Death and Disappearance (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 5)

by Susan Russo Anderson

  “We could wait until the garage opens, which might take hours or days, and meanwhile, since no one’s around, we could—”

  She removed his hand from below her waist. “In broad daylight? Not a chance. Let’s take in a few more galleries and return to the Augustus,” Lorraine suggested. “By that time, the raven-haired woman may have returned.”

  “I’ve got a better idea: we could have lunch at the coffee shop we passed on the way. It’s just down the block on the other side.”

  As they waited to cross the street, Frank pointed to a large man on the opposite sidewalk wheeling a walker. “Biggest guy I’ve ever seen except in the circus. And his companion, tall, thin, with a fringe of white hair and ears the size of saucers. They both belong in Luna Park, especially the fat dude. He looks like the side of a flabby barn, and why is he wearing a striped shirt, and sleeveless, no less?”

  “Frank! He can’t help it.”

  Just like men, Frank stopped and stared.

  Lorraine tugged his sleeve. “The restaurant, remember?”

  “I’m not the only one gaping. Look, they’ve got an audience.”

  He was right. Traffic slowed and horns honked. Someone yelled. A sideshow not at all in keeping with the neighborhood, Lorraine thought.

  “And his friend, poor guy, thin as a rail. Looks like all his calories go into his ears.”

  “Probably a relative, or maybe a caregiver,” Lorraine said.

  Frank had to stand there, didn’t he, while the two men stopped by the side of their sedan and demurred. Presently, the thin man folded the walker and stowed it in the trunk.

  “Food, Frank. Let’s go.”

  But no, they had to watch while the white-haired man opened the door and began shoving his large companion into the backseat. Finally he gave up: the opening was too narrow for such a large figure.

  Lorraine could see others stopping, too, someone bending and saying something to the caregiver, probably offering assistance. To the accompaniment of Frank’s boorish comments, the large man stood a moment and glared as if threatening the onlookers, visoring his eyes and peering up and down the street. Lorraine thought he was going to wave, because by now, he’d collected quite an audience.

  “Maybe they’ll take the bus,” Frank said.

  For a second the mismatched couple stood side by side until the man with the ears opened the front door and with some additional turning and pushing, succeeded in wedging the large man into the front passenger seat.

  “Show’s over. Let’s go, Frank.”

  When they got to the restaurant, there was a line out the door, so they decided to do some exploring. They strolled up and down Madison Avenue, peering into windows, one eye cocked for any sign of the mysterious gallery woman in red and black. Lorraine window-shopped while Frank held onto her arm, gazing at who knew what.

  “This is my idea of make-believe,” Frank said. “Women who appear and disappear; fat men who finally fit inside cars; paintings that sell for thousands. And the worst thing, no butcher shop.”

  Lorraine had to agree. “I must admit I’ve seen quite a change in the neighborhood. I doubt many people live here anymore, but see all those windows above the stores? They used to be apartments. Reasonable rents, too. Way back when I was growing up, there used to be a fancy meat market nearby. My mother would go there to buy expensive cuts of beef for our Christmas dinner, and she’d take us with her. As a special treat we’d eat at a little place on Madison Avenue that had a toy train running from the kitchen to the counter, delivering orders. It was part of our Christmas ritual.”

  “She didn’t buy from my father?” Frank sounded hurt.

  “The butcher had a twenty-two-year-old calico. And one year when we came, the cat wasn’t in the window. The owner said she’d died. I cried for days. It was almost like a death in the family.”

  They continued killing time. Lorraine saw all sorts of expensive items she didn’t want—fancy dish towels, gorgeous art books, vases, paintings in gilt frames, sleek designer dresses.

  “Still a line in front of the coffee shop. What do you say we go home?”

  Lorraine shook her head. “We haven’t learned anything yet.”

  “We’ve learned there’s something mighty fishy about this gallery. You’re the one who told me we discover one piece of the puzzle at a time. Or maybe a piece that doesn’t fit. Or maybe even nothing on the first visit. But I think we’ve made a good start.”

  Frank had a point, and Lorraine’s feet hurt, so they headed back to the car, Lorraine looking right and left, still not ready to give up. After all, it had been over forty-eight hours since Stephen Cojok’s body had been discovered—time was racing away.

