Missing Brandy (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 2) (33 page)

Leave it to Lorraine.

The woman beamed. “He just graduated from Columbia.
Summa cum laude
.”

“You can tell he’s bright, just like his mother. You must be very proud. I know how I felt when my son …”

And they were off. I felt like a useless know-nothing snot, but at least I knew enough to stick with Lorraine, who by now had gracefully engaged the woman.

“We have an unusual request,” she began and showed the woman Cookie’s sketch of the runner, the man we were certain was Henry Gruber. “We think he may have some information about the abduction of a teenager.”

The woman closed her eyes. “You’re thinking of someone else. Henry Gruber was our good customer; at least, he was until a week or so ago when he turned in his keys.”

I knew it. “His keys?”

“He had a room upstairs. We’d never have rented to him if he hadn’t been a gentleman, and he paid a year in advance. He’s such a gentle person. Henry wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“How long was he here?”

“Almost five years. Gave me cash each January. But last week he said he wouldn’t need the room anymore. I told him I owed him money since he’d paid for the year, but he wouldn’t take it. That was …” She slid over to her computer and tapped a few keys. “That was last Wednesday. Fastidious man, about his person and the apartment.”

“Would you have his forwarding address? His phone number?”

She shook her head.

“Did he give you any reason for leaving?”

“Most people don’t. Most people who rent our studios move on eventually. We were lucky to have him for as long as we did.”

“Could we see the apartment?” I asked.

“There isn’t anything left to see. The room is spotless.”

I said nothing.

“Still, we’d like to see it,” Lorraine said. “You see, we need to talk to him. We’re low on options, and he may know something.” She held up the image of Brandy and told the woman what she knew about the girl’s family. “Her mother is beside herself. Tell me, do you believe in sixth sense?”

Have you ever known anyone like Lorraine? You peg them as useless, almost forget they’re in the room, but all of a sudden they surprise you with their wisdom and power.

“Of course, I understand.”

She led us up a narrow stairwell to the fourth floor. The carpeting was worn in spots, but the place was free of dust and well lit, although the air smelled faintly of boiled vegetables. On the third floor, music blared from behind one of the doors, and the landlady knocked on it and asked the tenant politely to turn it down.

“Henry never once complained about the noise. Sorry to see him go.” On the top landing, she unlocked the door, and we entered a garret with one window. I looked out onto the roofs of brownstones and just a sliver of Prospect Park.

The room smelled scrubbed. It was empty except for a chair, a floor lamp, a scratched wooden desk, and a single bed. I opened the closet and looked inside, peered in the nightstand, underneath the bed. I examined the walls, the floorboards, the mattress. Nothing but the inescapable sense of doom. The air held dampened desires, missed opportunities, a mind lost in its own labyrinth. For me, that barren studio was like a coiled snake under a rock. I looked at Lorraine and noticed goose bumps on her arms.

I pressed on the top of the desk, and it jiggled. “The legs are loose.” I brought out my flashlight, opened the middle drawer, and stuck my hand in. I felt around, found nothing. Something told me to check again, so I took out the drawer and moved my fingers along the rails. When I did, I felt something sharp wedged in the back and pulled it out, being careful not to rip it, a torn piece of paper with a printout. It was the corner of what looked like a deposit slip, wrinkled, faded, but I made out “… Chase Bank, N.A.” Underneath the words was the branch number.

Chapter 62

Henry. Evening Three, The Syringe

“What are you doing?”

“Listening.”

“And the syringe in your hand?”

“Go away.”

“She doesn’t have a clue who we are. Don’t you think I’d have done something about her if I thought she recognized us? Leave her alone, she’s a child.”

“Haven’t you ever killed a child?”

The color of the room flattened. “You’re mad!”

“You killed your boy. You left him unattended in that hospital. You left him to die. No wonder you lost the case. You were guilty of gross negligence. I know what it’s like to be left. It’s like a death. My parents left me. I wasn’t going to let that happen to another kid. I had to do something about it.”

The hallway began to shake, as if an earthquake had struck. Henry held onto the doorjamb as a dim awareness blossomed in his mind. It was minuscule, like one of Ben’s pinpricks, and he stomped on it before it became a monster that would eat him alive. It would cause him to make rash decisions, and now above all, so near to the end, he must remain calm. “I told you to go home. I’ll contact you when I’ve gotten the money. You’ll get your share. You’ll never have to work again.”

