Frankie's Back in Town

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 feldspathic 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.”