Missing Brandy (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 2) (20 page)

“Just tell me one thing, what day is it? How long have I been here? I better look good in this video, or my mom isn’t going to like it.”

“Save your mouth for the camera. As soon as I count to three, start blabbing. Remember, you’re talking to your mother. Tell her you want to go home and you want to be with your friends. You miss them. You miss school, and you miss her most of all. Think you can do that?”

I nod, and tears start pouring out. I tell her how much I love her and miss her. I tell her she might think I’m making up all the gushy stuff, but I can’t help it—I want to go home. I guess I’m just a born actress. That’s what Granny Liam says. I wind up with,
“Please send the money, Mom, please. I want to go home.”

After the camera stops, I ask how I did and when can I leave.

“As soon as your mother pays in full. She paid us some of the money, but she hasn’t sent all of it, and that’s why we’ve made you into a movie star.”

“How come she didn’t send the whole thing?”

“Because we asked her for a lot. She has to make some deals to get it.”

Another voice growls. It’s the turd talking. I look in his direction. I can’t help it. I have to get one in.
“Who are you, the wicked witch of the west?”

The nice one laughs. The nasty one comes closer with his arm raised. Something’s in his hand. It flashes. The knife again. It looks like he’s going to hit me with it, so I duck, but the nice one tells him not to touch me.

“How long ago did you ask her for the money?”

“None of your business.”

That’s what grown-ups always say. Except for Dad. He never talked to me like that. He might not answer me at first, but I could tell it was a game he played. In the end he’d tell me, but he’d never get angry with me for asking, not like Mom does sometimes. But I don’t blame her; I’m a pest. And Granny Liam is the same as Dad only sneakier. She just pretends she doesn’t hear the question, but I can tell she’s faking it. I can tell when they all are.

I figure I’ll keep on talking to my inner voice, and Dad, of course. Dad taught me how. He also taught me how to twist and turn and do an about-face with my words. That’s what he called it.
Be nice and then be nasty and then be nice again—it’s a one-two punch,
he told me. Well, I can twist and turn and talk with the best of them. When I was a kid, the talking always gave me ten or fifteen minutes extra before lights out. I hope the runner will be nice enough to protect me from the mean guy.

It’s so boring sitting here. I think I might try twisting Mr. Nasty, so I say,
“Mom doesn’t like it when you ask her for money, and if you want to know the truth, she’s not too crazy about me either, not enough to cough up the big bucks. I don’t think she cares.”
Listen to me talking like I’m a baby. I put an extra pout into my voice on that one. Aunt Caroline taught me how.

“Well, she must like you an awful lot, because she made the initial installment within minutes after getting the note.”

That takes my words away. Matter of fact, I can hardly breathe. I want to cry. I want to hug her so bad and tell her all the things I said in the movie were for real, but I can’t cry, not now.
You have to be strong,
I can hear Dad telling me. He’s by my side.

“How much did she send?”

“Too many questions,”
the nice one says.

“Shut your trap, or I’ll blow your head off.”

Chapter 36

Fina. Afternoon Two, The Visit

A few hours later, I got a call from Jane. No surprises, they didn’t find prints on the note or on the bag. It was time to pay a visit to Brite Messenger Service, a storefront sporting the same logo I saw on the ransom note’s plastic wrap.

It was situated across the plaza from the county and federal court buildings where, I guessed, most of their business came from these days—those who still needed real, live signatures on legal documents and were willing to pay for rush delivery. Judging by all the bicycles parked outside, they did a brisk business. On closer inspection, however, I saw that most of them were rusted-out hulks.

I wedged my way inside. The air smelled of exhaust and WD-40 and the ghost of another era. I stood in line for five minutes, reading their list of prices while the clerk behind the counter dealt with two other customers. Something told me I wasn’t going to get much help from him.

“Yeah?”

I flashed my ID and told him I was trying to trace an envelope delivered today.

He looked at me as if I’d just hopped off Pluto, even though he was a sight himself with a patch on one eye and a red bandana on his head. He wore a leather vest over a striped tee shirt.

“Are you a pirate or just into Halloween?”

“Cute,” he said, in
fin de siècle
Brooklyn. “Name?”

