Frankie's Back in Town

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.

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.