Too Quiet In Brooklyn (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 1)

by Susan Russo Anderson

  I took a sip of wine and slid my eyes to the side. Willoughby and Denny were deep in conversation about guns now, comparing the Sig Sauer P226 to the Glock 19.

  “What was the cause of Arrowsmith’s death—drowning?”

  Jane shook her head and took over, having slugged down most of her shrimp and wine. “No water in the lungs, so he didn’t drown. He was strangled and hastily disposed of. They found fingerprints around the neck, and they match those on Mary Ward Simon’s body. Arrowsmith’s partner must have the strength and brain of a dinosaur.”

  “And the temperament of a raging bull,” Denny said.

  “Nice partner,” Willoughby said smiling at Jane.

  Finally they joined the conversation.

  “Any idea how he’s getting around?” I asked.

  “Hold on, it’s here somewhere.” One finger in the air, Jane shuffled around in her notes with the other hand. “Hector Pool, the neighbor, said they used two vehicles, a Ford Econoline van, the one we found torched, and a white Plymouth. A Neon, maybe. It’s an old—he thinks from the 90s. There’s some rust on the body.”

  “Neighbor Guy must know his cars,” Willoughby said. This prompted a conversation between him and Denny about all the defunct cars since the 1990s.

  “Hector went on and on about these two handymen. He made it his business to dog them,” Jane said. “Like a hound chasing a hare, you know how guys are.” She motioned to Willoughby and Denny and made a topsy-turvy sign with her hands. Cookie and I nodded.

  “Lucky old Hector wasn’t strangled,” Cookie said.

  I knew I should have talked to Hector myself. “Did he take down the tags?”

  Jane shook her head. She checked her notes. “New York plates on both car and van, he was sure of that, but he didn’t think to copy them down.”

  “Any Charlie sightings besides the one in La Piazza last night?”

  Jane shook her head.

  “Strange how all the stuff is happening in New Jersey when the killing and abduction took place in Brooklyn.”

  “The New Jersey Connection,” I said, sipping my wine. “Looks like that’s where the power is.” Okay, what do you expect—it was getting late.

  Our shell steaks were served with pan fried potatoes hot and spicy, and two other vegetables, carrots and asparagus, the blackening as good as the sizzle. Jane ordered two sides of sautéed spinach and offered them around while Willoughby poured the wine, a Clos du Bois Briarcrest 2008 Cabernet Sauvignon. I sipped and was in heaven.

  While Cookie took out her mirror and examined her lipstick, I told Jane about my interview with Nanette Arrowsmith. “Who’s going to tell her about her son?”

  “Feds and NJ Police.”

  “I wonder how she’ll survive. First her husband, now her son.”

  There was silence until the waiter came and said the magic word, dessert. “Do you need menus?”

  “Mud pie for me. And coffee, black.”

  Nods all around. While we waited, I asked Jane and Willoughby their impression of Frank Alvarez.

  “Guy’s legit. Told me horror stories about his ex. Excuse me for saying it, but your client sounds like a spoiled brat,” Willoughby said. “You got your hands full.”

  I played with my spoon and kept my mouth shut.

  As the mud pies arrived and we dug in, Cookie brought up the truck incident again and said she got the truck’s plates if anyone was interested.

  We stopped eating our dessert.

  Cookie nodded. “New Jersey of course, but they were strange, so I might have missed part of it. Looked like there were two small letters in vertical, like DS or MS or something, pictures of vegetables and the numbers 4941.”

  “You’re amazing! I couldn’t even see plates.”

  “I have two good eyes and you don’t, remember?”

  “Sound like special plates to me,” Denny said. “New Jersey’s the Garden State, you know, promoting the farmers.”

  “Denny’s on duty and Cookie’s got an exam in the afternoon and needs to study, but I’m going to go back there tomorrow and do a little checking.”

  “Like hell you are!” Denny said. “You don’t even carry, and the guy shot at us.”

  Cookie opened her mouth to say something. I hoped she wasn’t going to talk about the nerd she saw following us in the service area, so I gave her a sign to keep her mouth shut and she did.

