Missing Brandy (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 2) (34 page)

“Not in the case of a kidnapping.”

“But he would have told you if they’d found her in Switzerland?”

She nodded. “I want to make sure.”

“I have a feeling Henry Gruber’s in this country. I can’t tell you why, except for the way they’ve communicated with Trisha Liam, using Brite Messenger Service. And don’t forget the Central New Jersey phonemes on the voiceprint.”

“Or the forensics on the slipper.”

“You mean you hope she’s in this country.”

Jane took some more cheese. “I’m assuming that anything we get from Switzerland will help down the road, but not with the capture. They’ve contacted Chase. The address on file was the one in Ewing Township, and we know that’s not current. As soon as we have that, we move.”

“And the sooner the better,” I said. “Trisha Liam’s getting nervous.”

“So am I,” Jane said.

“What about Ben Small?”

“He’s disappeared down a black hole.”

“He’s wherever Henry Gruber is, the right-hand man.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

It was late. I heard Lorraine in the kitchen doing the dishes and talking on her cell. “I’ll drive you home,” I told her. I felt hollow. Brandy’s life was slipping through my fingers.

Chapter 64

Ben Small. Evening Three, The Drive

He should have gotten the bitch before this, but Mr. Careful hadn’t trusted him with the car keys, not until now. It was easy to trace her. She’d given Brite her card, not such a good move for someone who calls herself a PI. Stupid female, he’d show her. She was expendable, and Ben knew how. He’d relish getting this broad. Who knew, he might not kill her all at once. Make her suffer.

Screw Henry Gruber and all his planning. Where had it gotten them? He had to hand it to him, though. He never seemed to worry, never raised his voice except during the getaway. That was understandable. And he’d stood his ground. Yes, Ben had admired him for that.

Long ago when they’d first met, Ben had felt sorry for him with his son and the way he had to die. There were times Ben was about to tell Henry, but he just couldn’t do it. It was information he was saving for later. It would crush Henry to know his son’s death could have been avoided if he were the kind of parent he should have been. That was Henry, Henry the careful planner but only up to a point. Henry was flawed, and Ben was there to show him how and why. Henry would be in agony when Ben told him. You see, way back then, Ben had to do something about Stuart. A good boy, a perfect child. Ben watched him smile shyly, showed him how to work the TV in his room. He didn’t deserve the kind of parents he had. He had to put Stuart out of his misery.

The Grubers reminded him of his own parents, especially the woman. He hadn’t seen his own mother for years. Could be dead by now for all he knew, but when he glimpsed Henry’s wife in court, she’d seemed just like his mother. The kind that walk out the door without turning to look back.

Ben could see Henry’s face when he told him. He liked to imagine his face at the moment the news would hit, the slight shake of the head, the blinking of his eyes as he took it in. Maybe if he timed it right, Ben would save his own life. Henry would put down the gun he was aiming. It would crush him on the spot. Yes, Ben should save the telling for when he needed it. But now he needed to focus on the redhead.

He knocked on Henry’s door. He’d be careful, couldn’t give him too much juice before he got his share of the money. He needed Henry. “Sorry for disturbing you. I had a thought and wanted to run it by you.”

Henry looked up at him with his cow eyes. As Ben told him his plan, the bastard’s lips tightened into a scowl. “Give back the keys.”

Henry never knew what hit him. He’d sleep it off and be glad when he woke up and saw the redhead in chains sitting before him, no longer a threat.

The moon was almost full, and stars prickled the sky. Ben smelled late evening dew and hay and tried to remember how to start a car. He’d seen Henry do it often enough, but hadn’t really been paying attention. It couldn’t be too difficult. After a lurching start, he practiced driving the Audi up and down the driveway. It took him a while to get the hang of it, braking smoothly, coming to a stop, not gunning the motor.

Before too long he’d made it to the end of the block. He paused to get his bearings, lurching forward, turning into the mouth of a small road, slowing to avoid hitting a farmer on his tractor. All right, no need to diss the fucking farmer, he was doing okay. Maybe this speed wasn’t so bad—he needed time to find the light switch and turn off the wipers. Ben pressed on the brakes and almost hit the windshield.

