On one level, Frank Scanlon could understand the myriad of reasons why he could not be the investigating detective working his girlfriend's missing person case. On another level it reminded him how powerless he truly was, and it was hard to keep that frustration from turning into anger at his Lieutenant who was too logical…the world…himself! The last one stung the most.
Then to add insult to injury, he was assigned a Friday overnight, and still partnered with anything but empathetic Curtis Vanburen. It was going to be a long night!
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Eighteen-year-old Zander Smith took a swig of warm beer from his red solo cup as he stood on the back porch of the Rhodes Family Cabin that overlooked Lake Kemp. Pizza might be like sex…even when it was pretty bad; it was still pretty good. But cheap beer was, well, basically swill. Of course, beer didn't have to be enjoyable to serve it's purpose. Tonight, what should have been his older brother's twenty second birthday, he was drinking to forget.
"I thought you said there was a hot tub," Sarah Webber whined.
"We could always go skinny dipping in the lake," Kyle Ratcliffe suggested as he moved in to wrap an arm around her.
Dude is punching way above his weight class! Zander thought.
"Ewww get away from me! Who invited you anyway?" she shrieked. Then she turned and found her way to Zander's side.
Zander allowed her to meld her body into his. Some of it was clearly for Ratcliffe's benefit but he knew Ecstasy made her horny. She might be dating a Prince, but she was sleeping with him which he found almost comforting in an unexplainable situation.
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One of twelve-year-old Lark Madison's earliest memories of childhood was the concept that her mother hated her. That, like most aspects of life growing up in the projects of Moriches, had been anything but comforting. As she got older, she had accepted that her mother didn't really hate her. Her mother was just an addict.
Opioid addiction ruled Suzanne Madison's life. Everything was secondary to procuring her next hit. She would sell anything she owned, even her body, for that all-consuming high. When selling her body hadn't been enough, Suzanne Madison had gotten desperate. She had sold her daughter's body. Lark had been almost twelve the first time that Marco Dane had put her in a room in the Croydon Hotel.
Ten months later it hadn't gotten any easier, but Lark had mostly accepted she didn't have a choice. Because she didn't! So, she shivered under tangled sheets in a musty bed feeling like a lamb about to be led to slaughter.
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Elizabeth Webber wiped the cleaning rag over the counter at Kelly's Diner. The only thing which was worse than closing on Friday night was closing on Friday night and opening on the following Saturday morning. By best circumstances that gave her five hours away from the grease trap. It was inhumane but Ruby kind of hated her and her Grandmother kind of enjoyed her being someone else's problem, so it was a schedule she worked at least two or three weekends each month. She knew better than to complain. Her grandmother would just tell her she should be more like Sarah, and her father would insist it was building character and then he would launch into some story about how hard he worked. So, when another couple came in, she took a deep breath, picked up two menus and made her way to the center table they had selected.
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"Oh, yeah, I'll get right on that," Detective Curtis Vanburen said with a roll of his eyes. Then he hung up the phone on his desk and took another bite of his submarine sandwich.
Frank Scanlon shook his head. "Did we catch a case?" he asked.
"Once again, dispatch is unable to rub their two remaining brain cells together and thinks that a noise complaint on Cortlandt Street requires a detective," Vanburen said with his mouth full.
Frank Scanlon shook his head again. He really needed a new partner! In the meantime, he had taken an oath to the citizens of Port Charles to protect and serve; and to his mother to remain gainfully employed. Neither was well served by following Detective Vanburen's lead so he decided it was time he made his way down to the Communications Hub on the second floor and find out why dispatch was calling Detectives to the scene on Cortlandt Street.
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In Kelly's Diner, Celia Quartermaine started to cut the chicken in her Cobb Salad as her dinner companion eyed his tuna melt warily. "Have you lost your appetite for American cuisine?" she asked.
"I guess that depends on your perspective. Who puts olives in tuna fish?" ELQ Board Member Greg Nelson asked.
Celia laughed. "In my opinion black olives go with almost everything," she said.
"That explains a lot!" Greg said.
"Doesn't it now?" Celia asked with a wink. Her compassion got the better of her. "Seriously, though, I seem to recall that you detest olives almost as much as Ned despises artichokes. Do you want to order something else?"
"Ok, now that is just wrong! How does someone despise artichokes?" Greg asked.
"You would have to ask Ned. Lois used to make the best Antipasto Salad with this extra tangy olive oil dressing. You could say it was almost to die for and I thought Ned might when he was trying to be a good sport and eat his way around the artichokes a bit unsuccessfully," Celia said.
Greg laughed. "Jenny loved artichokes, and antipasto salad," he added sadly.
Jenny Gardner had been Greg's wife. She had died thirteen years earlier in a jet ski accident after her former fiancé, Tony Barclay, tampered with the engine. He was trying to kill Greg so he could have Jenny for himself. Ironically, Greg allowed Jenny to ride the jet ski and she was on it when it exploded in Spring Lake.
Although Celia had only met the woman once at a charity event, she had a sense of her from Greg's stories. She reached out and laid a hand over Greg's palm. There weren't really words.
"It still seems like yesterday," Greg said quietly.
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Port Charles General Hospital CCU Nurse Lisa Rowe took a deep breath before she ventured into Katherine Bell's room to adjust the Amiodarone Drip rate. She was a bit ashamed to admit that she had cringed when she saw Katherine Bell's name on the report sheet, but she had cared for her during her recent prior admission when she floated to stepdown and that had been a draining and thankless task. So, she had prepared herself for cruel, demanding, and vindictive and been pleasantly surprised to inherit a patient who had so far slept the entire shift. Sure, there were still hourly vitals and urine output to track, Amiodarone and Bicarbonate Drips to adjust and even every two-hour repositioning, but she was able to do that in peace and quiet which was so much preferable to her prior experiences.
