Missing Brandy (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 2)

by Susan Russo Anderson

  She looked at me and rolled her eyes. “I’ll be right back.”

  I heard voices coming from the kitchen, low, insistent, the slam of a refrigerator door, the sound of dishes rattling and silverware clanging. In a few minutes Lorraine was back, a little flushed. She pushed up her glasses. “I’m ready. We’ll take the iPad.”

  “How did you manage it?”

  “What?”

  “Robert.”

  “Robbie? He’s a lamb. I fixed him his favorite food and told him about the case. It’ll take him a while to adjust. After all, I’ve been pampering him all his life. But he’ll change, you bet he will.”

  We knocked on Trisha Liam’s door, and she led us into her conservatory.

  Lorraine held out her iPad. Trisha grabbed it and read.

  “I remember him now. Henry Gruber. Thin, wiry, pulled on his nose. His case was doomed from the start. No autopsy after the child died, and he waited six months to litigate. How could he win? The wife was a wasted shred of a thing. Estranged and deranged, her heart wasn’t into what she was saying. They should have accepted our settlement.”

  “Which was?”

  Trisha Liam gave a start. “$2.5 million.”

  I looked at Lorraine. No one spoke for what seemed like an age. In a gesture lately characteristic, Trisha Liam rocked back and forth. “So I’m responsible for Brandy’s kidnapping.”

  Lorraine took Trisha’s hand and tried to soothe her. Me, I stood there, mute.

  “Henry Gruber’s the kidnapper. He’s the one responsible, not you.”

  “I get that, but why, after all these years?”

  I looked out to the harbor, where lights were winking in the distance, tugboats chugged, and the world seemed to continue as if nothing had happened.

  “He’s getting even. He would have murdered you, but knew that would end your pain. He’s an engineer, a planner, and he transferred all his hate onto you. For all we know, his son died of natural causes. And like my gran used to say, crime begins far back and long ago.”

  “Doubtful,” Trisha whispered. Her words seemed to cut glass.

  “Or it could be …” I stopped speaking because I was having trouble breathing. My thought had just sucked all the air out of me. What if Ben Small had been on duty the night Stuart Gruber died? What if it had been Ben Small who had killed Stuart Gruber? I looked at Lorraine.

  She seemed to read my thoughts. Instead of saying anything, she looked down and wiped her glasses, almost willing me to keep my mouth shut.

  I recovered somewhat. “But that’s separate,” I think I mumbled, or words to that effect. “Just like Mitch’s death is separate. It’s our job to get Brandy back. And we will.”

  “You bet we will,” Trisha said. “And when she’s home safe and sound, we’ll help Freddy and deal with Mitch’s death.”

  She said it as if it were already a done deal, as if Brandy was in the room with us, sitting in the overstuffed chair, her legs slung over one arm, twirling her hair, impatient because it had taken so long.

  I put in a call to Jane and told her about Gruber vs. Hamilton Hospital. “Trisha Liam defended the hospital, and it must have eaten up everything Henry Gruber had to give. Frankly, part of me doesn’t blame him—I’ll bet she’s vicious in court. But he’s our man, all right. What are you doing to find him?”

  Chapter 60

  Fina. Evening Three, JackRabbit

  I was about to drop Lorraine off when I got a call from Cookie.

  “Got news about the runner’s hat. It’s a long story,” she began, breathless.

  “Cut to the chase,” I said, pulling over to the nearest hydrant and slipping my cell into the dash mount.

  “Found Sherwin-Williams hats in the fifty-cent bin, just like the runner’s hat.”

  “All right, a little more detail.”

  “I was passing JackRabbit in Park Slope—it’s this store for runners—and thought I’d pick up a cheap little something for Clancy. He’s a runner. That’s why he’s so good looking and in shape, gorgeous abs and his calves—”

  “Not that much detail, and breathe once in a while.”

  “Okay, so I went inside and was clawing my way through the bargain bin in the back, looking for a headband or something. I haven’t deposited your check yet, and my balance is grim.” She stopped for air.

