Whiskey’s Gone (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 3)

by Susan Russo Anderson

  “God bless America,” he muttered. “The guy squeezed too much red stuff on my dog and I got it all over the seat.”

  “Just be grateful you’re not sitting in my Z.”

  He stuck out his chin. “What would you do about it if we were?”

  Jane kept her mouth shut and drove. Her knuckles were white from gripping the wheel. Willoughby was still bruised, she could tell, and she wasn’t going to pick a fight with him, although what Sally saw in him she couldn’t understand. She dug her fingernails into her palms and tried to think of his good points. For one thing, he was always ready to help. For another, he was on her side. Just the other day she’d overheard him defending her promotion to a bunch of patrol officers hanging outside One Girl Cookies. And he was great with financial stuff, which helped out a lot on the last big case they’d solved. All right, they’d solved it, but not without Fitzgibbons. She’d been up to her eyeballs in that one, too. What a misery.

  Jane eased up on the gas. Almost there. She had half a mind to hold up on the paperwork. She needed to meet with the team, get them involved in this disappearing female act. She’d get them all juiced up and wouldn’t you know the missing chick would appear, like, “What’s all the fuss about?” Still, they might have an idea or two. Which reminded her.

  With one hand, Jane groped for her cell and punched in a number at the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. “You didn’t hear this from me, but thought you’d like to know. Liam, Trueblood & Wolsey reported their office manager missing today. Seems she didn’t show up for work this morning.” After considerable prodding from the journalist, Jane told her about Whiskey’s status, the eight-year-old daughter, their current and old addresses. “I suggest taking a walk on Baltic, maybe visit some of the local merchants on Court, the bookstore for instance, I forget the name. Just remember where you got this information—one good turn and all that.”

  She wondered about this Whiskey Parnell person. After seeing the contents of her purse strewn all over a conference room, her gut told her the woman had met with foul play. Who knew why. Jane felt her toes tingle. There was something exhilarating about the start of an investigation. For all she knew, the woman would return this evening, chagrinned and a bit hungover. But maybe not. Maybe Jane ought to send some of the team on a neighborhood. And she’d better start playing nice with Fina Fitzgibbons. She punched in Fina’s number, but the call went directly to voice mail. In her sweetest-possible-chums-forever voice, she left a message telling Fina she had a few leads and could they meet for coffee.

  She had to hand it to raccoon eyes, she was nothing if not quick on the draw, producing evidence and clues to impress even the most hardened of clients. Like Trisha Liam, for instance, a good friend of the chief’s. Come to that, the chief liked Fina, too. Jane could tell from his deferential manner when he met the investigator. She’d stood up to him, that’s why. And if it weren’t for Fina … Jane shuddered to think of what would have become of Brandy Liam.

  It began to spritz. Just her luck, there must be a black cloud following her, because just a quarter mile ahead, the sun was glinting on the Brooklyn Bridge. Matter of fact it was bouncing off the Watchtower windows. On their car, the drops were getting bigger now, plonking down heavy on the top, falling all over them and a few surrounding vehicles—just enough schmutz to turn on the windshield wipers. Worn-out rubber squeaked across the glass. Other than the blades’ muffled slapping and the horns up ahead and some guy yelling his pants off, there was silence. Willoughby was on mute; she could feel him processing.

  “Just kidding,” Willoughby said, swiping at his pants with a handkerchief. His ears were red, a good sign he was angry.

  “Kidding about what?”

  “Never mind, I made a snide remark. Sorry.”

  Jane slid her eyes in his direction. He was smiling, but his eyes were sad. Lint all over his pants in the area of his parts. She chewed on her lip and looked straight ahead. In a minute her cell started vibrating. The team. They’d found particulars on the suspect.

  “Name’s Arthur McGirdle. Can’t be too many of those in Brooklyn. Or Manhattan, for that matter.”

  “So find him.”

  Ten minutes later Jane and Willoughby were closer to the precinct but not by much when she took another call from her team.

  “Suspect’s current address unknown.”

  “You called to tell me that?”

