"Everywhere she turned, Nancy would stumble over hidden staircases, mysterious letters, broken lockets, haunted attics, secret diaries or unclaimed signet rings…It was frustrating for me to compare my mundane life to Nancy's." —The Memoirs of Bambi Goldbloom

Sunday, August 29, 2021

Nancy waited by the curb with her purse and yawned. She stepped into Frank's Honda when it pulled up.

"I'm a morning person, but damn," Frank grumbled good-naturedly, driving toward the interstate in pitch darkness. They still had a good view of each other in the light from the dashboard. "5:40 a.m.? These are your investigative techniques, not mine."

"Alan Hooper was killed sometime between 6:30 and the 6:58 train, a little over two weeks ago, and we are going to follow his exact steps that morning. Did you get what I wanted?" Nancy asked.

"Glove box. But wait a second, Nancy." Frank exhaled. "I need to apologize for Friday night. Thank you for throwing me out of the pub. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't—and on the day I came back from dropping Callie off at school, too. If I want a chance with you, I should break it off with Callie first...which I really don't want to do." He hesitated and glanced in her direction.

Nancy stifled the urge to laugh. So there was one happy side effect of the extremely stressful day of outlining she'd had yesterday afternoon while hungover, plus the unpleasant encounter with Angelo, plus their friend's father's murder—she'd all but forgotten the sparks of attraction that had passed between her and Frank.

"Thanks for being honest with me," she said, and determined not to analyze his words until later. Perhaps much later. "And thanks for not telling me I was imagining things. Obviously you weren't leaning in for the kiss. I just felt like there was something going on, and the mood felt so much like our previous kisses, when we were single."

Frank relaxed into his seat. "Except that our lives weren't in danger, for once," he joked. "God. I've always judged cheating jerks for their excuse that they just happen to care about more than one woman. Now I kind of understand."

Nancy certainly didn't care to hear an analysis about herself versus Callie. "Thanks for taking me in on Friday night. I got some valuable time alone with Biff the next morning. He was willing to talk a little bit about his father."

"Really? What's your assessment?" Frank merged onto I-84 West.

"If he had something to do with his father's death, he deserves a Best Supporting Actor award. His emotions seemed genuine, and what he said made sense for someone processing a very complicated grief."

Frank nodded in acknowledgment.

"I also searched his room," Nancy said. "There aren't many personal touches in there, and of course he would be too smart to leave any obvious clues lying around. I did find a stack of love letters in his nightstand drawer, from someone named Karen. Do you know her?"

"No. But Biff is very private about his love life."

"I only read the top one," Nancy continued, "which spoke of a professor—therefore Karen's a girlfriend from the past two years, while Biff's been in college. And she might be the same girl he told me he was meeting for a study date yesterday morning. Of course, if you want to read these letters, you have daily opportunities to do so."

Frank shook his head. "No, good call on leaving them alone. We know that they're there if we feel like Biff is keeping something from us. And now we also have the option of tracking down this Karen if we want another source. Obviously I'm glad to hear it, glad to hear you don't think Biff is involved. It was a long shot."

Nancy peered at Frank curiously. "Did you really think Biff had something to do with his father's murder? It seemed like you were genuinely worried about it on on Friday, yet you don't seem too surprised or relieved that I don't think he did."

"I knew it was probably paranoia on my part, suspecting him in the first place."

Nancy waited for an explanation. A sliver of sun began to rise behind them.

Frank sighed. "I'm scared of losing another friend, feeling like I don't know the people closest to me. Joe is still grieving Iola's death. He obviously has commitment issues as a result. But Joe is very open about his emotions, which helps him to process them. Whereas Phil shut down after Iola died. Phil has barely come back to Bayport since, just brief visits to appease his parents during major Jewish holidays. And, Nancy—I was very familiar with the evidence in Iola's case, and there just wasn't enough to convict any one terrorist of planting that bomb. But on their court date, there was security footage I'd never seen before—flash drives in their names, with incriminating files—new evidence that earned several convictions."

"Wow," Nancy said softly.

"I looked over at Phil, and his face was totally blank. And I felt like I didn't know him at all. I never asked him if he was involved, as then I'd be an accessory to tampering with evidence. And I can't tell you any more, since I don't want you to be an accessory, either. But I know for a fact that Phil Cohen is a genius, with exactly the technological skills that the swaps would have required. He's learning more about science and computers every day. He could be a dangerous man, if he wanted to be." Frank moved his hand in an impatient gesture. "But I'm sorry for dumping all this on you. It's always bothered me, but I want to maintain whatever shred of friendship Phil still has with us. With me."

