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

by Susan Russo Anderson

  He hesitated. “I don’t wear a watch; I keep my cell in my pocket, but didn’t think to look at it until I’d answered the door for the paramedics. They arrived a few minutes after two.” He paused, examining his hands cupped around the ceramic. “So of course, Benny’s death is on my soul. If I had been here—”

  “Benny’s death darkens the soul of his killer,” Jane said.

  Rennart Bigelow snapped to, returning from a distant space. He wanted to talk and began telling us his story, how Benny had befriended him at a low moment in his life. “I met him in the park. I was low. We began our conversation, the only one we’ve ever had, the one that goes on and on. I’d just lost my job at a printing press on Flatbush Avenue, and I couldn’t have told you how I got to the park that day—I was walking around in a daze—but there was a bench, and sitting on the bench was Benny. I knew he was the one for me. After a few minutes we started to talk, and somehow, talking to him, nothing else seemed to matter. That was the magic of Benny.”

  I had to agree. That seemed to be Benny’s gift, his aura, a certain timeless presence. Parks were his natural habitat. I imagined him, Mr. Smee on a bench, sun smiling, kids running past him, giving him a knowing backward glance. How innocent he was. My mind segued into notional children at play and from there wandered to my children, as yet unborn, and how there was one thing about all children: they were all wrapped up in a present playful moment that shielded them from the chains of the past, the anxiety of the future. They had a lot to teach us. From what I knew of Benny, part of him never left the fields of play, and that was what he’d given me and Stephen and Rennart and all the others whom he’d touched—the playfulness of the present. But what did I know? All this pie-in-the-sky stuff wasn’t like me: maybe it was last night’s dinner, or an early part of the second trimester, which I realized with a start I was entering. Whatever, it was so late it was early, and I pinched myself back to reality.

  “You met Benny, we get that,” Jane said. “What kind of work did he do?”

  “Interior design. Freelance. Works out of his home.” His cup shook as Rennart took another sip. “I’m sorry. Can I get you coffee?”

  “I’ll make it,” Willoughby said, and got up with a scrape of his chair and began opening cabinets, finding cups and saucers, placing them on the counter while he went to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of milk and some doughnuts. Leave it to Willoughby to find food.

  While he made coffee, slamming a sugar bowl and creamer onto the table along with a plate of neatly arranged Danish, Jane questioned Benny’s partner. Did he know Stephen Cojok? The name didn’t ring a bell. Did Benny have other friends? They both belonged to a book club, but Benny spent most of his free time antiquing and going to interior design shows. “He went to Milan every year. I went with him once and walked around and saw statues. He had friends in the business, but beyond me, not so much.”

  Willoughby nodded and took a bite of donut. His second.

  So apparently Benny hadn’t told him a thing about Stephen. Not so unusual. How much did we really know about our partners? And anyway, each of us cultivated our own private garden. I thought of Denny and hoped he and Lorraine were making progress. Did he have to get worse before he got better?

  Jane looked at the wall clock. Nearly dawn. “We haven’t got all day,” she reminded us. “CSU will be here any minute.” She gave me a pointed look, and I’d worked so long with the woman, I knew what was on her mind. We needed information, and once the crime scene techs arrived, we’d have little chance.

  “So if he works out of his home, does he have a computer?” I asked.

  Rennart Bigelow nodded.

  “Show me?”

  He took me into the bedroom, a large room between the parlor and the kitchen with built-in shelves, parquet floors and a tin ceiling. On the far wall, stuck in the middle of a row of books, was a desk. On top was a laptop silently displaying a wavering screensaver. I grabbed it and shoved it into my purse.

  I opened the middle drawer of the desk, shining a flashlight in for a better look. I took a set of keys, a wallet, and a checkbook and threw them all into my bag, listening to them chink against the plastic case surrounding the laptop.

  For good measure I opened the drawers in a tall chest in the corner. Clothes, nothing more, or at least I didn’t have time for a proper snoop.

