Glancing across the street, I said, “There’s a deli over there. It’s still open. Wait for me here.”
“So?” Cookie asked when I got back.
By now my toes were frozen, and I jumped up and down a few times before replying. “The guy behind the counter didn’t seem to get what I wanted, but he called the manager, who thought he recognized Huey from my description, someone he’d seen around the neighborhood. Told me Huey used to come into his deli for coffee.”
“When was the last time he saw him?”
“He couldn’t remember. It might have been two, three months ago or two, three years ago. The only thing he knew for certain was that it had been some time since he’d seen him.”
“What does Huey have to do with Whiskey Parnell’s disappearance?” Cookie asked.
Her question was a good one. It hung in the air, one of the many I couldn’t answer.
Clancy hunched his shoulders. Denny thrust his hands into his pockets. I felt the damp creep into my soul.
“Something’s not right about this Huey guy,” Denny said. “We’ve got to trust Fina.”
I could have kissed him for that remark. I couldn’t begin to prove it, but I knew Huey was somehow mixed up in everything—Mitch Liam’s death, the Berringers, Arthur, Whiskey, the works.
“I smell pizza,” Clancy said.
“You always smell pizza.”
“But it’s been so long since dinner.”
I persuaded Cookie to go with Clancy, thanking them both for their help. In the light from a streetlamp, I could see Cookie’s face relax. Besides, I told her, Trisha Liam’s receptionist would know the location of Huey’s business—I’d call her in the morning.
“I smell a rat,” I said to Denny as we drove toward home and Vinegar Hill.
“I smell smoke,” he said, “and I see flames in the distance. They’re near our house.”
My Sweet Beretta
In front of our house, I saw fire trucks, squads, smelled burning rubber, and felt my world screech to a halt. What was left of Mom’s Beretta sat smoldering in the street, tires gone, windows shattered, a stream of water playing over the ruin. I slammed two fists into my gut. Mom and all her possessions, everything she’d touched, annihilated. My fault, my fault, my most grievous fault. The familiar lump was in my throat again, my eyes stinging, my toes cold. As the blur lifted, I saw a group of onlookers close to the curb, fear in their expression.
“I smelled something rancid and saw flames, so I called the police,” a man said.
It seemed to take forever to get my feet to move. Photos flashed. Glass crunched beneath my feet. Water stung my eyes as I made my way over to a patrol car.
“This your vehicle?” an officer asked.
I nodded, clutching my sides. This car was the last of Mom, a place where her ghost hung out. I loved to be around it, to jump inside and close the door, breathe in her perfume. I’d start the engine, smile when it coughed, talk to it like she used to. I’d drive around the neighborhood, telling her about my day, listening to her laugh, feeling at peace. But now I felt my mother’s soul slipping away: the end of the Beretta was her final goodbye.
Denny held me, and I sobbed into his shoulder. He was the ground beneath my feet. I clung to him. I’d been such a fool.
As I began filling out forms and answering questions, I heard a voice.
“I’m so sorry, Fina.”
I looked up into the face of Jane Templeton, and it was all I could do to swallow my tears.
“Organized Crime Bureau’s involved. They’re sending a truck for what’s left of the vehicle.”
“It’s not a vehicle; it’s Mom’s Beretta.”
She studied her hands and nodded.
“The thugs who did this are the same animals who flattened my tires, the same creeps who killed Mitch Liam and Arthur and the Berringers, the same wiseguys who’ve taken Whiskey.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Who are they? I don’t want to hear vague throwaways, like Mafia or organized crime. I want names. Is one of them Huey so-called Smith?”
When her face looked like freshly painted plasterboard, I realized we hadn’t talked in a while, so I told her about Rhoda the receptionist and her Huey guy—admittedly Arthur’s acquaintance—and how we’d failed to locate the address on his business card. I also told her the FBI had identified the charred body.
At the news, Jane’s lips quivered for a second, but she covered up pretty good, as if she’d heard about Keegan Berringer eons ago. “Old news,” she said, gazing down at her feet and blushing. When she looked up at me, her face had that smooth, know-it-all look. “You’re making wild assumptions about Whiskey Parnell. It’s always been our problem.”
