Briefing The Chief
We followed Jane into the dining room. Pens were strewn all over the table, balled-up papers were thrown onto the rug, and laptops were sleeping or faintly hiccuping. Chips and dips and empty glasses were strewn all over. The place was a mess.
But I was glad I wasn’t Jane. Her phone would be ringing from now until Christmas, plus she had a bazillion bosses to update.
She turned to me. “Holy Be-F’in’ J, how am I going to explain the duster to the chief?”
I knew it. “Tell him shit happens. Tell him I don’t carry,” I said. “Want me to tell him? I’ll start out with, ‘You’re not going to believe this, but …’”
“Did you mean ‘but’ or ‘butt’?” Jane asked, and she launched into an imitation of me on the floor chasing Ralph’s rear.
Leave it to Jane, she knew what she had to rehearse, because midway through her routine, the chief of NYPD detectives called, and she summarized what we knew.
“You’re way ahead of me, Chief,” she told him while she made the brown nose sign. “I was going to call you after we determined how he got inside the house. We haven’t figured that out yet or who exactly this character is. We know his name is Ralph. We know he drives around the metro area without a driver’s license, at least not on him, and he’s not telling us anything. We don’t even know his last name.”
She held the phone out and I heard the voice on the other end of the line say, “Why would he talk to you? He’s got a plunger up his ass!”
“Not a plunger, Chief, a duster.” She paused and I could make out a few of his comments like ‘ACLU on my tail’ and ‘sue the city.’ Jane listened, prancing around the dining room table and bowing to our silent cheers, the phone cupped to her ear. She said, “It was either that or watch him strangle her friend—Fina doesn’t carry … Fina, the private investigator I told you about her? Been doing lots of work for us in New Jersey? The one who found Charlie? … You got it, the one that Connors wanted killed … Right, he had a contract out on her. And Ralph was the assassin. … I know, it’s happening so fast. And by the way, the duster didn’t stop him. He was about to jump out the window, duster and all if I didn’t wound him in the shoulder … Glock, yeah. … Don’t worry, we’ve got all the signed statements, just going over them before I send them in.” She winked and we made the brown nose sign back at her.
The chief was quiet after that and let her talk for a few minutes.
“We’re trying to get all the info on him, but he has no ID. Better give the prosecutor’s office a head’s up … Don’t worry, the team’s on it. … Haven’t found the car he drove yet ….” She pressed the mute button. “He’s asking if there were witnesses.”
I mouthed “Cookie.”
“The woman he was trying to strangle was still in his grasp. … Yes, she’ll live … That would be … I’m sure she’d appreciate flowers … Brooklyn Hospital, but she won’t be there long, couple of days. Gotta go, got wrapping up to do. CSU’s upstairs in their glory—the guy threw a container full of his urine at us.”
She held the phone out again, and I heard him say, “Leak that to the press, will you?”
“No pun intended? Oh and one more thing before you hang up,” Jane said. “You know the cold case involving the fraudulent loans at Heights Federal and the death of Carmela Fitzgibbons that we never could pin on Connors … right, that Mary Ward Simon was auditing …”
But I heard the click on the other end of the line. My mother’s death wasn’t worth his time.
Jane looked at me. “Too much on his plate.” She held a finger in the air and twirled one more time. “Crime scene’s going to be a while, sorry.”
“Anybody hungry?” Willoughby asked.
We looked at one another. I for one was tired and was able to shrug, but that was about it.
“And we’ve got to celebrate.”
“First we’ve got to find out how this guy got in,” Jane said. “And knowing his last name would be nice.”
We agreed to celebrate Wednesday night and Denny made reservations at our all-time favorite restaurant, Vinegar Hill House. Its proximity tipped us over the edge when we were trying to decide whether or not to buy here. Denny’s proposed there twice, each time to me.
The Following Week
Dinner At The McDuffy’s
As I say, things were good between Denny and me, nothing that a little dinner at the McDuffy’s could spoil. Or so I thought as I climbed the stoop and glanced at the nameplate, ominous-looking in the setting sun. I held my breath while Denny rang the bell and looked at me, a bottle of Cabernet tucked underneath his arm.
