The Brooklyn Drop (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 4)

by Susan Russo Anderson

  Her voice softened as she switched gears and said, “Be there in ten minutes. We’ll bring coffee and some food for the wildebeest.”

  Making Plans

  We sat around three desks shoved together in the middle of Lucy’s. Jane produced coffees, chips, and a bag of cookies.

  “Any remains found at the site of Liese Goncourt’s home?” I asked.

  Jane shook her head. “Too early, but the dogs are still sniffing.”

  I cleared my throat and spread out Phyllida’s papers before me, explaining I’d discovered them in her dining room the night we found her nearly unconscious. “She must have been showing them to her visitor when he or she slipped Phyllida the drugs.” I also produced the key to the deceased’s home and Kat’s photo.

  “Tampering with a crime scene,” Willoughby said between bites of chocolate chip.

  That was Willoughby at his most irritating, although secretly I had to admit he had a point. “You’re kidding, of course.”

  His face was anger red as he pointed to the folders. “They could have had the perp’s fingerprints. Now you’ve contaminated them.”

  “Let me ask you something. Did the techs find any fingerprints on any of the other items in Phyllida’s dining room except for the victim’s?”

  Willoughby said nothing.

  “Of course not, because the perpetrators were too smart not to have worn gloves.”

  Nothing he could say to that.

  I continued. “You’d better have someone watching her house.” I told them I’d checked it earlier to make sure Kat hadn’t decided to hide out in her room. “While I was there, someone came in.”

  “Another one of your stories?” Jane asked for particulars and I told her briefly what I’d heard.

  She hiked up one side of her mouth as if she were about to speak, but instead, grabbed her phone and made arrangements for twenty-four-hour surveillance of Phyllida’s home, front and back.

  Willoughby gulped coffee from the mug I’d just poured, spilling some on his tie. Standing up, he began pawing at it with a napkin. “Sally just bought this for me at Bloomingdale’s. Paid a fortune.”

  “Serves her right,” Jane said.

  I scanned in Kat’s photo and messaged it to her.

  Excusing myself, I made a beeline for the ladies’, where I sent the missing teen’s photo to Tig, punching in his number, hoping he was back from vacation. When he didn’t answer, I left a long message, including a plea for his help, asking him to return my call as soon as possible, and loading my voice with appropriate whine. But this time, I realized, my request was pure favor. I had nothing to barter with except a missing person, a minor, and my sense of loss and frustration. Had I been more careful, I told him, I could have prevented Phyllida’s death and her granddaughter’s disappearance.

  When I got back to the room, Jane was sipping her coffee while thumbing through the manila folders. In a few minutes, she held up a thick document. “This looks like a copy of her will, an old one, dated eight years ago.”

  “That’s not the will,” her partner said, taking more chips.

  “I just said it was a copy.”

  “Don’t forget, I have a degree in criminal justice.”

  Jane looked at the ceiling.

  “The original must be in her safety deposit box,” Denny said. “Or with her lawyer.”

  “Speaking of Trisha Liam, we could use her legal mind, absent Lorraine,” Jane said. “Did she have a chance to go over Phyllida’s will with you?”

  I told her I’d phoned the lawyer, but she hadn’t gotten back to me yet.

  “Let me take a look at that,” Willoughby said.

  “Put your food down first, would you?” Clancy asked.

  Cookie smiled, shoving her chair closer to Clancy’s. I looked across at Denny, whose eyes were on the table.

  “This is the last will and testament—”

  “Not out loud! Holy be-f’n J, we’ll be here all month! Read it to yourself, then give us a summary in two or three quick phrases.”

  Willoughby shoved cookies and chips into his mouth, his cheeks morphing into a chipmunk’s while he skimmed the document, at one point nearly spilling coffee on the table as he turned the pages. I scrambled for a towel to wipe his area, just in case.

  “Who inherits?” Jane asked.

  There was silence as he shuffled the paper, at one point furrowing his brow. “This woman was loaded.”

  Jane rolled her eyes.

