Missing Brandy (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 2)

by Susan Russo Anderson

So the woman herself excused her daughter from three days of school. Hard to believe this was an adult I was talking to.

  Switching the subject with prosecutorial grace, she wondered if I’d heard anything more on the slipper, and I told her the lab hadn’t gotten back to me yet.

  As if God had been listening in, call waiting started flashing across the screen. It was Jane. I told Trisha I’d call her back the minute I had any news.

  “Where have you been?” Jane asked.

  “Trying to eat pancakes at Teresa’s.”

  Chapter 21

  Brandy. In Chains

  I can smell the mean guy’s breath. Dad, protect me, please. I don’t want to die.

  It’s only Goblin, Dad tells me. You remember him?

  I do. The biggest, the worst monster in my nightmares when I was a little kid.

  Lie still and he’ll disappear, like he always does, Dad tells me.

  So I do, I lie still and listen to my breathing. This is for boring barf.

  I hear the nice one calling Mr. Mean. His shoes scrape the landing, the door opens, and I feel brightness through the tape. It slams against my lids.

  “Ben, this is the last time I’m telling you. Leave her alone. Next time I’ll use this.”

  “Take it easy. I was only going to give her a shot.”

  “No more shots. Get out or I shoot, I swear it.”

  “Think you’re so good, don’t you? What if the lawyer doesn’t pay, then what?”

  The air doesn’t move. They’re talking about Mom. Pay up, Mom, please pay.

  Finally, I feel the room shift.

  “You win. C’mon, smile, I didn’t mean it. I’m hungry. We haven’t eaten all day.”

  The door closes behind them. I hear a switch in the hall, and now it’s totally black. Still, I’m so still until I hear them going down the stairs. I hold my breath and listen. They’re talking low. The sound of keys. A car starts. They’re leaving me. I might not make it, Dad. I might die here all alone.

  Chapter 22

  Fina. Morning Two, In Teresa’s, Continued

  The connection died, and a few bites later, I looked up to see an unmarked car wedge itself into the hydrant space across the street. Detective First Grade Jane Templeton unfolded herself out of the driver’s seat. The tall blonde waited while her partner stood at the curb, a Dunkin’ Donuts bag in his hand. His ass was bumped out, and it looked like he was swiping at a glob of custard and smearing it over the length of his tie.

  “It’s Brandy’s slipper,” Jane said after they were seated in our booth. She unfolded a printout and handed it to me. “Preliminary, but this is what the lab found.”

  While they ordered, I skimmed the list of forensics, including the mention of blood from a superficial wound thought to be that of the victim’s, follicles of hair, probably from a male between thirty and forty-five, along with carpet fibers, a few threads from a tarpaulin, spider eggs, dry grass. But what screamed out at me was the line, “foliage, insect eggs, and ground cover consistent with plant life found west of the Hudson, prevalent in Central New Jersey.”

  I quirked my lip and watched Jane’s sweet genes light up. No dummy, she knew she needed me to feed her information from afar, and what better way to light a fire under the collective rears of fellow police officers and sheriff departments than to sic a private investigator on their tails, preferably one with a New Jersey PI license. In a word, me.

  “I feel a trip to New Jersey coming on,” Cookie said.

  “I can’t go looking for bugs in Central New Jersey. Do you have any credible leads from the public?”

  Jane shook her head.

  “I have more to report,” Cookie said. “Do you want to hear it?”

  After we wagged our tails long enough, Cookie began. “This morning I decided to talk to the guy who owns the mom and pop on Joralemon down the street from Packer Collegiate. I asked him if he’d seen anything strange yesterday morning. At first I had a hard time making myself understood, so I laid it on about how I loved his coffee, that I’m in there all the time, and—”

  “Blah, blah, blah. Just get on with it.” Jane drummed her fingers on the table.

  I looked at Cookie. “Excuse some of us, please.”

  “So the man smiled and started listening, actually stopped what he was doing.”

  “And?”

  “He hadn’t seen anything, he told me, but his wife may have. Only trouble, she doesn’t speak English and hadn’t come in yet. Then I lost him—he had to change the coffee. That’s where he makes his money, and his customers depend on him.”

  “And?”

