Whiskey in Chains
Whiskey in Chains
I can hardly breathe. My legs feel broken. I’ll never make it out alive. What will happen to Maddie? Will anyone find my body, or will it rot into nothing? The stench is terrible in here, I’ll never complain about the smells in Liam, Trueblood & Wolsey’s mailroom again. Best if I lie here and think of the good times or think of Ma or Tommy. Whatever. But that’s no good, I can’t. I’ll pound on the door, some kind of thin wood, he ought to hear.
“Shut up! Can’t you hear their footsteps?”
He’s mad. I need to stop the pounding in my head. I need to move my legs.
“Please. Let me walk around.”
“Shh!”
Maybe if I whisper. “I promise to be quiet!”
Something’s ringing. Voices. Who are they? What will they do to me?
Motives for Murder
I called Trisha Liam and summarized what Lorraine told me about her conversations with Joe Catania and his mother.
“You’ve done enough,” Trisha Liam said, and I could tell, even though she didn’t say it, she was concerned about the tire slashing.
I agreed. “The organized crime unit needs to get involved. It’s time for the city to reopen the Mitch Liam case.”
“There never was a Mitch Liam case, but there’s going to be one now,” Trisha Liam said. She thanked me for what we had, saying what I already knew, that someone from the OCCB would want to interview Lorraine. And with Trisha Liam’s connections at the DA’s office—to say nothing of her friendship with the mayor and half of NYPD’s brass—I knew she would uncover the truth behind her husband’s murder.
But I wasn’t about to let the mob off so easy. As I walked to the Beretta, I wondered if there was a direct link between my BMW’s flat tires and the disappearance of Whiskey Parnell. Not outside the realm of possibility, a voice whispered. I remembered Mom telling me to begin an investigation with associations. “Assemble your chessboard with all the people, and I mean all the players.”
Wishing that Denny were here, and not just because his leaving lodged a stone in my stomach the size of a peach pit, I tried to name all the people with some kind of webbing, however tenuous, to Whiskey and also to the mob. Arthur, most certainly, but were there others? Friends? Business associates? I realized how little I really knew about her; I realized how little I really knew about anyone.
Denny would be good with this, the brainstorming bit. Come to think of it, he never thought my ideas were dumb. A sudden pain stabbed my forehead. I’m great with creating morbid scenes, and I pictured a dark corner of Court Street lit by flashing strobes from ambulances, squads, and fire trucks, Denny’s lifeless body surrounded by paramedics. I swept the image from my head and kept walking, focusing on everyone surrounding Whiskey.
First there was Tommy Marsh, Whiskey Parnell’s brother and a shadowy figure as far as I was concerned—and what’s more, a lawyer. He seemed broken up by his sister’s disappearance, but there was a lot I didn’t understand about him. For instance, why did Tommy Marsh do nothing when he got an S.O.S. from his sister in the middle of the night, afterward twisting the fact of the call in his own mind, trying to believe it was a wrong number so that he could get some sleep and perform well in court the next day? And what was the one thing he said as he left Lorraine’s, something about connections in the mayor’s office? After all, he was a partner in a Brooklyn law firm, and God knew who their clients were. The more I thought about him, the more my skin crawled, and his dyed hair didn’t help.
I called Lorraine, telling her it was official, we were off the Mitch Liam case, and asked her to find out what she could about Tommy Marsh’s law firm, Weinberg, Kalamazoo, & Marsh.
Then there was Seymour Wolsey, Trisha Liam’s snaggletoothed partner with the hots for Whiskey. He was used to getting his own way; rejected by Whiskey, what would he do in a moment of despair or in the foggy dregs of a hangover. Could he abduct her? Hide her? Then I remembered the address book and photo I’d taken earlier in the evening from his desk. I stared at the likeness of Whiskey, a photocopy of a copy of a copy it seemed, wrinkled and dog-eared. Used by a man desperate enough to keep her tied up? I pictured Whiskey bound in some corner of his basement or attic. I didn’t know, but my head told me Seymour had not taken Whiskey. Maybe the book would tell me more, so I flipped through the pages, but it was blank. Not a word. I put my nose to the paper and smelled Seymour’s sorrow. I’d risked my reputation, to say nothing of Cookie’s pride or Seymour’s privacy, for nothing. What’s more, I was convinced the lawyer cared more about himself and his position than to consummate an obsession. Or did he? And who were his favorite clients? Were any of them connected to the mob? Could Whiskey have discovered something about him?
