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

by Susan Russo Anderson

  I followed Jane down the hall and outside.

  “I should have gotten someone else involved,” she said. “As it is, your agency has given me a full day’s work. First Lorraine and Frank on the Upper East Side, now you in Bay Ridge.”

  I didn’t know what she was talking about and must have looked confused.

  “Don’t you keep up with your people?”

  After that remark, I said goodbye. As I walked away, I scrolled through the messages on my phone. Sure enough, Lorraine had been trying to reach me.

  When I got to the car, I sat sideways on the driver’s seat with the door open for fresh air, leaning on the headrest, feet dangling, and called Lorraine, who told me about their visit to the Madison Avenue gallery and the discovery of a dead woman in an antique car. It took my breath away, and I almost forgot to tell her about finding Stephen Cojok’s mother, Karen’s brush with the guy who got away, and what she’d said about her son delivering to a Thai restaurant.

  “Karen Cojok knows something. Whoever killed her son will try to kill her again.”

  The thought was like a rock in my stomach, but I told Lorraine that she was staying with the landlady and segued into what Stella had told me about her son’s difficulty with his father’s death. “Just like Denny,” I said.

  All I got from Lorraine was silence, and I know my Lorraine—she wasn’t buying my theory. We decided to meet at her house for dinner. Just the three of us—me, Denny, and Lorraine—no Frank.

  After I hung up, I stared out the window. I imagined Stephen driving his beat-up van down Third Avenue and suddenly seeing a familiar-looking woman crossing in front of his truck. I felt his heart pounding when he recognized that the woman was his mother, sensed her bewilderment as he rushed up to her, and finally felt their overwhelming joy as the woman acknowledged her son.

  Returning to the present, I started the car and was about to head for home when I realized I had some unfinished business in the neighborhood.

  The Lai Thai

  Sitting in the driver’s seat, I scrolled through the texts from Minnie giving me the address of the only Thai restaurant in the neighborhood, a hole-in-the-wall a few blocks away from Sally’s Place. I locked the car and started walking to the restaurant. An eerie feeling spread over me: what if this was a prime distribution place for drugs? I imagined a maître d’ with a Fu Manchu mustache and slits for eyes. Banishing the image, I tried to stuff my butterflies as I pounded across the street. I’d take a look around. It would only take a second.

  There was a small sidewalk leading to the back of the building. Gated, of course. I worked the rusting latch and walked the length to the rear of the restaurant, where I heard the kitchen’s whirring fans and several voices speaking in a language I didn’t understand. The sound of it was a rhythmic cadence, syncopated, almost like a lullaby. A delicious mix of coriander, cinnamon, and garlic wafted into the alley, and I tried to remember the last time I’d eaten Thai food, recalling that I hadn’t yet had lunch. My mouth began to water until my stomach told me otherwise.

  The backyard, if you could call it that, was fenced off with a rusting chain-link topped off with those ugly circular spikes. It was filled with debris and seedy tufts of grass. Papers and plastic bags blew about. No spring flowers but a few weeds were beginning to sprout. In the rear were several garbage cans lined up in a row along one side of a large garage, its door facing the alley. A smallish man appeared wearing a kitchen hat and white apron and wheeling bags of what looked like rice from the garage to the back door of the restaurant. He stopped when he saw me and said something unintelligible, waving his arms.

  I smiled. “I’m lost, I think. Is this the Thai restaurant?”

  He continued gesturing, and I drew closer, checking out the contents of his wheelbarrow, sacks with what I figured was Thai writing on them, and something else underneath, a clear plastic bag half hidden by the sacks. It contained a white substance, maybe baking soda, but my imagination went wild, thinking for sure it was contraband. This restaurant had to be the location of Stephen’s delivery. I stopped, my hands sweating, my heart pulsing. The man continued to spew out words, louder now. I reminded myself I was on a reconnaissance mission, that was all, and besides, I was famished.

