looking for that. I finally found the card, stuffed between a stack of my mother’s old recipes on the right side of the desk: “Jackson Morrison, Graphic Designer.”
Well, well. I picked up the phone on the desk and dialed the number. Instead of ringing two or three times before going to voice mail, it went directly to a recorded message. “Hi, this is Jackson Morrison. I’m on an extended leave of absence. If you need immediate assistance, please call Rick Felter, who’ll be handling my projects in my absence.” Click.
“Felter? I hardly know her,” I said, cracking myself up.
So they were going to be gone for a while. I called again, jotting down Rick Felter’s number.
I might just be in the market for some graphic design, I thought.
Crawford strolled off in the direction of Main Street, Dobbs Ferry, feeling better about things than he had in a long time. The circumstances surrounding his visit to this bucolic town were still frightening and disturbing, but he was happier being with Alison than living his somewhat safe existence in Manhattan. He rounded the corner and caught sight of the Hudson, glimmering in the autumn sun, and smiled. Everything would be fine.
He found Tony’s deli right away and stocked up on coffee and breakfast food. If he knew anything about Alison, it was that she had a tremendous appetite, and if he didn’t buy enough food, she would eat what was rightfully his. Her lack of appetite the day before was an anomaly and he wanted to make sure he was prepared.
Tony was a friendly guy who communicated in heavily accented English. He asked Crawford if he was new to town, and Crawford told him he was visiting a friend.
“A friend? In Dobbs Ferry? Who?” Tony asked, throwing four muffins into a brown paper bag.
Crawford hated small talk and didn’t want to go any further with the conversation but didn’t want to appear rude, either. “Alison Bergeron.” Crawford thought he detected a slight hesitation in Tony’s actions, but brushed it off.
“Nice girl,” Tony said, turning and giving Crawford the once-over. “What do you do for a living, my friend?”
“I’m a police officer,” Crawford said.
Tony turned back to the coffee maker but didn’t respond. “Milk and sugar?”
“Black.”
Tony turned back around and put the two coffees on the counter. He punched some numbers into the cash register and told Crawford the total. Crawford handed him a twenty and waited for his change.
Tony counted out the change and put it in Crawford’s hand, grabbing his wrist. “Listen, my friend. You be nice to her.”
Crawford pulled his hand away and put the money in his pocket. He wasn’t sure what kind of response was appropriate so he gave Tony a steely look, one that usually had perps shaking in their boots. Tony surprised Crawford by holding his gaze as Crawford backed away from the counter and out the door.
So, Alison could count an elderly Italian deli owner among her conquests. He’d have to ask her just how serious she was with Tony before investing any more time in their relationship. He started down Main Street and hung a right onto her street.
His cell phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket, looking at the caller ID: the precinct. He flipped the phone open and sat on the curb, his bag of food beside him.
“Crawford? Moran.”
“Hi, Champy. What’s up?”
“We’ve got a girl here, a St. Thomas student. Came in on her own; wants to help. Her name is…Julie Ann Podowsky.”
Crawford waited through Champy’s pregnant pause.
“Says she had a relationship with Dr. Stark,” Champy said, and by the way he said “relationship,” his tongue rolling around the syllables, Crawford knew what that meant. “She’s a senior; broke it off last winter with him. He was getting kind of clingy, she said.”
Crawford shifted on the curb. “Clingy how?”
“Wanted a long-term thing. She was just having fun, she said.” He paused again. “And let me tell you something: this is a girl who looks like she knows how to have fun. I’m just saying.”
Crawford didn’t even want to think about that; his girls weren’t much younger than Julie Anne and he told Champy so. “She’s someone’s daughter, Champ. Just keep that in mind.”
“Will do,” Champy said. “She’s a big girl, too. She’s gotta be six feet if she’s an inch.”
Crawford looked down toward the river and considered this. None of this was terribly meaningful to him; Ray had slept with countless women, based on what they had learned in