After I gave him Trisha Liam’s particulars, he punched his keyboard, his eyes glued to the screen in front of him, clicked a little more. It took him a while before he gave up. “Doesn’t ring any bells. You sure it was us and not Court Street Messengers down the block?”

I shook my head. “It had your logo on a plastic bag.”

He leaned back and rapped on the door behind him.

“Whatta ya want?” a voice growled.

“You got a visitor,” Mr. Smee yelled, lifting the countertop and inviting me through the door. “Calls himself the owner. He might know something.”

Inside I smelled the unmistakable scent of weed. An older guy with black dreads streaked with white sat behind a mess of a desk. He wore a leather band around his forehead and sucked on a licorice stick.

I showed him my ID. “Someone sent my client a ransom note. It was delivered in a plastic bag, and your logo was on it.”

“If there’s no record in the computer, we didn’t deliver it. And believe you me, we enter every delivery—it’s the only way we get paid.” He flashed me a set of greenish teeth.

“Could someone have taken your supplies?”

“Happens, I guess.” He went to a cabinet in the corner. After shoving the contents around, he pulled out a wad of plastic bags with the Brite logo and held one up.

I told him it was a dead ringer for the one delivered to my client.

He shrugged. “Someone may have taken some of our supplies. Don’t keep a whole lot lying around. This is it. We don’t lock anything up. Why should we? Who’d want to steal them?”

“Who has access to your supplies?”

He helped himself to another licorice stick from a box on his desk. “Me, my help—I have three guys manning the counter—and the cleaners, of course. They come once a month.”

It looked like they came once a year. “And your messengers?”

“Freelance, of course. They come, they go, but they don’t have access to my office.”

“Can you shoot me a list with their names, addresses, numbers?”

He looked at me like I was speaking Swahili. “I keep a notebook. It’s here somewhere.” He fished around his desk, opened drawers, came up with a thick pad, papers sticking out, scribbling everywhere. My guess, he hadn’t yet heard of the cloud.

“Tell me something, how do you make a living?”

“We don’t. We’re closing down next month.”

I gave him my card and left, texting Jane.

When she called me back, I told her about my experience at Brite. “No security there, but who would lock up paper supplies?” I asked.

“Could be our kidnapper has more than one friend,” she said, “maybe someone who works at Brite.” She told me she’d send a couple of uniforms over there to question the owner.

“And find out which messenger delivered to Trisha Liam? We need boots on the ground finding out exactly who did what, questioning the manager and his help, including all his messengers.”

“Since when do you give me orders?”

I ignored her remark. “I don’t trust this outfit. Bet you the mortgage one of them picked up a nice tip for himself.”

Chapter 37

Afternoon Two, The Call

After the PI left his office, the Brite owner picked up his phone and dialed. “They’re on to you.” He listened for a minute before he continued. “Young woman, red hair. Left her card. Next thing I know, cops will be swarming around this place.” He listened again. “Your business, you gotta do what you gotta do. And by the way, where’s my money? I need it big time. Landlady’s digging her claws into my ass.”

Chapter 38

Henry. Afternoon Two, A Disturbance

The door opened, and Henry looked up from his desk. Just when he’d settled in. He wished he’d done something about Ben Small. He’d missed the perfect opportunity to get rid of him on the car float. Now the man was a liability. What would he be like when this was over? Could Henry get on with his life, or would Ben always be hanging around? He was Henry’s biggest mistake, but he took consolation in one thought. His plan was working—the lawyer was suffering. She’d suffer for the rest of her life. Her peace was over.

“They know about us,” Ben said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Someone saw me deliver the note.” Ben told him about the call from the messenger service and described the woman who’d been asking questions. “I’ve got to do something about the redhead, and you’ve got to do something about the girl. She’s driving me nuts.”

“Don’t do anything yet. Let me think.” He fingered the soft spot on the side of his head.

“Think, that’s all you ever do.”

Henry looked at him for a long moment, assessing the danger. Using Brite Messenger Service was Ben’s idea. He’d paid a tidy sum, and the man had been glad to get the money. Henry thought it was a good one at the time, no threats, no trace—a clean way to communicate. He hadn’t figured on complications, but now there was a woman investigator. She didn’t sound like too much of a threat. He thought for a moment.