Things were so good I wore my raw silk pantsuit, the one I stole from Mom’s closet after she died, the one Cookie said was too good to bury. Earlier I’d stopped at the florist in the Clark Street Station where Mary Ward Simon used to hang out and bought a bunch of cut lilacs.
The weather was even obliging, the tenth day in a row of perfect temperatures and clean light, and the evening air was the kind that blows in off the ocean and picks up that unique Brooklyn scent, a mix of oregano and malt, of fish and funeral parlors.
“Lilacs and wine,” Denny said, shaking hands with his father who smiled at him and nodded at me. He led us down the hall to the parlor. I sat, stiff as the furniture, staring at a painting of the Sacred Heart and wondering what to say to this man who understood life a certain way and no other, a man who came from a loving home, born and raised and rooted in one neighborhood. Truth to tell, he looked more nervous than I felt.
“Something smells delicious,” I lied. I glanced at Denny. “I think I’ll go into the kitchen and see if I can help your mom.”
My footfalls echoed down the long hall. As I entered the kitchen, Lorraine McDuffy turned from the pot, her glasses steamed, a few strands of greying hair falling into her face. She wiped her hands on her apron and gave me a wet kiss. “Denny’s girl. We’ve been waiting a long time to meet you. A long time.”
“These flowers are for you Mrs. McDuffy. I bought them at a stand that was frequented by a woman whose death I just investigated. She was a lovely woman, kind. She knew a lot about flowers and loved them. I thought you might like something of her legacy.” I waited, wondering what she’d do with that.
She took them from me. Her hands shook, but she told me she was honored to have something born of Mary Ward Simon’s imagination. Doubtless, Mr. McDuffy didn’t bring her posies.
“Top shelf, there’s a vase. I’ll get the ladder.”
“Denny! We need you in here,” I said.
While we waited for him to hand us whatever he’d retrieve, Mrs. McDuffy asked me about my friend.
“They released her today, nothing broken. They told her it would be a few days before she got her voice back.”
“She was lucky you were there to rescue her.”
I was surprised Mrs. McDuffy was interested in the case. I helped her by pouring the water and bringing the food to the table, a safe role for a suspect. Denny poured the wine into small water glasses placed around the table, and Mr. McDuffy toasted.
“Here’s to Carroll Gardens and marriage and grandchildren,” he said.
That remark didn’t engender conversation. Mrs. McDuffy looked down at her plate. Denny raised his glass, but I couldn’t. I stared at the lilacs and felt my face boil and thought of my mother and what she’d say.
“What made you choose Vinegar Hill?” Mr. McDuffy asked his son into the silence while he struggled to slice a piece of corned beef. “Pass the mustard, Lorraine. And the bread. Now take this neighborhood. The butter, too. We’ve got everything right here—Star of the Sea down the block, grocery stores, beauty parlors. Your mother doesn’t have to leave Court Street, do you, Mother.”
“The corned beef is delicious, Mrs. McDuffy. One of my favorite meals, too. Thank you for going to all this trouble,” I said, wondering why I said corned beef and cabbage was a favorite. I swallowed. “As for Vinegar Hill, we liked the neighborhood
and the prices,” I said. “And it’s close to Denny’s work,” I added. That ought to slap a smile on their faces.
Denny smiled, nodded. “Right down Gold Street, four, five blocks.”
“Vinegar Hill? What parish is that, St. Ann’s?” Mr. McDuffy asked.
I cleared my throat while Denny’s face grew lipstick red.
“We used to be in that parish until the archdiocese consolidated or whatever it is they did. The church was torn down in 1992. I remember it well, I was four. But now Assumption in the Heights is the closest to us.” Glad I’d done my homework.
The conversation limped along until Mr. McDuffy who seemed to call all the shots said, “Well son, catch any killers lately?”
“Fina did last night. A man hid in her study and waited for her. Her quick thinking and expert action saved her friend’s life.”
