Missing Brandy (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 2)

by Susan Russo Anderson

  Tig told him why we were visiting.

  “Give me a break.” Catania glanced at me for the first time and shot me a crooked smile.

  Face it, I must have looked a sight in shades and scarf, like a charwoman from the 1950s pretending to be a movie star. “We want to know about Mitch Liam. His daughter’s been kidnapped.”

  “Mitch who?”

  Tig sent me a keep-your-trap-shut look. “You remember him—sandy hair, wry smile, wore a signature suit and bow tie, rain or shine, snow or shit. He was going to defend you against a racketeering charge, couple of years ago.”

  Catania sat back and crossed his arms. “Ratted on me.”

  “Not ratted. Reneged.”

  He leaned forward. “Ratted on me. Went back on his word. Said he’d defend me, and then he didn’t. Excused himself, isn’t that what they say?”

  “Maybe he found out that your hands weren’t as clean as you made out they were.”

  “So?”

  “What about the charge? Were you guilty?”

  He shrugged. “Following orders.”

  Tig looked at me. It was my turn to come up with something, and I knew hearts and flowers wasn’t going to do it. I straightened my sunglasses. “Mitch recused himself from the case, and that afternoon he was dead. Gone in half a heartbeat, like this.” I snapped my fingers. “One minute here, the next minute not. He heard tick but not tock.”

  I could see shock in the shadowy part of his face. Catania ran a finger back and forth through the stubble beneath his nose as if he were sawing off his mouth. “Might happen to me too, that’s what you’re saying. Like I don’t know it? You want to scare me. You want me to swallow your line, don’t you? Might take my kid? You’ll have to do better than that. Why don’t you just ask me?” He looked around the room, up to the ceiling, under the table, underneath the chairs. The man was spooked.

  “What happened to his girl?” Tig asked.

  “How should I know? Don’t know nothin’ about his family. Been in protection.”

  Tig and I were silent, maybe five minutes.

  “Want to know about two years ago, I can tell you that.” Catania did the sawing-off thing again with his finger. “Don’t know anything about his daughter, but back then there were lots of guys gunning for Mitch—wiseguys. Mitch had lost a bunch of cases before mine. They thought he was in league with the Feds. Called him a two-faced rat. Throwing them deliberate, they said, beginning to know too much. Taking himself off my case was the last straw.” He spun his eyes around the room and rested them on the door.

  “So what happened?” Tig asked, his voice low.

  “Word on the street is Mitch Liam died for his sins.”

  “How?”

  “How should I know? They got rid of him.”

  “You know how.”

  Catania shrugged. “Mind if I smoke?” He didn’t wait for us to answer, but got out a pack of Camels and some matches and one of those portable ashtrays. It was the flat, coated kind, silver over cardboard. He folded it into shape and blew smoke toward the ceiling.

  “Heard they found this guy, see, a weird bastard—a nurse or medical technician, one of those. Promised a no fuss, no muss deal. So they hired him, and the guy stuck Mitch with a needle full of something, and that was it.”

  “His name?”

  He blew smoke over his shoulder. “I’m just telling you what I heard. Might be baloney, but why would they make it up?”

  “Can you tell us what this needle man looks like?”

  Catania shook his head, squashed the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray, and lit another.

  “If he stuck Mitch, he could do it again,” Tig said.

  Catania crossed his legs and hunched into himself, the fingernail of his forefinger tapping against a front tooth. He straightened. “Okay. Saw him once in the boss’s office. Thin. Average height. Light hair.” He puffed and let the smoke out slow, watching it curl toward the ceiling. “Bald spot on the crown of his head, airy fairy type. Can’t figure what hole they dug him out of.”

  “And now someone’s taken his little girl,” I said. “You have a little girl, don’t you, Joe? Think how hard it must be on the mother. She loses her husband, and two years later, she loses her daughter.”

  “She’s a bitch, Liam’s wife.”

  “How do you know? You’ve never met her, have you?” I asked.