“Never mind, I’ll take care of her. I know how to handle it.”

“Don’t touch that girl. Do I need to repeat it?” Henry reached inside his jacket and felt the outlines of the Glock. Something told him he’d need it soon.

“Not the girl, I’m talking about that pesky broad snooping around Brite.”

“What will you do?”

“I have my ways.”

Whatever was on Ben’s mind, it seemed to settle him. Gave him purpose. And Ben needed something to think about. Otherwise he’d pester Henry to death. Henry pulled on his nose. “Fine, but be sure you have a foolproof plan and a backup as well. If you need money, let me know.”

“That’s all you can think about—throw money at a problem and it’ll disappear? I have other ways.”

“You told me you’d never be seen. Now you say you were spotted. Your mistake, your problem, so you must think of a way to resolve it.”

“I know how. It’ll take four, five hours. I’ll need the car keys.”

“No car. I’ll drive you to the train. Better yet, you can walk to the station.” Henry regarded him. He couldn’t let him drive. Ben’s eyes were glassy. This new Ben was a jumped-up version of the old Ben, the calm, no-nonsense Ben, the reasonable Ben, the man who’d sat next to him on the train, who’d helped him with his memories of Stuart. He’d trusted that Ben. “Just do it. Don’t involve me.” Henry looked down at his hands. His nails needed trimming. “We’ve gotten the $500,000. Our plan is working so far. Don’t do anything to compromise it.”

Chapter 39

Fina. Afternoon Two, The Tape

I was walking on the Promenade, planning my next moves and watching the late afternoon sun winking in the harbor, when I ran into Jane and Willoughby. She suggested we “have coffee.” That was code for wanting to pump me about the case.

We’d just been served when my phone started to chime. It was Trisha Liam. I listened to what she had to say and told her I’d be right over. “Trisha Liam’s gotten a delivery. She hasn’t opened it. She’ll wait for me.”

“Another note?” Willoughby asked.

I shrugged. “Something small—her words. Said it was pushed through the mail slot in the door. She didn’t hear it drop, and Phillipa’s got the afternoon off, so she doesn’t know what time it was delivered. She doesn’t want to touch it.”

“Idiots!” Jane muttered. She stormed out of the restaurant, punching her phone’s keypad.

I started to follow her, but Willoughby caught my jacket. “Leave her,” he whispered.

As I watched from a few feet away, I thought I saw steam spewing from her ears.

“What happened to the surveillance on Trisha Liam’s house?” Jane was screaming into the speaker. “No, no, no, you morons, you were supposed to start this morning!”

Back in the booth, I sipped my coffee, confessing to not getting the kidnappers’ behavior. “If Trisha Liam gave them what they wanted ahead of the deadline, why did they send a video?”

“To make sure she deposits the rest of the money. Common practice,” Willoughby said.

I could see fear etched on Jane’s face. She shook her head. “They know about outside involvement.”

I had trouble catching my breath. “I should visit Trisha alone.” To my surprise, Jane agreed. After telling them I’d text an update as soon as I knew more, I made a beeline for Trisha’s townhouse.

The “something small” was an unmarked manila envelope. Holding it between two gloved fingers, I moved it from Trisha Liam’s hallway to the desk in her conservatory, where it seemed to glow with late afternoon light. Thinking of my lab-happy friends, I was careful not to rip it open. Instead, I slit one end with a razor I found in a desk drawer. The envelope contained a memory card and a folded, 8½ by 11 sheet of paper with double-spaced type. It looked the same as the ransom note. The text read:

$500,000 received. You have three business days to deposit the rest. Upon receipt, and at a time convenient to us, your daughter will be delivered to a spot near your doorstep. If you continue to involve law enforcement, we cannot vouch for her well-being.

A chill went through me. Jane’s team wasn’t doing such a great job with surveillance—the kidnappers were able to come and go and snoop and deliver as they pleased. My mind swilled to the housekeeper. “Is this Phillipa’s day off?” I asked.

Trisha, who was hunched over in a chair with her eyes shut, shook her head. “She asked for the afternoon off. Unwell. Brandy’s abduction has thrown her.”