“She couldn’t be there now?” I asked.
Trisha Liam’s hair looked like straw in the light. “Don’t be ridiculous. She’d be home by eight, Madeleine’s bedtime.” She was staring into some inner space, and I let her drift for a moment.
“Does … Granny Liam live close by?”
She motioned with her neck, her head canting like a bowling ball falling down from its slot. “Down the block. She has a maid who’s been with her for years, Angel. She and her husband live on the top two floors. Madeleine has a cook and gardener too. God knows who pays for the servants. Mitch used to, but after his death, her accountant made other arrangements. Didn’t want to be beholding is the way she put it. Either Caroline takes care of things from England or the old lady’s well-fixed.”
“Who’s Caroline?”
“Mitch’s sister, Brandy’s aunt, another one Brandy dotes on. For all I know, Caroline’s got the wherewithal and then some. Not my problem. But Madeleine’s got a night nurse, too.”
“Can you give me Granny Liam’s address? I wonder if she’s well enough to interview. I could talk to her without actually telling her about Brandy.”
Trisha got out her cell phone, swiped a little, and found Madeline’s address. She held it out to me, her arm suspended waiting for me to write it down. “Well, I think you’ll get a sense of Brandy when you talk to her, if you’re lucky. But then she’ll probably rise to the occasion. Only way I know how to describe Madeleine’s brain is like a light bulb that turns on and off, especially when she’s frightened by something. A shame. She had such a great mind, too, one I shunned with fervor. Had lots of friends back in the day. Ran that house, did all the entertaining. A perfect wife for a judge. Sparkling wit—that’s what draws Brandy to her, I’m sure. Now it’s so sad, but she does have her moments. God knows how old she is. Got to be in her nineties because they had Mitch and Caroline when they were both in their forties. So she’s up there. I don’t visit her as often as I should. Last time I saw her was a couple of months ago when Brandy was in a play.”
Trisha stopped and looked around as if she’d just returned from the moon. “My God, don’t tell me Brandy did this on her own. She wouldn’t decide to leave me, would she?”
Running to Trisha and hugging her was not the thing to do. Besides, that wasn’t me.
“Does she like school?”
Trisha nodded, wiping her eyes. “Loves it. And her friends. Believe me, they’re thick.”
I shook my head. “She wouldn’t leave. She has a pretty big support system. And believe me, you’re a good mom—you just don’t think you are.” I wondered where that came from. It just rolled through my mind and out my mouth.
It was getting late. I stared out at the blackness surrounding us. “Tell me about the last time you fought, and I don’t mean the tiff you had this morning.”
“Well, it was … Let’s see. We had a row … it’s a recurring one because Brandy can pick at a scab. Some of her friends are getting piercings, I guess you call them, and she asked me the other day if she could have one and had it all thought out. She’s clever. She said she knew of a place in Park Slope where she could get one. She told me the price. It was nominal, nothing we couldn’t afford, but I guess I was abrupt. This case I’m preparing is horrid, you must believe me—a woman suing my client, a hospital on Long Island, over what they claim is the untimely death of her husband. And I guess I was half-listening to her and automatically said no, and Brandy stomped out of the room. I keep thinking of Mitch and how he would have handled it.”
“That’s nothing,” I said. “I’m talking about a real row.” And I thought of the fights Mom and I had over who knows what, with the screaming and the crying and the food flying. I slammed my fist into my thigh, wishing I could take them back.
“We don’t have fights, not really, not all that much.”
“So you’re not really close?”
Trisha shook her head, and tears began coursing down her cheeks again, this time like the Weeping Madonna.
“One more question about the family.” I looked at my watch and sucked in my breath at the hour. I hoped Denny was sound asleep. “You mentioned Mitch had a sister.”
“Yes, Caroline.” Trisha gave a brief honk, like the snort of a bull. “Not a good influence for Brandy. But there’s nothing I can do about her. Fortunately she and her latest lover are living in London at the moment.”
She rose and started walking out of the room. “I’m going to excuse myself for a brief moment.” She looked at her watch, then over at me as if I were the witch of Watonga. “You’d think the police or FBI would have something by now.”
