Missing Brandy (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 2)

by Susan Russo Anderson

  Mom … I love you, Mom, they got the money. You were so quick. Awesome. They’re being … at least one is being … he’s okay … but it’s cold where they have me, and the food is lousy.

  There were two or three crude splices. With each one, the image of Brandy jumped. I could hear a man’s garbled words in the background. Snarly sounds. I was hoping that with the sophisticated equipment available to the NYPD and the FBI, they could give us more information about the voices. Brandy spoke again:

  I miss you, Mom. As soon as they get the rest of the money, they’ll let me go. Hurry, Mom, please hurry. I don’t know how long I can last.

  My head swam. The objects in the conservatory took on a yellowish glow, and I could only guess at Trisha Liam’s pain. I steadied myself on the desk. After punching Tig Able’s number into my keypad, I pressed the speaker. I told him I was with Trisha Liam, and we were calling about the video.

  He said he’d already seen the tape and had forwarded it to Quantico. He praised Brandy’s strength before talking about the kidnappers, telling us that while there were some interesting aspects to the take, for the most part it had been well planned.

  “Interesting?” Trisha Liam spit out the word. “What could be so interesting about the abduction of my child?”

  There was a long pause. Tig said as yet they hadn’t found traces of the van after it left the scene. “We’ve had helicopters covering Brooklyn, Manhattan, all the bridges leading into and out of the area, but it’s just disappeared. These kidnappers aren’t professional, but they’re creative.”

  I held my breath. “What about using satellite?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  No one spoke for a moment, and I heard a crackly sound, wondering if it was white noise or just the grindings of my brain.

  “So if professionals aren’t involved, who is?” Trisha Liam asked.

  “There are two of them. One’s the hatchet—”

  “Tig!” I watched Trisha Liam squeeze her eyes shut, sweeping air away from her face as if she could erase everything.

  He went on. “The other one’s the mastermind. He’s smart, but not a professional.”

  “You keep saying that. What do you mean, he’s not a professional?”

  “He’s not hired.”

  “How do you know?”

  “For starters, professionals wouldn’t have used a green van, it’s too conspicuous.”

  “And?”

  “You can tell from the notes he’s educated, systematic, pedantic. He writes in complete sentences, has knowledge of systems and governments. Hired professionals are less verbal. They’d have called using a prepaid phone and voice changers.”

  “They’d use a cell phone these days with GPS tracking?” Trisha Liam asked. “They’re location would be traced to within a few feet.”

  I could tell she was not Tig’s greatest fan. She asked if they’d found out who held the account at Pictet & Cie.

  “Only information we have so far is that the owner’s a Swiss national. Probably holds dual citizenship since the account was opened over fifty years ago. That’s all the bank officials will tell us, but we’re requesting solid data from the Swiss government.”

  “I should hope so.” She said something underneath her breath. It sounded like “bumbling idiot.”

  “This isn’t a case of terrorism, and the owner being Swiss …” His voice trailed off. “Eventually we’ll get the information, but I don’t need to tell you about the strictness of Swiss privacy laws—they go back to the middle ages. We’re working with your insurance company and other DOJ branches, but getting the name of the account owner won’t happen overnight.”

  I watched Trisha hold her head. “It’s a stretch for me to think that a Swiss national would be involved in a teen’s kidnapping in Brooklyn.”

  “Got to be someone who’s done business with you or your late husband.”

  Trisha Liam shook her head. “I doubt it. Mitch’s clients weren’t Swiss, and mine are institutions. I’d know if a plaintiff held a Swiss passport.”

  “Not necessarily. You’d need to dig to find that out.”

  Trisha seemed to shrink into her chair.

  “For the abductor, this is a one-shot deal. He didn’t kidnap your daughter for money. Not that $2.5 million isn’t a lot, don’t get me wrong, but it’s far less than what most abductors want.”

  “Then why did he take my daughter?”

  Tig didn’t reply.