  “But it got me thinking about surveillance cameras. I’m sure he must have one. It’s a little store, customers walk down a few steps.”

  “We get the picture.”

  I wondered why Jane was being so nice to me and so nasty to Cookie. By this time Willoughby was fingering his spotted tie, his head lowered while the waitress explained the bill to me.

  “Hold on, I’m not finished,” Cookie said. “Just then the owner’s wife came in.” Cookie looked at Jane. “She told me she’d seen two guys shoving what looked like a rolled-up tarpaulin into the back of a greenish van yesterday morning, right before the first bell rings and the kids disappear into school.”

  “Where?”

  Cookie looked confused. “I forgot to ask her,” she said. “I assumed she meant on Joralemon close to Packer Collegiate, but I didn’t actually repeat what she said or pin her down.” She fished out a notebook from her bag and began flipping through the pages, shaking her head, her cheeks getting red. “I didn’t ask her. I wrote, ‘Woman sees tarpaulin shoved into van.’ But we were talking in a store on Joralemon.”

  “So?” Jane asked. “There are people carrying parcels and pieces of furniture and rugs on and around Joralemon all the time.” She stopped mid-sentence, forefinger in the air.

  Here it comes, I thought, a sure sign she’s going to contradict herself.

  “No matter, it’s a great headline,” the detective said. “Make sure the Eagle gets it first.”

  “And the Times?” Willoughby asked.

  “They’ll have someone scanning the Eagle to pick up Brooklyn news,” Cookie said.

  “But what if there’s no van, and we’re throwing them bad info?” he asked.

  “At this point, we have squat. But we need to keep the story alive. Nothing like a great image to galvanize the public. Do they have Brandy’s picture?” Jane asked.

  Cookie nodded while she texted her friend at the paper.

  “Could be anything or nothing, could be anywhere,” Willoughby said, swishing a piece of toast into the leftover butter and syrup on Jane’s plate.

  I looked at Cookie. She didn’t say anything—she’s too polite. But her face was the color of beets. If I could have taken away her pain, I would have, believe me, but at least I could try. “And speaking of Cookie, who’s the only one feeding information into this case? She is, except for your piddling forensics report, which tells us zip. So let’s be a little more respectful of what she’s giving us.”

  It was as if I’d said nothing. Willoughby flapped his tie, and Jane plowed on like a farmer with a scythe. “So let’s focus on this. God knows we’ve got little to show for ourselves.” She stopped for a full minute. I thought I saw a corner of eyeball cant to the left underneath her closed lids. “At least Cookie’s pulling in something.”

  Well, I’ll be. I shot Cookie a look.

  Jane continued. “So let’s look at the information she’s given us. What’s so unusual about two guys carrying a tarpaulin, maybe on Joralemon, but somewhere in the area of the Packer Collegiate?”

  “My question exactly,” Cookie said. “Until the lady mentioned that the tarpaulin was wiggling.”

  We stared at one another.

  Willoughby asked, “What kind of tarpaulin?”

  Jane shook her head, and I looked at Cookie.

  One thing you should know about me. I’m not
polite, not at all, and I would have made a few cutting remarks about Jane and her NYPD team, but for some reason, I decided to play nice. After all, Brandy’s life was at stake. “Your lab guys ought to be able to tell you that. They got some tarpaulin fibers off the slipper, didn’t they?”

  There was silence for a couple of minutes.

  What the grocer’s wife saw could have been a tarpaulin. Or maybe it wasn’t a tarpaulin at all, but a rug. Whatever it was, I knew deep down that Brandy had been rolled up inside. Hard to know what it is you see when you see it, let alone remember what you saw or where you were when you saw it, but something my bones felt for certain. Brandy hadn’t run away—she was taken. And I hoped it was by someone who wanted ransom.

  While I was chewing on the image of a wriggling rug, Jane was on the phone with someone on her team, talking to them about the mom and pop on Joralemon. “It’s before Clinton. The guy does a business with coffee. Right, right, I’m sure I’ve been there, too. You got it, on the north side, you walk down a few steps. In that neighborhood you can’t avoid it. Especially on a weekday morning, there’ll be a line, but not as long as Starbucks. So find out if anyone uses surveillance cameras anywhere in the area, and get three bodies onto the other thing.”