  “Go on.”

  “I found a bunch of painter hats sporting different logos bunched in with other stuff. Some had Adidas, others with the Nike boomerang or whatever it is. I even found a Van’s Paints—never heard of them—but there was one that had Sherwin-Williams plastered all over it, just like the hat the runner wore.”

  Silence while I took it in.

  “Don’t you see? That’s where he must have gotten his hat. I’ve checked all the other stores in the Heights, Carroll Gardens, Cobble Hill, you name it. Maybe he lives near JackRabbit?”

  Lorraine, who’d been quiet up to this point, asked, “Did Jane’s team cover Park Slope?”

  I shook my head and drove. “Where are you now?” I asked Cookie.

  “On Court Street, a million miles from Seventh Avenue. I’ve got a date with Clancy, remember?”

  I thanked her and hung up, then called Jane and told her what Cookie had discovered.

  In ten minutes, she and Willoughby met us in front of JackRabbit Sports. It’s located in your typical Park Slope neighborhood on Seventh Avenue close to Prospect Park, a haven for Brooklyn runners. I looked up and down the block at a row of brownstones. Most of them had storefronts on the ground level and, I presumed, lots of studios and one-bedrooms on the upper floors.

  JackRabbit has three or four stores for serious runners in Manhattan and one in Brooklyn. The manager of this one was a short, compact man, an older guy in running gear who greeted us at the door. Jane and Willoughby flashed their shields, and I showed him my ID. Lorraine smiled, and he smiled back, relaxing.

  “Just about to close. What can I do for you?”

  Jane showed him Cookie’s sketch of the runner and told him why we were looking for him.

  Standing underneath one of the display lights, he examined the drawing. In a few minutes he shook his head. “Doesn’t look familiar.”

  “But the hat he’s wearing, it’s got a Sherwin-Williams logo. The paint stores don’t sell them anymore. We think he bought his hat here.”

  The man canted his mouth and nodded. “We got them. Used to be popular about twenty years ago. I was cleaning out the storeroom a couple weeks ago and noticed an old box full of them, so I threw them into the specials barrel.” He pointed to an aisle. “Go all the way back. You’ll find them there, a bin with odds and ends, you name it. All I can tell you, they’re selling. I run in the park every morning, and I see more and more of them, probably all from our store. Word gets around, you know how it is. Lately we’ve sold a lot of them. Perfect for early mornings in spring and fall. Nice and light. Don’t even know you have anything on your head, and the visor keeps the sun out of your eyes. Like to try one? Can’t beat the price, $4.99.”

  “Is there anyone else who might recognize him?”

  “My son, but he works days. I take over from him at five. I’m retired, but got to keep my hands in the business or my head’ll go soft. Can I see that sketch again?”

  While he took another look, I called Cookie. “Sorry to disturb you, but would you mind describing the runner to the JackRabbit guy?”

  I pressed the speaker icon so we could all hear her. “Five nine or ten, a little stooped. Muscled in a lean sort of way. A fast runner. Brown curly hair almost to his shoulders in the back. I can see it curling around his hat, and he pulls on his nose.”

  “Jack may have seen him—that’s my son—but I don’t recognize him.”

  “Jack at JackRabbit?”

  “You got it, lady.”

  “And you are?”

  “Jack. The original Jack, the Jack in JackRabbit.”

  “Would you call Jack Junior? We’d like to speak to h
im.”

  He shook his head. “Probably eating dinner now. I wouldn’t want to disturb him. Got a wife and kids, you know how it is. Come back tomorrow. We open early. He’ll be here then.”

  Jane shook her head. She talked again about our urgency—Brandy’s urgency, really. “We think this runner is involved.”

  “I get it, he’s a person of interest.”

  “That’s it exactly. We need to find him.”

  The man called his son, and we talked.

  “I think I know who you mean,” he said. His voice sounded bright. “In the store all the time. Gets the best shoes. Wears them out fast. I’d say in the past three months, he’s bought three pair. That’s a lot, know what I mean? A real runner. Me, I can tell the real ones from the sort ofs, and he’s a real one, believe me. Nice guy. Quiet. Not good looking. Reminds me of a mole with a long nose. Like you say, he pulls on it.”

