Contents
Title Page
Summary
copyright
Foreward
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Epilogue
Characters & Places
The Brooklyn Drop
A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery
by
Susan Russo Anderson
Summary:
In the middle of a wintry night, private investigator Fina Fitzgibbons finds Lorraine’s friend Phyllida Oxley slumped over her dining room table, the victim of memory-impairing date-rape drugs. When her condition goes from poor to comatose, her distraught fifteen-year-old granddaughter, Kat Oxley, disappears. Meanwhile, Fina’s agency is busy surveilling a massage parlor in Bensonhurst suspected of human trafficking, and Fina’s father reappears to throw a wrench into her relationship with NYPD Patrol Officer Denny McDuffy. As Fina frantically searches for the missing teen, she uncovers the truth behind the traffickers, but they have a surprise waiting for her in the not-so-friendly skies.
Copyright © 2015 Susan Russo Anderson
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
The Brooklyn Drop is a work of fiction.
Names, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead
is purely coincidental.
Cover design: Avalon Graphics
Proofreading: Pauline Nolet
ISBN:
Author’s Website
susanrussoanderson.com
Readers, I’d love to hear from you:
[email protected]
We are the music makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers
And sitting by desolate streams;—
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.
—Arthur O’Shaughnessy, 1844 - 1881
For the real Charlotte
Prologue
Ten years earlier
“Rough takeoff. Sorry, darling.”
Her husband, for all his exuberance and skill, frowned into the instrument panel but said nothing more. She, Henriette, believed in him and supported his love of flying, but personally she hated it, especially after Kat’s birth. Why couldn’t they have driven? After all, the baby would have been fine with his mother for a day or two, and the car was new. The trip to Dutchess County would have been a pleasant afternoon’s jaunt. They could have stayed overnight with their friends, but, no, Norris liked to arrive in style and have a limo waiting for them at the airport, where he’d smile, tip the ground crew, and they’d be whisked away.
Henriette gripped the arms of her chair. She knew this was a busy time for him, talking to the tower, adjusting, all those things pilots do, so she looked down at her hands, suffering through the vagaries of flight in silence. She hated the bumps, the feeling in her stomach, the sweats she’d get when he’d do those fancy turns of his, but she remained silent.
Soon they circled over the airport, the clouds soaring, magnificent blue and rosy peach, the late afternoon light spilling over the retreating land.
“Please don’t do stunts today.”
He smiled. She looked out at the sweep of the earth, hills in the distance, an early evening star, the world magnificent in deep greens and golds, the shadows purple on a forlorn hill. She rubbed her neck.
Norris patted her knee. “We’ll be in Dutchess County soon, and I promise, I’ll fly like a straight-laced chaplain.”
They said nothing for a while. From her sack she pulled out the magazine section of The New York Times and began to read, trying to forget the grinding sound coming from the back. Was that normal? she wanted to ask, but thought better of it. He’d just overload her with jargon.
He continued talking into his radio.
She felt a lurch, as if the plane had stopped in midair.
“Something’s wrong. This old girl’s not flying right. I should have traded her in for a newer model. Saw a great one at the air show last month. What do you say?”
Her temples hurt. “Let’s turn back. Please, Norris. We can take the Bentley.”
“We’ll be there before you know it.”
“There’s always the ride back,” she said, trying to catch her breath.
Suddenly the plane shuddered. The magazine fell off her lap. Her heart pounded.
“Why are we diving? You know I hate this stunt flying, and you promised. Do something, Norris!”
“Pulling back! Not working!” Frantic, he pulled at the stick, yelling something into the radio. It sounded like Mayday.
The airplane began convulsing. Wind flattened her into the seat.
She saw the tops of trees rushing toward them. A high-pitched screeching punctured her ears. Blinding white. Then nothing.
A Call for Help
It all started with icicles. The holidays were over. Our life was back to normal. Normal, as in a boring string of days between jobs except for a small surveillance gig watching a Bensonhurst massage parlor suspected of being involved in human trafficking. After an evening at the McDuffys’ during which I watched Denny and his father make fools of themselves over some obscure football game, I thanked Lorraine for the scrumptious meal, and we headed for home, braving a howling wind off the shores of South Brooklyn.
The cold must have zapped both of us since we decided to make it an early night. Denny hit the pillow and was out. As I peered outside before closing the bedroom blinds, I was stopped dead by a glinting across the street. I’d never seen such a large chunk of suspended ice, at least not in this part of Brooklyn. Thick at the top and coming to a point at the bottom, it hung from
the neighbor’s overhang like a blade, almost touching the ground. I’d phone them the next day and suggest they might want to remove it before their roof caved. But I never got the chance.
