Missing Brandy (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 2)

by Susan Russo Anderson

  Lorraine continued. “But chew on this: Trisha Liam takes no prisoners,” she said, biting into her sandwich.

  I wasn’t surprised.

  Minnie handed her a cup of fresh brew.

  My lucky day meeting Denny, who had secret treasures like his mother.

  “And here’s another thought,” Lorraine said. “In Mitch’s briefcase, I found a handwritten list of all his cases for the last five years. I recognized some of the names—you can’t help it if you’ve been a legal secretary in Brooklyn for twenty-five years. Nothing concrete yet, but whenever the mob needed a good lawyer, Mitch’s name must have come up. At least it looks that way, because he’s defended a lot of them, most of them so small time they were only dimly aware of what they’d done.”

  “You mean—”

  “I mean underlings, soft in the upstairs department, barely aware of what they were doing. But some of the men he defended were pretty high up in the Gambino food chain, not that they weren’t also soft in the lantern. After each case, Mitch put a plus or minus, I take it his mark for whether the jury found for the Feds or the defendant. Looks like the prosecutors were getting better at winning or Mitch was losing heart at defending, and if Mitch recused himself from a case and then died suddenly …” Her voice trailed off. “This is a jump, I know, but his death looks suspicious.”

  “What does Mitch’s death have to do with Brandy’s abduction?”

  “Nothing on the surface, but when did you ever get to the truth by looking on the surface?”

  She had a point.

  Just then my phone started flashing. “It’s Trisha Liam,” I announced and took the call.

  Chapter 33

  Fina. Morning Two, The Alibi

  With Cookie by my side and looking like she’d just been assumed into heaven, I banged away on Trisha Liam’s door until Phillipa answered my knock. “I have a few more questions,” I said.

  The housekeeper had the startled look of the caught, and panned from me to Cookie before she showed us into the conservatory. It was the first time Cookie had seen the view of New York harbor from that room, and both of us were taken up into its splendor for a second. The green lady sparkled before us, and Manhattan’s old seaport with the tall buildings of Wall Street winked back at us, but they seemed to have no effect on Phillipa. She was into God knew how many paper towels. Her nose seemed raw as she motioned for us to sit.

  I got right to the point. “What were you doing on the Promenade this morning? I thought you said Trisha doesn’t like you to leave the house.”

  Phillipa seemed like a lost child. Her eyes darted from me to Cookie, narrowing as she took in Cookie’s outfit. “But I was gone for all of three minutes.” Paper towels partially covered her mouth. “Do you need to say anything to Trisha?”

  “Answer the question.” I hate being a hard-ass.

  “All right.” She inched to the edge of her chair. “I was late paying this month’s rent. I had to wait for a small annuity deposit. It comes at the beginning of the month. My landlord is understanding. She’s a nice woman, patient, unlike my boss, but she had bills to pay, too,” she said, swiping at her forehead. “She owed the gas company, had just paid taxes, so she was short herself. She said she’d meet me at the Promenade. This morning was the only time I could manage it, so I did. I ran out and met her and paid her, and that’s what I was doing.” She twisted on the edge so that I thought she might fall off.

  “You have a receipt?”

  She reached into her pocket and showed me a slip of paper. It was a handwritten note, a simple receipt for $875, two months’ rent, signed and dated by a Gladys Delucca.

  “Who’s Gladys De—”

  “My landlady.”

  “And the runner?” Cookie asked.

  Phillipa stared at us, her face blotched all red and yellow. “What?” Her mouth trembled.

  Just then we heard the front door open and footsteps approach.

  “That’ll be Trisha,” Phillipa said, twisting the paper napkin in her lap. “Please don’t tell Trisha about the Promenade. Please don’t. I’m never supposed to leave. It was the only time I’ve left. Ever. Don’t you see? I don’t know what would happen if I lost this job. It’s getting to be too much, all too much.”

  Phillipa’s fear expanded, seemed to fill the room. She was breathing hard now, like she was taking in fetid air left over from the plague. Her lungs worked like squeaky bellows, inflating, deflating, and I watched her chest heave. I thought she was going to faint. Resolute footsteps grew louder.

