“What time?”
“In the afternoon—four o'clock.”
“Where?”
“In his office. What happened?”
“Can you drive over here?”
“Jordan's office?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“Is Tucker there with you?”
“Yes. He's canvasing the area with other officers. Why?”
“I'll be right there.”
Allen hung up and hurried to the bathroom. When he walked back out, he was dressed and his hair was combed. He filled Frankie's water dish.
“I shouldn't be too long, Frankie,” Allen apologized to his dog. “I'll grab some more dog food on my way back.”
Allen grabbed his Jeep keys off the table and ran out the door. The drive from the motel to Jordan's office took less than five minutes. He parked in the pizzeria's parking lot, and jogged across the street.
“Sorry, sir,” said one of the officers out front, putting up his hand. “I can't let—”
“My name's Allen Crane. Sergeant Rose is expecting me.”
The officer lifted the yellow police tape. “Follow me,” he said.
Allen ducked below the police tape and followed the officer through the front door. Rose was standing in front of Doris's desk. Jordan was sitting in her chair behind the desk. His stiff arms hung at his side, and his head was tilted back. If it weren't for Jordan's purplish hue, the hole in his forehead, and the fact that his brains were splattered on the wall behind him, it would've looked as though he was inspecting the ceiling for leaks.
Allen wondered when the last time two people had been murdered in York only days apart was. Probably never.
“Sarge,” said the officer.
Rose spun around. “Crane,” he said.
Allen stared at Jordan. “Jesus,” he whispered. “Any suspects?”
“Well, as far as we know, you were the last person to see him alive.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because you told me.”
“I didn't say I was the last person to see him alive,” Allen argued. “I just said I was here yesterday. His killer was obviously the last person to see him alive.”
“Obviously,” Rose said. “But for now, that's you.”
“Why would I kill Bobby Jordan?”
“I don't know. Why would you get into an argument with him last week that sent him to the hospital?”
“And why would you know a young boy whose body was found out behind the elementary school?” Tucker asked.
Allen turned to see Tucker standing in the doorway. “You can't be serious.”
“Is it just a coincidence that you knew both victims?” Tucker asked.
Allen ignored the question, and returned his attention to Rose.
“Why were you here yesterday?” Rose asked.
“I just needed to speak with Jordan.”
“Why would a writer need to speak with a gangster?”
“Jordan asked me to stop over. He wanted to speak with me about the possibility of writing his biography.”
Rose and Tucker exchanged glances.
“Biography?” Rose asked.
“Yes,” Allen replied. “Jordan was toying with the idea of having his biography published.”
“Why?” Tucker asked. “I don't think his brother or his mother would want him writing a biography. Gangsters usually frown on that sort of thing.”
“He thought it would make an interesting story,” Allen answered. “And he thought it would be something for his children to read after he was gone.”
“He didn't have any children,” Tucker said.
“But he hoped to someday,” said Allen. “I'd think you'd know that.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Tucker asked.
“Well, you're a cop. He's a criminal. I figure it's probably your job to know things about local thugs.”
Allen knew that Bobby Jordan had been the only thing standing in the way of Tucker putting a bullet in his head, so he didn't want to anger the volatile cop too much. With Jordan out of the way, Tucker just might revisit the idea.
“What else did you talk about?” Rose asked.
“That's it,” Allen lied. “We had a cigar, a drink, and just shot the shit. I wanted to get a feel whether or not his story would even make a compelling biography.”
“And what did you decide?” Rose asked.
“I didn't decide. I told him I'd like to speak with him a few more times and take some notes. I had decided to stick around for a week or two more.”
Tucker clenched his jaw. “Do you think sticking around longer is a good idea?” he asked.
“Is there some reason I shouldn't?” Allen asked.
“Because folks keep dying while you're in town,” Tucker shot back angrily.
Changing the subject, Allen asked, “Any sign of forced entry?”
“No,” Rose answered. “We're thinking it was someone he knew.”
“Like you,” said Tucker.
Allen brushed it off. “Where's Doris?” he asked.
“His receptionist?” said Rose. “An ambulance took her to the hospital. Finding her boss murdered this morning was a bit of a shock. Guy that runs the art gallery next door heard a scream and found her on the floor, where she'd fainted, and called 911.”
“But she'll be alright?”
“Most likely. They're holding her overnight to make sure her ticker's okay.”
“Was Doris here when you were, Crane?” Tucker asked.
Allen nodded. “Yeah, she was here when I arrived. Jordan showed up a few minutes later. The two of us went into his office. Like I said, we each had a cigar and a drink. Doris went home a short time after Jordan arrived. I let myself out the back door. Jordan said the door would lock automatically when I shut it. I tried the knob after I shut it—it was locked.”
“What about the front door?” Rose asked.
“When Doris left for the night, Jordan told her to lock it on her way out.”
“Did she?”
“I don't know for sure. Like I said, we were in his office.”
A man with an ID badge clipped to his shirt pocket stuck his head in the room. “We ready?” he asked.
“I guess,” Rose replied.