Why do I always get the weird clients? When Trisha Liam returned, I asked for the names and addresses of Brandy’s friends.
“Her best friend is Heather Chang. In the morning they walk to school together. And … what’s her name, I’ll think of it in a minute.”
You could tell Trisha was none too wrapped up in her daughter’s life. I thought of Mom and what she’d do to me if I ever hid anything from her. Of course, it never would have happened—we were pals. When I thought of her, except for the bad time right before her death, it was usually the two of us sitting at the dinner table long after Gran had gone to bed and the food had been put away, Mom sipping her precious coffee and laughing at something I’d said, curious, interested. She was my best audience. I wanted to ask Trisha when she’d last had dinner with her daughter and laughed and reminisced, but I couldn’t do it to her, not tonight.
Trisha gave me Heather’s phone number and her address on Joralemon Street. She couldn’t think of the other girl’s name, but I wasn’t concerned—Heather would have all the particulars.
In the few minutes it took me to walk to the car, I heard from both Jane Templeton and my Fed contact in New Jersey. Nothing yet, Tig said, but they were working it, and Jane told me they were tapping into their sources, checking all the neighborhoods looking for Brandy, and they’d gotten the waterfront police involved.
“Just so you know, we’re on this now, big time, swarming all over Brooklyn. We’ll find her.”
“I hope you’re right.”
I dropped off Mitch’s briefs and whatnots onto an empty desk at Lucy’s. In the dim light, the pile of papers looked creepy. I thumbed through a few pages, pretending to understand them, and shivered.
Chapter 11
Henry. That Morning, The Getaway, Sunset Park
Traffic on the BQE began to move, and Henry drove toward Sunset Park. So far, so good. The day was crisp. There was a stiff wind from the river, but Henry had a beast of a headache. All Ben’s doing.
The only part that went smoothly was taking the girl, that and finding her phone in her back pocket. He’d turned it off and stuffed it into his jacket for safekeeping. Yes, Henry had considered everything this time. His plan was working. He thought of Stuart. His boy smiled up at him from his hospital bed and swam away.
But soon, Ben’s niggling began again. He hated the idea of the car float. He wanted to go to New Jersey the usual way, over the Brooklyn Bridge, across Manhattan, and through the tunnel. Henry knew that way spelled trouble.
“I’ve seen the surveillance cameras on the bridge, in the tunnel, and on the highway. I’ve counted them—they’re all over the place. If they get a whiff of the van, they’ll search through the footage, and they’ll find us.”
“You got bats in your brain.”
Henry realized he should have spent more time discussing his plan with Ben beforehand, but he was tired of arguing with him.
Henry’s idea was too risky, Ben said. It was stupid and wouldn’t work. They had to get to Jersey fast while the girl was still drugged, and the turnpike was the fastest way.
Henry half-shook his head. He gripped the wheel. He had to try reasoning with Ben once again, this time making the explanation as simple as possible—Ben was not one for contingencies, for grays, for subtleties. Henry told him his way was foolproof; he’d had it all
set up for a year. They’d drive to the piers in Sunset Park, where they would secure the van inside a container.
“And the girl?”
Henry pulled on his nose. “Still inside the van, of course. Still drugged.” He tried to control his anger while he finished his explanation. They’d roll the container onto a car float, he told Ben. With the van and the girl out of sight, they’d head across the river to the Greenville float facility. It was the safest way to get to New Jersey and at the same time get rid of the van. Two birds with one stone, he kept telling Ben. In Greenville, he’d remove the girl and their belongings, and stash them into the Audi he’d parked by the dock last week, leaving the van inside the container.
“And what if, when we get to Sunset Park, there’s no container. What if, when we get there, your car’s been impounded?”
Henry shook his head and explained once more that two days ago he’d made a call to his friend at the Port Authority and confirmed their reservation. He stopped talking, waiting for Ben to object, but Ben sat, silent as stone, rolling his damn toothpick back and forth.
“Then what—assuming the girl hasn’t suffocated?”