  Jane looked concerned. “I’ll run the plates and call the FBI to see if they can’t snoop around this place, alert the locals, and give us some help.”

  The waiter brought the check.

  Jane, Cookie, and I walked out together.

  “I’ve got a real feeling about this farm,” I told Jane. “It’s hard not to connect it with Mary Ward Simon’s death. First, we find out that she’s auditing Heights Federal just before she’s killed. Second, the ex-president owns the Blue Eagle Farm in New Jersey where Arrowsmith worked and where someone shot at us just for taking a peek.”

  “Don’t forget the stone eagle over the Heights Federal door,” Cookie said.

  “Do you believe in coincidence?” I asked.

  Jane shook her head. “I don’t believe in ghosts, either.” She told me about the cold case she and Willoughby had been assigned involving the suspicious death of a Heights Federal executive, but didn’t go into details.

  I blanched.

  She said Willoughby and Denny were going to go over Mary Ward Simon’s spreadsheets tomorrow. “The chief’s on my tail with this one. I don’t blame him, with the press all over him, and the commissioner and mayor breathing down his neck. And I’m getting antsy about Charlie. Everyone’s looking for him, but he’s just disappeared. God! If we don’t find him soon, I doubt we’re going to get to find him at all.”

  “Don’t say that, please don’t say that,” I said and felt my temple pounding.

  “While we’re at it, what do you think of Barbara’s disappearing act?”

  I shook my head. “She did leave a couple of messages, but when I tried returning them, we were playing phone tag. I turned to Cookie. “Going to pass your test tomorrow?”

  “Easy.”

  “So how about doing a little surveillance while you study?”

  “Perfect!”

  Jane looked at me. “Tomorrow’s my day off. Maybe you want some company?”

  “If you don’t mind riding in a 1992 Chevrolet Beretta GTZ. New tires, though. And it’s got lucky charm all over it.”

  “What?” Denny’s voice was high pitched. “At least tell me you’ll take your BMW.”

  Jane knew better than to get into it with us. “Whichever one is fine with me,” she said. “Or we can use mine, it’s a 370Z.” She waited. No one said anything. Denny looked at his hands.

  “Tell you what,” she said. “We’ll meet in front of your house at seven. By that time I’ll know more about who’s going to be giving us cover, and by tomorrow at this time, I’m hoping this’ll be over.”

  “Isn’t it pretty to think so,” Cookie said.

  “You stole that line,” I said. “I remember it from someplace.”

  Cookie opened her mouth.

  “And don’t you dare tell me.”

  Saturday

  The Encounter

  I woke to the feeling something big was about to happen, something good. I just knew the case was going to break today. Denny was working on his usual day off, covering for a friend.

  After our huddle last night, Denny felt better about my going to New Jersey with Jane tomorrow, convinced that we’d get good support from the locals and state police. They have a history of cooperating with the FBI, he told me. So this morning we departed friends and lovers, he to his usual Saturday morning breakfast with his parents before work.

  I sat in the car waiting in front of the house, in the Beretta which after Mom died, had seen me through some difficult chases and obstinate surveillance jobs at Browns. I wouldn’t say I was superstitious or anything, not like my grandmother who used t
o sit through Mom’s piano recitals with a clove of garlic around her neck.

  The mist was rising off the East River when I looked at my watch, six-fifty-five, expecting to see Jane at any minute. At least the weather was cooperating, I thought, and listened to the sound of approaching footsteps.

  A tap on my window startled me. It wasn’t Jane, but the man smiled and I lowered my window to speak with him. His English was broken, and he kept asking directions to the Brooklyn Bridge. I pointed at the spans of two bridges and told him to go in that direction. There’d be signs, he couldn’t miss it, but don’t take the blue bridge, take the other one. I told him Brooklyn was the southern-most bridge, then Manhattan, then Williamsburg. I said, “Remember the acronym, BMW, just like the car, that’s how you kept track of them.” He nodded, smiling, but wasn’t getting it, so I got out of the car, hugging myself against the cold and that’s when the man got closer, I thought to understand me. But he got too close and reached out to grab me.