  “Got more. He lived on Neptune Avenue ten years ago. Worked Coney Island in the early 1990s.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Says here Shoot the Freak and the Wonder Wheel. Had a stint for a time with the fat lady.”

  “There was a fat lady?”

  “Guess so. Joined the army. Assigned to the 212th Fires Brigade at Fort Bliss in the late 1990s. In 2003 went AWOL with a friend. Still combing the court martial records on what the army claimed was desertion, but long story short, Arthur said it was the illness and sudden death of his mother. Somehow his punishment was reduced to a dishonorable discharge.”

  This was an impressive bit of background, but she needed Arthur’s current address. Only one person she knew who could find it fast—Fina Fitzgibbons. She put in a call to the edgy investigator but hung up when her call went directly to voice mail. “Where is she when we need her?”

  “When does Denny McDuffy return?” Willoughby asked.

  “The guy calls me once and you think we’re in bed? Holy be-f’in’ J, how should I know?” She slammed on the brakes in front of the precinct, banged the door shut, and ran inside.

  The Day I Met Arthur

  Whiskey’s Diary

  A Sunday in August

  My first job after high school was nothing much, a gig in Coney Island selling hot dogs at Nathan’s Famous. Not the main stand, but one in the northwest corner of the park hidden away and known only to a few luckies, frequented mostly by employees. The lines were nonexistent. Most of the dogs were overcooked. They rode around on their silvery bars, sweating and shriveling. We sold them for half price. One of my friends who worked for the fat lady came every hour. “I want two dogs, hot and sizzling not shriveled. They’re for the lady, you know who.” She always paid full price.

  While we talked, I saw a guy out of the corner of my eye. Kind of stringy, not bad looking, sparkly eyes, red hair sticking up like a brush. I didn’t give him a second thought.

  So I kept up with the questions to my friend all the while sneaking looks at the guy, a lusty-looking dude if I ever did see one.

  The next day Mr. Nothing came around again. This time his hair was slicked down so it was real dark red, but blue in spots where it caught the light off the ocean. He bought two dogs and an egg cream. As he slurped, he looked at me with his sparklers and his smile.

  “Care to take a ride?” He licked some mustard off the bun with a tongue full of purpose.

  I looked straight at him and said, “My ma doesn’t allow me on dates.”

  He smiled but said nothing, biting into his dog and chewing ever so slow.

  I thought that would be the end of him, but he kept coming back. Finally I gave in when he told me he’d seen my ma working Brighton Beach Avenue underneath the el.

  “You’re a liar. She’s not even Russian.”

  He shrugged and told me his name was Arthur Victor. I didn’t believe him. Said he worked at Shoot the Freak and part time for the fat lady and did I want to accompany him on the Wonder Wheel or maybe even the Whip and did I know that Fatty Arbuckle rode the Whip.

  From the giddyup, Arthur used big words.

  “You talk funny,” I told him, but he stared at me like I was naked as a jaybird or something. My interest perked.

  “I drive a bread truck and read in the back warmed by all the loaves.” He pointed to the Wonder Wheel. “Built in 1920 by the Electric Ferris Wheel company,” he said, chomping on his dog.

  As if I cared.

  “Give it a whirl.” He gulped his cream and wiped his hands on his pants. “My treat.”

  H
is treat, all right. When we got to the top I looked down to see his fingers creeping up my skirt. I get the spooks every time I think of that first time. I was a goner. After that he was a regular at Nathan’s Famous, two dogs and a cream and a real good ride, don’t mind saying it.

  When I got home that first day, Ma asked about my windblown hair and flaming cheeks and I shrugged. I told her I had a ride on the Wonder Wheel.

  “So that’s what they call it,” she said and went back to polishing her nails and sipping her whiskey.