About three in the morning I woke with a start when my iPad suddenly came to life, covering my corner of the room with a grizzly light. Some unwanted tweet, I figured. I rolled over. Denny slept on. Again the screen lit up. My heart raced, not with fear but with excitement—I’m such a glutton for work. Focusing, I read the message. It was from Lorraine. “Call me ASAP.” Then it disappeared.
I went to the window. The neighborhood was a hard dark except for a wash of light over the Manhattan skyline, the winking bridge lights, and a hazy sliver of moon over the harbor. The neighbor’s gigantic icicle gleamed.
When I called her, I could tell Lorraine was anxious. She talked so fast, I barely got every other word. Apparently her friend Phyllida Oxley needed help.
“Particulars?” I asked.
I heard Lorraine take a breath. “Why would she be calling me in the middle of the night? She’s never done that, not in all the years I’ve known her. She said one word, ‘Help,’ before we were disconnected. Her voice sounded so strange.”
“You sure it was your friend?”
Lorraine answered in the affirmative. “I’ve got the key to her four-flat. It’s across the street from us. Meet me there. Hurry!”
I shook Denny. He didn’t move.
“Your mom needs us,” I whispered into his ear and stroked it with my lips.
He smiled and continued sleeping.
My BMW was parked a block away, and Denny’s car was in front of our house. “Can I drive your Jeep?”
Magic words. He was up like a shot, dressed, and checking his Glock before I could stuff my snoop bag with the usual—booties, latex gloves, plastic bags, flashlight, magnifying glass, notebook, pen, iPad, and two smartphones. Overkill, probably. We pummeled down the stairs and into the Jeep. Denny drove like the off-duty cop he was, ignoring all red lights, so we made it from Vinegar Hill to Third Place in less than five minutes.
After we parked, I noticed a pair of backup lights down the block shrouded in exhaust. In a second, the car slotted into a space. The engine stopped and a figure, dark and hunched, got out and seemed to stare at us. I turned away from it, my attention arrested by something else—another long bone of ice. This one dangled from Phyllida Oxley’s gutter. Denny was unimpressed when I pointed it out. But as we started down the walk, I heard footsteps, maybe in the alley or the backyard, and suddenly the icicle exploded, shattering at our feet.
In the Dining Room
The room smelled faintly of furniture polish and Chanel perfume. Phyllida Oxley lay sprawled over the dining room table, a stack of papers by her side, a bottle of pills and a half-empty coffee mug next to it. One hand lay on her iPad. The other rested on her head, but as I watched, it slowly slipped down over her ear. Not dead yet. I took plenty of shots of the unresponsive woman and her surroundings with my smartphone while Lorraine stood mute, her face white.
“Need to sit?” I asked.
“My dear, sweet friend,” Lorraine said before cupping a hand to her mouth.
Light from a Tiffany lamp hanging over the table slashed across Phyllida Oxley’s form, casting shadows behind her, falling over part of a seascape that hung on a side wall. On the buffet were black-and-white framed photos. One looked like an ad for the Jersey Shore, adults sprawled on the beach looking at the camera, a child playing in the foreground. Another was a photo of a teen. And the third was a family portrait; it must have been taken about twenty years ago, judging from the clothes. Phyllida, her husband, and probably her son stood smiling in front of a small plane. Even then Phyllida wore her hair pinned up in back. In the snap, long strands trawled around her head like a halo. Windblown moments taken in a happier time.
Sensing our presence, I guessed, Phyllida stirred.
“I’m here. Don’t worry,” Lorraine said. “What happened?”
No reply.
I picked up Phyllida’s house phone and dialed 9-1-1, giving the operator a succinct account of what I’d seen and asking her to send an ambulance and the law. As an afterthought, I told her I was a private investigator who’d worked with Jane Templeton in the past. I asked that she be summoned to the scene. Imagining the blonde detective’s face when she saw me, I grinned.
The operator typed and talked and said an ambulance would arrive within five minutes along with someone from NYPD. “I’ll pass on your message requesting Detective Templeton, but they’ll send whoever’s on duty.”
“No sign of forcible entry,” Denny said, telling us he’d wait in the hall for the police to arrive.
Phyllida tried to lift her head.
“Don’t move,” Lorraine said.
She mumbled something. I thought she mouthed “Terris,” but I might have been mistaken. Followed by something about Kat. I think she said, “Wanted Kat.”
“Where is Kat?” Lorraine asked.