I thought not; Seymour cared too much about himself and his position to hurt Whiskey. Or did he? And who were his favorite clients? Were any of them connected to the mob? Could Whiskey have discovered something about him?
I opened the car door and imagined Finn Trueblood and his mustache. I remembered his overreaction to me and Trisha Liam when we met with him in his office. Was it a coincidence that we found Whiskey Parnell’s bag in his conference room?
As I sat staring at the cobbles illuminated by a streetlight, I decided to stretch my imagination some more, and considered Huey, Rhoda the receptionist’s boyfriend. Rough around the edges and in waste management, he was a wannabe in a Mafia stronghold. Could he be close to “the Mole”? He was starting out in business and desperate for the right kind of clients. If he got in with the city, he’d have it made, so what would he do to obtain a contract? Did Whiskey overhear something, say, a phone call between Huey and Rhoda, or a remark dropped by the unsubtle receptionist?
And what about Star Newcomb? I had no doubt he was enamored of Whiskey Parnell, her looks, her attitude, the lines of her face, her “gesture,” as he put it. Like Huey, he was desperate to get ahead, and like Arthur and Seymour, he had a thing for Whiskey Parnell. Come to think of it, didn’t everyone on my list of suspects hold Whiskey in an almost mystical regard? Well, not Huey. When I pictured Huey, I saw him in a mad scramble to the top.
Although Malcolm Giro convinced me of his true love for Whiskey and her child, I couldn’t quite disregard him because of his love for her.
As I surveyed my list, I ranked the men in order of strongest motive, means, opportunity. Was I missing someone? Probably, but I needed to rely on my gut.
First, of course, was Arthur. He seemed desperate, not above collusion with organized crime, and totally connected to Whiskey. As for the rest, I wasn’t sure. But my sixth sense told me Seymour Wolsey and Star Newcomb ranked next to Arthur in depredation. And Huey? Huey was in love with himself, not so much with Rhoda; he barely knew Whiskey Parnell, unless he was hiding something. I decided I needed to get to know them all a bit better.
I remembered my gran reading to me from her mother’s notebooks. She, my great-grandmother, was a midwife-turned-sleuth and a widow who made a name for herself in New York’s immigrant community before disappearing one day, never to be seen again. It was rumored she angered the black hand, and they took their revenge. When I have time, I’ll unravel the mystery of her disappearance. Anyway, she wrote this about motive: “These are the motives for murder—love, lust, lucre, and revenge. Of these, Rosa claims the strongest is lucre, but I say the strongest is love.” Murder? Had my heart written off Whiskey? I shook my head so hard my curls pulled. I’d find her, I knew I would. I slammed a fist against my thigh.
It was a good thing I’d taken Mom’s old car because it was starting to spritz. As I drove toward Vinegar Hill, my cell began giving off weak vibrations, so I pulled to the side of the street and double-parked. Tig. It sounded like he was far away. He gave me some news I dreaded hearing, just the worst possible words.
Bad News
Tig said they’d found a charred body in a strip of no-man’s-land off the Shore Parkway close to Gravesend Bay in Brooklyn. �
�The medical examiner thinks the body might be a woman’s, but he won’t know for sure until he takes a look at the pelvis.”
“You think it’s Whiskey? Why?”
There was silence.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Tig, just tell me and make it snappy.” My hand squeezed my cell, waiting for his reply. I heard him clear his throat as the image of Mom’s body lying on the cement in front of our house invaded me. Then there was a crackle and Tig’s voice faded. I noticed my battery icon with the sliver of red was flickering, so I drove home like a madwoman, ran up to my study, and plugged the phone into the wall, but I’d lost the connection. I redialed and left a message, listening to cars honk their way across the Brooklyn Bridge.