“More like endangered it,” I said.
Mrs. McDuffy put a hand to her chest. “It was the strangler, Robert. She captured the strangler.”
Denny nodded.
Mr. McDuffy looked at his plate. “Bit tough, the beef,” he said, “but the potatoes are all right.”
“They’re wonderful,” I said. “So light and fluffy. Best mashed potatoes I’ve eaten. And the cabbage has so much flavor.”
“Thanks, but it’s nothing. Glad you like it.”
“You’re a wonderful cook, Mrs. McDuffy. And you keep such a beautiful house.”
“Call me Lorraine, everyone does. And nice of you to say so.”
Denny finished chewing. “Corned beef’s great, Mom, as usual.”
“Glad you like it, dear. How did Ralph get into your house? Climb up the fire escape?”
Denny shook his head. “Got sprinklers, no need for fire escapes. We’re not sure how he got in,” he said. “But he’s a big guy, six-five at least and we think he must have picked up parkour skills somewhere and walked up the house.”
I looked at old man McDuffy and knew he didn’t have a clue or perhaps he just wasn’t listening.
“We found a footprint on the bricks about five feet from the ground. The study’s on the third floor and the window was open.”
Mr. McDuffy grinned. “The study? Pretty hoity-toity if you ask me.”
“Why did he pick your house?” Lorraine asked.
“He was contracted to kill me.”
That brought Mr. McDuffy to attention, at least for a second.
I summarized the case and my involvement in a few sentences.
Lorraine’s hand crept from her chest to her neck.
Mr. McDuffy was busy with a toothpick. “What’s for dessert, Lorraine?”
“Fina’s too modest, but she’s the one who rescued Charlie.”
“Who’s Charlie?” Mr. McDuffy asked.
“Where have you been, Robert? He’s the little boy who was missing.”
“I don’t pay attention to news. I know what I need to know.”
“Sports,” Denny said, sipping his wine.
Mr. McDuffy looked at his watch. “Reminds me, there’s a Mets game on tonight. Lorraine? Dessert?”
Usually I don’t do dishes, but there was a fragility about Lorraine that really got to me, so I helped her as much as I could.
In the kitchen I said, “The weather’s supposed to be nice tomorrow and I have to go to New Jersey to return a photo. It’s the head shot of the man who died. His mother lent it to me. I could mail it, but that’s so cold. Would you like to come along?”
“New Jersey?”
“It’s about an hour from here, a quaint little town. Founded in 1706. Where do the plates go? And the woman is so … crushed.”
“Arrowsmith’s mother?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Oh, I keep up. Can’t help it, it’s all over the news. Robert does, too, if it’s sports.”
“She lost her husband in 9/11. She’s had a rough twelve years. But she’s got another son who’s at Rutgers and he calls her all the time and visits, so she’s not totally alone.”
“Thank God.”
“But the loss of a child must be a devastation, no matter what the child’s done. I thought between the two of us, our visit might be good for her. She sounded so forlorn when I talked to her today. Afterward we can stop and have lunch if you have the time. But the trip would take the better part of a day.” I thought for sure she was going to decline, but the more I talked, the more I surprised myself, because I found myself wanting Lorraine to come with me.
“Well, I don’t know what Robert …”
She stopped herself, kind of shook her head, took off her glasses and wiped them.
“Listen to me, you’d think I wasn’t a grown woman. I’d love to go. I’ve always wanted to see New Jersey.”
Returning The Photo
I looked in the mirror and jumped when Denny came into the bathroom.
“A thousand bunnies in your study.” His hair was mussed and his bathrobe open, a mug of coffee in each hand. “Thought you might need some java this morning,” he said, “after last night.”
We kissed.
“Guess who’s going to New Jersey with me?” You should have seen his face when I told him.
I might have been crazy, but I owed Nanette Arrowsmith the photo of her son, and I thought it would be good for Lorraine to get out from under her rock.