  “You pick stuff up. Like, I think I heard about the kid. News travels.” He pinched tobacco bits off his tongue. “Don’t expect me to feel for Mitch’s old lady. And anyhow, what’s this needle guy have to do with his kid?”

  “Maybe nothing. But nothing is all we got. And if bad things happened to Mitch and then they happen to Liam’s daughter? They might be connected.”

  “Mob wouldn’t have anything to do with a nab like that. Too risky. Got easier ways of making money.”

  “But maybe the needle guy is freelancing for someone else. Maybe he’s on another job, involved in Brandy’s abduction,” Tig said. “Picture it. A teenager with a mouth like the Grand Canyon and lungs the size of garbage cans. One second she’s in front of school and then, zap, she’s not. Nabbed. No screams, no nothing. How did it happen so fast if she wasn’t drugged on the spot?”

  Catania crushed his cigarette, looked at his empty pack, and wadded it up. “You got nothing, and you’re fishing. You want more? I’ll give you more. The boss picked up this guy in Jersey someplace. Hear tell he was fired for giving patients the wrong meds or too much of it—how should I know? So the guy needs a job, he puts the word out, and decides to freelance. Clever. Mean. Strikes and leaves no trace. Deadly type, a snake if there ever was one. That’s all I got on him. The boss’ll use him again if he has to, but not a lot. Wants to save him for someone bigger this time. Now I’ve told you enough, and that’s it.” Joe Catania made a slicing motion across his neck.

  The meeting was over, and I knew it.

  “You believe him?” Tig asked as we walked toward his car. “About Needle Man?”

  “Yes,” I said, surprising myself. “But maybe it’s because it’s so tempting to think there’s a connection, however tenuous, between Mitch’s death and Brandy’s disappearance, something sinister going on when we have next to nothing.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  We walked on.

  “Can I take this scarf off? It’s hot as hell.”

  “And blow your cover?” Tig shook his head. “Not supposed to bring you here, you know that.”

  “There’s got to be something here, some truth that’s niggling at us. I feel it.”

  “Don’t run away with yourself. There doesn’t have to be a connection, but there could be.”

  “Jane’s team canvassed the Packer Collegiate neighborhood. So did Cookie. We found one woman who saw a wedge of something, that’s it. Do you have any other sources in the neighborhood?”

  Tig shook his head. “No one credible. Just a homeless guy with Tourette’s who feeds us information from time to time.”

  I told Tig I thought I knew who he meant. “I saw him boxing with himself in the early morning hours yesterday near where I found Brandy’s slipper. I didn’t think he’d have any information, so I didn’t stop to question him. How stupid am I?” I made a note to talk to him.

  Tig’s phone was buzzing. He listened, and slowly his face lit up like Christmas.

  Chapter 47

  Fina. Morning Three, Port Newark

  Tig holstered his phone. “Customs found the van.”

  I felt blood rushing around my innards. The break we needed.

  Tig elaborated. Inspectors at Port Newark discovered an olive green van stowed in a container on one of their ships. “These days that’s like finding a thousand-dollar bill in your garbage can.”

  “No such thing.” I breathed charged air.

  He turned on his flashing red light and sped away. “Where can I drop you off?”

  “Not on your life. I’m coming with.”

  He chewe
d on his inner cheek. “Fine, but you’re on your own getting back. I’ll be tied up.”

  I nodded, trying to breathe. I’d agree to anything to see that van. The scenery flew by, but I wanted to stay on the right side of Jane, so I texted her to make sure she’d heard the news.

  “Port Newark. That’s the place you can see on the way to Newark International, with all the trains and forklifts and ships?”

  Tig nodded.

  At the gates, he flashed his badge, and a guard gave us directions. Everywhere I looked, I saw containers. A few were rusted and lying on their sides. Most were piled one on top of the other. There was movement all over, the din of industrial-sized vehicles, smoke, the smell of dead fish and oil, a few men in hard hats. I saw forty-foot containers being plucked up by large forklifts as if they were picking up a crumb off the floor. Huge container ships were docked at a bazillion berths, and gulls were going crazy.

  “I’m surprised Customs found the van.”