  Frank pointed across the street to the old car behind his. “The antique’s still there. I wonder if it belongs to one of the stores, maybe that antique shop on the corner.”

  An antique, Lorraine was certain. It almost looked like her old Plymouth, but was a flashier model. More silver trim on the hood and trunk, a metal visor over the windshield, and even from where she stood, she could see leather seats and a wooden dashboard. The car gleamed in the afternoon light, sun splintering off the glass and obscuring most of the interior. She stopped abruptly, staring at the vehicle, momentarily throwing Frank off balance.

  “Sorry. There’s someone or something inside that car.”

  “An old DeSoto,” Frank said. He pointed to the license plate. “I’d love to get my hands on one of those. In that condition, I’ll bet it’s worth thirty, forty thousand. They drew closer and Lorraine stopped. Someone was sitting inside. No, someone was slumped over the steering wheel, perhaps taking a quick nap after lunch. Man or woman? From where she stood, Lorraine couldn’t tell, so she walked over to the driver’s side.

  Frank visored his eyes, looking down the block. “No more line outside the coffee shop, and I could really use a little something.”

  Leave it to men. She took a closer look inside the car. Although the woman’s face was partially obscured, Lorraine recognized her as the lady in the red and black dress they’d seen briefly in the gallery. The tortoise-shell comb had slipped from its perch on top of her head so that her hair fell in a raven swath across her left cheek.

  Lorraine was about to rap on the window when she stopped herself. Something about the figure. So still. Her mind reeled back to Robbie lying dead in her arms, and she realized with a jolt that the woman had that same dead look.

  “Call 9-1-1, Frank.” At the same time she took out her phone and punched in Jane’s number. The detective answered on the first ring. Lorraine told her they’d been trying to locate Stephen Cojok’s employer when they’d discovered a woman slumped over her steering wheel on Madison Avenue. “She’s dead.”

  “A hundred and fifty people die every day in Manhattan, and you’re calling me because of one? Get over it. In a parked car? Call 9-1-1.”

  “We did.” Lorraine explained they’d been visiting a gallery with ties to Stephen Cojok’s employer. “We saw the woman in the gallery an hour ago. She spoke to us before disappearing. A second woman helped us, but when we described the first woman and asked to speak with her, the associate said she was the only one on duty. She assured us there was no other woman employed by the gallery.”

  “Maybe you misunderstood.”

  Lorraine told herself to remain calm. “No, I absolutely did not misunderstand. There is something fishy going on here, I know it, and Fina asked us to investigate this gallery; it might be connected to the murder of Stephen Cojok. I watched the first woman open a door behind the desk and disappear into the back of the gallery. Now she’s across the street slumped over the steering wheel of an antique car. She’s deader than dead, and you’ve got to do something about it.” Lorraine heard breathing on the other end of the line. She hoped that meant Jane was thinking. Just then she heard a siren.

  Jane must have heard it, too. “If you’re lucky, that’ll be the One-Seven,” she said. “Tell them we think the death is rela
ted to my homicide case and have them call me. And Lorraine? Get a name and badge number.”

  She hung up.

  A squad pulled up ahead of the dead woman in the car, and a policeman struggled out, slamming his door and straightening his belt.

  He stood in front of Lorraine. “What happened here?”

  She bet he weighed two hundred and fifty pounds at least, most of it muscle. He had one of the thickest necks she’d ever seen, but the sweetest smile, just like her Denny, and a smudge of catsup on his cheek.

  She stared at the spot and made a rubbing motion with her arm. “Was it good?”

  He smiled and wiped his face.

  “We happened to be passing by just now,” Frank said, “and I was struck by the car.”

  “Where?”

  “Not that kind of ‘struck.’ I was intrigued by the car.”

  “I get it. Awesome,” the officer said, running a hand over the rich paint job and kicking the tires. “Bet it’s worth—”

  “Look inside, Officer,” Lorraine reminded him.

  He did and stared. By this time his partner, a petite blonde with a ponytail, appeared, tape in hand. She smiled at Lorraine and began taping off the area.