The man looked over his shoulder. “Let's bag him!” he hollered.
“Is there anything else you need from me?” Allen asked.
“Not at the moment,” Rose responded.
“Just don't leave town, Crane,” said Tucker.
Allen locked eyes with him. “So, you're saying you'd like me to stick around a little longer?” he asked. “Mya will be glad to hear it.”
Tucker lunged at Allen. Luckily Rose was quicker, and jumped between the two men. He slammed a palm into each man's chest, shoving them both backwards. Tucker took a few steps back. Allen stumbled and landed on Doris's desk. He slid backwards and landed in Jordan's lap.
“Holy shit!” Allen screamed as he rolled off the corpse onto the floor, and quickly climbed to his feet. “What the hell, Tucker!”
Rose rushed around the desk to help Allen. “Sorry about that, Crane.” He was smirking.
Tucker's expression didn't change.
“You're laughing!” Allen shouted.
“I'm not laughing,” Rose shot back. “I'm grinning a little.”
“It's not funny.”
“That's because you didn't see your face when you landed on a dead guy, Crane.”
“Believe it or not, Rose, I've never been in a dead man's lap before.” Allen checked himself for blood, or whatever else might have rubbed off a dead man's body. He straightened his shirt and brushed off his pants.
As Allen made his way to the door, Rose said, “We'll be in touch, Crane.”
“Yeah,” Allen said.
“And I still owe you dinner.”
“Lookin' forward to it.”
As Allen walked past Tucker,
the officer leaned in close. “Watch yourself, Crane,” he whispered.
“Same goes for you, Tucker,” Allen replied.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Allen stood outside door number four trying his hardest to hear and feel what was happening on the other side. He had already raised his hand to knock once and chickened out. It had been four days since Jay and Tess had seen their son. Allen hadn't spoken with them since Sunday afternoon. He knew a knock at the door would bring a Pandora's box of false hope and impending doom.
It's quiet in there, he thought. Maybe I should leave them alone. Allen checked his cell phone for the time. It was only seven thirty. Could they still be sleeping? Probably not. Who could sleep at a time like this?
Just as Allen turned away from the door, it creaked opened.
“Allen?” said Jay.
“Oh, hey, Jay.”
“What're you doing out here?”
“I wanted to see how you guys were doing. I mean, do you need anything?”
Jay stepped outside and quietly pulled the door closed behind him. “Just my son back,” he whispered.
Allen nodded. The two of them walked across the parking lot and Jay sat down on a picnic table bench. Allen took a seat next to him.
“How's Tess doing?” he asked.
“She's sleeping. The doctor gave her something to calm her down and help her sleep.” Jay's voice was low, somber, and defeated. He glanced at his wristwatch. “You're up and at 'em early.”
“I got a call at six this morning from Sergeant Rose.”
“About?”
“They found a guy dead in his office this morning—Bobby Jordan.”
“Dead? Why did Rose call you?”
“I knew the guy.”
“A friend?”
“No, just an acquaintance.”
“Sorry to hear that. How did he die?”
“He was murdered.”
“Murdered? Are they thinking this has something to do with Jacob?”
“No. Jordan was kind of a local gangster. I'm sure he had a lot of enemies.”
“How is it you're friends with a local gangster?”
“He had asked me to write his biography.”
“Is a biography about a local gangster something that would sell?”
“Who knows? I'm not even sure he was serious, but I had a meeting with him yesterday afternoon.”
“Were you the last one to see him alive?”
“Now you sound like the cops.”
“I'll take that as a yes.”
“I'm no detective, but I'm assuming the killer was the last person to see him alive.”
“Do they have any persons of interest?”
“If they do, they didn't share that information with me. I know he has a brother, and the two of them don't speak—haven't spoken for years, according to Jordan.”
“This brother local?”
“Yeah, he lives right down the road. A big house overlooking the ocean.”
“He a gangster?” Jay asked.
Their talk seemed to be doing Jay some good. It was probably the first time he'd thought about anything other than his missing boy in the last four days. Allen decided to keep the conversation going.
“Yes, he is also a bad guy. It sounded to me like they were kind of in business together.”
“How did they pull that off if they don't speak to each other?”
“I guess they communicate through their mother.”
Jay nodded. “Even bad boys love their moms,” he said.
“I guess,” Allen replied.
“I bet this guy's brother wishes he had of buried the hatchet now that he's gone.”
“Maybe.”
“But I guess if you wait too long, it's too late.” Jay leaned over and rested his elbows on his knees. He stared into the grass. “Where is that kid?”
Allen reached over and put his hand on Jay's shoulder. “We'll find him,” he said.
“God I hope so. It's been four days.” Jay wiped away a tear with the back of his hand and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. “I don't know what I'll do if I never see him again.”
“You'll see him again. You gotta stay positive. Volunteers are searching everywhere. We put up missing posters in all of the nearby towns. Someone's seen him. Someone knows where he's at.”
Jay stood. “I hope you're right,” he said. He glanced over at his door. “I better get back inside. I don't want Tess to be alone when she wakes up.”