I did a double take. “Our problem?”
“Women’s problem. We lump everything together. These are separate cases—Arthur McGirdle’s death, Keegan Berringer’s death, Mitch Liam’s death, your car problem, Whiskey Parnell’s disappearance.”
“My car problem?” I could feel blood flooding my face.
“Well, not car problem, exactly. You rush into areas of deep criminal activity. I know you want everything tied up in a neat little package, but life isn’t like that. Whiskey Parnell’s …”
“Abduction?” I supplied the word Jane Templeton seemed to be unable to say.
“We’re not ready to call it an abduction, not yet.”
Any minute my head was going to explode, so I got as close to the blonde detective as I could. “And here’s another question for you: how do you explain finding Whiskey’s purse at Liam, Trueblood & Wolsey if Arthur and only Arthur was responsible for her abduction?” I used the word abduction deliberately.
She worried her lip. “Don’t know.”
“Tell me about the fingerprints found near the purse.”
“I’m not at liberty—”
“Don’t give me that. Whiskey’s gone, and I’m going to find her, with or without your help.”
“Arthur’s prints were found all over the purse along with others.”
“Finn Trueblood’s?” I asked, although why I did, I don’t know. Of course they’d find his fingerprints on the purse, along with a bunch of unknowns, clients and the like, possibly Trisha Liam’s prints.
Jane nodded. “His fingerprints figured prominently. But for all we know, Whiskey Parnell decided to disappear. Many adults do, you know. Maybe her child was getting to be too much to handle or she was too deep in debt or she felt her life passing her by, or whatever, and she decided to call it quits.”
I almost slapped her. I pictured Whiskey at the edge of a precipice reaching out for someone to save her. That someone was me, and if we found Whiskey and she wasn’t breathing, the responsibility for her death would be on my head.
Jane was going on, and I was only half-listening.
“Let me be clear. Her disappearance has nothing to do with Mitch Liam’s death or Arthur’s or the Berringers’ deaths or, for that matter, the trashing of your cars. That’s the work of organized crime. And if organized crime was involved in Whiskey Parnell’s disappearance, then how do you explain the CCTV footage with Arthur?”
Jane wasn’t making much sense, but I let her continue.
“What do we know beyond a shadow of a doubt?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but Jane cut me off.
“This is all we know for certain and don’t forget it: Whiskey Parnell went off with Arthur McGirdle, an old flame. She has a history of going off with men, doesn’t she? One-night stands and the like? That artist friend of hers, for instance.”
I said nothing for a couple of minutes, just stood there watching Jane’s face for any clues it might offer. I suppose if I let myself, I could consider Jane’s theory—that Whiskey’s disappearance was a deliberate vanishing act. But everything in me, everything I knew about Whiskey and this case, rejected it. I was on the brink of knowing what happened to Whiskey and how to get her back. As I stood there gazing up at Jane Templ
eton, I felt a weight crashing down on me; I felt myself receding.
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” she said, gently shaking my shoulders.
How could I ever begin to tell her what I knew? I couldn’t put it into words, but every fiber screamed at me: something happened to Whiskey and to Arthur after the Sovereign Bank withdrawal. I was on the brink of knowing what it was, but couldn’t quite grasp it. And I would never, ever believe that Whiskey Parnell would leave her child. Or her career—she enjoyed being a key player in Trisha Liam’s law firm too much. I said goodnight to Jane Templeton, leaning on Denny and watching them tow my poor, sweet Beretta away.
Pressing the End Button
It was late, but Trisha Liam deserved to know what was happening, so I called and told her what I knew about the latest events surrounding Whiskey’s disappearance. I emphasized the fact that they found Finn Trueblood’s prints all over the conference room and Whiskey’s purse. She scoffed at the information, saying of course they’d find his prints.
“The top floor is his. He brings his clients up there, has nothing to do with the rest of us, never uses office support. He’s in a world of his own, but he makes the lion’s share of the income. I don’t like him. He’s mean, exacting, but I need him.”