“I don’t care about the money.” Ben started pacing outside the girl’s door.

The hallway light flickered. Henry should change the bulb, but not when he was dizzy, and he was afraid to leave Ben alone in that state, so close to the girl.

Ben waved the needle in Henry’s face. “You’re too trusting. They’re after us, and that kid’s feeding them information. Right now, I can hear her talking to someone, can’t you? What’s the matter with you? Why is she so precious to you?”

“You’re crazy.”

“If you don’t believe me, listen.”

Ben motioned for him to come closer to the girl’s door.

Henry put his ear to the wood. He could hear her voice. “She’s talking to herself, that’s all. In a way, I don’t blame her, she’s scared.”

“Let me do something about her now. It’s just a matter of time when we’ll have to. This is the perfect opportunity. If we let her go, she’ll identify us. She’s seen us.”

Henry hesitated. True, she’d called him the runner. But he’d dismissed it with a slap. After that, her eyes had been wary, but she hadn’t called him the runner again. Why were her eyes so knowing—she was only thirteen. Would Stuart have been so precocious at her age? Would Stuart be alive if he hadn’t left? “They’ll never catch us. I have a plan, remember?” Henry’s hand scooped out the airplane ticket and waved it in front of Ben. “Your escape to freedom.”

“Shove the ticket. The girl knows. She can identify us.”

“Get away from that door.”

“I tell you, she knows about us. She’s told them, I can feel it. I saw an unmarked car driving slowly in front of the house. A couple of times. We’ve got to do something.”

Ben was making things up. Henry wished he’d never met him. “You’re mad. How could they know? They couldn’t. For the last ten years, I’ve done nothing but plan.”

“You don’t know the Feds. There’s no more privacy. I’ll bet your precious Swiss bank colludes with them as we speak.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. The Swiss understand privacy and its importance.” Henry pulled on his nose, considering. “Even if they were forced to divulge something, all they have is my address in Geneva. I’ve planned this, done nothing else for ten years, covered my tracks. Get away from her door. Put that needle away.”

But Ben wasn’t listening. There was a queerness about him, a jerking in his eyes, like a dog gone feral. He’d killed Phillipa, of that Henry was sure. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill the girl.

Outside, Henry heard the distant clop of horse’s hooves.

“Hear that? They’re coming for us.” Ben’s eyes were wild.

The syringe flew from his hand, and Henry grabbed it. Now was the perfect time. But he couldn’t do it. He’d never taken a life. The picture of Phillipa on the floor seared his brain.

“It’s the next-door neighbors on their ride,” Henry said. “They take their horses out each clear evening.”

“What if they find the van?” Ben asked.

Another one of his refrains. Henry was sick of him. He had the syringe in his hand, but he didn’t know how to use it. And Ben was stronger. His gun, Henry understood his Glock. He fingered the holster. That’s what he’d do, but he’d wait for the perfect opportunity. And the mess afterward? He’d have to develop a plan, but not now.

“They’ve found the van, haven’t they? Haven’t they?”

Not the van again. “They can’t find the van. It’s on its way to Odessa locked inside a container. Lost. No record.”

“The ship’s manifest?”

Henry shook his head. “Not on the manifest. And what if they find it? It’s untraceable. There are no VINs, I made sure of that.”

“So now you’re a mechanic?”

“I hired a good one.”

Ben seemed to think, but his eyes, those eyes of his, darted around the room.

“What ever happened to your plan to silence the woman detective?”

That question seemed to still Ben Small; at least he seemed to be thinking. Perhaps thinking was too strong a word for Ben. He’d have to plan carefully. He’d take care of Ben, but not in the heat of the moment. He’d take care of him with the airline ticket.

“I need to use the car.”

Henry barely heard Ben. He pictured Phillipa lying so still on the floor. He must erase her from his mind. He reached into his pocket and threw Ben the car keys. “Go for a ride. Calm yourself. Come back, and we’ll talk about your plan to silence the redhead.”

Chapter 63

Fina. Evening Three, The Meeting

It was close to ten. Lorraine, Jane, Willoughby, and I were sitting in our dining room. We weren’t exactly celebrating. Matter of fact, we were trying to wring water out of a stone.