  I bowed to him, reversed my steps, and entered the restaurant, opening the door to a dimly lit room. I pictured an army of weapon-clad angry men emerging from behind the double doors in the back. Tables and chairs were smashed together, a small bar on one side of the room and, behind it, a mirror. I gazed at my reflection, astonished at what I saw, a short woman with swollen features and frantic curls, obviously pregnant.

  “Hello?” My greeting echoed, swallowed by silence. “Anyone here?”

  In a moment a petite woman came out of the double doors in the rear of the restaurant, smiling and fixing a loose strand of hair behind one ear. She wore one of those oriental outfits that look like pajamas to me.

  “May I help you?” she asked and smiled.

  “I’m investigating a murder, and I was told you might know something about it? Stephen Cojok? His body was found two days ago. He was stabbed.”

  The woman stepped back, shaking her head. I scrutinized her face for a shadow, a glint of recognition, but she wore a mask.

  “Tall? Brown hair? Disheveled? Drove a white van? Made frequent deliveries here?”

  She hesitated, and I was sure Stephen’s name or his description had resurrected something in her, something beyond mere recognition.

  “You are mistaken. He didn’t deliver here.”

  She was lying.

  She bit her lower lip, shaking her head. Her discomfort lasted only a second. Recovering, she said, “The kitchen is closed now. We don’t start serving until six. Come back then.” She looked at my stomach. “You will love our pineapple fried rice, and might I suggest the ginger tilapia?”

  Bile began rising to my throat, and I decided not to press my luck. Still, I had those sneaky Fu Manchus in my mind. I thanked her and gave her my card. “If you remember Stephen or talk to someone who knows him, please give me a call. Any information will help.”

  She took my card and smiled, but I doubted I’d hear from her, so I left, lumbering down the street.

  In the car I sat for a few minutes, trying to catch my breath. Pulling out my phone, I called Tig Able. My luck, he answered on the first ring.

  “What is it now?”

  When I mentioned the Lai Tai, he was silent. “Never heard of it.”

  I told him about Stephen Cojok, what I’d heard about the restaurant, and what I’d seen in the restaurant’s backyard. “I suspect they’re at least into drugs, maybe more. Look it up, will you?”

  “All right, but don’t hold your breath.”

  And speaking of holding my breath, I was beginning to get light-headed. I sat, thinking of nothing except the early evening settling around the buildings of Bay Ridge. For a second, a reddish gold beam lit up the Verrazano as I pressed the button and heard my trusty BMW roar into life.

  There was someone else I needed to visit before I called it a day—Lake Cojok. I wondered at the very least how she was getting on with her mother. Something about her wasn’t sitting right. Matter of fact, I thought there was something off about Ina O’Neill, too. But at that moment, when I was coming up with a big bald zero, everyone was a suspect.

  Captives

  Cookie thought she was going to faint. There was no light in the room. With effort she controlled her breathing, telling herself to be calm for the sake of her unborn child. They’d tied her arms and legs together, taped her mouth, and pushed her onto a couch without cushions, the springs giving her a jolt. Then they left.

  She wiggled her rear as far as it would go until she hit the arm. The stuffing was coming out. She heard the clank of a door shutting. There were no windows in the place, no way of judging time. She thought hours must have passed.

  As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she could see that she was in a cavernous room. A w
arehouse, she thought. Cement floor and walls. It was so damp. Cold. She looked around for Clancy but couldn’t see him. She made grunting noises through the tape. The air was foul, and she tasted some of her own sourness. She’d have to go to the bathroom soon. Wishing she hadn’t had that second cup of coffee, she knew she should have gone in the ice cream shop when she’d had the chance.

  How long would it be before Fina realized what had happened? Cookie took a few deep breaths, remembering what a magic woman her friend was. And her mother would call Fina, wouldn’t she, when they didn’t show up to pick up Brooklyn? It would only be a while longer before Fina appeared, maybe with the police, certainly with Denny. But with a sinking feeling, Cookie recalled what she’d told her mother, that they might spend the night in Rhinebeck and asked if she wouldn’t mind taking care of Brooklyn until the next morning. Her mother had jumped at the chance.