  There was silence. It settled like a blanket in the room, stuffing itself into corners, creeping out the doors, surrounding the townhouse.

  Finally, I broke the mood. “Revenge.”

  Chapter 40

  Fina. Evening Two, Dinner With Zizi

  The McDuffys lived in a four-flat on Third Place in Carroll Gardens. Thanks to Jane, who insisted I hand deliver the latest kidnapper’s note to her office, we fought Court Street traffic and were a little more than fashionably late for dinner.

  During the usual hello flutter, I noticed a new face, Zizi Carmalucci. She owned one of the sleekest figures in town and picked the best La-Z-Boy in the living room in which to sit. It just happened to be in between the only two men in the room, Denny and his father. Perched on the edge of the seat, she thrust her talents forward.

  “I want to hear all about your work,” Robert McDuffy said, his eyes straining to fix on Zizi’s face.

  I glanced at Lorraine, who brushed back a lock of gray hair and looked over at me. I thought I detected a slight roll to her eyes.

  “New York City’s murders and rapes have plummeted since you joined the force, Denny.” Zizi’s voice was so breathy it could make a candle gutter.

  I cleared my throat, ready to say something if I could get a word in edgewise. “Are you sure?”

  “Let our guest finish what she was saying,” Robert said.

  There was a hush. Lorraine’s cheeks colored.

  “No problem, Robert,” Zizi said. “I’m anxious to hear from Fina on the subject. You’re a private investigator, aren’t you?”

  I nodded and opened my mouth to ask where she’d gotten the name Zizi, but she continued, turning her headlights once more on Denny. “New York City’s crime rate is the lowest it’s been since the early 1960s. I’m scheduled to meet with the mayor and the chief of police tomorrow, but I wanted to talk to the men on the front lines, the men who know what’s what—like you, Denny, a stellar example of New York City’s finest. And when I saw your dad last week on Court Street …”

  She droned on in that voice of hers, moving closer to him, her hand lightly grazing his wrist. His face was earnest.

  I swiveled over to Lorraine.

  This time she gave me a huge eye roll. “Let’s go toss the salad.”

  I followed her down the hall toward the kitchen, remembering the first time we’d met, my heels sounding like stilettos thwacking the floorboards.

  “Robbie falls for her kind. Did you see him staring at her?” She smiled and shook her head. “It used to bother me so, but after forty-eight years of marriage, well … I’ve learned how to carve a niche. Still, he was always a good provider.” She lifted the corned beef out of the pot.

  Humankind cannot bear too much truth, I reckoned, but kept my own thoughts to myself as I washed and dried the lettuce. Above the sink, a chipped statue of the Blessed Mother stood motionless on her pedestal, her hands steepled in prayer while one foot crushed the viper’s head.

  Lorraine’s glasses were steamed as she poured out the cabbage into a sieve and asked if there were developments in the case. I told her about the ransom note and showed her the video clip Trisha had just received. She stood there, the dinner forgotten, her hands on her mouth, staring while the image of Brandy wept and told her mother how much she missed her. Lorraine asked me to play it again and again, putting my phone close to her ear.

  “Those male voices in the background—they must be the kidnappers.”

  I nodded.

  “I’m n
o expert, but I think one’s got a distinct New Jersey accent.”

  We played the clip again, and sure enough, she was right. Some of the grunts had a Mid-Atlantic ring to them, but that didn’t jive with the information I’d gotten from Tig. I told her what he’d said about a Swiss national being the Pictet & Cie account holder and asked if she’d run across any foreign plaintiffs in Trisha Liam’s files.

  Lorraine squinted into the light. “We haven’t discussed the briefs you gave me to read, but there are a couple of possibilities, some cases involving Trisha’s clients sued for wrongful deaths. They have plaintiff revenge and New Jersey written all over them. There, I knew it, I’m saying too much, and I’ve gotta get this dinner going. Where’s my head, anyway, Robbie’s going to go crazy on me any minute.” She began carving the corned beef like a pro, each strip a perfect thickness.