  He began muttering, his finger going down items page by page, “All assets, including a cabin in Maine, properties in Manhattan and Brooklyn, bank accounts and securities, estimated worth, close to five billion …”

  Willoughby wiped his forehead with a napkin. “Funny, she looked like an ordinary old broad to me.”

  “When did you meet her?” Jane asked.

  “Saw her slumped over her dining room table, don’t you remember?” He read some more, muttering. “Except for some minor bequests, a million here, three there, looks like the bulk of it goes into trust for Katrina Oxley until she reaches her majority.”

  I drummed on the table. “We knew that, but what happens if Kat dies?” I asked. “What happens if there are no heirs to inherit? Then where does the money go? That’s the whole point, don’t you see?” I stood up, excited. I glanced at Denny’s face and sat back down.

  Denny shuffled his feet. “Fina is talking motive, and we’ve got to listen.”

  “I want to tell you something, mano a mano,” Willoughby said, poking a finger at Denny. “You are one brainwashed dude. You support her even after she dumped you?”

  “Stuff between me and her is private, so get your dirty mind off it.”

  “Just saying.”

  “Well, don’t just say! You don’t know squat!”

  “Enough, both of you!” Jane said.

  I felt sick. Clancy put his arm around Cookie.

  Willoughby skimmed back and forth, searching. “We’re missing pages.”

  “Let me see,” I said, stabbing at it. I rubbed my fingers over the roughness of the staple and noticed a tiny piece of paper dangling from one corner. Sure enough, a page or two had been ripped from the whole. The document had been compromised. “What do you make of it, Denny?”

  “Whoever visited Phyllida wanted to know Kat’s worth.”

  Willoughby threw up his hands.

  Why wasn’t he getting it? I watched Denny, who was shaking his head. He got it. Whoever killed Phyllida wasn’t interested in Kat’s inheritance. Whoever killed Phyllida wanted to know what Kat’s death would mean if there were no heirs.

  “Kat is worth more dead than alive,” I said, suddenly sure, but I needed Trisha Liam’s corroboration. I dialed her number using Lucy’s landline, hoping against hope she was still in her office. As it rang two, three, four times, I held my breath. It was going to voice mail when there were a series of clicks and a tired Trisha Liam picked up.

  After I told her what I needed, she put me on hold. I turned on the speaker, looked at Denny, and smiled, whispering my thanks. Staring at the table, he seemed to go into himself, as if he were afraid. So not like him. As I gazed at him, seeing his agony, I realized my crime: someone had stabbed him in the chest, and that someone was me.

  I looked at the wall clock over Minnie’s desk. It was close to nine.

  “What happened to our plan to look around La Belle Hélène?” Clancy asked.

  “What plan is that?” Willoughby asked.

  There was a hard silence.

  Jane crossed her arms. “Let me guess. This was Fina’s idea.” She turned to me. “This linking of Kat’s disappearance and the remotely possible Goncourt involvement in La Belle Hélène is ridiculous, a waste of time.”

  “You asked us to watch La Belle Hélène and we did; you asked us to report and we did. Now you reject our findings.”

  My words seemed wasted. Cookie reminded Jane who she’d seen in Bensonhurst and showed her the pictures of Garth, but Jane reje
cted blurred photographs of the man as proof of Garth’s identity. They were circumstantial at best, she claimed. I stuck to my argument, saying a probable sighting of two Goncourt men coming out of or near the Bensonhurst parlor was not just coincidence. I held my breath.

  In a moment she caved. Who knows why? Maybe she remembered the possible whereabouts of Kat and my New Jersey PI license. “No break-in, do you hear? None.”

  “Don’t worry,” Cookie said. “I know the place like my own house. It’ll be shuttered with metal and there are iron bars spaced two inches apart protecting all the side windows. There’s a garage or shed or something in the back. I saw it the other night. Got a window. We’re going to look in it, that’s all, walk the perimeter, observe activity.”

  Jane shrugged.

  Just then there was a click and Trisha’s voice filled the room. “Too long to read,” she began, “but the gist of it is this: if Phyllida has no heirs, all assets are divided equally between Oxley Paper and the Oxley Paper Foundation.”