  “So you’d have receipts from a credit card.”

  “Guy I’m thinking of, he pays in cash.”

  “Do you know where he lives, anything about him?”

  “Nope. But I know his name is Henry.”

  “He introduced himself?”

  “Nope. A friend of his came in. Well, not all the way in. He poked his head in the door. Not a nice guy, not a runner. Yells out, ‘Henry, what’s taking so long?’ Like I say, not a nice guy.”

  “So he left?”

  “That he did. Hopped to. If it was me, I’d have told the friend what for.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “About a month ago. That’s when he bought the painter’s hat. And the latest pair of Nike runners. Guy knows what he wants and goes for it.”

  “Anything strange about him?”

  Dead air for a moment. “Hold on, I’m thinking. I know one time, must have been his last visit, he stuck his hand out and shook mine.”

  “Like he was saying goodbye?”

  “At the time I thought it was because he liked our stuff and he liked our prices. He’d just bought himself a hat for fifty cents.”

  “A painter’s hat?”

  “You got it.”

  I shot his manager father a glare. “Not the one for $4.99?”

  “They’re all fifty cents. That’s why they go so fast.”

  Outside, Willoughby looked around. “No hot dog vendors on this block?”

  Jane clamped a hand over her phone. “How can you think of food at a time like this when we’re so close to nabbing the bastard?” She holstered her cell and narrowed her eyes in my direction. “Couple of uniforms coming from the Seventy-Eighth to help us do the neighborhood. I can taste it; we’re so close to Henry Gruber’s doorstep, we’re stepping on it. God and everybody’s looking for him. I’d love to lay my mitts on him first, but I don’t need to tell you that.”

  Just then two squads pulled up. I looked at Lorraine. “All these stores, I want to talk to the proprietors before we leave. Do you have enough time?”

  She nodded and made a call to “my Robbie,” as she put it.

  While she spoke in low but emphatic tones, I checked out the area again. “We’ll let the police knock on doors. Probably close to a hundred apartments on this block alone. But I’ve got a feeling about the runner—he’s checked out of the area.”

  We discounted the fortune-teller, the racquet club, the health spa, but there was a GameStop and a cleaners where Henry Gruber might have done business. Matter of fact, Seventh Avenue was loaded with places where he could have shopped. I had no proof except for what my head told me.

  Lorraine and I told Jane we’d cover the other stores on the block while she and Willoughby went into the real estate agency. She thought we were wasting time, but then she wasn’t big on canvassing. I thought otherwise: Henry Gruber might have packed up, but the sidewalks in this neighborhood knew him. I could feel my sneakers stepping onto the ghost of his tread, and I prayed we’d find a trace that would lead us to Brandy. I pictured her squished into some corner, gagged and tied, afraid and dirty and thirteen.

  Chapter 61

  Fina. Evening Three, The Cleaners

  The help at GameStop and Key Food were nice, but they’d never seen the runner, so Lorraine and I went next door, stepping down into the dry cleaners. There were a few people ahead of us, and in the wait, the solvent began stinging my eyes. The person behind the counter was a bright-looking woman in her forties, I guessed, wearing one of those aprons that tie in the back.

  I flashed my ID. She frowned into it, then crossed her arms. I’d get nowhere with her.

  “Is that your son?” Loraine asked, pointing to a picture of a young man in a cap and gown sitting next to an artificial plant.

  Leave it to Lorraine.

  The woman beamed. “He just graduated from Columbia. Summa cum laude.”

  “You can tell he’s bright, just like his mother. You must be very proud. I know how I felt when my son …”

  And they were off. I felt like a useless know-nothing snot, but at least I knew enough to stick with Lorraine, who by now had gracefully engaged the woman.

  “We have an unusual request,” she began and showed the woman Cookie’s sketch of the runner, the man we were certain was Henry Gruber. “We think he may have some information about the abduction of a teenager.”

