Looks like a hotel.”

Francesca smiled. “Greywacke Lodge is a senior-living community, upscale as far as these communities go. Seniors come to enjoy their retirement years in comfort and convenience, and we provide long-term housing and a level of assistance tailored to their individual needs.”

She filled them in on the stats of the property and the lodge’s mission to provide a healthy, successful environment. Residents were kept active under the supervision of medical, lifestyle and activities’ coordinators. The calendar was so full that Francesca had to check it daily to keep up.

“When independent living is no longer a viable option,” she explained, “we also provide assisted living in a nursing center nearby. It’s staffed to meet the more demanding needs of aging and provides rehabilitative services for our residents recovering from hospital stays.”

Detective Tanner took notes as they strolled toward her office, but Jack gave her his undivided attention. The man had a knack for making it seem as if he was hanging on to her every word. A knack that must serve him as well in local politics as it had way back when every high school teacher and coach had adored him. Was he still Bluestone Mountain’s golden boy? She wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn he was.

Striding through the reception area outside her office, Francesca instructed her administrative assistant to make copies of the missing wallet reports. Then she ushered the men into her office and offered them seats.

“The copies won’t take long,” she said.

“Thank you.” Jack smiled, nothing more than a courteous response, but somehow one polite smile reflected charm that could be wielded like a weapon.

Detective Tanner set his notepad on her desk. “Who owns this place?”

“There is no one owner,” she explained, grateful for an excuse to look away from Jack. Honestly, she might have been seventeen again. “It’s the product of a collaborative partnership of companies that specialize in senior living.”

“Their names?” Poising his pen above the notebook, he waited.

Francesca wondered if this was some sort of test. This information was a matter of public record. “Lakeland Developers, University Realty Associates, Northstar Management and Rockport Investment Banking.”

“And you’re with the management company?”

She nodded. “Northstar Management. We staff over two dozen properties around the country.”

The intercom beeped. “That’ll be the copies, gentlemen.”

Jack rose, the sleek gray lines of his suit enhancing the athleticism of the motion. Francesca wondered if the high school football star still played. Was he a coach for his kids? Did he even have kids? Just the thought of this gorgeous man reproducing with the bullying bitch he’d once dated was enough to make Francesca twitch.

“We appreciate your help, Ms. Raffa.” Jack extended his hand. “We’ll be in touch.”

Francesca had been helpful. She’d given a lot more information than she’d gotten in return. Now it was his turn to repay the favor. “What can I tell the Hickmans, Chief Sloan? They’ll be worried, and the captain really doesn’t need any stress right now.”

“Why’s that?” he asked.

“Heart trouble. He spent some time in our nursing center after a hospital stay. He wasn’t home long before he misplaced his wallet.”

“Tell them not to worry. If there’s a problem we’ll advise them on how to proceed.”

Not exactly what she was hoping for, but it wasn’t her place to push. She’d leave that to the Hickmans’ daughter. So she ushered the men from her office, picked up the copies from Yvette before escorting them back to the lobby.

They exchanged polite goodbyes. Francesca waited while they got into an unmarked car. As Jack slipped into the passenger side, he glanced over his shoulder and caught her gaze. And smiled that smile.

Then he slid into the car. The door closed behind him, and the tinted windows shielded him from view. He could be staring right at her for all she knew, so Francesca stood her ground until the car pulled away, refused to give a man with law-enforcement vision the slightest indication that her heart was pounding double-time.

Honestly.

“Never a dull moment around here,” June commented drily when Francesca finally returned to the lobby.

“That’s the truth.” She shrugged off the cold. “Now it’s time to get back to work.”

But as she strode toward her office, she couldn’t stop thinking about Jack. Police chief? She’d have pegged him for a world-class surgeon or a high-powered attorney or some other similarly affluent career. He’d been A-list back in high school. His future had looked like the land of opportunity from where Francesca had been standing.

Then again, when she remembered the way he’d listened to her talk about the lodge, she wasn’t surprised he’d gone into a career that relied heavily on his people skills. Even she, in the seventh circle of social hell, hadn’t missed out on the whole Jack Sloan mystique. How such a guy had been involved with Karan Kowalski…Francesca shook off the thought, determined not to let the past impact her present. No one knew better than she did that people grew and changed. For all she knew, Jack could be married to Karan now and have six kids. But he hadn’t been wearing a wedding band.

