Missing Brandy (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 2)

by Susan Russo Anderson

  The hallway light flickered. Henry should change the bulb, but not when he was dizzy, and he was afraid to leave Ben alone in that state, so close to the girl.

  Ben waved the needle in Henry’s face. “You’re too trusting. They’re after us, and that kid’s feeding them information. Right now, I can hear her talking to someone, can’t you? What’s the matter with you? Why is she so precious to you?”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “If you don’t believe me, listen.”

  Ben motioned for him to come closer to the girl’s door.

  Henry put his ear to the wood. He could hear her voice. “She’s talking to herself, that’s all. In a way, I don’t blame her, she’s scared.”

  “Let me do something about her now. It’s just a matter of time when we’ll have to. This is the perfect opportunity. If we let her go, she’ll identify us. She’s seen us.”

  Henry hesitated. True, she’d called him the runner. But he’d dismissed it with a slap. After that, her eyes had been wary, but she hadn’t called him the runner again. Why were her eyes so knowing—she was only thirteen. Would Stuart have been so precocious at her age? Would Stuart be alive if he hadn’t left? “They’ll never catch us. I have a plan, remember?” Henry’s hand scooped out the airplane ticket and waved it in front of Ben. “Your escape to freedom.”

  “Shove the ticket. The girl knows. She can identify us.”

  “Get away from that door.”

  “I tell you, she knows about us. She’s told them, I can feel it. I saw an unmarked car driving slowly in front of the house. A couple of times. We’ve got to do something.”

  Ben was making things up. Henry wished he’d never met him. “You’re mad. How could they know? They couldn’t. For the last ten years, I’ve done nothing but plan.”

  “You don’t know the Feds. There’s no more privacy. I’ll bet your precious Swiss bank colludes with them as we speak.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. The Swiss understand privacy and its importance.” Henry pulled on his nose, considering. “Even if they were forced to divulge something, all they have is my address in Geneva. I’ve planned this, done nothing else for ten years, covered my tracks. Get away from her door. Put that needle away.”

  But Ben wasn’t listening. There was a queerness about him, a jerking in his eyes, like a dog gone feral. He’d killed Phillipa, of that Henry was sure. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill the girl.

  Outside, Henry heard the distant clop of horse’s hooves.

  “Hear that? They’re coming for us.” Ben’s eyes were wild.

  The syringe flew from his hand, and Henry grabbed it. Now was the perfect time. But he couldn’t do it. He’d never taken a life. The picture of Phillipa on the floor seared his brain.

  “It’s the next-door neighbors on their ride,” Henry said. “They take their horses out each clear evening.”

  “What if they find the van?” Ben asked.

  Another one of his refrains. Henry was sick of him. He had the syringe in his hand, but he didn’t know how to use it. And Ben was stronger. His gun, Henry understood his Glock. He fingered the holster. That’s what he’d do, but he’d wait for the perfect opportunity. And the mess afterward? He’d have to develop a plan, but not now.

  “They’ve found the van, haven’t they? Haven’t they?”

  Not the van again. “They can’t find the van. It’s on its way to Odessa locked inside a container. Lost. No record.”

  “The ship’s manifest?”

  Henry shook his head. “Not on the manifest. And what if they find it? It’s untraceable. There are no VINs, I made sure of that.”

  “So now you’re a mechanic?”

  “I hired a good one.”

  Ben seemed to think, but his eyes, those eyes of his, darted around the room.

  “What ever happened to your plan to silence the woman detective?”

  That question seemed to still Ben Small; at least he seemed to be thinking. Perhaps thinking was too strong a word for Ben. He’d have to plan carefully. He’d take care of Ben, but not in the heat of the moment. He’d take care of him with the airline ticket.

  “I need to use the car.”

  Henry barely heard Ben. He pictured Phillipa lying so still on the floor. He must erase her from his mind. He reached into his pocket and threw Ben the car keys. “Go for a ride. Calm yourself. Come back, and we’ll talk about your plan to silence the redhead.”