  I peered into the walk-in closet and took a long look at the man’s wardrobe, pants, shirts, jackets hung neatly, like with like. Shoes placed in a rack on the floor.

  As a parting shot, I scanned the books on the shelves, most of them on art and interior design. Benny obviously specialized in the interiors of classic houses, stuff that had little appeal for me and of which I had little knowledge, but there were a lot of table-sized picture books on eighteenth- and nineteenth-century furniture.

  I pointed to Benny’s closet. “Better take what you need before the CSU gets here,” I said to Rennart, who looked at the floor and shook his head. “Will you have a traditional funeral with a wake? If so, he’ll need clothes.”

  His response, a cry of anguish, made me realize what a lowlife I was. When would I learn not to trample on the raw feelings of others? Shamed into some kind of human response, I put my arms around him, felt his boniness, and let him sob.

  When we returned to the kitchen, Jane noticed the extra bulge to my bag.

  “Heavier than when you visited the bedroom?”

  I nodded.

  “Beyond that, I don’t want to know.”

  “Really? Maybe you can help me carry some of this stuff?”

  “Put that way …” And she took the computer and the rest of the motherlode, saying she’d have her team get back to me.

  “According to Rennart, Stephen has a mother somewhere.”

  Jane nodded. “Our job to notify next of kin. We’ll get on it.”

  Just then there were voices outside and footsteps. Good thing, too, because in a few more minutes, I would have had to excuse myself to use the facilities—bad form at any crime scene. I looked up to see a line of techs clothed in their white suits. I asked Rennart for a contact and gave him my card. “If you can think of anyone who would do this to Benny, please let me know.”

  As I walked away, I realized Rennart Bigelow was the prime suspect, a man who had ready access to Benny Stanhope’s apartment, one of the few human beings Benny trusted, a man who had no alibi for the time of the murder. But deep down, I was beginning to realize who was behind the killing. Not a name, of course, just the outlines of a figure, remote and sinister—someone pulling the puppet strings, someone responsible for the deaths of Stephen and Deirdre Maccabee and Benny, the violation of Karen, the mysterious disappearance of Lake’s belongings, and if I was honest, someone who had me in his sights.

  Captives

  Cookie woke feeling cold and stiff. She tried to move her shoulders, but they hurt too much. How long had she and Clancy been there, captives, and they hadn’t let her stretch or given her anything to eat or drink, but she had to give them some credit—they’d ripped the tape from her eyes. She feared for the poor unborn she carried, but remembered what her gynecologist had said on her last visit, something about the baby being so healthy a tank could roll over her and the fetus would emerge unscathed. This one was a boy for sure, the ultrasound had showed. They’d agreed on the name, Court, just not on the spelling. “Court for Court Street,” Cookie had insisted, “the center of our lives.” But Clancy wouldn’t have it. “Cort or Curt, that’s it.” It wasn’t like her Clancy not to budge, but he’d been firm.

  She blinked, expecting to see him still sitting across from her. She’d tried squirming in her seat, but she felt so heavy she didn’t have the energy, so she went back into that place between waking and sleeping.

  In a while she sat up, craned her neck, straining to see the spot where her husband had been. It was empty, and she felt a jolt of something shoot through her. Then she tried to stand, squirming to the edge of the couch, rolling to
one side, almost making it before Mr. Slab Arms appeared.

  “You wet yourself,” the giant said, ripping the tape from her mouth. She reeled with the pain.

  “I brought you water.” He held a plastic cup to her lips and she drank, her face raw and stinging.

  “Drink some more and then we’re going.”

  “Where?”

  He didn’t answer at first. “A better place. A place of safety.”

  So they weren’t going to kill her, not just yet. She tried to figure out why they hadn’t killed her, killed both of them. She looked across the room, hoping she could see Clancy, maybe just the back of his head, but he wasn’t there. Then she thought maybe they’d already killed him, and her heart raced. Sweet Jesus, why had she involved him?

  “Where’s my husband?”

  The fat man said nothing.

  “Take me to him, won’t you? Please.”