Henry slammed the steering wheel and slowed with the traffic. “They haul animals this way. She’s not going to suffocate. The trip takes twenty minutes, max. It’s just like taking the Fulton Ferry to New Jersey.” He had to try once more. “On the Jersey side, we take her out of the van and into the Audi.”
“And what about the van?”
Henry blew out air and told himself to be patient. “It stays inside the container.”
Ben rolled his pick and nodded. “Your loss.”
“I sold it for decent money.” Henry watched Ben’s hair, like streaks of light on the edge of his vision. He must remain calm.
“What do you mean, ‘for decent money’?”
“That’s my business.”
“You sold it for scrap, you mean.”
“What do you care? Best way to get rid of it.”
“And the container?”
“It’ll be loaded onto a ship bound for Odessa. Nothing can go wrong. We’ll be far away from the scene, and there’ll be no trace of the van.”
“So your van will be used by terrorists in some godforsaken country I can’t even spell.” Ben chewed on his toothpick. “What if we can’t open the container and get the girl out?”
Henry shook his head. “It’s all arranged. My Audi is parked alongside the float facility. We’ll transfer my belongings from the van to the car. That includes the girl in the tarpaulin.”
“If you say so.”
Ben was silent.
Traffic was moving. They were close to Sunset Park.
Henry glanced at Ben, who held up a needle and turned toward the backseat. “You can’t give her another dose so soon. It’s too risky.”
“I think we should have gone the usual way. Turn around and drive across the bridge to the Turnpike.”
Henry breathed in and out. He tried to explain one more time why it was too risky to drive across the bridge. What if someone had seen the van parked on Joralemon and somehow associated it with the girl’s disappearance? These days, there were surveillance cameras all over. Take the highway patrol—they cruised around with video cams. They could track the vehicle from the footage. Henry listened to his voice. Too insistent. He had to calm himself, flatten out. What was wrong with him? He knew how to handle Ben.
Ben hadn’t been listening. He was too busy chewing his fingernails. He insisted they needed to get out of there fast, and going to Sunset Park was stupid, too complicated. It wasn’t too late to turn around.
But in the end, Henry prevailed. Henry was the boss.
“And another thing,” Ben said. “We gotta do something about Phillipa. She looks like a caged animal. In two minutes, she’s going to talk. She loves Trisha Liam. Ever thought about what we’re going to do with her? I’ll tell you what we’re going to do—we’re going to give her the needle.”
Henry stopped breathing. “Don’t you dare touch her. Phillipa needs the money more than you and me.”
“Right. I forgot about the boy. Still …” Ben began.
“Listen to me. Leave her alone. I don’t want you talking to her.”
By the time they arrived at Sunset Park, Ben was like a jumped-up rabbit. He folded, unfolded his arms, shook his hands, stomped his feet. His eyes darted from side to side, surveying the area. “How do you know they’re not watching us from these buildings? I just saw someone move behind that window. There, see?”
“Take it easy.”
Ben acted like he hated the abandoned buildings, the debris-filled brown shrubs, the pitted concrete walks. He paced the length of the van a hundred times during the long wait to load the van into one of the freight cars. Henry listened to the slow screech of metal on metal as the cars were loaded onto the barge.
“Unnecessary.” Ben looked at his watch. “Could be in Central Jersey by now if it weren’t for you and your stupid plan.”
Wind tore at Henry’s hair. “What are you doing with that knife?”
The blade in Ben’s hand caught the sun. “Just checking. Someone’s got to be prepared.”
So they argued in frenetic, whispered tones whenever Ben wasn’t peering into the van’s window at the tarpaulin.
Over and over, Henry explained about the cameras springing up everywhere.
Ben protested. “This isn’t Lower Manhattan.”
“No matter, they’re everywhere. I know. I run across the bridge every day and notice them. They’re multiplying like rabbits. I saw a new one this morning on Joralemon and had to circle, couldn’t park where I’d rehearsed. You remember, don’t you?”
“You’re crazy paranoid.” Ben ran fingers through his hair. His foot wouldn’t stop tapping. Now that the nab was over, Ben’s usefulness was gone. Ben was too much work.