  “Onto our pilot program, you mean,” Willoughby said.

  Jane’s eyes were knives boring into Willoughby’s bloated face. He picked up on it because he squirmed and started clearing his throat.

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out this was something NYPD was doing, and we weren’t supposed to know about it, but it had to do with cameras. Naturally, I plunged right in. “Are you guys extending the ring of steel? Won’t be long before we’ll have police surveillance cameras in our bathtubs watching us while we—”

  “Don’t say it.” Jane hit her phone’s speaker, hooking us into an impromptu meeting with her team. “I remember something about St. Francis College having cameras outside, and a few banks and shops on Court Street are putting them in. Get on it. Now. Maybe they’ve picked up something.” She hit the off button, and her eyes bored into mine. “Of course, Lower Manhattan’s loaded with them. Some of the schools in Brooklyn, too, although lots of the parents are objecting.”

  “Stupid,” Willoughby said.

  “Why not object?” I said. “Our privacy is at stake. Pretty soon there will be none left, and that’ll be the end of our freedom. I can feel it floating downriver already.”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t take advantage of your contacts at Verizon and AT&T and the FBI. They feed you whatever you ask for.”

  She had me there, but not for long.

  “But I know when to stop and what’s at stake, and whenever it has to do with a child …”

  “So the ends justify the means.” Jane wagged her finger in my face.

  She had a point, at least I think she did. Believe it or not, personal freedom is an issue with me, even though I’ve benefited from the lack of it many a time. It was a popular subject between Denny and me, one that we wrestled with on a regular basis, probably preventing us from having the real conversation we needed to have. The one about us. The thought sent another chill down my back. “Just because we have access to information doesn’t mean we should.”

  “Don’t get me started,” Willoughby said.

  Ever the stick-my-neck-out type, I said, “Could you just elaborate on the hush-hush work your team is doing, just so we don’t step on toes, that sort of thing.”

  Jane rolled her eyes at Willoughby. “See what you started? Okay, you’re in charge of anything we get from camera surveillance. Get whoever’s good with digital and closed-circuit stuff. I don’t need to know their names, but get me five, six officers and add them to the team. Get them on it right now. And here’s another thing, if in fact they abducted Brandy close to Packer, that wasn’t their first visit. I suspect they know the area well. Go through the tapes inch by inch. Use a macro lens if you have to. Pronto. Got to go through the last two, three weeks of stuff. Light fires. Have them start with Packer Collegiate and the college across the street and don’t forget the mom-and-pop stores, especially the guy whose wife or whatever told Cookie she saw the moving tarpaulin. Someone knows something. Talk to everyone with windows on Joralemon, but don’t stop there. Make sure we interview everyone within a two-block radius. And the minute you have anything, anything at all, let me know. Fina, too. A child’s life is in our hands.”

  I could see why Jane was popular with the higher-ups. She could be a whirlwind, and when she knew she needed to do it, she let everyone play in her sandbox, not afraid to give credit, either. I kept returning to what she’d said about Cookie. So I felt good until my gut told me Jane was keeping stuff from me.

  Chapter 23

  Brandy. In Chains

  Bad guys are stupid, Dad told me. Don’t be afraid of them unless they’re fighting with one another. I hear them downstairs. They’re back, and they’re arguing. I smell pizza, and my stomach growls.

  I make a fist, monster-up my face, and try it out, “I’m warning you.” Yuck. Let’s face it, I’m a nothing. My heart is pounding in my head. I can’t breathe. I have to barf again. I hope I make it, at least to the bathroom. Smells gross in there.

  Footsteps. It’s the nice one, I can tell by the sound. I feel him close. I hope he doesn’t do what some men do to girls. He’s listening, I can tell. Dad, don’t let him touch me. Footsteps going back down the stairs.

  “Be quiet in there!”

  Mr. Mean Ass, where did he come from? He doesn’t scare me. “I need to talk to someone,” I tell him. Maybe if I keep it up, they’ll get so sick of my yapping, they’ll let me go.

  The room’s rocking and rolling like when I get the flu. Lying down now. Nope, not a good idea. Earth to Pah-tricia. Where are you, and why are you doing this to me? Dad? Where are you, Dad? Why did you guys have me if you’d let them do this to me? I just want to go to school. No more problems with gym, and I’ll take the poster down, too. Don’t need a piercing. Where are my slip-ons? My legs are aching again, and I could use some food.