  “So you saw this DeSoto and took a closer look inside and found a woman you’d seen earlier in the gallery,” the first officer said. He wore a nameplate below his badge, and Lorraine messaged it and his number to Jane.

  He rapped on the window. No response.

  Frank disappeared while the patrolman tried to open the driver’s door. It was locked, and he walked back to his car for tools.

  In a few minutes, Frank returned with the gray-haired associate. He led her over to the DeSoto, by now taped off.

  The woman stepped away from Frank and spoke to the police. “I told this man I cannot leave the gallery, Officer, but he insisted. One of you will have to watch—”

  “Look inside,” Frank told her, pointing to the dead woman. “You’re sure you don’t recognize her?”

  The gallery associate squinted inside, staring for a few seconds and spinning away, color flooding her cheeks. “Deirdre? But what is she doing here?” She looked again. “She’s asleep? No. She’s—”

  “Right. She’s dead. This is the woman we saw earlier in your gallery shortly before you appeared and told us you were the only one on duty.”

  The gray-haired woman took a few steps back and straightened. “I don’t know what to tell you about her. But I wasn’t lying: she doesn’t work in the gallery.”

  “She doesn’t work anywhere, not anymore. Who is she?” Frank asked, crossing his arms.

  Lorraine thought he was getting good at this investigative stuff.

  “We’ll take it from here,” the police officer said.

  “No, you won’t,” Lorraine said. “The death of this woman is connected to a murder we’re investigating, and I have questions. If you need to check my credentials, call Jane Templeton.”

  “Detective Templeton of the Eight-Four?”

  Lorraine nodded.

  The beefy police officer threw up his hands and radioed for help.

  Lorraine faced the gallery associate. “Who is she?” she asked again.

  The woman was about to reply when a CSU van pulled up and double-parked. Traffic slowed; horns honked. The unit supervisor came up and nodded to Lorraine.

  “I remember you from the Brandy Liam case. Few years ago? Brooklyn Heights?”

  Embarrassed because she couldn’t remember her name, Lorraine shook hands with the supervisor, muttering something about of course she remembered her. She gave her background on the Stephen Cojok case, the gallery, and what little she knew of the woman slumped over the wheel.

  “We saw her earlier in the gallery. Had a fleeting conversation. This woman denied knowing her.”

  “You misstate the facts,” the associate said. “She never worked for us. I had no idea she was here, but I do know the woman. Deirdre Maccabee. She runs the Henry Hudson gallery in Rhinebeck. But what is she doing here?”

  A crowd had gathered around the DeSoto, and Officer Simpson’s partner was busy shooing them away, an almost impossible task. To make matters worse, traffic had increased on Madison Avenue and there was a gapers’ block. Horns blared and angry motorists shouted. Before traffic cops appeared to control the congestion, Lorraine noticed a distinguished-looking man standing as close to the DeSoto as the tape would allow, his eyes riveted on the dead woman. When he saw Lorraine staring at him, he quickly slipped away, disappearing into the antique store down the block.

  Frank tapped the supervisor on her shoulder. “I don’t mean to tell you your job, but—”

  “Yes, you do, but go ahead anyway.” She winked at Lorraine.

  “Just that I wouldn’t miss the opportunity to check out that gallery, if I were you, especially the garage in the back. It’s connected to the storefront and exits into the alley. Better go over it. I’ll bet you anything that woman was killed in that garage; then the killers arranged the body in the driver’s seat of this DeSoto.”

  While he talked, Lorraine and the supervisor looked at each other, shaking their heads.

  “He’s just gotten back from a homicide investigation in Chicago,” Lorraine said.

  “That explains it, then,” the super said, and looked at Frank. “You’re telling me they killed her in the garage and dragged her body out here, stuffing her into this car? In broad daylight?”

  Lorraine could see Frank was trying to control himself. Although his theory was farfetched, she had to admit, stranger things had happened.

  “They could have killed her in the garage, stuffed her body into the trunk of another vehicle and transferred her to this DeSoto. This is Manhattan. People don’t even look at you. They wouldn’t notice a thing.”

  The CSU supervisor wasn’t buying it, but she said they’d take a look.