Footsteps in the hall. I was in a spooked state anyway, so I jumped when Denny came into the room. He looked forlorn and scared and had those haunted shadows around his mouth, although he was as gorgeous as ever in his fresh jeans and an ironed polo shirt with the Brooklyn Cyclones logo on the front. He held up a bag with my favorite ice cream store logo on it. I’d never seen him cry, but I knew he was close to it. All my fear of us talking, of us being together forever, whatever that was, and maybe being in love, all my anger at him for phoning Jane, for maybe having an affair with Zizi fled.
He picked me up and held me long and hard, his body pressed into mine, his face buried in the crook of my shoulder. He was all choked up and I couldn’t hear exactly what he said, but he wasn’t going to let go of me, and that was all that mattered. I opened my mouth to speak and start our long-overdue talk I knew we had to have, but my phone began vibrating on the desk.
“I missed you so much,” he said. “About why I called Jane, I’ve got to explain. You see, when I got—”
“We need to talk, but first I’ve got to finish a conversation with Tig. Right before you came in, he called and we got disconnected. He has terrible news.” I pointed to my cell.
Denny wiped his forehead. I knew what was on his mind. “So, the old phone-charging trick again?” He was going to say something else, I could tell by his stance and narrowed eyes, but the tremor in his chin stopped his words. We were both afraid to say what we felt.
Come to think about it, what was I feeling? As if I were a selfie shrink. All I could manage to say was a weak, “You sound like my mother.” I gave him one of my stupid grins.
But he was right and I knew it. I never remember to charge the damn things. Cookie says it’s because I have a death wish.
I told him why Tig had called and gave him a brief history on Whiskey Parnell. As I talked, I could tell someone had told him all about the case. “But we got disconnected and I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation—why the FBI thinks they’ve found Whiskey Parnell’s body.”
My heart sank a few seconds later when Tig returned my call.
“They found a smartphone a few feet from the remains. It belongs to Whiskey Parnell.”
Hearing Tig say Whiskey’s name was like being punched in the stomach. I turned to Denny, about to tell him, but I shouldn’t have bothered because Denny must have read my eyes. He sat down next to me and held me and ran his fingers through my curls while the lights of Manhattan winked in the distance like misbegotten stars. Mr. Baggins joined in, doing his best to console me, arcing his squat body in a stealth-like leap into my lap.
My whole body froze as I imagined Maddie’s face when we told her. I rehearsed my speech to the child, but having met Maddie just once, I knew I wouldn’t have to say much. Your mom won’t be coming home. The words echoed in my bones as Mr. B. licked my hand.
“Just because they found Whiskey’s cell doesn’t mean it’s her body,” Denny said.
That’s Denny for you, always taking a walk on the bright side. Me, I’m the opposite. And yet, I grabbed onto the thought like a drowning woman clutching a strand of seaweed.
I wrapped my arms around Mr. Baggins and buried my face in his fur, but I’d forgotten about Tig on the other end. He was still on the line and must have heard Denny and me talking because he responded to Denny’s remark. “That’s right. The body’s got to be identified. And for this one, we’re going to need dental records.”
“Did you have a chance to check her bank account?” I asked.
“A two-hundred-dollar withdrawal from an ATM machine on Atlantic at 2:37 this morning.”
“From the Sovereign Bank?”
There was silence on the other end of the line for a beat. “Are you some kind of psychic?”
“A wild guess,” I said, crossing my fingers.
“We’re going through the CCTV footage now.”
I chewed on the information. “Phone calls? I need them.”
“Who am I, Houdini?”
“You guys can do anything. That’s why I asked.”
“We’re working on it. So far, we know she got a call a little after midnight on her home phone from an untraceable number, probably made from one of those throwaway cell phones.”
“Hey, Tig, this is Denny. You working on this personally?”
After speaking with Tig, I punched in Jane Templeton’s number with one hand while Denny and I hugged each other and Mr. Baggins walked in between our legs. I told her that the FBI found Whiskey Parnell’s phone near a charred body.
Even over the ether, I could hear Jane’s mouth sucking in air. Before she could reply, I asked her if she’d sent someone to interview Star Newcomb.