“And his clients?”
“Corporations for the most part. Large hospitals, Fortune Five Hundreds, the top institutions, I’d say. They’re the ones with the money, and Finn goes gaga for deep pockets. But he deals with the occasional small holding company, I think. Lately I’ve seen a few ne’er-do-wells heading for his office. I hadn’t really thought about it until now. I’d have to look at his files. He keeps them separate from the rest, locked in his desk.”
“Not electronically?”
“He won’t have anything to do with our filing system or the rest of the staff. Does it make any difference who his clients are?”
“His clients? You mean he doesn’t invoice using law office stationery?”
“You know what I mean. He’s a partner, an entrepreneur, same as Seymour and me. We can be very protective of our own clients, the competitive spirit and all that.”
There was white noise between us for a couple of seconds.
“I have an idea,” I said, thinking of Lucy’s and its great potential for a thorough snoop. I told her I couldn’t get past Whiskey’s purse being in the conference room.
“That bag again?” I heard her breathe in.
“It’s important, very important, and there’s something you’re not telling me.”
“Why would I hold back?”
“That’s it. You are, aren’t you? You’re holding back telling me something. Nothing substantial, not facts. Suspicions. You suspect Finn Trueblood, don’t you?”
I could almost hear her tremble. I thought of the question Gran kept asking and wondered which was a more compelling motive for murder, love or lucre. I was surprised when Trisha Liam hesitated for more than a minute, but in the end she agreed to my plan. I’d have Lucy’s do some heavy spring cleaning that evening, mainly in Finn Trueblood’s office. When Trisha Liam offered to help, I told her it wouldn’t be necessary.
“One more thing. I’m sorry about your mother’s Beretta.”
Trisha knew how to shake me, all right. Once again I felt a fist ramming my throat. I maybe made a choking noise.
While Trisha talked to cover her embarrassment or whatever it was she was feeling, I kept reminding myself that Brandy’s ordeal had changed the lawyer, she’d grown into a full-blown feeling adult whom I had come to like, even admire and try to emulate. And another thing: she must have friends in high places, like halfway to God if she already knew about my car. I let the moment linger long enough to give her time. Sure enough, she confessed to having conversed with Jane’s chief.
I told her about looking for Huey’s waste management plant and not finding it at the address on his business card. I asked for her help locating him. She said she’d talk to Rhoda in the morning, and I reminded her about her hotline, asking her to call her chief but she refused—too much like telling him how to run his business, she told me. Trying to uncork her resistance, I shared my skepticism about Smith being his last name. Was Huey the Berringer mentioned in Whiskey’s journals?
“You’ve stretched yourself like a taut rubber band trying to tie things up,” she said.
My feet were cold. “A woman’s life is at stake.” Still, I said with a lump in my throat, “Whiskey’s alive. I feel it, abducted, hidden in plain sight, where, I don’t know—I’m too blind to see it. She’s with the painter or with that Huey character, but close by someplace.”
I gave her time to digest my words. “I hope you’re right.”
“But if you’re implying that I’m pushing to reach the finish line, it’s far from over, and I’m not the one doing the reaching—the events themselves are beginning to coalesce. In the end, they always do. We have Mitch Liam’s death, Whiskey Parnell’s disappearance, Arthur McGirdle’s death, his wife’s disappearance, Keegan Berringer’s death, Huey’s bogus business, the BMW’s slashed tires, and the Beretta’s demise. They have one thing in common.”
Not for the first time I heard the lawyer’s mind whirring. Presently she asked, her voice flat. “What’s that?”
“Liam, Trueblood & Wolsey,” I said. That ought to give her something to ponder.
You see, I couldn’t help it. I kept seeing two images side by side—Mitch Liam’s head free-falling into the cottage cheese two years ago, the victim of a fatal prick of potassium chloride, stuck in the heart by a hit man himself now dead. In my mind, his body lay next to the contents of Whiskey’s bag, strewn around the top floor of Trisha Liam’s law office. The two images had to be related, the two events connected, but how? I was betting the missing link was locked inside Finn Trueblood’s desk.