Dr. Monica Quartermaine had explained that protracted sleep after an amphetamine overdose was not uncommon when she had called her with repeat labs. Apparently since her labs were improving Dr. Quartermaine was cautiously optimistic that she wouldn't require dialysis. Lisa was glad to hear that. She always wanted her patients to do well, after all. However, she was a bit ashamed to admit she had been equally happy to hear that Katherine's extended sleep might last her entire overnight shift.
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On Cortlandt Street, outside the Croydon Hotel, PCPD Detective Frank Scanlon closed the door of the patrol car once Girolamo Palerno was secured inside. "Just take him down to booking and process him on the solicitation charges. We will finish processing and securing the scene and then follow up with the victim at PCGH," he said.
Officer Brian Beck nodded.
"Is she really a victim if she is being paid?" Detective Vanburen asked.
Frank shook his head. "Good grief, she is a child!" he said. He saw the way Officer Beck glared at his partner. He had three kids of his own at home. His youngest two, Hayley and Kerri were little girls.
Vanburen shrugged his shoulders. "Is she? Or is that part of the act?" he asked.
"As interesting as this discussion is, we all have work to do. So why don't we just agree that solicitation is illegal in New York and we'll process him on that charge, at least for now," Officer Ted Wilson said. He took a few long strides in the direction of his patrol car as if to emphasize his point.
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"Officers really need to know their place," PCPD Detective Curtis Vanburen grumbled as he followed his partner back into the Croydon Hotel.
As he opened the door to the manager's office, PCPD Detective Frank Scanlon knew better than to respond to that comment, but he found it interesting if he considered how Vanburen had treated his PCPD Cadet Class in 1985 or how Vanburen himself had been treated by Detective Frisco Jones during the roughly twenty months between January 1990 and August 1991 that Detective Jones had graced the PCPD with his presence. Whether Frisco had treated Vanburen as his personal lackey as payback for how Vanburen had treated him five years earlier had never been clear.
Ultimately, after he assaulted a victim's fiancé, Chief Quartermaine had no choice but to put Frisco on leave. Frank remembered that day well.
August 14, 1991
Frank Scanlon glanced up from his desk and made eye contact when PCPD Chief John Quartermaine walked past his desk towards fellow officer Vince Viscotti
"Is Detective Jones still in the interrogation room with Decker Moss?" Chief Quartermaine asked.
Vince nodded but shrugged his shoulders and Chief Quartermaine took a few strides over to the one-way glass room.
"Come on guys, we're better than this! If we aren't then what is the point?" John Quartermaine asked as he flung the door open.
Perhaps sixty seconds passed before John Quartermaine returned with a hand securely clapped onto Detective Jones' shoulder. "You can go wait in my office. Perhaps if you take the stairs, it will give you a chance to calm down," he said. He released his grasp, but his eyes looked stern. Then he turned and went back into the interrogation room closing the door behind him.
"What are you looking at?" Frisco Jones screamed as he kicked over a trash can that wasn't exactly in his path.
Frank didn't answer him. He pretended to focus intently on his paperwork until the sound of the slamming door alerted him that Detective Jones had left the floor into the stairwell.
Another five minutes later, Chief Quartermaine exited the interrogation room with Decker Moss. "I can understand why you might be a bit reluctant to accept a ride home with any of my officers. I assure you that this will be addressed. Can I at least arrange for a cab for you?" he offered.
"Just keep Detective Jones out of my face and I'll be fine," Decker Moss said as he stalked towards the public elevators.
"Like I said, this will be addressed, and your fiancée's case will be reassigned. I will personally be in touch in a few days to update you on the case and perhaps find a time we can meet if other questions have come up," Chief Quartermaine said.
After his meeting with Chief Quartermaine, Frisco Jones took some personal leave. He never returned to the PCPD, not even to clean out his locker. In September it was announced that he was returning to the CIA. Frank had been promoted to Detective in October to fill the Detective line he had vacated. The Body Heat Arson case was reassigned to Leon Tagglione and Ross Janell. Edgar "Edge" Jerome was determined to be the culprit but committed suicide before he could be arrested. Or at least that was the official story.
The manager's voice pulled Frank from his thoughts. "Here are the copies of the guest register. Mr. Dane always says it is important to afford our guests their privacy, but I have sisters too. I swear, if I had realized she was so young I would have called you myself," Cutter Wentworth, the night manager said as he handed over a stack of papers.
Frank tended to doubt that since he hadn't exactly called the police once he heard the victim screaming. Unless the anonymous call had come from him? Dispatch had told him that the number traced to a payphone a block up from the hotel. "Do you have any idea who did call this in?" he asked.
Cutter shrugged his shoulders. "I can't say as I do. Is there anything else?"
"Just make sure that the scene isn't compromised. Our CSI techs are finishing processing another scene and then will be heading over here. An officer is standing by outside the room until they arrive," Frank said. He started to turn to leave but then something caught his eye on the floor beneath the counter.
Frank turned back and looked more closely. The braided metal bracelet looked distinctively like Julie's. Her brother Buddy had made it at scout camp when they were both kids. She had worn it every day. "What is that bracelet?" he asked.
Cutter seemed genuinely confused. "What?"
"On the floor, three steps to your left," Frank instructed.
Cutter leaned over and picked up the bracelet. He handed it across to Frank. "This? I'm not sure honestly," he said.
But Frank was sure once he saw the JD woven into the center. That was definitely Julie's bracelet. Julie had been there!