  Chapter 63

  Fina. Evening Three, The Meeting

  It was close to ten. Lorraine, Jane, Willoughby, and I were sitting in our dining room. We weren’t exactly celebrating. Matter of fact, we were trying to wring water out of a stone.

  Denny hadn’t come home yet. A picture of him and Zizi steaming up the windows someplace off the BQE flashed through my mind. I could see his Jeep rocking back and forth in that everlasting rhythm like waves hitting the shore. Some weird emotion did a rumble through my lower intestines.

  I wasn’t a total loser when it came to being a hostess, especially with Lorraine helping me and Mr. Baggins doing his part by winding in and out of my legs. While I took drink orders, she cut a corner of cheddar into dainty slices, found crackers and chips in a cupboard, and arranged them neatly on wooden trays.

  “What do we know about him?” Jane asked, helping herself to the cheese.

  “We know his name is Henry Gruber,” I said, starting our brainstorming session. “We know he lived in Central New Jersey near the Delaware River, that he lived on Seventh Avenue in Park Slope close to the JackRabbit, and that he banks at a branch in Central New Jersey.” I said that last part in triumph, holding up the wedge of paper Lorraine and I had found in his room.

  Unlike me, Lorraine wasn’t a gloater, and she wasn’t much of a talker either, especially in the beginning. And another thing I found out about her, she liked her new iPad. She must have worked that thing full blast for the past four hours, except for our Park Slope visit and the trip to Liam, Trueblood & Wolsey to read the full-blown Gruber vs. Hamilton Hospital.

  Jane grabbed some chips, possibly to hide the red flushing into her cheeks. “His wife left him after his son died suddenly.”

  “When was that?” Willoughby asked.

  “According to his mother, Stuart Gruber died in August 1998.”

  “The date was corroborated by the hospital,” Jane said.

  “And mentioned several times in Gruber vs. Hamilton Hospital,” Lorraine added.

  Willoughby chomped on chips and nodded. Mr. Baggins sat near his feet, waiting for crumbs to fall. “So we know Henry Gruber lost a case to Trisha Liam twelve years ago, and he’s been brooding ever since.”

  “Correction, he’s been planning his revenge ever since,” Lorraine said.

  “No wonder Susan Gruber left him.”

  “Do we know that for sure?” Willoughby asked.

  “You didn’t meet her,” Jane said. “I can’t see her having anything to do with kidnapping a minor.”

  “She’s clean,” Lorraine said. “And the details of the Gruber case fit in with the ransom amount. He refused Hamilton Hospital’s settlement offer of $2.5 million. The case went to trial in June 2001.”

  “Why did it take him so long to make a move?” Willoughby asked.

  I wiped crumbs off my fingers. “First, it took him six months after his son’s death before he sued the hospital. I think that was because he found someone to help him act. I think that someone was Ben Small. I think if it weren’t for Ben Small, he never would have sued.”

  “Conjecture,” Jane said. “This session should be about what we know.”

  Leave it to the blonde detective to throw in a wrench. It stopped conversation for a time until I reminded her that this was supposed to be brainstorming.

  “How did Henry Gruber find Ben Small?”

  “Who knows, but they struck up a friendship.”

  “For now let’s focus on Brandy Liam. What do we have to know before we do a resc
ue?” Jane asked.

  “We have to know where they are.”

  And that was the missing link.

  “I’m sure the Feds are planning all their moves as we speak,” Willoughby said.

  “But they’ve got to know where they’ve got her tied up. Even a moron can figure that out,” I said.

  Jane, Lorraine, and I shared a look.

  “And how are we going to find that out?”

  Willoughby finished his beer. With his greasy palms, he wiped the table in front of him. Crumbs fell on the floor, and Mr. Baggins was at the ready. After tasting a few, however, he jumped into my lap.

  We were silent for a while.

  “What we need is a current address for Henry Gruber. That’s where Brandy is.”

  “If she still is,” Willoughby said.

  Death seemed to grip the room.

  “Henry Gruber must have a cell phone account, a driver’s license.”