  Cookie started breathing fast again and told herself to calm down. She hoped she could last. If only she kept her phone in a holster on her belt like Fina did. But no, not Cookie, she had to be so damn feminine; and just like always, her phone was in her purse, wherever that was. She looked around, but couldn’t see it.

  Shadows moving. She blinked. Was that Clancy on the other side of the room? A figure was wedged in between a stack of paintings and crates. Yes, it was Clancy! She tried to call out to him, but of course, her words were stopped by the tape. She scraped the floor as best she could, trying to get his attention, but he didn’t seem to respond. Maybe they’d given him something. At the thought, she felt a raw fear creep up her back.

  She guessed she was getting special treatment because before they were gagged, Clancy made a fuss about her condition, saying his wife was pregnant and that they were beasts for keeping her.

  “Let her go, for God’s sake,” he’d rasped. “She’s a mother. My baby girl needs her. Do anything you want with me, but let her go. Three more months and she’ll deliver our second child. If you hurt her, the blood of two people will be on your hands, one an innocent about to be born.”

  “Shut up, cowboy.”

  She watched as two men pistol-whipped him with his own Glock. With each blow, she tried to cry out. She told herself this would never have happened if she’d been alone. Big, burly Clancy had intimidated them. She should have taken the train from Grand Central and caught an Uber from Poughkeepsie. She would have walked into the gallery, taken a look around, asked questions about the artwork, gotten a good feel for the place, reported back to Fina, and that would have been it. With her fine sense of what was what, she would have smelled danger and gotten the hell away; she would have waited until they had protection. But Clancy must have scared them. They probably saw the outlines of his gun through his thin jacket, and that had been it. One person to their three or four, he was a sitting duck.

  She wanted to go to him. She tried wriggling off the couch. If she could only stand up. She used her elbow and upper arm as a lever and was almost standing when a form waddled into view and she felt a fat paw on her neck, pushing her back down onto the broken couch.

  “Stay there, and you won’t get hurt,” he growled.

  He tore the tape from her mouth. The pain was sudden, almost as bad as a contraction.

  She stared up into a doughy face with bloodshot eyes. The man was tremendous, bigger than she’d ever seen. He wore a sleeveless striped shirt and had flat slabs for arms, each one the size of both Cookie’s legs put together. He had on black form-fitting pants, tights maybe, although she’d never seen a man wearing them. Thinning hair, balding in spots. Lines around his mouth and eyes, otherwise he had a face like a piece of Carrara marble. Beady eyes, half-hidden in folds of fat, stared back at Cookie, and she could smell his breath, fetid with a dankness from who knew where. An ogre who belonged in Coney Island.

  “You know I’m pregnant.”

  “Don’t talk. You’ll make it worse for yourself,” the fat man said.

  Good. She’d found an ally. “Then you must be a father, too; you must know what it’s like to be—”

  But the man’s sudden slap silenced Cookie.

  Wall Treatment

  I pulled up to Blue Door Ceramics and was surprised to see lights still on and customers inside, a line of them in front of the cashier, waiting to pay. The place was packed. Little wonder—I noticed a large sale sign in the window with 50% Off printed in huge red type.

  Hoping to find Lake alone, I walked to a door on the side of the building, the entrance to Ina O’Neill’s upstairs apartment, and rang the bell. I was pleasantly rewarded with Lake’s voice over the intercom.

  “It’s Fina. Just wondering how you are, and I have a few questions if you’ve got a minute.”

  Lake buzzed me in, and I huffed up the narrow flight of stairs in time to check out her complexion, which, as I suspected, was an embarrassed red. She wore an orange silk dress, the print oriental, the sleeves full, the gown’s cut reminding me of a kimono. Open-toed spikes. Hair done up just so. Coiffed, bathed, manicured, pedicured. And expecting a guest for dinner.

  “Sorry. I thought it was someone else.”