“What does he have to do with anything?”
I reminded her that he’d seen Whiskey with a man who held her at gunpoint outside the Sovereign Bank’s ATM.
“Use your head. How can this Star Newcomb guy be sure he’d seen Whiskey Parnell? He’s an artist, right? They can’t be trusted in the first place, and in the second place, by his own admission he was half in the bag when he supposedly saw Whiskey Parnell. Think about it, he’d lost his way home. And you believed him? Worse, I’m supposed to believe you? This guy was sure he’d seen a woman answering Whiskey’s description being forced at gunpoint to withdraw funds? Pretty weak, I’d say …”
I held my cell out so Denny could listen while she blah-blah-blahhed.
“… It’ll never hold up in court, and listen, this woman, Whiskey Parnell, has been missing a hell of a long time and we have no leads, no nothing. Something tells me she’d had enough of her life and left, or else she’s gotten in with the wrong crowd and they took care of her.”
My heart began to race. “FBI confirms she took out money about the time Star Newcomb says he saw her near the Sovereign Bank.”
That shut her up. There was white noise on the other end, and I looked at my phone, not trusting it although by now it was halfway charged according to the battery icon. “You were going to say?” I asked.
No sound for a second until she said. “I suppose Tig’s going through the CCTV?”
“Yup.” I couldn’t help myself, I was gloating. I looked over at Denny, who was shaking his head.
“Still, we’ve got next to nothing. I’ve got my team looking all over Brighton Beach and Coney Island for this jerk Arthur. And as for the charred body, we need proper identification before we notify next of kin. It could be anyone.”
“What about Maddie?”
“Her child?” Jane was thinking. I could tell Maddie had done a number on her. “I’ve called ACS, but it’s premature, isn’t it? I mean, we don’t know it’s Whiskey they’ve found.”
“You’ve met her kid?”
“You bet I have, and believe me, believe me, it’s way too early to give her news like that. We just don’t know if it’s her mom.”
I called Lorraine and told her everything—what Star Newcomb saw, the news from the FBI, including the body found near Bensonhurst and the what and where of Whiskey’s bank debits. Without being there, I could tell Lorraine’s hand was over her heart.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she whispered.
“Denny and I are on our way over. Should we say anything to Maddie?”
I could hear Lor
raine breathing, but she didn’t hesitate. “We can’t withhold from her; it would be a violation of her rights. And anyway, she’s too bright, she’ll know something’s wrong. I won’t say anything until you’re here, but hurry up.”
Denny and I piled into his jeep. On the way over I called Trisha Liam and told her the news. There was a big blank space on the network for a few seconds, but her lawyerly mind was a steel trap and soon snapped into gear. She dismissed the implications of finding Whiskey’s phone near the charred remains. “Until the body’s identified as hers, Whiskey Parnell is missing, nothing more. She could walk through the door any minute.”
I made no reply.
She thanked me again for involving Brandy. “I drove those kids around Cobble Hill, but Brandy’s the one who spotted Malcolm the painter’s van. She knows she’s going to save Whiskey. I don’t want to let her down.”
I thought about how much Trisha Liam had changed in the last three or four months. She’d gone from barely acknowledging her daughter to building a nurturing relationship, and now in the face of devastating news about Whiskey, Trisha Liam was talking about her sweet Brandy and how brilliant she is and how she has the day off tomorrow, something about a teacher’s conference.
I hung up as Denny slowed for traffic on Court Street, shifting gears and wondering out loud what his mom had made for dinner, hoping there’d be leftovers, saying he hadn’t eaten much since stopping to see Clancy to kill time while we were fighting. That gave me an idea, so I called Cookie. After I told her Tig’s news, there was silence on her end.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” I asked, the wheels of my mind going in a direction I wasn’t sure I liked. But Arthur wasn’t sitting right in my head, and the more I thought about him, the spookier he made me feel. I told Cookie I needed her to help me canvass the area around Neptune Avenue, maybe do some schlepping around Coney Island, asking some of the workers if they knew Whiskey’s thug. I was certain he was the key to finding her.
Whiskey’s Gone (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 3) Page 17