Nancy responded carefully. "You're not paranoid, since you really have seen one of your friends totally change after encountering evil. And you are certainly never dumping on me."

"But those five weeks of Alan Hooper staying in this Motel 6 are suspicious as hell," Frank hurried on, the signal to change the subject. "Maybe Biff's mom had contact with her ex. Maybe she has a new boyfriend, although no one's heard of her ever dating again, and Alan wanted to punish her for it. Alan was always the most focused on tormenting her, and he could blackmail her using the kids. Biff moved out last year—maybe Alan was waiting to get huge Biff out of the way, before he went after his wife and daughter?"

Nancy dropped an F-bomb as another vehicle swerved around them going ninety miles an hour. "That would be quite some significant blackmail, if one or more of the Hoopers still couldn't tell the cops that they'd had contact with Alan, even after his death. But, yes, I do want an opportunity to question Margaret and Mary, without them realizing that I'm questioning them. Biff mentioned that his mom and sister go to Catholic church now, and there's only one Catholic church in Bayport, so I'm thinking of getting involved."

"Good idea. But you'll need to wash out that filthy mouth of yours before you go." Frank grinned at her. "Oh, wait. I happen to know that Margaret and Mary attend the early mass. So we'll have to turn around now if you want to make it there in time."

"No, it'll have to be next week. I've got to see the crime scene first." Nancy suddenly sat up straight. "Yes, yes, yes. This makes me inordinately happy."

"Toll booths usually make people annoyed, not happy," Frank teased. There was a long moment of silence as Frank slowed down and paid the toll. Nancy took the previously-requested road map of Connecticut out of Frank's glove box and spread it out wide.

Frank moved his right elbow to make room. "You realize you're the only person under seventy who still looks at physical maps."

"I need a bird's eye view." Nancy fished for a red pen in her purse and began to mark it up. "We are...let's see, thirteen miles away from the crime scene. With no corresponding toll booth on the opposite side of the highway going eastbound—but, if the culprit was driving west like we are, he might have driven through this booth. Did Detective Shao look at any of the footage, drivers, license plate numbers?"

"She did a cursory view, and didn't find anything unusual. It's like a needle in a haystack, until we have something to go on."

"Damn it. The next toll booth coming from the west is 32 miles after the crime scene. It would be much easier for someone going eastbound to get around it." Nancy turned some pages in the road map and squinted at the lines. "It would be hard to reach Bridgeport by back roads. Inconvenient if not impossible. Odds are definitely on our side that the culprit was on I-84 at some point."

"But no telling where they got off or on, or when, or whether they stayed overnight somewhere," Frank replied. They spent the remainder of the ride in silence. The sun had fully risen. Nancy checked the case file on her phone and saw that it was the same weather as the day of the murder: sunny, clear, low 70s. A beautiful morning.

Nancy made a rude noise of disappointment when there was no toll to get off I-84 in Bridgeport, and no sign of any traffic cameras. They made a slight left, moving northwest from the interstate. The road was pretty and rural, with a few boarded-up businesses. They drove less than a mile and saw the Motel 6 on the left. On the right was extra parking for 18-wheelers, along with a mechanic's garage, large gas station, and fast food joints that contained not one iota of nutritional value. It was 6:13, yet there were plenty of people awake—if, indeed, they'd ever slept—and two women walked through the truckers' parking lot that Nancy suspected were not drivers.

Frank pulled into a parking spot at Wendy's and turned off the ignition. "So. How did you like Bridgeport?"

Nancy raised her eyebrows. "This is it? A glorified truck stop?"

"A mile off the interstate. A mile away from prying eyes." Frank exited his vehicle. "Remember to say everything you're thinking as we do this walkthrough, Nancy, no matter how obvious it seems. I want your unfiltered first impressions."

Nancy put on her purse and followed Frank on foot. She wondered where the murderer had parked. She took out her phone and snapped a few pictures.

Frank had visited the scene before, with Detective Shao. "Alan Hooper stayed in Room 216," he said, nodding toward the general direction of the room. "Most of his neighbors checked in the night before, left the morning of, and probably checked out quickly when they saw the cop cars converging. Only a few people responded to our interview calls, and they deny having seen anything."