  A Tuesday in August

  Like a Snake

  How the fat lady figured into Arthur’s life, I couldn’t tell you. Arthur had his outré moments, but I can’t fault him. He used to taunt me with the telling of his encounters with her. They were rough, I can tell you that much. Rough on my ears, and me, just a girl with delicate sensibilities. But I figured it was the effects of the war in wherever and Arthur’s part in it—or non-part, as it turned out. He couldn’t go, he told me. He and Berringer snuck away from base, more like it. Slinked off into the sunset, leaving a life that warps a man’s ability to be and to love with any kind of success. And the things that matter became displaced. Replaced. Scattered. Here today, gone tomorrow. Arthur took leave like a snake sheds its skin. Mostly he took leave in his head, where, come to think of it, all leaving takes place. I ought to know.

  Every once in a while I remember the first time I laid eyes on Arthur—a blip on the horizon, a crumb in the crowd. That’s how my life has always changed, so slow you don’t notice it at first.

  The Photo

  As I made my way to my BMW, I saw Brandy and her group leaning against the stoop of her home, so I waved. When they saw me, they came over like a shot to the car. “The cops came with their flashing lights,” someone said. “And the tallest woman I’ve ever seen ran up the stairs.”

  I nodded, smiling.

  “We got his picture.”

  At first I didn’t know who they meant, until Brandy held out her phone.

  “The guy entering the bar? Is it Arthur?”

  I looked at the image on Brandy’s screen. It was grainy, poorly exposed, a dim photo taken across the street from Cody’s, a local hangout. The door to the bar was open, and I could see part of the interior, people sitting around, the bartender’s apron, and the back of a man as he opened the door. The scene was partially obscured by passersby and the tops of cars, but the man entering Cody’s was short and had Arthur’s build. Brandy had captured a man with a muscled swagger. And the plaid flannel shirt he was wearing looked familiar. I pinched to enlarge the part of the image with the door and the man. The hair on the back of my neck rose: I’d recognize the fierceness in that back anywhere.

  “You didn’t call or text me?” I asked.

  Backpack shrugged. “We weren’t sure.”

  “Next time, call me, no matter what, even if you’re not sure.”

  “But is it Arthur?”

  I told them I couldn’t be certain, not without seeing the man’s face, but I didn’t tell them what my bones knew—it was Arthur, all right. I felt his boozy spirit grabbing at me through the smart electrical mass in my hand, and a spike of fear went through me.

  I texted Cookie and sent her the photo. I asked her to meet me at the bookstore on Court Street, then thanked Brandy’s crew, telling them they’d done enough for one day, saying they were on their way to making a great surveillance team. They weren’t exactly buying it, but I meant it. I told them I needed them and I did, but not at the expense of their lives.

  “That’s how surveillance goes. You see one piece of the puzzle and you chew on it, maybe put it in your pocket before going back to your life. Later, you return to the same place and find nothing but disappointment. Or maybe you discover other pieces to the puzzle or, if you’re really lucky, the vital piece and you solve the mystery. Little by little, you put it all together. It’s a slow process. But don’t forget your life or you’ll be sucked into the mystery, obsessing over it, getting too tired and not seeing anything at all, and we won’t get anywhere.”

  “You sound like Mrs. Coltran,” Brandy said.

  Swell. Now I was like some fifty-year-old teacher to them. “Then let me get down and dirty. Surveillance is a dangerous business. You might not think so, but trust me. If you blow your cover, anything can happen, anything at all. Then you’re toast along with Whiskey and Maddie.”

  Their eyes were wide and still.

  “You guys did great. Thanks to you, we have something more than we did. But now it’s time to forget the surveillance. Think of it as an after-school one or two hour exercise, nothing more. Time to get into something else.”

  “That’s it?”

  “No, I’m going to use the information you gave me. I’m going to find out if the bartender at Cody’s knows this guy.”

  * * *

  I wanted to talk to Denny and get to the bottom of his call to Jane, but there was a missing woman and I had to find her. The easiest way was to dig up more about Whiskey’s past and hope I’d find a hook big enough to snag Arthur.