  “Get up.”

  His claws were rough as he pulled her up. What could she do?

  He squeezed her arm, yanking at her, steadying her so she wouldn’t lose her balance. Her legs were like lead. He pushed her forward, so she put one foot in front of the other. That tingling feeling in her soles, her feet must have been asleep, but she forced herself to walk.

  Soon they were standing by a garage door. The cement sloped slightly, and she could smell oil. She heard the sound of metal on metal. The door began lifting. She smelled fresh air, looked up and saw the stars.

  She heard the crunch of tires, and a black shiny truck appeared, idling in front of them. The fine arts truck everyone talked about. Her heart was going to burst. She knew never to get into vehicles, and she resisted. Better to die here, but before she knew it, the fat man slapped her and shoved her up a ramp and threw her inside. She fell against the metal interior and slid down, landing on the floor with a thud. She heard the doors slam shut.

  Cookie told herself to take deep breaths. She had to be strong. No telling what they’d do to her if she became a screaming idiot, and besides, she had to remain at peace for the sake of her child—no way was Brooklyn going to grow up an orphan. Where was Clancy? Where was Fina? And Jane Templeton, for all her bluster, was nowhere. She counted to ten and waited.

  The fat bodyguard appeared, his torso leaning inside, staring at her. He slapped more tape over her eyes.

  “You’ve made a horrible mistake, and I’m pregnant—you don’t want the death of my baby on your soul. They’re onto you, and they’ll lock you up forever.”

  He taped her mouth.

  As the truck began to move, she shivered. She was so cold. Cookie began to pray.

  Lorraine and Denny

  The house seemed so quiet with just the two of them, Lorraine thought, realizing what energy Fina had brought into their lives. She was always heading in three different directions at once, especially lately. She thought of how Fina had changed. Yes, she’d put on weight and sometimes didn’t wear makeup, but she was such a perfect daughter-in-law, and if it weren’t for her, Lorraine would be stuck in that same old place with her books but little else. She needed the work Fina gave her, realizing that the agency had begun to rely on her as well.

  “Another piece of pie?” she asked her son.

  Denny shook his head. “Maybe some of that cake I saw in the kitchen.”

  She loaded his plate with a large slice of double decadence, his favorite—she’d baked the other day—and plopped a spoonful of chocolate swirl ice cream on top.

  He ate in silence and poured himself more wine. “It feels good to be home.”

  That remark bothered Lorraine, but maybe he was just making small talk, so she said nothing for a while. “I’m so glad to have you to myself.”

  He quirked up one side of his mouth, his head low over the cake, his fork poised, crumbs and frosting making a ring around his mouth. She could hear distant sounds of traffic.

  “You don’t have to finish it.” But she watched while he did and smiled when he patted his stomach. The old Denny. There were a million questions she could have asked him, and she would have, only she hated the way she sounded when she did, like a nosy mother spewing out loaded queries, his monosyllabic replies begging for her silence, so she bit her tongue. It felt so strange having him home without Fina, and she remembered the morning before their wedding when she had peeked into his room and saw Robbie struggling to help his son dress in his tux. “You got the bow tie wrong,” she remembered Robbie saying. “And how many times have I told you how to do it … Look at those shoes. Got to polish them before you step into that church.” She wondered when Denny would learn to stand up for himself without starting a fight; Robbie’s fuse was so short. “Dad. No lectures today,” he’d managed, and she had smiled to herself, thinking maybe he’d made a start. But he was so young, in his early twenties, and what did he know of life. After all, it took her years of counseling before she knew how to handle her husband.

  With an effort, she brought herself back to the present.

  “Want to show me the bathroom?”

  He examined the walls and the tile, the toilet bowl, the sink, and began writing down everything they’d need from Home Depot. They could pick it up first thing in the morning.

  “Let’s get this stuff out of here.”

  She liked to see him busy with his hands. The work would help, and it was not as if it wasn’t needed. She saw now how horrible the bathroom was. They’d need to gut everything, all the tile around the bathtub and shower.