  “Lorraine, what’s taking you so long?” Robert McDuffy bellowed from the hall.

  “I’ll call you first thing tomorrow, and we can discuss it.”

  Lorraine pushed a lock away from her eyes. “In a minute, dear,” she sang. “Ask our guests to be seated, won’t you?”

  The table talk was predictable. Each time I praised Lorraine’s cooking, Robert looked at me as if we were a conspiracy.

  In the middle of dinner, I got a call from Tig.

  “We have something on the voiceprint,” he said. “Our linguistics guy was able to isolate a few of the phonemes.”

  “Speak English.”

  “In addition to Brandy’s, there are two distinct male voices—the tech is sure about that—both men born in about the same area of the world.”

  I remembered what Jane’s forensics guys found on Brandy’s slipper, plant life prevalent west of the Hudson. “In Central New Jersey?”

  “That’s what he’s betting, but the sample is too small to be more specific than that.”

  I thought of what Lorraine had picked up from listening to the tape. The woman would never know how good she was. “What can we do with that information?”

  “Nothing yet, but fast-forward to the trial. More circumstantial evidence the prosecutors can use. And remember, our linguist isn’t through with his analysis. With certain accents, they can pinpoint exact neighborhoods where the speaker grew up.”

  He sounded excited. I wasn’t, but it was something I could feed to Trisha Liam.

  “Anything on the vehicle or the Swiss account?” I asked.

  “Nothing yet. We’re about to get Homeland Security involved.”

  “Satellite?” I asked.

  “Have a better idea?”

  “You know how I feel about the privacy aspect of it.”

  “Privacy has nothing to do with it. We’re looking for a kidnapped minor. We need to find the van.”

  “It bugs me how a moving vehicle can just disappear.”

  “Nothing just disappears.”

  I called Trisha with the information Tig Able had given me from the linguist, and told her it jived with something my associate was looking at in the briefs she’d given us.

  The lawyer wasn’t impressed. “I want Brandy back. It’s why I hired you. What are you doing about it?”

  I didn’t answer, but listened to the crackling noise for a minute.

  “Sorry. You’re doing a lot. I thought if I watched the video long enough and hard enough, Brandy would walk into the house. The first time I saw the tape, it made me happy. Now I’m getting sick with worry. My performance in court today was pathetic. I’m not good with this waiting game.”

  “You were going to think more about who in your past could have done this, and why the unusual amount of the ransom. Anything?”

  “Still thinking.”

  Too vague for me. I wasn’t going to burst her Sweet Phillipa bubble, but it was time to goad Trisha Liam into digging into her past. “I’m at a dinner party, but I’d like to hear something from you by ten. You can text me.”

  During dinner, Zizi sat on the right of Mr. McDuffy and across from Denny. The three of them were in their own space, although to his credit, the old man tried to involve me as much as he could. Except for the information Lorraine and I had exchanged in the kitchen, the best part of the evening was the toast, because I’ll never forget the silence surrounding it.

  Robert held his glass of wine high in the air. “Here’s to good cookers and great lookers, Lorraine and Zizi here, two peas in a pod. You’d do well to marry the likes of them, son.”

  Chapter 41

  Brandy. In Chains

  The nasty one punched me hard this time. He said something about Mom not playing by the rules. My jaw feels like it did when I tried to crack a walnut with my teeth to show you how strong I was, remember? Really, Dad, I’ll be strong, I promise, but this is getting to be a pretty pathetic joke. Did you see him shake me? Yes, I’m sure you did; I can feel your anger. And if you could have, you’d have ripped him apart. I promise not to cry if you promise to come back.

  At least the nice one’s still around. At least I think he’s still nice, even though he slapped me and taped my eyes again. He’s nicer than the other one. He stopped him from cutting me with his knife. The hurt’s spread to my neck from my jaw, and it’s traveling down to my hands, and my legs ache. It feels like the growing pains I had two years ago, right before you died.