  Cody’s turned out to be a dead end. The place was dim and packed and humming. Guys stared at TV screens or into their beer. When I showed the bartender Cookie’s sketch of Arthur, he studied it for a second and shook his head. He swore he’d never seen him. But a dude half in his cups and sitting at the bar grabbed it from me and said he’d seen him an hour ago. “Drank two beers faster than you can blink. Never sat.” The bartender continued swiping the top of his precious bar while looking at the screen of some game.

  So Brandy’s crew had seen Arthur. They’d be proud of themselves when I told them.

  I had to keep the momentum of my search going, I told myself as I made my way down Court Street and found a parking place a block or so away from the BookCourt, where if you can believe it, I saw Cookie peering into the display in the window.

  “Clancy’s helping too. He’s still on Baltic pounding on doors. What the heck’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “So your teeth are chattering for nothing even though it’s like sixty-five degrees out and your eyes are red and what little makeup you wear is smeared all over your face. Are you that worried about Whiskey?”

  “Whiskey’s gone, and I can’t focus enough to do my job. I keep seeing Denny with Zizi Carmalucci and I’m not sure why. I need to find Whiskey. My reputation depends on it.” Although why I said that last bit, I don’t know. “What am I saying?—I need to find Maddie’s mother.”

  “So tell me what really happened,” she said, pulling out her mirror.

  I told her about Denny’s call to Jane.

  She put away her mirror. One thing about Cookie, she never sugarcoats, never, even though part of me would love her to do a smoothie once in a while. “How the hell did he know about Whiskey, and why would he call Jane without talking to you first?”

  “I … I don’t know. I tried calling him, but there was no answer.”

  “Which phone did you use to call him?”

  She had a point. On my birthday Denny bought me a second smartphone because I don’t carry. My special phone, he calls it. It saved my tail once. Denny and Cookie are the only ones that have the number, and when I use it to call him, he picks up on the first ring. But—and it’s a big but—I don’t often take the special phone with me, and at the moment I didn’t know where it was. I shrugged. Worse, I don’t always answer, no matter which phone is ringing. I’m notorious for letting calls go to voice mail.

  “I don’t believe it, the guy gets you a phone for those just-in-case times, and you don’t use it when you need to reach him? I’ll bet you’re not even wearing it.” She punched numbers on her cell. When her call went directly to my voice mail, she looked up at me, rolling her eyes. “I knew it.”

  A bubble seemed to burst inside my throat, and there was that push-and-pull thing going on inside my mind. I wanted to talk about it, but I wasn’t sure what “it” was, and besides, it was too
huge, whatever it was between me and Denny. The longer we stayed together, the bigger it got. Sometimes I felt like a stretched doll, and anyway, now wasn’t the time to get into it. I had to find a missing mom. So I asked Cookie about Clancy, the patrolman guy she met a few months ago, hoping to change the subject.

  It worked. Her cheeks took on a glow. “Fine. Good, in fact. If we’re not discussing you and Denny—and I can tell we’re not by that look you’re giving me—don’t you want to know what we’ve found out about Whiskey?”

  I looked inside the BookCourt and saw a line at the counter, so we’d have to wait anyway. Cookie had time to fill me in.

  “It’s not much, but after we knocked on doors and came up with zip, we roamed Baltic from one end to the other, concentrating on moms with tots. You know the park close to Whiskey’s old building?”

  I nodded, crossing my arms and breathing out. There were times when work was so relaxing.

  “We found lots of women to talk to. Of course, seeing Clancy in his uniform helped. He’s so cute; I could see the envy in their faces.”

  Cookie was in love. This was going to take a while.

  “Women were just sitting there for the plucking, waiting for their kids, who were tearing up and down the wood chips, playing tag and supposedly watching their younger brothers and sisters. A lot of yelling and laughing going on. One told us that a bunch of them gather there after school so their older kids could blow off steam.”

  She was giving me too much detail, but it felt good, this talking with my best friend like it was pre-Denny days, the simpler time. I didn’t want to interrupt her. Matter of fact, I didn’t want the conversation to end. I looked around at the people walking home from work or going into restaurants or having a quick one at Cody's before meeting their friends. Fall crisp was in their faces and they were smiling. It was the unloading time of day.