  The woman closed her eyes. “You’re thinking of someone else. Henry Gruber was our good customer; at least, he was until a week or so ago when he turned in his keys.”

  I knew it. “His keys?”

  “He had a room upstairs. We’d never have rented to him if he hadn’t been a gentleman, and he paid a year in advance. He’s such a gentle person. Henry wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “How long was he here?”

  “Almost five years. Gave me cash each January. But last week he said he wouldn’t need the room anymore. I told him I owed him money since he’d paid for the year, but he wouldn’t take it. That was …” She slid over to her computer and tapped a few keys. “That was last Wednesday. Fastidious man, about his person and the apartment.”

  “Would you have his forwarding address? His phone number?”

  She shook her head.

  “Did he give you any reason for leaving?”

  “Most people don’t. Most people who rent our studios move on eventually. We were lucky to have him for as long as we did.”

  “Could we see the apartment?” I asked.

  “There isn’t anything left to see. The room is spotless.”

  I said nothing.

  “Still, we’d like to see it,” Lorraine said. “You see, we need to talk to him. We’re low on options, and he may know something.” She held up the image of Brandy and told the woman what she knew about the girl’s family. “Her mother is beside herself. Tell me, do you believe in sixth sense?”

  Have you ever known anyone like Lorraine? You peg them as useless, almost forget they’re in the room, but all of a sudden they surprise you with their wisdom and power.

  “Of course, I understand.”

  She led us up a narrow stairwell to the fourth floor. The carpeting was worn in spots, but the place was free of dust and well lit, although the air smelled faintly of boiled vegetables. On the third floor, music blared from behind one of the doors, and the landlady knocked on it and asked the tenant politely to turn it down.

  “Henry never once complained about the noise. Sorry to see him go.” On the top landing, she unlocked the door, and we entered a garret with one window. I looked out onto the roofs of brownstones and just a sliver of Prospect Park.

  The room smelled scrubbed. It was empty except for a chair, a floor lamp, a scratched wooden desk, and a single bed. I opened the closet and looked inside, peered in the nightstand, underneath the bed. I examined the walls, the floorboards, the mattress. Nothing but the inescapable sense of doom. The air held dampened desires, missed opportunities, a mind lost in its own labyrinth. For me, that barren studio was like a coiled snake under a rock. I looked at Lorraine and noti
ced goose bumps on her arms.

  I pressed on the top of the desk, and it jiggled. “The legs are loose.” I brought out my flashlight, opened the middle drawer, and stuck my hand in. I felt around, found nothing. Something told me to check again, so I took out the drawer and moved my fingers along the rails. When I did, I felt something sharp wedged in the back and pulled it out, being careful not to rip it, a torn piece of paper with a printout. It was the corner of what looked like a deposit slip, wrinkled, faded, but I made out “… Chase Bank, N.A.” Underneath the words was the branch number.

  Chapter 62

  Henry. Evening Three, The Syringe

  “What are you doing?”

  “Listening.”

  “And the syringe in your hand?”

  “Go away.”

  “She doesn’t have a clue who we are. Don’t you think I’d have done something about her if I thought she recognized us? Leave her alone, she’s a child.”

  “Haven’t you ever killed a child?”

  The color of the room flattened. “You’re mad!”

  “You killed your boy. You left him unattended in that hospital. You left him to die. No wonder you lost the case. You were guilty of gross negligence. I know what it’s like to be left. It’s like a death. My parents left me. I wasn’t going to let that happen to another kid. I had to do something about it.”

  The hallway began to shake, as if an earthquake had struck. Henry held onto the doorjamb as a dim awareness blossomed in his mind. It was minuscule, like one of Ben’s pinpricks, and he stomped on it before it became a monster that would eat him alive. It would cause him to make rash decisions, and now above all, so near to the end, he must remain calm. “I told you to go home. I’ll contact you when I’ve gotten the money. You’ll get your share. You’ll never have to work again.”

  “I don’t care about the money.” Ben started pacing outside the girl’s door.