  What? Okay, I’ll stop the whining. It was the surprise of the slap, that’s all. And recognizing him for real. He’s the runner, I’m sure he is, and I thought he’d protect me.

  Hear those footsteps? I know you can because angels and spirits can hear everything, even thoughts, that’s what Granny Liam says.

  The key’s turning, and the door scrapes the floor. I’ll scrunch myself up as far away from the sound as I can get and rub my jaw. I know, I’m playing to the cheap seats, as Granny Liam would say. I’m good at that, right? OMG, here he comes. I can feel him coming into the room. One step, two. Which one is it?

  “I brought you some pizza.”

  “My jaw hurts too much to eat, but you can leave it. I’ll eat it later. I could go for a Coke right now with lots of ice.”

  More footsteps. The mean one’s in the room, too. I can smell him.

  “Shut up. Just eat the slice; that’s all you get.”

  I hear the runner set the tray on the bed. He tells the mean one to get out and not to come near me again. They both leave.

  I wasn’t hungry, I swear it, Dad, but now it smells too good. Want a bite? No? What good are you? You’re not even pretending.

  Chapter 42

  Fina. Evening Two, Denny’s Mishap

  I’d just turned on the computer when Denny came into my study, loaded with ice cream and coffee cups. We kissed and managed to spill some of the brew on the floor. Not the ice cream, he caught the bowls just in time.

  “Guess who’s got a date with Cookie tomorrow night? We’re meeting them at Grimaldi’s. That means dinner out two nights in a row, but—”

  “Can’t, not tomorrow night. Call Cookie and tell her to change it, any other night this week.”

  I knew it was that woman, but I played dumb. “Since when do you work late?” I asked, my mouth trying to smile.

  Denny’s face reddened. “I have to meet Zizi Carmalucci at six. Dad’s idea, you know that, don’t you?”

  “What idea? I’m confused. And I don’t own your time. No apologies necessary. Matter of fact, this is a good thing, excellent, maybe. Right. Maybe we should start seeing other people.” I took out my phone and swiped through the weather predictions for the next ten days, feeling the color warm my cheeks.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You don’t owe me explanations.” I could feel sweat beading on my upper lip.

  “But I’m not seeing Zizi, as you put it. She wants to interview some patrol officers about the crime rate and how we feel about the stop-and-frisk ban—”

  “And she just happened to hit on you, and it had to be at night. It couldn’t be at the station during the day whi
le you’re on a break or something.”

  “All she needs is an hour or two.”

  Tears gathered close to the rim of my lids, but I couldn’t stop my mouth from flapping. I was being pathetic, and I knew it, too, knew it as I spit out my words. I said some unprintable things.

  “Who’s the one who’s pushing marriage? Me.” Denny’s fist rammed against his chest. His ears were like beets, his face, bloated. “Who’s the one who’s been rejected four times? By now the ring’s an old-fashioned design.”

  He was yelling. I didn’t blame him. I was yelling. I told him to stick his ring someplace indelicate. He took the ice cream bowls and coffee cups and stomped out of the study. Into the silence that followed, I heard pans crashing, glass breaking, and a scream.

  I ran downstairs, Mr. Baggins in the lead. The cat stopped at the entrance to the kitchen, blocking my path. Good job, because the tile glittered with shards of glass and blood spurting from Denny.

  “Under the faucet with that hand,” I said as if I knew what I was doing. I looked around the living room and donned an old pair of slippers I’d stashed underneath the couch. I blasted his hand with cold water while he took out a piece of glass, and after swallowing my own bile, I tied a kitchen towel around his wrist to stop the bleeding.

  “ER. I’ll drive.” I grabbed my keys from the hook.

  “No. It’s stopping.” Denny’s deep blue eyes were haunted like they always are after we fight.

  I couldn’t help the tears. “My fault, all my fault. Your blood is on my hands.” And it was, too. “I just see red when I think of Zizi. Men are all chumps, including you. They fall for a hefty set so fast they might as well have jumped head first into the nearest sinkhole.”