Which meant exactly nothing, she thought stubbornly. Her ex-husband, Nicky, had taken off his ring when it had suited him, as she’d learned too late.

Jeez. What was it about a charming man that melted her from the inside out? One might think her years with Nicky Raffa would have made her immune. Apparently not.

CHAPTER THREE

THE SUN HAD GONE DOWN hours ago, but Jack was only now getting around to a workout. Not his preference, but it beat missing one for the third day in a row. He’d just left the office, which was late even for him, and he was no slouch when it came to long days. All the law-enforcement agencies in the area worked closely with the sheriff and the state troopers to keep the Catskills safe. Since crime happened around the clock, Jack had to be available the same.

But he enjoyed his job. The flexibility. And the surprises. No two days were ever alike. Every time he walked through the door or his cell phone rang, some new challenge forced him to juggle commitments with crises in the inadequate amount of time available.

Who’d come up with a twenty-four-hour day, anyway?

Left to Jack, he’d have added at least six more hours—enough for some decent shut-eye.

He wiped the sweat from his neck before moving to the bench for some barbell curls. One nice part of a night-time workout was that he practically had the gym to himself. No waiting for equipment, which was exactly why Tom Censullo, the owner of Pit Bull Gym, kept the place open 24/7. For some diehards, workouts were like crime.

“You do know that normal people are at home watching the news right now?” The familiar, but unexpected voice broke into Jack’s thoughts.

Surprised, he glanced in the direction of the sound to find his dad heading toward him. “You’re telling me you’re not normal?”

His dad tossed a towel on a nearby bench. “That’s news?”

“Maybe not.”

Shrugging, his dad propped a water bottle against the leg of the bench before sitting.

When he’d been younger, Jack had thought his father was the most conventional, and humorless, parent on the planet. Only maturity had helped him appreciate his father’s finer points.

A corporate attorney for a Fortune 500 company, Richard Sloan was as no-nonsense and traditional as his wife was avant-garde. Jack had come to think of them as big business meets the debutante. His mother and father were an unusual combination, but they complemented each other in their surprising ways.

His mother had grown up on the Upper East Side. She was the daughter of privilege who cared more for her current crusade than for what might be printed on the society page.

His dad was privileged in his own right. Bluestone Mountain royalty descended from one of the founding miners of the area. As a young man he hadn’t been able to blow out of his hometown for civilization fast enough. He’d headed to Manhattan, where he’d earned a law degree, an enviable job with a company he was still employed by some forty years later, and a wife who’d insisted they rear their only son in the Catskills’ fresh air.

His father commuted to this very day.

“Why are you here so late?” Jack asked.

“Your mother had a fundraiser tonight. She stayed in the city.”

“But you came home?”

His father rolled his eyes, a look Jack knew meant he hadn’t made the trip willingly. “Gus-Gus isn’t doing so well.”

That explained it. Gus-Gus was the patriarch of his mother’s hoard of Maltese dogs. Eighteen years old if he was a day. “Michaela couldn’t have kept an eye on him?”

“Your mother would have cancelled the whole event if she could have gotten away with it. The governor doesn’t have another free slot in her schedule for six months.”

“She didn’t want to leave Gus-Gus at Michaela’s mercy.” The family’s live-in housekeeper didn’t have the same soft spot for dogs that Jack’s mother had. “She’s afraid Michaela won’t hear him if he has trouble breathing. And if he does go downhill, she knows Michaela won’t usher him from life in the style to which he’s accustomed.”

“She trusts you?”

“I have detailed instructions.”

Maltese dogs, both old and young, were serious business in the Sloan house. His mother drove a gas-guzzling Suburban just so she could transport her dogs back and forth between Bluestone and the family apartment in the city. She’d mentioned on several occasions that Gus-Gus didn’t travel as easily as he had in his youth, so Jack knew it must have killed her to leave him behind with one paw in the grave. “If you’re on death watch, then what are you doing here?”