  Lorraine pressed her card into the super’s hand. “I know you’re supposed to report back to Jane, but if you wouldn’t mind giving me a call?”

  The super smiled. “Don’t hold your breath. This is going to take a while.”

  Frank was still trying to make his point. He gestured across the street to the gallery. “That’s where we first saw the dead woman. She went into the back, and this woman denied seeing her.”

  “Which woman?”

  Lorraine turned around and realized the associate had vanished.

  Someone in a bunny suit was unlocking the front door of the DeSoto with a long piece of metal, and a photographer was taking pictures of the scene, an elaborate, exacting process.

  Just then a morgue van pulled up, and two MLIs began removing the body. As they did so, Lorraine saw an object sticking out of the woman’s chest. She realized it was a knife. Then she saw the blood.

  Before she was shooed away by someone in a bunny suit, Lorraine took a few pictures with her phone, then managed a call to Fina. It went to voicemail.

  “See what I mean? Blood’s involved. A trail. CSU will figure it out, and I’m hungry.”

  “How can you think of food at a time like this? We’ve got to question the gallery assistant at least and call the owner.”

  “We’ll take over from here,” the patrolman said. “Don’t worry, we work for the same team.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I think he does,” Frank said. “C’mon, I’m famished and I’m totally confused.”

  In Rhinebeck

  Now that Lorraine was home and actively involved in solving Stephen Cojok’s murder, Cookie felt herself sliding onto Fina’s back burner. No matter, Cookie didn’t have to hear it every day anymore, about how important Lorraine was to the agency. Besides, even in her present condition, Cookie was not averse to doing the grunt work. She’d like to see Lorraine doing the arduous surveillance for Fina the way Cookie did, sitting behind a tree for hours, disguised like a tramp with sunglasses, waiting forever in the cold, the rain, the snow. Feet frozen. Cookie shivered just thinking about it. F
ina wouldn’t dare ask her mother-in-law to do that.

  But Cookie didn’t mind, not really. After all, Fina was her best friend, and the money was swell. Although, come to think about it, Fina forgot most of the time to tell her how much of an asset she was. And of course, Clancy wasn’t paid either; he was tossed in free, part of the bargain. Sometimes, Fina forgot her manners. Manners? No, it was more than that. Something between them ever since the beginning. Rivalry, maybe. She could see it in Fina’s eyes lately when she looked at her. That was it, Fina was jealous. Cookie smoothed back her hair. It wasn’t like she was begging, but she and Clancy could use the money, so she had to make sure Fina still needed them to drive up to Rhinebeck, a whole day’s job, at least. Most detectives would charge for two days plus hotel, meals, gas, and depreciation, so come to think about it, they were doing slave labor. Practically. Thank God her mom was there at the ready whenever they needed a babysitter for Brooklyn. But her mom was getting on in years and shrinking, especially after Cookie’s father died. Could she handle the newborn and Brooklyn together? Irish twins. Would they be safe? Oh, well, that was three months away. Not to worry.

  Cookie busied herself watching the scenery as they drove up the Henry Hudson Parkway, passing over Spuyten Duyvil, and continuing onto the Saw Mill. Not the fastest route, but her favorite. She’d been to Rhinebeck many times on outings with her parents, and her dad reminded her each time they went how beautiful the Saw Mill was. “Old and narrow, but a lovely road. Won awards when it was built.” So she looked out at the trees and opened the window to smell the fresh air. Better than looking at the speedometer. One thing she was working on was not being a backseat driver. She stole a glance Clancy’s way and just took an eensie peek. Five miles over the limit. She could live with that.

  “What? Something wrong?” he asked.

  “I’m glad we took the scenic route. Something so beautiful about the river, so wide seen from above, sparkling on such a perfect spring day, the sky like a robin’s egg.”

  Finally Clancy had worn her down; six months ago he’d come home with a van. She was angry at first, but had stuffed it; and come to think about it, having wheels was a necessity, especially if Fina was going to send them out of the city. Used and rusting in spots, but otherwise in perfect condition, according to Clancy’s mechanic friend who’d sold it to him, the engine fine-tuned and humming like new even though there were close to a hundred and fifty thousand miles on it. “Just feed it oil,” he’d said.