  When Trisha Liam entered, Phillipa stood up like a shot.

  Chapter 34

  Fina. Afternoon Two, The Note

  “What’s all this?” Trisha looked at us as if we were garbage littering her conservatory. “Unless you’ve got my daughter with you or news that she’s coming home soon, I need you out of my office. Now. You can finish up with Phillipa in the kitchen or parlor.” She turned to the housekeeper. “And I’m starved. Fix me something. I don’t care what it is, bread and cheese, an apple, but I want it cored and cut in quarters. No mayo, strong coffee—that new kind, whatever it is—no sugar, a little cream. No, make that milk.”

  The housekeeper didn’t move. Cookie rolled her eyes.

  Know what? The lawyer could keep her money and her rooms overlooking the green lady. I felt like walking away, and if it weren’t for Brandy, whom I’d gotten to know by reading her diary, I would have, you bet I would have, but the kid tugged at me so hard I was about ready to bleed.

  “I came to talk to Phillipa, but I was hoping to catch you at home.”

  “I was in court, or did you forget?”

  I ignored the dig. “We were able to lift enough DNA from the Ugg slip-on I showed you early this morning. They’re preliminary results, but it matches the DNA from Brandy’s comb.”

  Trisha’s skin took on the pallor of the haunted. “I want real news. I want my daughter back.”

  I knew Jane had called in favors to speed up the lab, and this was the lawyer’s gratitude. “We’re doing everything possible to find her, along with the FBI and NYPD.”

  Phillipa shifted the wad of paper towel from her mouth to her apron pocket. “A messenger delivered that.” She pointed to a dark blue object on the desk and left the room.

  The bag was one of those sealed plastic jobs with a flashy decal printed on it. The logo read Brite Messenger Service. Reflections from the East River slid over its surface.

  “Your usual company?” I asked Trisha.

  She shrugged. “I use Court Street Messengers, but Brite delivers from time to time, and I have colleagues who have accounts with them.”

  I saw Cookie writing in her notebook and thought I’d better call Jane, so I punched in her number.

  Trisha Liam walked to the desk and was reaching out for the bag when I said, “Do me a favor and don’t touch that.”

  She frowned, but stopped.

  “Just in case,” I added, snapping on some fresh latex gloves and handing her a pair.

  She scowled at the gloves, then sat—a little heavily, I thought—before she steeled herself and picked up the bag.

  “Is there a restroom I could use?” Cookie asked Phillipa, who had returned to the room and was setting Trisha’s lunch tray down on the desk.

  “Show her,” Trisha said while she snapped on her gloves. The lawyer held up one end of the plastic bag between two fingers as if it would explode and examined it. “Addressed to Patricia Liam, Esq.”

  “The sooner you open it, the better,” I said, punching Jane’s number into my keypad.

  The lawyer tried to rip open the bag, failed, and handed it to me. On the edge of my vision I saw Cookie and Phillipa returning.

  “I’m nervous, I guess,” Trisha said. “Not used to the gloves, even though this might have nothing to do with Brandy.”

  “It has everything to do with her,” I said, feeling more than just the weight of whatever was inside the bag. My call to Jane was going to voicem
ail, so I hit End and set my cell on the desk. I tore open the plastic and pulled out the white business envelope inside. No address, no nothing. I held it up to the light and saw the shadow of something inside. My throat got grainy.

  I slit it open. It held an 8½ by 11 sheet of paper, probably printed from a word processor, double-spaced, ordinary looking.

  Trisha was seated, one hand on her neck while she read. No one moved or made a sound. When she’d finished, she handed me the note. Cookie leaned over my shoulder as I read it:

  We have your daughter. If you want her returned, do not involve the law. Transfer $2.5 million to account 7289756, Piet & Cie, Geneva. A deposit of $500,000 is due by noon GMT tomorrow, the remainder in three business days. Upon receipt, she will be released.