Chapter 12
Brandy. In Chains
My tongue is a thick claw with green fuzz all over it. It’s stuck to the roof of my mouth, and I can’t talk or swallow. Can’t see, can’t breathe. Why did you let this happen, Dad? Why did you leave me? I smell fish. I’m swimming up from someplace, where, I don’t know, but it’s not the subway. I’m getting dizzy. Going to barf. Must have gotten sick already because I stink worse than Masterson. He’s the kid I told you about, remember? Doesn’t have friends. But this isn’t the nurse’s station. Must have peed in my pants. How disgusting is that? Does Mom miss me yet? I hear voices, horns, seagulls. Where am I? Someplace where everything is rolling. Or they’ve given me meds. Why aren’t you talking to me?
“Help, someone, anyone! I’ve got to pee.”
That ought to get them. Footsteps. A voice telling me to take it easy.
“You can leave as soon as we hear from your mother.”
Sure, and in the meantime I can pee in my pants. “Hear what from her?” Never mind, she won’t do anything. I should hold my breath waiting for Pah-tricia?
“She’s got to pay up for you, kid.”
That was some kind of nasty voice. There must be two of them. “She won’t talk to you, scum. She barely talks to me.”
“I should slice you up into little pieces for that remark.”
Scuffling feet. Low voices.
“Don’t worry. You can leave as soon as she pays up.”
That was the nice one talking. “At least tell me where the bathroom is. I’ve got to pee. I can’t move. Get me out of here.”
No one’s answering me. They must have gone away and left me here to rot. They buried me and left. God! Dad! Someone! I can’t see anything. I think I’m going to be sick again. It’s so dark, and I’m rolling around in here, all alone. Maybe I’ll suffocate, and no one will find me until I’m bones.
Chapter 13
Henry. That Morning, The Car Float
“Told you I should have given her another dose.”
Henry said nothing. He and Ben stood on the barge in the middle of New York Harbor as they
crossed to the New Jersey side, hugging the freight car with the van chocked inside, safe, the scent broken, just like Henry knew it would be. He relaxed. This was the way he’d planned it. Even Ben quieted, and the weather was cooperating.
The wind blew at his breaker. Henry filled his lungs with fresh air as the scow, prodded by the tugboat, rode the waves and not too gently, either. He was in his element. He loved bridges. He loved water. He breathed the salt air and watched Ben heave over the side. No patrol boats in sight. He bent down and slipped the girl’s phone into the water, watching it burble and sink slowly like the shiny underbelly of a fish.
There hadn’t been much river traffic. It was too early in the day for the tourists who’d later make their way from Battery Park to Ellis or Liberty Island. They’d just passed the Statue of Liberty, and Henry looked at Ben’s folded form. It wouldn’t take much, Henry figured. He ran his fingers over his combat holster, but he knew he couldn’t shoot Ben. The crew might hear the report above the noise of the wind and the tugboat engine, even if the gun he used was only a subcompact. He touched the rubber mallet in the inside pocket of his windbreaker. Ben was much stronger than Henry. He knew it, but knew it would take only one swift blow to the back of his head. That’s all. The man was getting to be too much, an irritation he didn’t need anymore, and he was nasty to Phillipa the other day, almost as if he were jealous of her. There were moments when Henry thought Ben might be losing his mind. He couldn’t be sure of him any longer. He was becoming a hazard.
Henry looked up over his shoulder. If only he could be sure about the tugboat crew. He walked over to the other side, careful to hold onto the cars, trying to imagine the sightlines from the tug’s wheelhouse. Maybe he could lure Ben to stand between two cars. One swift blow to the back of his head, that’s all it would take. He walked back and stood behind Ben and leaned in closer. One tap, no suffering. And it wasn’t like Ben had anything to live for. No wife, no job, not a real one, no memory of a dead son to assuage. After this whole thing was over, he’d go to Switzerland and grow his consulting company, make a new life. He raised the hammer high over the bald spot on Ben’s head. The barge lurched, and Henry almost lost his balance. The moment passed.
Missing Brandy (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 2) Page 6