  “Can’t find them. The Feds have been working with the Swiss. The bank gave them Henry’s name and address, but the address is in Geneva.”

  “You don’t think he’s taken her there, do you?”

  It was as if the room stopped. I looked at Willoughby and wondered why I hadn’t thought of that.

  Jane called the special agent in charge of the case and left him a voicemail.

  “Isn’t he supposed to call you and let you know every little detail?” I asked. “After all, you’re in charge.”

  “Not in the case of a kidnapping.”

  “But he would have told you if they’d found her in Switzerland?”

  She nodded. “I want to make sure.”

  “I have a feeling Henry Gruber’s in this country. I can’t tell you why, except for the way they’ve communicated with Trisha Liam, using Brite Messenger Service. And don’t forget the Central New Jersey phonemes on the voiceprint.”

  “Or the forensics on the slipper.”

  “You mean you hope she’s in this country.”

  Jane took some more cheese. “I’m assuming that anything we get from Switzerland will help down the road, but not with the capture. They’ve contacted Chase. The address on file was the one in Ewing Township, and we know that’s not current. As soon as we have that, we move.”

  “And the sooner the better,” I said. “Trisha Liam’s getting nervous.”

  “So am I,” Jane said.

  “What about Ben Small?”

  “He’s disappeared down a black hole.”

  “He’s wherever Henry Gruber is, the right-hand man.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  It was late. I heard Lorraine in the kitchen doing the dishes and talking on her cell. “I’ll drive you home,” I told her. I felt hollow. Brandy’s life was slipping through my fingers.

  Chapter 64

  Ben Small. Evening Three, The Drive

  He should have gotten the bitch before this, but Mr. Careful hadn’t trusted him with the car keys, not until now. It was easy to trace her. She’d given Brite her card, not such a good move for someone who calls herself a PI. Stupid female, he’d show her. She was expendable, and Ben knew how. He’d relish getting this broad. Who knew, he might not kill her all at once. Make her suffer.

  Screw Henry Gruber and all his planning. Where had it gotten them? He had to hand it to him, though. He never seemed to worry, never raised his voice except during the getaway. That was understandable. And he’d stood his ground. Yes, Ben had admired him for that.

  Long ago when they’d first met, Ben had felt sorry for him with his son and the way he had to die. There were times Ben was about to tell Henry, but he just couldn’t do it. It was information he was saving for later. It would crush Henry to know his son’s death could have been avoided if he were the kind of parent he should have been. That was Henry, Henry the careful planner but only up to a point. Henry was flawed, and Ben was there to show him how and why. Henry would be in agony when Ben told him. You see, way back then, Ben had to do something about Stuart. A good boy, a perfect child. Ben watched him smile shyly, showed him how to work the TV in his room. He didn’t deserve the kind of parents he had. He had to put Stuart out of his misery.

  The Grubers reminded him of his own parents, especially the woman. He hadn’t seen his own mother for years. Could be dead by now for all he knew, but when he glimpsed Henry’s wife in court, she’d seemed just like his mother. The kind that walk out the door without turning to look back.

  Ben could see Henry’s face when he told him. He liked to imagine his face at the moment the news would hit, the slight shake of the head, the blinking of his eyes as he took it in. Maybe if he timed it right, Ben would save his own life. Henry would put down the gun he was aiming. It would crush him on the spot. Yes, Ben should save the telling for when he needed it. But now he needed to focus on the redhead.

  He knocked on Henry’s door. He’d be careful, couldn’t give him too much juice before he got his share of the money. He needed Henry. “Sorry for disturbing you. I had a thought and wanted to run it by you.”

  Henry looked up at him with his cow eyes. As Ben told him his plan, the bastard’s lips tightened into a scowl. “Give back the keys.”

  Henry never knew what hit him. He’d sleep it off and be glad when he woke up and saw the redhead in chains sitting before him, no longer a threat.