"And wouldn't say so even if they had. What vehicle did Alan drive?"

"Apparently he changed vehicles frequently. Nobody can remember anything specific, and the motel doesn't keep records on vehicles in their lots. Plus he parked in an area not covered by security cameras."

Another lost lead. "Slick," Nancy said.

"Correct. And every morning, he walked down this back road for coffee, away from town. Footage for that morning shows him leaving at 6:16 a.m. as always. Pretty much as soon as the sun rose."

"Then we're right on time." Nancy and Frank walked along the back road away from town—paved, but with not a soul on it—and paused briefly when they arrived at the railroad tracks where Alan Hooper's body had been found.

"All these trees. So many places for the culprit to hide," Nancy commented. Then they continued on to the coffee shop. They entered at 6:30 and ordered coffee with a shot of espresso (which was quite good) and drank them quickly while asking a few questions of the barista, who'd already been questioned by police. Nancy got the impression that the woman had been familiar with Alan Hooper, as he'd come daily for a month, but wasn't particularly interested in his passing, as she was used to transient clientele.

"We actually open at 7:00," the barista explained. "But we don't turn away the occasional person who arrives early, as you can see. I gave him a cup when it was ready. I had it ready for him at 6:30 on the day he died—made it special for him. He said he liked to go on walks right when the sun came up."

"Now that clears something up," Frank said after they'd exited the shop. "How Alan didn't run into any other customers when he came here. If only there'd been a jogger or something that morning. Although—"

"If there had been, then that person would be dead, too," Nancy finished the sentence for him. She squinted down the street. There were a couple of residences and a bookstore that hadn't survived the pandemic. "The real mystery is how this coffee shop stayed in business back here with such terrible marketing. She must have regular, local customers. I don't think the truck drivers would walk down to this out-of-the-way place, and their trucks wouldn't fit on this tiny road either. They'd settle for shit coffee at the fast food chains and a blow job in the parking lot."

"Right. Odds are low that there would be witnesses on this back road, this early in the morning. Still, quite a ballsy way to commit a murder, out in the open, in broad daylight, with people just a few minutes' walk on either side of the train tracks." Frank checked his watch and gestured for them to begin walking back.

"Interesting character study. He was a criminal in so many ways, yet still enjoyed peaceful sunrise nature walks and good coffee. Why couldn't he have channeled that into becoming a yoga teacher or something?" Nancy walked a little quicker than her norm, trying to accommodate for Alan Hooper's longer stride. Frank seemed to struggle to keep up, so she slowed down. She looked at her watch: it had taken approximately five minutes to get back to the train tracks. "So he arrived back here at about 6:37, and the morning train comes at 6:58 from the west. It's 6:46 now, just because we spent time talking in the coffee shop. Where was the blood spatter?"

Frank gestured to an area about twenty feet away into the railroad treeline and they walked to it. "Shot through the heart, close range. Most likely killed him instantly. Very little mess, as Alan was lying down when he was shot—we found the bullets embedded in the ground. The second shot was probably a just-in-case."

"So the culprit hid behind the first trees at the treeline and caught him by surprise," Nancy mused, trying to picture the possibilities. "It must have been from the back, so he could cover Alan's mouth. He dragged Alan twenty feet in so that there wouldn't be blood in the middle of the railroad intersection, but couldn't drag him any more than that—he was losing the element of surprise and Alan was fighting back. Or maybe Alan submitted, when he felt the butt of the gun. No chance in hell we'll ever find the gun, am I right?"

"Not a chance," Frank agreed. "Probably in the middle of Barmet Bay. Must have used a silencer. And then he carried the body—no signs of dragging it—toward the curve in the railroad track, to hide it from any passing cars, and evidently in hopes that the oncoming train would mutilate the body. As you can see, the ground isn't soft enough for footprints, just scuff marks from a brief struggle, plus he spent the majority of his time on the asphalt road and the train tracks." They walked west down the train tracks until Frank could point out the spot where the body was found.

"Whoa." Nancy frowned. "That's a long way to carry the body of a grown man. And a total miracle that the train stopped in time. Any evidence at all on the body?"

"No ID, nothing, just his room key from the motel and the change from his coffee. But," Frank grinned, "two dark hairs on his shoulder that weren't his own."

Nancy's jaw dropped. "With the hair root intact?"

"No, unfortunately."