Soon, however, his feet and hands remembered. Muscle memory, the old lady called it. Muscle memory, she should have had more of it. Oblivious through most of Ben’s childhood, his grandmother, who’d raised him after his mother left, forgot how to hold her pee, but knew enough to wait until five to guzzle from the bottle. Never drink before five, she’d say while she sat in her stink and watched the second hand on the kitchen clock.

Henry said gas was cheaper in New Jersey than it was in Brooklyn, and besides, they do the pumping. He found the gas gauge, but panicked when he read the display and thought the tank was almost empty. He pulled into the station. There were lots of them on the highway. He felt in his pocket and found a twenty and two tens.

“Twenty dollars’ worth.”

He hoped the attendant understood. His eyes flashed at Ben, and when he smiled, he saw the man had no teeth. Two minutes later he returned. “$4.75,” Ben thought he said, but couldn’t be sure. He stuck out the twenty, and the guy dug in his pocket. The guy’s fingernails were black with grime, and he gave him back a quarter, a ten, and a five.

Ben started the car. The gauge hadn’t moved. It must have been almost full all along.

“Which way to Brooklyn?”

The Sikh pointed straight ahead and smiled.

He thought he could smell the way. Even so, he made a few wrong turns and went through the tolls the old-fashioned way until he remembered Henry slowed through the E-Z-Pass lanes. Going through the Holland Tunnel, he panicked with all the choices. Henry had been right about the planning part—Ben should have been more careful—but he bumped along, and on the bridge, his tires made that hollow metallic sound, and he knew he was going the right way, especially when he recognized the exit.

The truth, he missed Henry. He felt bad about giving him the needle, but he had to do it. He’d be fine when he woke up. He’d wake up, he knew he would. Ben needed the money, but more than that, he needed freedom. He wasn’t going to get caught, no. That’s why he had to find the redhead, take care of her good. He’d bring her back to Henry, like a cat delivering its prey. When he had time to think about it, Henry would agree.

It was a good thing Henry found Ben that day on the train. He’d said so many times. Henry lacked cunning. Henry didn’t understand the real world. Give the redhead enough time, and she’d find them. She was like a dog with a bone. It was a matter of time, that was all.

Ben had big trouble locating her house. The address Brite gave him turned out to be the redhead’s office. So he double-parked and knocked on doors. He wasn’t about to give up. He could taste how much he wanted to get her. In the end, he found a neighbor walking a dog, and the guy made a few calls and showed Ben the way.

He parked down the block and walked in shadow until he stood across from her house and waited, watching for interior movement. He couldn’t see anything until he went around to the back. There was a dim light in an upper-story window and a shadow moving across the pane. Ben watched it disappear and reshape itself in the kitchen. It was the redhead. He could see the outline of ginger curls in the glow from the refrigerator.

He breathed in, breathed out, and tried to calm the pounding of his heart.

He waited, making sure she was alone in the house—some of Henry’s planning had rubbed off.

It wasn’t too hard to get inside through the back. He clicked the door shut and stood listening in the mudroom. Old house, everything creaked. The sudden whir of the refrigerator made him jump. He told himself to calm down. Heard footsteps overhead. Slowly he broke out two ampules, but he had a pocketful with him just to make sure. If she resisted, he’d have to overdose. He patted his coat pocket and walked up the few steps into a darkened hallway and stopped.

Chapter 65

Fina. Evening Three, Alone

It was after midnight. Denny still wasn’t home. This was getting serious. I’d tried his cell a bazillion times, no answer. Maybe he was too busy to answer, a sickening thought. I texted him. No reply.

After fixing myself a bowl of tutti-frutti, I clomped up to my study and turned on the computer, figuring I’d search for Henry’s business site, Gruber & Associates. I knew the Feds and the NYPD had been searching for it for some time, but I told myself I had secret sources.

I finished the ice cream, but couldn’t find anything on Henry Gruber’s company. I made a note to call Tig and see if anyone had found Henry Gruber’s current address. I didn’t think he’d have his own server, and the large hosting sites changed theirs all the time. Even if Gruber & Associates was no longer live on the Internet, there might be some server cache somewhere that would yield something. We weren’t searching hard enough.

I set my empty bowl aside and figured I’d work all the Internet skip sites to see if I could find a current address for Henry Gruber, but I was too jumpy to concentrate. I looked out at the moon, which my weather app told me was gibbous. I stared at the stars and the bridge, Manhattan’s lights in the distance.