Denny hadn’t come home yet. A picture of him and Zizi steaming up the windows someplace off the BQE flashed through my mind. I could see his Jeep rocking back and forth in that everlasting rhythm like waves hitting the shore. Some weird emotion did a rumble through my lower intestines.

I wasn’t a total loser when it came to being a hostess, especially with Lorraine helping me and Mr. Baggins doing his part by winding in and out of my legs. While I took drink orders, she cut a corner of cheddar into dainty slices, found crackers and chips in a cupboard, and arranged them neatly on wooden trays.

“What do we know about him?” Jane asked, helping herself to the cheese.

“We know his name is Henry Gruber,” I said, starting our brainstorming session. “We know he lived in Central New Jersey near the Delaware River, that he lived on Seventh Avenue in Park Slope close to the JackRabbit, and that he banks at a branch in Central New Jersey.” I said that last part in triumph, holding up the wedge of paper Lorraine and I had found in his room.

Unlike me, Lorraine wasn’t a gloater, and she wasn’t much of a talker either, especially in the beginning. And another thing I found out about her, she liked her new iPad. She must have worked that thing full blast for the past four hours, except for our Park Slope visit and the trip to Liam, Trueblood & Wolsey to read the full-blown Gruber vs. Hamilton Hospital.

Jane grabbed some chips, possibly to hide the red flushing into her cheeks. “His wife left him after his son died suddenly.”

“When was that?” Willoughby asked.

“According to his mother, Stuart Gruber died in August 1998.”

“The date was corroborated by the hospital,” Jane said.

“And mentioned several times in Gruber vs. Hamilton Hospital,” Lorraine added.

Willoughby chomped on chips and nodded. Mr. Baggins sat near his feet, waiting for crumbs to fall. “So we know Henry Gruber lost a case to Trisha Liam twelve years ago, and he’s been brooding ever since.”

“Correction, he’s been planning his revenge ever since,” Lorraine said.

“No wonder Susan Gruber left him.”

“Do we know that for sure?” Willoughby asked.

“You didn’t meet her,” Jane said. “I can’t see her having anything to do with kidnapping a minor.”

“She’s clean,” Lorraine said. “And the details of the Gruber case fit in with the ransom amount. He refused Hamilton Hospital’s settlement offer of $2.5 million. The case went to trial in June 2001.”

“Why did it take him so long to make a move?” Willoughby asked.

I wiped crumbs off my fingers. “First, it took him six months after his son’s death before he sued the hospital. I think that was because he found someone to help him act. I think that someone was Ben Small. I think if it weren’t for Ben Small, he never would have sued.”

“Conjecture,” Jane said. “This session should be about what we know.”

Leave it to the blonde detective to throw in a wrench. It stopped conversation for a time until I reminded her that this was supposed to be brainstorming.

“How did Henry Gruber find Ben Small?”

“Who knows, but they struck up a friendship.”

“For now let’s focus on Brandy Liam. What do we have to know before we do a rescue?” Jane asked.

“We have to know where they are.”

And that was the missing link.

“I’m sure the Feds are planning all their moves as we speak,” Willoughby said.

“But they’ve got to know where they’ve got her tied up. Even a moron can figure that out,” I said.

Jane, Lorraine, and I shared a look.

“And how are we going to find that out?”

Willoughby finished his beer. With his greasy palms, he wiped the table in front of him. Crumbs fell on the floor, and Mr. Baggins was at the ready. After tasting a few, however, he jumped into my lap.

We were silent for a while.

“What we need is a current address for Henry Gruber. That’s where Brandy is.”

“If she still is,” Willoughby said.

Death seemed to grip the room.

“Henry Gruber must have a cell phone account, a driver’s license.”

“Can’t find them. The Feds have been working with the Swiss. The bank gave them Henry’s name and address, but the address is in Geneva.”

“You don’t think he’s taken her there, do you?”

It was as if the room stopped. I looked at Willoughby and wondered why I hadn’t thought of that.

Jane called the special agent in charge of the case and left him a voicemail.

“Isn’t he supposed to call you and let you know every little detail?” I asked. “After all, you’re in charge.”