Allen got up as well. “Yeah, I better get back up there and feed Frankie. We're driving up to Kennebunkport today to distribute some more fliers.”
Jay reached out and shook Allen's hand. “Thanks for everything you've been doing.”
“No thanks necessary, Jay.”
Allen stood where he was until Jay had gone inside, then he walked to his Jeep. He reached through the open window and grabbed the Cumberland Farms convenience store bag full of Frankie's food.
“Morning, Crystal,” Allen said, on his way through the office.
“Morning, Allen,” Crystal replied.
“If I need anything, you're right next door,” Allen whispered to himself, on his way up the stairs.
Once inside his room, Allen opened a can of dog food, dumped it in a bowl, and said, “Ding, ding. Breakfast is served.”
He then pulled a box of Pop-Tarts out of the bag and ripped open the top. He dropped two of the frosted strawberry pastries into the toaster and pressed the button down. Leaning back against the cabinet, he watched as Frankie devoured his breakfast.
“Jesus, dog, chew it a little and you might be able to taste it.”
By the time the Pop-Tarts had popped, Frankie was done eating, and lying on the sofa.
“I guess I'll just eat alone,” Allen said.
He put his Pop-Tarts on a plate and sat on the bed with his back against the headboard. He grabbed the remote from the nightstand and turned on the television. It was tuned to the Weather Channel; Jen Carfagno was predicting at least four beautiful days in a row for the Maine coast.
Frankie jumped up on the bed and lay down beside Allen. The dog let out a quiet whimper. Allen put his hand on the dog's back.
“We'll find him, Frankie.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
When Allen woke up, he was lying on his side with part of a Pop-Tart stuck to his cheek. Frankie was sound asleep next to him. The Weather Channel was still on. It was ten o'clock. Donnie was standing outside the picture window looking in. Donnie grinned big and waved when Allen saw him.
What the hell? he thought.
Allen pushed himself upright and rubbed his eyes. Frankie opened his eyes for a second and closed them again.
“Were we still driving up to Kennebunkport?” Donnie hollered.
Allen looked over at the alarm clock. “Yeah! Hold on!”
Frankie put his paw over his ear.
“Am I bothering you?” Allen asked.
The dog ignored him.
Allen stumbled to the door and pulled it open. “Sorry,” he said. “I fell asleep.”
“I couldn't remember what time we said we were leaving.”
“Can you bring Frankie out front to use the grass while I jump in the shower quick? I'm not taking him with us.”
“Sure thing. Come on, boy.”
Donnie slapped his thigh, and Frankie leapt off the bed. The two of them went out the door and down the walkway.
Allen yawned and stretched his arms over his head as he lumbered to the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, when he exited the bathroom, Frankie was on the sofa and Donnie was on the bed, engrossed in the Weather Channel.
“How'd it go?” Allen asked.
Donnie kept his eyes glued to Felicia Combs. “Are you asking me, or the dog?”
“Either.”
“Frankie took a dump. I didn't.”
“Thank God for that,” Allen said. “We have to stop in the office on our way out. Crystal ran off a bunch more copies of the missing p
osters.”
“That was nice of her.”
Allen went to his duffle bag and pulled out a pair of socks. He sat on the edge of the bed and slipped them on. “Where's your search partner today?” he asked Donnie.
“Bill? I got him an Uber this morning and sent him home.”
“This morning? Christ, I wish I got as much action you do.”
“I didn't think you were interested,” Donnie deadpanned.
Allen chuckled. “A different kind of action.” He got up, crossed the room, and slid his feet into his sneakers. He put his foot up on a chair and tied them.
“Come to think of it,” Donnie said, “your Jeep wasn't here when Bill's Uber arrived. Where did you sleep last night?”
“In my room,” Allen replied. “I got a call early this morning from Sergeant Rose.”
“The cop who invited you to dinner.”
“The same.”
“What was he calling so early about?”
“Remember the guy I told you about the other night—the one I got into the scuffle with at Stones Throw?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“He's dead.”
“Oh my goodness. Did he have another heart attack?”
“No. Someone shot him in the head.”
Donnie's hand went to his chest. “You're not serious!” he gasped.
“Serious as a heart attack,” Allen answered. “Or in this case, a bullet to the head.”
“My God, that's horrible. Do they have any suspects?”
“Just me.”
“What! Seriously?”
“Not really, but Rose did make it a point of mentioning that I was the last person to see him alive.”
“Wouldn't the killer be the last person to see him alive?”
“That's what I said.” Allen walked to the door. “Be back in a few hours, Frankie,” he said. “I'll ask Crystal to look in on you.”
Donnie looked at Frankie like he was waiting for an answer. When he didn't get one, he shrugged his shoulders and followed Allen through the door.
In the office, Allen said, “Morning, Crystal. Did you get the fliers printed?”
Crystal spun around and snatched the stack of fliers off the table behind her. “Sure did,” she said, handing them to Allen.
“Do you think you could look in on Frankie in about an hour or so?”
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