"Rats." Without DNA, which was present in hair roots but absent in hair strands, they could never obtain a genetic match. If they ever had a suspect's hair to compare it to, the most they could get was a result of "genetically similar." "I'm starting to feel you about that needle-in-a-haystack thing," Nancy said with a sigh. "But Alan Hooper was a big man, even though he wasn't as big as Biff. I'm thinking we can at least rule out a woman acting alone, and I think carrying the body all this way down the train tracks would be hard for two women, too. What do you think?"

Frank was frowning toward the ground. He didn't respond.

Nancy gave him more time to consider her question. They heard the shrill blast of the train whistle, and Nancy and Frank both startled. "Oh, there's the 6:58," Nancy said with a half-shamefaced laugh. She headed away from the train tracks and toward the tree line. "Come this way."

Frank remained where he was. He looked around him in anxious confusion.

"Frank!" Nancy ran back, grabbed his hand, and yanked him off the tracks as the train rounded the corner past them, once more blasting its whistle.

Nancy's heart pounded from residual stress as the train receded from view. She and Frank had had much closer scrapes than that, but never due to Frank's own hesitation. "What was that?" she eventually managed, dropping Frank's hand and turning toward him. "Why didn't you—"

Frank was clutching his chest, and for one devastating moment, Nancy thought he was having a heart attack. He fumbled in his pocket and withdrew an inhaler, sticking it into his mouth for multiple frantic, heaving gasps of air. He bent over at the waist, struggling to breathe, then sat down, hard.

"Should I call 911?" Nancy asked urgently.

Frank shook his head no and continued focusing all his efforts on breathing. Nancy stared at him in concern, wondering if his problems were more medical or psychiatric.

Then she understood what was going on, and her heart broke. "I'm so sorry, Frank," she said softly.

He was slowly winning the battle, regaining more control over his lungs. Nancy sat next to him on the ground and put a very light touch on his back, rubbing back and forth in support.

Several moments later, Frank held his head in his hands. Nancy stilled her movements and rested her hand on his shoulder.

Finally Frank sat up and wiped moisture from his eyes. "Yeah. I'm a covid long hauler."

Nancy could think of several comforting things to say, and knew that Frank wouldn't want to hear any of them. He might want an occasional sympathetic ear, now that she knew, but he would never want pity. She remained silent.

"Some days are better than others. I get exhausted at random times. I have body aches like I'm ninety years old. I smell nasty things. And the brain fog. What if comes when I'm trying to take a test, or give a presentation?" Frank still wouldn't look at her. "I've been approved to drive. I've learned when to pull over. But these inhalers feel like I'm putting a band-aide on a gaping wound. And, during my and Joe's last case—Joe had to chase the suspect by himself."

"That's awful," Nancy said simply. Several other clues clicked into place: Frank running out of Auntie Gert's funeral, gasping for breath; Frank encouraging Joe to take a case by himself; Frank enrolling in community college when he could have gone anywhere; other brain fog episodes; his increase in drinking; Frank taking on a case without pay that already had an official detective assigned to it, so he could help as much or as little as he was able to do, a case that it wouldn't really be the end of the world if it were never solved.

"That might have affected my decision to finally get some credentials after my name. In case I'm sitting behind a desk answering the phone for Joe one day." Frank sounded bitter, which concerned Nancy more than if he'd sounded angry. It had been eight months since his six-day scare in the hospital.

"There are many stories of—"

"Please don't tell me I'm going to get better. They've done scans and my lungs are permanently disfigured." Frank braced himself, and then stood up.

"I'm sorry that you're going through this." Nancy stood with him and they started to walk back. "Thank you for telling me. You can talk to me any time, Frank. I think you'll keep learning how to accommodate for your symptoms and continue with regular detective work. But I also think that you could solve more cases sitting behind a desk than anyone else could out in the field."

That earned her a small smile. "Thanks, Nancy," Frank said.

A/N: Frank's health will be briefly mentioned a few more times, but not become a major plot point. We read/write fanfiction to try to escape from the pandemic, not to hear more about it. But my heart bleeds for long haulers, and therefore Frank will suffer along with them in solidarity (plus there is actually a reason why this is happening). The good news is that, in Bayport and River Heights, the pandemic randomly ended on June 1, 2021. Everyone woke up that morning and there were no more cases. So there's still some time left for that to happen to us, too!

Many thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter: novembershowers, Nan girl, Cherylann Rivers, MargaretA66, Al, and sm2003495. Hope everyone has a great weekend. JB