  “You lousy bag of shit,” I shouted. I twisted, jerked from his grip, yelled my mighty roar. He momentarily lost his balance. Instead of running, I decided to teach the creep a lesson so I quick bent my knees and bounced a few times, my weight even on my soles. Holding my fists together, I swung my arms down between my legs and snapped them straight, pushing up fast with my fists and zapping him hard in the groin. He screamed and folded and yelled the B word.

  “Don’t move or I shoot.” It was Jane, her Glock leveled at the guy.

  He raised his hands and stood as straight as he could after being hit in such a tender spot. The bastard smiled, waiting, silent, hands high in the air until Jane got close enough. For a second the world stilled.

  Got to hand it to him, he didn’t flinch, but in a second he jumped forward as if he’d taken flight, his hand swatting the gun out Jane’s hands, bold as brass.

  He caught the gun and held it for a second in his other hand.

  I started to say the only prayer I remember, Bless us O Lord and these thy gifts—

  But he dropped the Glock on the ground as if it were a hot coal.

  I heard him say, “No blood. No blood. Boss said no blood.”

  It landed on the pavement some five yards away, scuttling down the street. Jane flew for it. She scooped it up and fired. Suddenly I saw a searing light. There was a loud blast and the bullet ricocheted, pinging off the cobbles and hitting the guy, now fleeing.

  He grasped his thigh, limping like a wounded hare. If anything, he seemed to run faster.

  Jane and I scrambled after him, but the cobbles were slippery with dew and the man could run like a greased pig. He disappeared into an alleyway between two buildings. One moment he was running ahead, the next moment, he was gone.

  My eye was pounding. My spirits raced. I knew something big was happening.

  “Car!” I yelled, bounding over and into the driver’s side. I stopped, gasping for breath, my heart thundering, sweat pouring down my curls and into my ears, rolling out and down my neck. I gunned the motor while she climbed into the passenger side. But I thought better of it.

  “BMW would be faster. Follow me.” I had to admit it, Denny had been right. Why didn’t I trust him in the first place? This wouldn’t have happened.

  “370Z is faster yet.”

  Jane was right. I took my satchel from the back seat and we lurched out of the car and into hers, still warm.

  She jumped off the curb and careened down the street at an impossible speed while the world blurred and I looked for the white of his shirt.

  “Where’d he go?” Jane yelled.

  No sign of him. The guy just disappeared like the white rabbit down a hole.

  We were deep into Dumbo and speeding down a street with bumpy cobbles against traffic, the 370Z smooth as shit and quiet as a cat.

  “What’s the color of this leather called?”

  “Persimmon,” she answered as she barely missed sideswiping a car going the right way. The driver gave us the Brooklyn salute.

  “Bastard! Prick!” she yelled.

  She accelerated and the roar of the engine echoed off the buildings. After a couple of turns with our guy not in sight and my bad eye pounding, I shook my head. I looked over at her. “I don’t know about you, but I could use some coffee.”

  Breakfast In Brooklyn

  It was barely six in the morning and Brooklyn was still asleep as Denny pulled into a place across the street from his parent’s home. He had to squeeze the squad car in. He could have parked in the fire hydrant across from his folks, but he’d never done that, it wasn’t worth it, not in this neighborhood. There’d be calls to the precinct, they’d take down his number, and he’d never hear the end of it. No, it wasn’t worth it.

  His parents owned a four flat on Third Place where Denny grew up, just off of Court Street in Carroll Gardens, down the block from Mary, Star of the Sea parish where Denny spent many a Sunday morning, “Or fry in hell, in hell, I say.” He could still hear the priest’s weekly warning.

  The sun was getting that pink glow of spring, bouncing off the rows of cars parked ass-to-tits block after block. This was South Brooklyn, the home of “Can I ax yah somethin” and “fuggedaboudit” and backward baseball caps. The old timers fought in World War II or the Korean War and came back and worked on the wharf or got a job in one of the grocery stores or funeral parlors and never left the neighborhood again. Didn’t lift one toe out of it. No, it wasn’t worth disrespecting the neighborhood by crowding the hydrant. After all, it was the safe haven of their ancestors who came from Ireland or Southern Italy starving and full of dreams. Their hope crumbled a little with time and they soon learned if they let their fists fall, disaster would somehow swallow them. They passed the lesson on to their their children who knew exactly how to prevail: they brooked no sign of contempt however slight.