Phyllida moaned. “Not here. With Charlotte. Sleepover.”
Her words seemed slurred, and she looked like she was drooling.
“Charlotte who?” Lorraine asked.
But Phyllida didn’t answer.
Instinctively, I reached into my bag and put on latex gloves, handing a pair to Lorraine. I felt Phyllida’s wrist, an erratic pulse. I saw no wound, no bruising. I picked up the bottle of pills and read the label, memorizing the doctor’s name and address on Montague Street and the name and dosage of the medication, flecainide. Quickly I tried to count the remaining pills. There seemed to be over twenty, the bottle almost full. My guess was that Phyllida had been given a substance that didn’t agree, perhaps introduced in the coffee, although when I sniffed the contents of the mug, it seemed like java laced with cream and sugar to me. Lorraine smoothed back a lock of Phyllida’s fading blonde hair, but we made the decision not to turn her face.
Lorraine, who said her own lids felt heavy and raw, sat in one of the dining room chairs and stared at the wall. “I can see Phyllida shortly after we met. Seems like yesterday, I tell you. She was tall and willowy and clothed in one of her grand outfits, a little too special to be wearing to an Altar and Rosary Society meeting in Brooklyn, but she graced my world. Robbie never cared for her.”
Why wasn’t I surprised?
“Her son, Norris, was like an older brother to Denny, taking him to the park, to local ball games. But Phyllida, oh, Phyllida, be well, please be well. How I admire her ideas, her understanding of music and art, and her exuberant love of life. We went to every exhibit imaginable, never missing one. She had everything until her husband died, and then her son a few months later, a sudden violent death, along with his wife in a plane crash, their remains one with the wreckage. For a year afterward she never left her house. I’d send over cakes, soufflés. She’d answer the door, always be polite, but never smiled or asked me inside.”
I kept my mouth shut, even though time was running out.
“Then her bleak world changed. Despite the objections of in-laws, Phyllida was appointed sole legal guardian of their offspring, Phyllida’s granddaughter, Kat. A ball of pure pity welled up in me thinking of her courage to survive catastrophic loss, of her will to raise a child all over again. Granted, her own flesh and blood. But it’s a funny thing: Kat saved her, really.”
I hated to be abrupt, but the police would be here any minute. “Does Phyllida do drugs?”
Lorraine looked at me like I was looped, then slowly shook her head. She pointed to the bottle of pills. “Complains of arrhythmia.”
“Well, someone slipped something into her coffee, I figure, and it wasn’t the flecainide. We need to do our best to find out who it was before you know who arrives. And who’s this Charlotte person Phyllida mentioned?”
Lorraine shook her head. “My guess is she’s one of Kat’s friends.”
I watched as she wiped tears from her eyes. In the next second, she stood tall and breathed in. “Let
’s get to it.”
I scooped up the folders on the table, leaving the coffee cup and bottle of pills for NYPD to discover. As I slipped the papers into my bag, I glanced at the top document and read the words “Legal Guardian.”
In My Mindfulness
Kat’s Monologue
My parents are moments in my head. A tall man picks me up and tosses me over his shoulder, swinging me. A woman brushes my hair and laughs. But they’re fading ghosts. Stop-actions, Billy calls them. Sometimes I dream about them, like it’s all a nightmare and one day I’ll wake up and they’ll be laughing at their joke. I feel sorry for them. They must have known what was happening. They had a crash and I didn’t, and now they’re stars. Sometimes in the summer when we walk at night in the country, Granny pointing up at Orion or the Polar Star, I think I can see them, pinpricks in the vast empyrean.
In my before life, there was a lot of noise late at night. We lived in a big house with cornfields beyond the fence and a pool outside my window. There was a sweet woman who took care of me and gave me chocolates to eat, and sometimes my parents took me to the library. I didn’t know what it was at the time, just a place filled with books and smelling like damp paper and glue, where I sat on my mother’s lap, pointing to pictures and listening to the words, repeating them, making them mine. I was loved, I know that, unlike some of the kids in our group, so I guess I’m lucky. But those days are no more.
I remember the time after the crash, being alone with a sweet woman who wore black, Granny walking toward me and picking me up, her cheek soft and cool like a flower against my face, and saying as how we were family and she’d never ever leave me. But they all leave in the end. That’s what Brandy says, maybe because her dad died, but she doesn’t know what it’s like, not really: she still has her mom. Still, she’s a friend, not as close as me and Charlotte, but still … she’s smart, mindful.
The Brooklyn Drop (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 4) Page 1