  I could count to infinity. Got nothing better to do, but I hate math. Reading’s better. If I had a book, I’d read. But I can’t see. He told me not to take the tape off. If I did, he’d do bad things to me, and I believe him. Got no other choice. Mom would never do this to me. She’s messed up sometimes, even for a grown-up, but not that fierce.

  “Help! I’m going to barf!”

  Nothing. So now I’m totally alone in this room. In an epic black hole, like our science teacher says. And it’s so quiet, like there’s a blanket over the streets. This isn’t Brooklyn. No. I hear a motor revving. Someone’s leaving now.

  I’ll scoot over. The bed’s like Granny’s. Got those wooden jobs on the corners. Ridges. Carved pineapples at the top, maybe.

  “You haven’t met my mom, have you? She’ll never pay.” Will she pay? Not a chance. If she pays, what would we do for money? I wouldn’t be able to go to Packer anymore. We’d have to leave Brooklyn, go to who knows where—someplace gross like New Jersey or Pittsburg, where Johnny Fulcrum used to live. Yuck.

  I should have gone to the game with Johnny. He’s not so bad. He’s got braces, but so do I. Dad says braces are the modern version of armor. Can two braces kiss? Mom says I have to wear them, so I should stop thinking about it. Cold in here, and it stinks.

  Mom’s not so bad. If she’d only talk a little more. Or listen to me once in a while. I swear that’s why I talk so much, hoping that she’ll listen, at least to every other word. Maybe she’s afraid I’ll ask too many questions. I promise, no more questions, okay, Mom? I shouldn’t have hung the poster in my room. Phillipa told me it wasn’t such a good idea. She said, Your mother doesn’t like it. I can tell by the way she holds her mouth when she looks at it. She was right, I know.

  But Phillipa’s been not quite tickety-boo lately. Granny Liam’s expression. Phillipa didn’t look at me when she handed me my lunch this morning, but other than that,
she’s nice for a housekeeper. Nicest one we’ve had, Mom says, but I’ve known just the one. Phillipa’s too quiet, though. No wonder Mom likes her.

  So I’m going to sit here, maybe never see my friends again. I don’t like that thought. When you have bad thoughts, turn them away. Get up and pace. Walk up and down the room. That’s what Dad says. Change the subject. Easier to do with others than with yourself.

  Why is it so quiet? Wait, what’s that sound—a horse? It sounds like a horse. Not the zoo. No horses in the zoo. The country, maybe. I’m in the country. Mom will never find me here. She wouldn’t be caught dead in the country. I heard her say that a bazillion times.

  This place sucks. “Help!”

  I’d yell more, but my throat still feels funny. Bet my tongue is green.

  Maybe they’ll just leave me here to die. But I’ll fool them, I won’t do it. I won’t die. Must get this thing off my eyes … this tape. Heavy. Stretching. Pick one corner. One step at a time. Easy. Don’t pull it, because half my face will go with it, and I’ll bleed to death right here in the country with horses and pigs and maybe rabbits running down holes. Kneel on the bed. Find the top of the post. Reach up. There. One step at a time. Like learning to spell words, that’s how Dad taught me. Learn one word, then another. Easy. Go back to the first word and spell it. Learn the second and the third. One step at a time. Now get the fingernail in there good and peel. A little bit. More. Enough for now. One, two. What will happen if the nasty one finds out? Something bad. I hear footsteps. The door opens again. It’s him, I can tell. I can feel his snarly breath.

  A bright light blinds me.

  “Now you’ve gone too far.”

  Chapter 24

  Jane. Morning Two, In Her Office

  Jane sat in her office, staring at the computer screen and thrumming her nails on her desk. She scrolled through the tapes, barely letting their images stay focused for more than one or two seconds. At this rate, she’d get through all the CCTV stuff without actually seeing anything, except for the footage one of her team members showed her of a suspicious-looking van. Unfortunately the tags were not visible. The faster she scrolled, the angrier she got, and she couldn’t do anything about it. She had to grow up, she knew it, but once again Fina’s team was two steps ahead of hers.