  “So there’s no monetary gain for an individual?” Willoughby asked. “There goes your motive.”

  “Embezzlement fraud at nonprofit organizations is not unheard of,” Trisha Liam said, referring to the foundation.

  Willoughby pulled on his lower lip.

  I reminded them that Abe Goncourt was the president of Oxley Paper. “Who manages the Oxley Paper Foundation?” I asked Trisha.

  “Doesn’t say, but there’s a New Jersey address and phone number.”

  She gave me the information, and as I suspected, my call was answered by a disembodied voice. I left my cell number and a request to return my call as soon as possible.

  “The Goncourts have taken Kat somewhere, and her life is in danger,” I said.

  “You don’t know that,” Jane said.

  “Is that all you can think of to say?” I asked.

  “Someone’s got to keep your mouth in check,” Jane said. “Where is Lorraine when we need her?”

  I punched in her number, but my call went to voice mail. “What’s more, the Goncourts—what’s left of them—are major players in the Bensonhurst massage parlor, La Belle Hélène.”

  Jane couldn’t help herself. “You’ve been smoking something.” But there was little oomph to her objection, especially after Clancy corrected her, telling her they’d suspected Goncourt involvement in the massage parlor for some time.

  Still trying to plead our case, Cookie told them about seeing Abe Goncourt walking out of the massage parlor and getting into his car, a Bentley.

  “You mean someone who looked like Abe Goncourt,” Jane said.

  Her remark had an unintended effect: it made me think. Pictures flashed through my head—Kirsten Goncourt seated in Frankies with Phyllida Oxley; a man wasting the freight elevator’s camera shortly before another visitor was stopped after hours near Phyllida’s hospital room; the Liese-like figure sticking Phyllida’s IV line with a deadly load; both Garth and Abe spotted close to La Belle Hélène; Kirsten picking up Kat. Were they different people or different disguises of one person, an actor? Who was he? Or she? How long had he been at work? How long was the list of his victims? What had he done with Kat?

  “A Bentley Grand convertible?” Willoughby asked.

  Cookie shrugged. “Two-toned, that’s all I know.”

  “A Bentley Grand. Sequin blue, 530 horsepower, and 811 pound feet of torque,” Denny said. “A cool $300,000.”

  Willoughby’s face took on a dreamy look. “Much more, and well worth it, I’ve heard.”

  “Does Abe Goncourt get all his money from running a paper company?” Denny asked. “I don’t think so.”

  Cookie passed Jane the Bentley’s tags and Willoughby punched them into his phone.

  “Don’t bother looking them up. Those plates will be registered to Oxley Paper,” I said.

  “We’ll see about that.” Willoughby waited for his screen to refresh. He pinched and sighed. “She’s right.”

  “Before Kat was abducted—”

  “Don’t use that word,” Jane said. “I’ll admit it doesn’t look good, but we don’t know for sure she was taken, not yet. She might be spending the night at another friend’s house. This whole disappearance might be a misunderstanding.”

  “From your lips,” I said.

  “Kat might be someplace with her aunt. Has anyone tried calling Kirsten Goncourt?”

  “Do you have her number?” I asked. “Her address?”

  “Someone at Oxley Paper must have it,” Willoughby said.

  “A company’s going to answer a call this late at night?” Clancy asked.

  “I’ve already tried,” I said. “They have one of those recordings, but since I had Abe Goncourt’s extension, I left a message. Fat chance he’ll return my call.”

  “We’re wasting time. We could be halfway to Bensonhurst by now,” Denny said. “Fina’s got second sight, you know that, but you discard her knowledge every time.”

  At Denny’s words, I almost started to cry.

  “I suppose now she’s going to give us an aura reading,” Jane said.

  “Want to hear it?”

  “Get serious,” Jane said. “The strongest lead we have as to Kat’s whereabouts is that she got into her aunt’s car. Why not just go to New Jersey?” Jane asked. “I’ll have someone on my team do a search for Kirsten and Abe Goncourt. As soon as we have their number, I’ll text it to you.”