  “We haven’t found your cat yet,” I said as she led me through to the spacious living room. Interior designed. High ceilings. Crystal chandeliers. Egg and dart trim, crown molding. Recessed lighting. Plush furniture, oriental rugs hugging hardwood planks. A nineteenth-century building rehabbed to the hilt. One wall held bookshelves, maybe for show, but then the whole place was a statement of Ina O’Neill’s success. Several of Lake’s paintings hung with studied design, counterbalanced with stark black-and-white photographs, each one lit from above by baby spots.

  We sat in front of the fireplace.

  “I was cooking a roast while my mother finishes up with late shoppers. We’re expecting another guest.” She hesitated a tick. “Will you join us?”

  I didn’t reply, but watched as she stood, a hand to her forehead, as if remembering something. “Come into the kitchen with me. I need to fix the salad.”

  The rich smell of beef was making me salivate as I watched her cut up bib lettuce, small radishes, and a large onion with the deftness of a master chef. She was a marvel in the kitchen, and when I asked her about it, she said her mother had taught her everything. Truth to tell, I was starved, but I wasn’t about to sit down with Lake and her mother and her guest, whoever he might be. And I was sure it was a he—Ina O’Neill’s conniving spirit at work. She wasn’t at all unhappy about her son-in-law’s murder, and Lake seemed to have made a brilliant recovery in only two days. I thought of Denny and how long it was taking him to get over his father’s death; how long it took me to get over my mother’s sudden passing, if there was such a thing as “getting over” a loved-one’s death. Lake seemed too perky. Something about her and her controlling mother was gnawing at me. And of course, there was something totally uncanny about the disappearance of Lake’s belongings.

  “Thanks for the offer, but I’m on my way home to cook supper for my husband.” What a lie—when was the last time I’d cooked? Maybe if I’d been more of a wife to him, Denny wouldn’t be having so much trouble moving through the stages of his grief.

  “Have you found out anything more about Stephen’s death?” she asked.

  “We’re pursuing several lines of inquiry and a person of interest, as well,” I said.

  She continued to chop.

  I watched her toss the ingredients into a large bowl. After she placed it in the fridge, I followed her back to the living room. We sat, facing each other; she, twisting on the couch.

  “Have you ever been to Rhinebeck?” I asked, wondering why Cookie hadn’t gotten back to me.

  Lake hesitated before she spoke, sliding her eyes to the side. “I don’t think so. I’ve been to Poughkeepsie, though.”

  “What about Augustus Gallery?”

  Lake drew in her underlip. “I’ve passed by, not gone in.” She flicked invisible dust from her sleeve. “You have to understand, I’m a struggling artist. Gall
eries like the Augustus intimidate me.”

  “But of course you saw your painting in the window?”

  “It’s in the window now?” She smiled, her eyes hopeful.

  I asked if she’d met the owner or at least a representative, and she shrugged. “Just that awful creature who came to my studio, Moses Longfellow: I assume he owns the Augustus, or at least is an associate.”

  We were interrupted by approaching claws on the hardwood floor, and I looked up to see a blur of cream as Blue appeared.

  “Your cat! When were you going to tell me he’s back? I have a team still looking for him.”

  Now her face was a dark crimson. “Sorry, I should have told you. I didn’t realize you were still looking for him. My landlord brought him yesterday. He found him pawing at our front door.”

  I said nothing.

  “I know I should have told you, but … I haven’t been myself. In a fog, mostly. If it weren’t for my mother … You know how it is after a sudden death, and Stephen, poor Stephen.”

  She was crying, and I walked over and put my arms around her.

  “He died so horribly.”

  I went in search of a tissue. When I returned, she had recovered somewhat.

  Sniffing, she said, “You hardly know what’s happening one moment to the next. Hours go by and you’re unaware. One second you’re fine, the next, you’re bawling. You were the same after your mother died, don’t you remember? I do. I watched you sitting in homeroom while the rest of us ran out to class, and you were unmoving, totally fogged, tears running down your cheeks, Cookie pulling you up, the nurse sending you home. You must have been so close to her. I don’t know how you survived.” She fixed a strand of loose hair.

  “Were you surprised that Stephen was killed?”