  The moon was almost full, and stars prickled the sky. Ben smelled late evening dew and hay and tried to remember how to start a car. He’d seen Henry do it often enough, but hadn’t really been paying attention. It couldn’t be too difficult. After a lurching start, he practiced driving the Audi up and down the driveway. It took him a while to get the hang of it, braking smoothly, coming to a stop, not gunning the motor.

  Before too long he’d made it to the end of the block. He paused to get his bearings, lurching forward, turning into the mouth of a small road, slowing to avoid hitting a farmer on his tractor. All right, no need to diss the fucking farmer, he was doing okay. Maybe this speed wasn’t so bad—he needed time to find the light switch and turn off the wipers. Ben pressed on the brakes and almost hit the windshield.

  Soon, however, his feet and hands remembered. Muscle memory, the old lady called it. Muscle memory, she should have had more of it. Oblivious through most of Ben’s childhood, his grandmother, who’d raised him after his mother left, forgot how to hold her pee, but knew enough to wait until five to guzzle from the bottle. Never drink before five, she’d say while she sat in her stink and watched the second hand on the kitchen clock.

  Henry said gas was cheaper in New Jersey than it was in Brooklyn, and besides, they do the pumping. He found the gas gauge, but panicked when he read the display and thought the tank was almost empty. He pulled into the station. There were lots of them on the highway. He felt in his pocket and found a twenty and two tens.

  “Twenty dollars’ worth.”

  He hoped the attendant understood. His eyes flashed at Ben, and when he smiled, he saw the man had no teeth. Two minutes later he returned. “$4.75,” Ben thought he said, but couldn’t be sure. He stuck out the twenty, and the guy dug in his pocket. The guy’s fingernails were black with grime, and he gave him back a quarter, a ten, and a five.

  Ben started the car. The gauge hadn’t moved. It must have been almost full all along.

  “Which way to Brooklyn?”

  The Sikh pointed straight ahead and smiled.

  He thought he could smell the way. Even so, he made a few wrong turns and went through the tolls the old-fashioned way until he remembered Henry slowed through the E-Z-Pass lanes. Going through the Holland Tunnel, he panicked with all the choices. Henry had been right about the planning part—Ben should have been more careful—but he bumped along, and on the bridge, his tires made that hollow metallic sound, and he knew he was going the right way, especially when he recognized the exit.

  The truth, he missed Henry. He felt bad about giving him the needle, but he had to do it. He’d be fine when he woke up. He’d wa
ke up, he knew he would. Ben needed the money, but more than that, he needed freedom. He wasn’t going to get caught, no. That’s why he had to find the redhead, take care of her good. He’d bring her back to Henry, like a cat delivering its prey. When he had time to think about it, Henry would agree.

  It was a good thing Henry found Ben that day on the train. He’d said so many times. Henry lacked cunning. Henry didn’t understand the real world. Give the redhead enough time, and she’d find them. She was like a dog with a bone. It was a matter of time, that was all.

  Ben had big trouble locating her house. The address Brite gave him turned out to be the redhead’s office. So he double-parked and knocked on doors. He wasn’t about to give up. He could taste how much he wanted to get her. In the end, he found a neighbor walking a dog, and the guy made a few calls and showed Ben the way.

  He parked down the block and walked in shadow until he stood across from her house and waited, watching for interior movement. He couldn’t see anything until he went around to the back. There was a dim light in an upper-story window and a shadow moving across the pane. Ben watched it disappear and reshape itself in the kitchen. It was the redhead. He could see the outline of ginger curls in the glow from the refrigerator.

  He breathed in, breathed out, and tried to calm the pounding of his heart.

  He waited, making sure she was alone in the house—some of Henry’s planning had rubbed off.

  It wasn’t too hard to get inside through the back. He clicked the door shut and stood listening in the mudroom. Old house, everything creaked. The sudden whir of the refrigerator made him jump. He told himself to calm down. Heard footsteps overhead. Slowly he broke out two ampules, but he had a pocketful with him just to make sure. If she resisted, he’d have to overdose. He patted his coat pocket and walked up the few steps into a darkened hallway and stopped.

  Chapter 65

  Fina. Evening Three, Alone