  Tig smiled. “Our luck. They found it in a container on the deck of one of those huge ships bound for some port in Russia.”

  “How?”

  “Spot check, I guess, looking for drugs. The van wasn’t on the manifest, and that’s a big red flag. Thought they’d find something stashed inside. Luckily the guy didn’t touch it, though. He’d read about a green van wanted in connection with an abduction in Brooklyn, so he called us.”

  Jane was on the line. I put her on speaker and told her about the find.

  “Why the hell doesn’t anyone tell me anything? Never mind, I’m on my way. Take me off speaker.”

  I did, and she told me not to let the Feds have the van. “Stall, do anything.”

  I said she’d better get her ass over here and pronto, I couldn’t stop anything the Feds wanted to do. And just to make sure she was moving, I mentioned I’d heard the word Quantico.

  “She’s asking which berth.”

  Tig shrugged. “Tell her Berth 51.”

  When we got there, all I saw were ships and containers and forklifts. My ears hurt from the screeching metal. We parked Tig’s car, and after he flashed his badge, we hitched a ride on the side of some machine or other. I heard water lapping against the piers and smelled salt and oil and rust. Thinking of the time Mom and I watched On the Waterfront, I asked Tig where all the men were. He told me automation had done away with ninety percent of longshoremen, once one of the most powerful unions, now a ghost of itself.

  We drove as far as we could in the direction of another black SUV. More federal agents in black suits stood around, faces skyward, watching a Maersk loader swing a container off a ship as if it were a matchbox.

  At the sound of whirring, I looked up and saw an NYPD helicopter. Jane. I figured she must have gone to the chief and pulled a hissy. As the chopper hovered over us, I saw a blonde sporting a headset pointing in our direction. Two minutes later, she’d hitched a ride on top of a boxcar loader and was barreling toward us. When she got to within spitting distance, she slid down the ladder and stood, arms akimbo, her eyes hurtling daggers at the special agents. I looked at Tig and shrugged but decided to let Jane fight it out with the Feds, so I stood aside, watching Jane’s gestures.

  After ground crew removed the vehicle from the container, a beaten GMC van sat before us. I sensed the ghost of Brandy’s presence. Before they could load it onto the flatbed, Jane motioned with her head to me and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. I did the same. After the talk she’d given them, the FBI didn’t dare object. We went to the back and tried to open the door. Locked. Jane ran to the driver’s side. Locked, but when I tried the passenger door, it creaked. I had to muscle it, but it finally opened. I stuck my head inside and smelled urine and fear, and watched Jane as she crawled inside. I was glad it was her and not me contaminating the scene. After she hit the unlock button, I went to the back and opened the door.

  There was the tarpaulin all bunched up. It was the scene, all right. I knew it. I smelled pay dirt and felt my tits shrink. I could see Brandy inside, drugged and tied up. I pointed to something along the side; a small lump, it looked like from where I stood. I reached in and picked it up, holding it high so Jane could see.

  “The mate to Brandy’s slip-on, I’ll bet you anything.” I handed it to her.

  When the dust settled and the truck with the van drove away, Tig and I kissed goodbye. Not the kind of a kiss you’re thinking of, this was a chaste peck on the cheek, but I thanked him for the morning and followed Jane into the helicopter for my million-dollar ride to Brooklyn.

  Lower Manhattan slid into view, shards of sun glinting off tall buildings. Jane told me they’d decided to take the van to the least busy of NYPD’s forensic labs, and a joint team would work on it. While the chopper banked, I held onto a handle and whispered a Hail Mary until my stomach hit the roof of my mouth. I willed myself not to throw up, promising never to ride in one of those egg beaters again.

  “How did you get here so fast?” I asked.

  She looked at me like I had a screw loose. “Chopper.”

  “I know, but you must have pulled strings.”

  She smiled. “Told the chief I’d resign if he didn’t get me to Port Newark in five minutes. He called Floyd Bennett Field, and a chopper landed on our roof in three minutes. That’s where they’re dropping us off. Can you make it home?”

  “As soon as I get my legs back.”