  He began measuring, writing down a list in his phone. “I could get it now. I think they’re open all night.”

  She looked at her watch. “Too late.”

  “First thing tomorrow, then.”

  “I changed the sheets on your bed.” She led the way and kissed him goodnight and watched the slant of his back as he walked into his old room.

  “Mom?”

  She smiled.

  “I think I need to go to your wizard doctor. Times like this I feel fine, but then it’s like black clouds roll in and I don’t know what comes over me. I get into, I don’t know, a fog. Why, I don’t know. Just that it’s there and I can’t move.”

  She blinked away the tears. “I know what you’re talking about, believe me I do.”

  Intruder

  If you were to ask me, I couldn’t tell you how I made it from Benny Stanhope’s house on Livingston Street to Vinegar Hill in one piece, but the stars must have been with me because I found a space directly across the street from our home, increasingly difficult in our neighborhood. I had to go something fierce. What did Mom always say when I’d waited too long and was about to have an accident? Put your brain in neutral and think happy thoughts. No problem there, my mind was already at half-mast. I bounded up the stoop, looking for the red blinking light on the alarm and ready to disarm it. None. Funny, I must have forgotten to turn it on—one more thing not to mention when Denny got home.

  I turned the key in the lock, wondering why I had such a creepy feeling. After all, my sixth sense hadn’t been working well of late.

  As I hung up my coat, I thought I heard movement somewhere in the basement or maybe it was coming from upstairs, I wasn’t sure where, just that there had been a definite thud seconds ago. I stood still, now fully awake.

  “Is that you, Mr. Baggins?” I called.

  I listened for the patter of his paws on the hardwood in the hall.

  Not a sound, but I felt a presence. An evil presence. Alien. I stood still, listening. Nothing. Yet I was sure of it—Someone was in the house. I couldn’t call 9-1-1, not yet—I’d be the brunt of Jane’s jokes for years if there was no one. I had to make sure I wasn’t crazy and flush out whoever was inside before he got to me.

  I was fully awake now, having morphed into my whirling dervish self, turning this way and that, eyes sliding around every inch of space, clicking on every light, tearing through every room on the first floor.

  In the kitchen I threw on the lights and looked around. Weapon, I needed a weap
on, something. I didn’t carry, and I was afraid to use mace in the house. I wasn’t that desperate yet, and what if Mr. Baggins suddenly appeared and got into the line of fire? I’d never forgive myself. So I thought fast, threw my bag onto the counter, and grabbed a broom.

  My stomach was rising like a glass shard in the back of my throat, and I almost forgot how bad I had to pee.

  With a rush of noise and wind, I was grabbed from behind.

  “Help!” I screamed. “You lousy, no-good—”

  “Shut up, lady, or I’ll punch you where you live.”

  He meant my stomach? He meant my baby?

  Struggling, I elbowed him. “I’ll kill you, you lousy bastard!” I screamed, and felt the color in my face like liquid lava.

  With a force I didn’t know I had, I whirled around, aiming for his parts but missing. Instead, I hit his knees with the tip of the broom handle.

  He lost balance momentarily, so I dug my heel into the toe of his shoe and tried to cover my ears from his mighty roar.

  Then I figured fast. I remembered the weapon that every pregnant woman has as he began to paw me. Hoping that the idiot wouldn’t know the difference between urine and amniotic fluid, and knowing my bulk would lend credence to the lie, I let forth all over his sneakers.

  “My baby’s coming! My baby!”

  He stumbled backward, falling against the kitchen table, catching the cloth and my breakfast dishes from yesterday morning, orange juice and melted ice cream spilling onto the floor and making his purchase slippery at best. He slid to the floor, his eyes as big as his ears.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Baggins cowering in the hall.

  As the monster got to his feet, I wrenched the pepper blaster out of my bag and aimed it straight for his chest.

  “Don’t move or you’ll never see daylight again.” Corny, but so what? I was furious. My eyes bored into his as I moved to the landline on the counter and dialed 9-1-1.