  He ran up the stoop and rang the bell, looking away from the medal of St. Joseph nailed to the frame. Below it was a plain white plaque with the name, Robert McDuffy Family, written in humorless black serif.

  “You don’t have a key?” his father asked.

  Denny shrugged. “Not on me.” He smiled and shook his father’s hand.

  “Should keep it on your key ring. This is your place, too, you know, son. Will be when we’re gone. Won’t be long, you know. You’ll be rattling around here, with a bunch of kids and a bee-uti-ful barefoot pregnant woman in the kitchen making your breakfast. Plenty of room for a large family. And we’ll be looking down from above. Don’t think you can get rid of us.”

  Denny kissed his mother and walked behind his father who was tall and shuffling along, his slippers slapping the floorboards, his robe loose and swaying from side to side and shaped like a bowl underneath his flabby ass. They walked through the parlor, down the long hall past the dining room with its ornate brass chandelier and polished dining set and into the kitchen, high-ceilinged and in need of a new paint job. A plastic virgin stood on her pedestal in the corner, one of her feet on the head of a snake. The smell of his mother’s cooking made his stomach growl.

  “You look wan, Dennis. Not getting enough to eat,” his mother said. “She’s not cooking for you yet?” She turned a quizzical face up to him, her gray hair stringy this morning, her watery eyes magnified through encrusted lenses.

  He didn’t answer. He helped his mother dish out the eggs and carry them to the porch where the table was set with the same oil cloth they used each time he came over, the white one with the cherry pattern stamped all over it. It was piled with toast and cinnamon rolls, butter, jam, and bacon. He took a deep breath.

  “Nothing like your cooking, Mom,” he said, swallowing his orange juice.

  “She made that fresh for you,” his father said, smacking his lips. “Yup, she’s a great cook and a good look, too, wouldn’t you say? And you’re a chip off the old block. Proud of you, son.”

  Denny had joined the force, but not because his father had. His old man retired five years ago from the 76th Precinct. They’
d given him a commendation and a watch. Denny remembered going to the dinner. It was the night after he’d met Fina, and he couldn’t wait to see her again. Denny smiled at the memory and shoved a load of scrambled into his mouth, swallowed it down with coffee. His mom’s coffee. Perfect every time. Whatever she was or wasn’t, she was a cook.

  “What kind of coffee do you use?”

  She told him, how she had it ground fresh each week and put an egg shell into the grounds and how the secret was a clean pot and don’t let it perk too long. “I spend my life scouring that pot,” she’d told him.

  She had, too, scoured and cleaned, kept a house that was uninspired but spotless. Free of sin and safe from all disturbances.

  He liked these Saturday mornings with his folks. It was a painless way to keep in touch. They sat in their glass-enclosed porch, the old fashioned wooden kind with storm windows still on, the floor sloping a bit toward the back where his mom kept a vegetable garden. “Built that way,” his father told him a million times. “Watch it, now, don’t lean back like you did that one time, remember, son, when your chair fell backwards and we had to rush you to the hospital? How old was he, Mother?”

  “Two months after his eleventh birthday.”

  “Ten stitches in your head and a window replaced, your mother on her third rosary.”

  “I said all the mysteries while the doctor worked on you.”

  His mother pointed out the tomato plants just starting up, the rows planted straight, neatly tilled. Why, his dad had told him, they’d eat like kings and queens, kings and queens all summer long.

  Plenty of space, the old man told him for the umpteenth time. They could have had renters, he told him but they didn’t need the trouble. Denny’s room had been on the top floor and he could see the bridge from his window. When his father bought it in the fifties, they expected to have a big family, fill the place up. But Denny was an only child. Only and lonely. He took a bite of toast.