  My heart pounded as I considered what the note didn’t say. Who is “we”? Where would Brandy be released? Why was the amount so small—as ransoms go.

  “My poor girl. My poor Brandy.” Trisha’s hand slid to her chest. She was gasping, and her face was blotched almost as bad as Phillipa’s. I felt pity for her gushing around my innards.

  “Jane’s team will have a field day with this,” I said as my phone vibrated on the desk. It was the blonde detective.

  “You read it—no police involvement, none!” Trisha said.

  Cookie shot me a look.

  I shut my eyes and spoke into my cell. “Trisha’s gotten a ransom note.” I told her the particulars. “Don’t worry, we’re not touching anything.” I read her the message, stressing the part about no police involvement, and ended the call.

  “What do you know about this?” I asked Phillipa.

  I thought she was going to explode, she was shaking so bad. “Nothing, nothing, it was a messenger. I … took it from him. Poor Brandy!”

  “Because if you know something more, anything, you’d better tell us now.”

  “Why would I, how could I—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Trisha’s voice was like the hiss of a rattler. “I know you’re trying, even though your attempts up to now have been meager, but you don’t have to play big bad detective. Phillipa cares for Brandy almost as much as I do.”

  I felt like I’d been slapped. I stared at the housekeeper, who rubbed her palms against her apron.

  As if by a miracle, Phillipa straightened, calmed no doubt by her employer’s remark. “I wish I did. I wish I knew more than I do—I’d tell you in a heartbeat—but I know nothing except a messenger came and—”

  “I saw him,” Cookie said, “this morning when I was watching the house. Tall, blond hair, bald spot in the back.”

  Phillipa’s eyes widened.

  There was more silence. It seemed to envelope the room, seeping into the corners, until Trisha dug out her smartphone and made calculations. She stood, pulling her slacks up to her nonexistent waist, but I noticed her hand shaking as she picked up the desk phone and dialed.

  “Who are you calling?” I asked.

  “My broker.” The line beeped. “Chad, Trisha here. How many shares of Berkshire Hathaway do I own?” She waited. “Sell ten. That’s right. When will the trade go through?” She looked at her desk calendar, waited a second, and said, “Fine.”

  I breathed out. It must be nice—Trisha didn’t even need to work up a sweat—she had $2.5 million at the ready. She tapped her landline’s keypad.

  “You’re not going to transfer the money now!”

  “Just the $500,000, not that it’s any of your business. I had to sell some stock to raise the rest. It’ll take three business days for the transaction to settle.”

  “But you have until noon tomorrow to deposit the $500,000—”

  She looked at her watch. “Noon, Greenwich Meantime, remember? Less than eighteen hours from now. This is my daughter we’re talking about, and I’ll do as I damn well please.”

  Phillipa looked at her shoes. Cookie shot a glance my way.

  Trisha Liam closed her eyes and pressed the mute button. “I’m sorry. You’ve been trying so hard, and I appreciate it.” She slumped into a chair, still holding the receiver. “You’ll find whoever did this to Brandy, I know you will, but all I can think of right now is to throw at them whatever they ask. I just want Brandy back.”

  She spoke into the phone. “Ruth, sorry for the delay, it’s Trisha. I need to transfer some funds to a numbered account in Switzerland. Can you handle that for me? … $500,000 … What do you mean I need to sign? Aren’t you my … I see, how stupid of me. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  She cradled the receiver as the doorbell rang. In a few seconds, Jane came bounding into the room and shook a finger at me. “Where is it? You better not have touched anything.”

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “You think I take orders from abductors? Don’t worry, they won’t know—I parked blocks away—I can be discreet.”

  I said nothing.

  Trisha shook a finger at the detective. “If my daughter dies, I’ll ruin you.”

  Cookie looked from me to Trisha to Jane. The wad of paper towel returned to Phillipa’s mouth.

  Scrambling in her bag, Trisha pulled out her car keys. “I’m going to the bank.”

  “Let’s see the note,” Jane said.

  Trisha ignored her and started for the door.

  “We’re going with you,” I said. “You’ll want witnesses when you sign the transfer of funds.”