On the way, the conversation in the car was not exactly scintillating, but Lorraine was interested in the case and kept praising the car and my driving—payback for my kind words about her dinner, I guessed, but Lorraine’s words seemed more genuine than mine. She could teach a course in honesty, and if I thought she was unquestioning, a woman of her age determined by class and neighborhood, I had a surprise waiting for me. I did have the decency to take the BMW instead of the Beretta.
We were on the turnpike, and I’d gotten through the sad story of my life including my father’s disappearance when the phone started ringing. Jane. I pressed the speaker icon and clipped it to the car cradle.
“I thought you’d like to know, Ralph was charged with kidnapping and three counts of murder. First degree.”
I listened to the white noise for a sec, pondering what Jane just told me.
“How can they charge a person when they don’t even know his last name?”
“Whatever, they must be able to.”
“And he was found competent to stand trial? Obviously …”
“If this woman you’re seeing today …”
“James Arrowsmith’s mother, Nanette. And don’t worry, I’m going to ask her if she knows Ralph. A long shot, but she talked about a friend James brought home.”
* * *
“I’m Fina’s friend from Carroll Gardens,” Lorraine said. “I hope you don’t mind I came along for the ride, I’ve never seen New Jersey.”
“Never? Oh, well …” Nanette took a couple of quick breaths and smiled. She was wearing the same heels, but a different print dress, dark roots showing a little more than the first time we’d met a few days ago. She led us through the planked hall to the living room. Lorraine’s head swiveled left, right, telling Nanette what a beautiful home she had. She stopped to admire the vase on the maple table below the mirror. Nanette breathed in and smiled.
“Oh we got that in Cape May fifteen summers ago. Have you been? Too bad, you’d love it, you must go. It’s for families and the Victorian homes and salt water taffy, the ocean, you’ll really love it.”
“That’s a Laura Ashley, isn’t it?” Lorraine asked, pointing to Nanette’s dress and they were off, conversing as though they were old friends. I looked around the living room, waiting for the chance to speak while they’d covered children, families, churches, where they went to high school, what they wore and how the styles had changed. They were starting into recipes for summer before I had a chance to tell Nanette how sorry I was for her loss. I gave her back the photo of her son.
She breathed twice and held it to her heart, and held it out to Lorraine. “My … oldes
t.”
“Handsome looking boy.” And they were onto sons and how they took different paths until Nanette darted from her seat.
“Where are my manners? I haven’t offered you anything, and I have coffee just brewed.”
She started for the kitchen, Lorraine in tow, while I sat alone in the parlor staring at the matching wingback chairs and the shelves of unread books. I picked up the fading photo of the four of them, trying to feel the quality of their life together in the early years. Nanette’s husband faced the camera while the boys looked at their mother and clung to her.
As I held their picture, I tried to figure out who was the queen of the family. There was always one, Mom told me long ago. We’d play the game, walking down Henry or Atlantic, especially on Sundays when families would be trudging home from church or out shopping. Who was the ruler, she’d ask me. Most often we agreed. Sometimes it was close, a democracy, or perhaps a constitutional monarchy. Pointing to a brood with seven or eight kids, she’d say, “The father’s the queen. See how he holds his head, struts in front while the others follow?” Sometimes the queen was benevolent and sometimes not. Sometimes the ruler was missing altogether—you could tell by how the group lacked direction or seemed baffled. As I gazed at the black and white, I knew Nanette was not the queen.
While we sipped our coffee, I asked my question, the one I’d been building up to. “I remember your telling me of the time Jim came home with a friend. They were sitting right here in the parlor. Maybe the friend was a little younger than your Jim.”
She breathed and nodded.
“Do you recall anything about him? His name? Where he was from?”
She stared out, not seeing us, and took a while before she moved. Slowly she shook her head.
“You said they seemed to be having fun.”
Her face relaxed a bit. “Now I know who you mean. It was a time when Jim was happy. Usually by himself after he came home.” He’d been in prison, she told Lorraine, a mix-up, really, she said. “But this one time he brought a friend, maybe a little younger than Jim.”
Too Quiet In Brooklyn (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 1) Page 26