Then I decided to clean out my inbox, something I do when I don’t want to think too hard. But the more I deleted, the angrier and jumpier I became until I heard a noise. It sounded like footsteps in the kitchen. I listened hard and chalked it up to the refrigerator kicking on. After all, I’d given the freezer a recent workout, so I walked to the front of the house and looked down at the street below, but couldn’t see Denny’s Jeep.

He should be home by now. Denny’s not the two-timing type, at least I didn’t think so. I wondered if something happened to him, like a flat tire or a breakdown. But, no, he would have called. I checked my phone for messages. Nada. I concentrated on his behavior during dinner last night with Zizi. Was there anything in Lorraine’s actions today, any hesitation, anything she was on the brink of telling me about Denny? I rejected the thought and concentrated on the street. There were a few parking places across from our house, a good sign. I felt better. He’d be home any minute.

I went back to deleting emails, but my hands were quicker than my brain, and by mistake, I nuked something from a friend. I knew I’d destroyed something important, so I began rooting through my virtual trash.

As I did so, I thought I heard movement in the hall and was relieved to see the outline of Mr. Baggins in the doorway. He flew at me and began scratching my legs and nipping at my socks. But I was still jumpy, maybe because Denny wasn’t home yet. By all rights, I should be angry. Instead, I was a little wistful.

I glanced at the desk and spied the additional smartphone Denny had given me for my birthday. It was sweet of him, but I’d never worn it. I turned it on and decided to try out the speed dial. No answer, so I texted him. No response. For some reason, this one time I decided to appease him, so I rolled up my sleeve and snapped on the armband, hoping to feel the phone vibrate any second with a reply.

I bent to my furry bruiser. “Not now, I’ve got to find this email before I lose it.” Wouldn’t you know it, Mr. Baggins continued scratching my legs, so I picked him up and held him, but he jumped from my arms and scurried under the desk, where I couldn’t see him. Strange actions for the Mr. Baggins I know. He’s not a timid kind of guy. He’s the butler. I heard footsteps outside my door.

“What’s wrong with you, Mr. B? It’s just Denny.” But then my sixth sense kicked in, a little too late. The door swung open, and I looked up. It was a man, all right, but it wasn’t Denny. Denny doesn’t chomp on toothpicks.

Chapter 66

Denny. Evening Three, At Home

Denny opened the front door. Something was wrong. He could feel it. He ran upstairs calling Fina’s name. No answer. No sound except for the pounding in his head. Why wasn’t she home? He ran back to the kitchen and looked around. Her ice cream bowl lay in the sink. She’d been here. He looked at the back door. There’d been a break-in while he’d been out with Zizi. Why? Because some bozo said he had to make Fina jealous, said she was too sure of him, said he was just part of the scenery. And that someone was his old man. What a jerk he’d been.

The phone rang. He picked up the receiver. “Fina?”

A falsetto answered. “Yes, lover boy!”

“Cut it out, Dad.”

“Have a good time, son?”

“I did Zizi a favor, that’s all. She’s not my type.” His hand squeezed the receiver like a pistol.

“A little jealousy is good for the snoop. That’s my new name for her. Clever, no?”

Denny switched the phone to his other ear. “Somebody broke in while I was gone, and Fina’s not here.”

Silence.

His father’s voice again, this time chastened. “Better call it in.”

“Doing that now,” Denny said and radioed the precinct. “Where could she be? You don’t think …”

“Don’t panic. Maybe your mother knows something. Lorraine!”

He heard hands grabbing the receiver.

“She dropped me off two hours ago. Said she was going home. She wanted to see if she could find Henry Gruber’s address by searching the Internet. She said something about old server information on the host, whatever that is. I need to speak with her myself because I’ve found something out about the trial.”

“Henry Gruber? Trial?”

“There’s a lot you don’t know.” Quickly she filled him in on what they’d discovered about the van owner’s husband, Henry Gruber, losing plaintiff in a wrongful death suit involving Trisha Liam’s old client. “I’ve left messages for Fina, but she hasn’t answered. And make sure you call Jane. We had a meeting at your house, but you wouldn’t know about that because you weren’t home. Just getting in now?”