  I watched Trisha’s face working. “The bank will have a notary, but the insurance might want independent witnesses.” She looked at me and Cookie. “You two, with me.”

  “The insurance company?”

  “Because of the types he usually defended, Mitch bought kidnap and ransom insurance for me and Brandy. After he died, I hesitated when it was time to renew, but I decided as soon as Brandy was a little older, I might want to take her to some dangerous parts of the world, see how others live. So in the end, I kept the policy. Now I’m glad I did.”

  It crossed my mind that Brandy might not ever be “a little older,” but I had the grace to keep my trap shut and marveled at the return of Trisha Liam’s calm.

  During the lawyer’s explanation, Jane stood unmoving, like an elephant in the room, but too soon she recovered. “I’m taking the ransom note,” she said, swooping it up. “I’ll send a patrol officer with a copy.”

  “Not until you write me a receipt, signed and dated,” Trisha said. “Make sure you include the time, and I want the original returned within twenty-four hours. As soon as I call them, the insurance investigators will be knocking on my door—I know how these people work—and they’ll want the original, too.”

  “Great. More snoops, just what we need.”

  “They’ll work with the FBI agent assigned to the case,” Jane said. “The more the merrier, as long as they keep us in the loop.”

  Trisha Liam was in her element, maybe her way of coping with her daughter’s abduction. But I relaxed as well, and I could tell Jane and Cookie did too, and for a couple of reasons. First, the kidnappers wanted money; they weren’t into human trafficking. Second, Trisha was not balking at the amount she had to pay or the time frame in which she had to come up with it.

  The only one who still seemed out of sorts was Phillipa. Her complexion was blotchy, her nose was swollen and red, her eyelids almost shut. The photo she’d showed us earlier of Freddy flashed in my mind. Was her spirit more fragile than normal because of her son or because of collusion? On the way out, I told Phillipa I had a few more questions to ask her, nothing pressing, I’d be back.

  The way I saw it, the kidnappers had to have inside help, and Phillipa was probably it. I worried over the words of the ransom note—If you want her returned, do not involve the law. Or what? Was Phillipa in touch with the kidnappers? Would she tell them about Jane’s presence? I was relying on my sixth sense, which told me to be careful with Phillipa. Once the kidnappers got their money, I didn’t want them to pounce on Brandy. Or on Phillipa. Both lives, I figured, were dangling fro
m a string, and that string was stretched taut and could snap at any moment.

  As we walked to the car, I asked Trisha to wait a few seconds. I decided to crank into Jane, because if she thought the heat was off this kidnapping—and I could tell she’d eased up a touch in her mind—I wanted to make sure she reconsidered.

  “A straight kidnap for ransom,” I said. “Probably with help from inside.”

  Jane narrowed her eyes, said nothing.

  “Pay up, and the crooks will spit up. Simple, job done. Is that it?”

  Still the detective said nothing, but I sensed her fear returning.

  “Unfortunately it doesn’t always work that way, does it? Think about it. What would happen if—”

  “You don’t have to spell it out.”

  But I did, because sometimes fear sets in only when the words are spoken, so I sallied forth. “I hope Brandy is bright enough not to let on if she knows who her captors are. What do you think would happen to her? What if Trisha Liam pays up, and Brandy’s body is found in a ditch? Or six months from now, her bones—”

  “That’s enough!”

  “Remember what Trisha said about ruining you. And she can, too.” I held up crossed fingers. “I know she and the chief are like this.”

  My good deed done for the day, I walked back to Trisha’s car. But my words hung in my head. I mean, what would happen to my sanity, let alone to my business, to me and Denny, if, in fact, Trisha Liam paid up, and her daughter was found dead or never found at all? That would surely happen if the kidnappers thought the teen recognized them, or if they felt our heat. The Brandy Liam case would gnaw at me forever. In short, all our titties were in a sling.

  Chapter 35

  Brandy. In Chains

  Footsteps outside. It’s the nice one. I feel air instead of a knife blade against my neck. Mr. Mean slinks away. Barf on him forever.