I told her to meet me in ten minutes in front of her law firm right before I pressed the end button.
Hit List
On the way to Finn Trueblood’s office on the third floor, I heard scuttling noises. I don’t mind saying it, I was spooked.
Trisha Liam had insisted on going with me to see for herself what “cleaning Finn Trueblood’s office” would entail. Her fear was normal, I suppose, but something about the woman’s resolve also reminded me of her courage. After all, I was going to search through a partner’s desk, someone who wrote the bulk of the billing. What would happen to Liam, Trueblood & Wolsey if it was discovered there were Mafia ties?
Best case, there’d be a practice audit, Lorraine had explained to me when I’d called her earlier and posed the question, telling her I’d be ferreting through Finn Trueblood’s office drawers. “He’s a slippery one,” she’d said. She went on to tell me he was ill-regarded by the Brooklyn legal community. There were rumors of his mingling with the wrong sort of clients. “Business on the shady side, you might say.”
I didn’t share Lorraine’s remarks with Trisha Liam, but as we climbed the stairs to the third floor, I felt the lawyer trembling beside me.
I turned on my flashlight. As I fumbled with the key in the lock to Finn’s office, I thought of Mitch Liam and Whiskey Parnell and what they must have known. The image of Finn Trueblood’s purple eyes and slicked-back hair creeped me out. Other pictures flashed through my mind—Brighton Beach and Coney Island, Arthur’s elbow, his trashed apartment, the mysterious remains of Huey’s waste management, and Mom’s Beretta. I pictured the Wonder Wheel, dark and silent and cold, ready to spin once more on the southern tip of Brooklyn.
The sounds of furry creatures reminded me of Arthur’s apartment, where I’d last heard them. The skin on the back of my neck prickled. I shot a look at Trisha Liam, who held her breath on the edge of my vision, her flashlight shaking in her hand.
Shivering, I tried to focus and sat in Finn Trueblood’s chair for a while, just to get a feel for him. Trisha Liam sat in a chair opposite, wordless. I stared at the computer screen, waiting for the system to boot up, hoping
for a little luck, but we were unable to crack the password. Trisha assured me he was barely computer literate, making notes during meetings, she told me, laboriously typing his own cases on a Remington. What’s more, he didn’t own a smartphone. If I could find a physical scrap of something, anything, perhaps it would be enough to warrant an official search.
There was a sharp noise outside the office, and we both stood up, my heart in my mouth.
“What was that?” Trisha Liam whispered, hiking up her slacks.
We were frozen for what seemed like hours, waiting, but the sound was not repeated.
I opened each desk drawer, all of them unlocked, except for one. Unfortunately, Trisha Liam did not have the key.
The others were crammed with files. At first I found nothing of consequence. As I suspected, Finn Trueblood was Mr. Neat—no candy bar wrappers in this man’s life.
“Briefs,” Trisha Liam said, opening folders. “Case notes. Our top clients. I told you, there’s nothing here. Let’s go.”
I made no reply.
There was that major sound again, like a radiator knocking. “Heater?” I asked.
Trisha Liam shook her head. “Not turned on until mid-October. Hurry, we’ve got to go.”
“You said that.”
In the back of a bottom drawer, my fingers hit upon a large notebook crammed with names and phone numbers. There wasn’t a date on the front cover, no dates inside that I could see, but some of the pages looked brown, the ink faded. I judged the book to be pretty old. It probably contained the man’s thoughts taken over a career spanning twenty or thirty years.
As I thumbed through it, Trisha Liam held a shaky flashlight over the pages. They were filled with words, the script neat, legible, most of it random thoughts on cases. Skimming the book, I realized they were the private notes of a very secretive man and didn’t make much sense to me.
But toward the back of the book, I found what looked like a list. It ran down several pages. Each line held two capital letters, each entry written in different-colored inks, some in pencil, but all made by the same hand. Swell, it would take months to go through this thing.
Whiskey’s Gone (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 3) Page 23