  I told her what Lorraine had discovered about Mitch’s death, and about my morning with Joe Catania, thanks to Tig Able. For her part, she thanked me for everything our team had given her so far, and promised to feed me information as soon as she got it.

  “We ought to be able to get information from the VIN,” I said.

  She nodded. “Unless this guy is too smart and filed them down.”

  “Do you think there’s a connection between the needle man Joe Catania talked about and Brandy Liam’s disappearance?”

  “There’s no needle man. This guy Joe Catania’s in witness protection, so it’s a given most of what he says is make-believe. Think about it. He’s in a living hell, and you were there to hear a story, so he gave you one. At the same time, he bought himself a diversion, a five-minute vacation, the only one he can ever hope to get. I’ll admit it’s enticing to think there may be a link between Brandy’s abduction and her father’s death. But don’t go down that road.”

  Typical Jane to discount the needle man, but just then I wasn’t in the mood to argue, even though in my gut I knew otherwise.

  Chapter 48

  Fina. Morning Three, A Body

  On my walk home, my phone started buzzing. It was Trisha Liam.

  “I was just about to call you. We found the van.”

  Trisha didn’t seem to be listening. Her voice rose two octaves. “Phillipa’s not here. There’s no answer at her apartment. She’s been with me for twenty years, and she’s never been late, not once.”

  “Did you try her cell phone?”

  “Doesn’t have one.”

  “What time does she usually arrive?”

  “Seven.”

  “Could it be this is her day off?”

  “Don’t patronize me.”

  I listened to Trisha’s breathing and looked at my watch. It was close to eleven. Even if there was traffic or a problem with the subway, it wouldn’t take her housekeeper this long to get to Brooklyn Heights.

  “Let me make a few calls just to make sure there aren’t any subway problems—”

  “Already checked. None.”

  “Do you know where her son goes to school? I’d like to call to make sure he arrived this morning.”

  Dead air on the other end of the line for a second. A more subdued Trisha replied, “I don’t know anything about the boy.”

  “Do you have Phillipa’s address?”

  She gave me a number in Bensonhurst.

  I flipped through the notes of our interview with Phillipa until I found the name and location of his school. I called it and talked to the princip
al, who sounded concerned. She said the office tried reaching his home several times, but there was no answering machine, and no one picked up.

  I sprang into my BMW and was about to drive away when there it was, that rawness in the pit of my stomach. Sweat oozed out of my fingers as I gripped the wheel. I should have acted on what I’d known about Phillipa earlier. In my gut, I knew she was mixed up with the abductors, but I did nothing. I’d felt her doom from the moment I met her, and now I heard the brush of her soul on its way to heaven, for surely she must be headed that way. Maybe Phillipa was fine and had overslept, but deep down I knew otherwise. Too late, I could see it all now, Phillipa, the weak link with the vulnerability of most single mothers, the only hope of their children, clawing their way through life just to put food on the table. She’d need more money than most because of Freddy’s disabilities. And if she thought she needed money now, wait until he got a little older and wasn’t so cute and she couldn’t have her pick of jobs, not that her job as Phillipa’s housekeeper was so special. I thought of the devil tempting Faust and his galloping ride into hell, because that’s what my ride into Bensonhurst was going to be, Phillipa’s doomed spirit waiting to greet me. So instead of pressing the ignition, I ran up our stoop and asked Denny to come with me.

  As he drove the Jeep, I told him about finding the van, about meeting Joe Catania and his story of the needle man. “You don’t believe there’s a connection between Brandy’s abduction and her father’s death, do you?”

  “Don’t try to figure out what anyone else thinks, including me,” he said, driving down Bay Ridge Parkway. “Sure, I might blow away Catania’s story as an entertaining hoax having nothing to do with Mitch’s death or Brandy’s abduction, but the more I know you, the more I see you have a gift. Don’t ignore your vibes.”

  For a few minutes, Denny’s words calmed me. But just for a little while, because the closer we got to Phillipa’s address, the worse I felt.

  “So you don’t think I’m nuts?”

  “Do you expect me to answer that while I’m driving?” He grinned and squeezed my knee.