  She wasn’t getting it. “I have a hunch we’ll find traces of Kat in Bensonhurst, or at least a clue, something to point us in the right direction.”

  Jane sighed. “There’s no talking to you. Even though a teen’s life hangs in the balance, you’re going to pursue this massage parlor fantasy of yours.”

  Collectively we rose, Cookie, Clancy, Denny and I bound for Bensonhurst, Jane and Willoughby heading for Dumbo, where they planned on interviewing Charlotte and her parents once more while the rest of Jane’s team did a door-to-door in the vicinity of Kat’s disappearance. As a parting shot, Jane promised to text me when she’d gotten the Goncourts’ home phone number in New Jersey.

  In Bensonhurst

  We climbed into Denny’s Jeep and at first we rode in silence. Cookie and Clancy were in a world of their own. I felt the charge of their mutual attraction. Feeling sorry for myself, I wondered if Denny and I would ever be close again; I hoped so, but I doubted it. When they began steaming up the back windows pretty good, Denny turned on the defrost blower, blocking out the sound coming from the rear.

  “I had a dream about us last night,” Denny began. He said it softly, the words stroking my ears. Here it comes, I thought, our breakup, not that we weren’t in tatters already, thanks to me. I held my breath, feeling like a passenger in a sinking lifeboat.

  “We were eating pancakes. Must have been in Teresa’s because there was a crowd. All I know is, I was happy. Yes, it was on Montague Street because I remember getting out of the squad, and there you were, waving behind the plate-glass window.”

  “Were we fighting?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think we fought because I woke up happy. We were eating and talking. You were telling me about the day your father left and how you couldn’t understand—”

  “Do we have to talk about my father?”

  “We’re talking about my dream, not your father. In my dream, he walked into Teresa’s along with my mother.”

  “My father with Lorraine? Not with your father?” I asked, beginning to wish the conversation had never started.

  “No, with my mother, and I told them both to leave. What do you think that means?”

  Despite myself, I answered. “It was a dream, that’s all. I can still see him, my father, with his Ray-Bans, looking the other way when I called his name. I was how old, twelve or thirteen. He didn’t have the compassion, let alone fatherly feeling, no, he didn’t have the balls to turn and face me, to say goodbye. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over that.”

  “I understand,” Denny
said.

  He said it like a shrink would, and then I got it. He’d been talking to a professional. At that moment, I felt, I don’t know, so sad for what I’d done to him, made a grown policeman visit a shrink. What kind of a person was I?

  “I don’t think you can understand, not really. Your father was always there for you.” I imagined Robert in his feathery hat, looking like some forlorn musketeer shivering in the snow.

  “Maybe so. Still, I need to say this: I don’t agree with you, you know, about not talking to your dad. Like it or not, he’s a part of you.”

  I looked away and counted to ten, trying to calm my boiling blood, but the good fairy must have touched me with her wand because I said nothing, just breathed in and out and let him talk.

  He kept his eyes on the road while we spoke, entering the BQE. “Maybe I’m too influenced by my dad. I need to work on that, I know I do, but I’ve tried; I’ve thought of little else since we … since we decided to take a breather, but still, when it comes to your father, I can’t agree with you. I think you should at least talk to him.”

  Into the silence, which stretched long and deep, he said, “I’m not telling you what you should do; I’m telling you what I’d do and how I feel about your decision. I’ve got to tell you how I feel. We don’t agree, I know, but can we agree not to agree? If we can’t, then we both lose.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I mumbled something. I think it was yes. But I listened to what he said, at first as the wrongheaded ramblings of a father-centric man. Then I reconsidered his words. “I’ll never agree with you, but you’re entitled to your opinion. No, more than that, I don’t want to take your opinion away, even though it hurts. Even more, I respect it.” Those last words kind of stuck in the back of my throat as if I’d swallowed a watermelon whole until I considered everyone’s right to freedom. That included freedom of thought, didn’t it? Freedom of expression? Why would I grant that to others but not to Denny? “And I still …” I let the rest of the sentence hang in the air. He didn’t press.