Whiskey’s Gone (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 3) (28 page)

Sure enough, it worked. I could hear her thinking. “He’s a surprise, isn’t he? But to answer your question, not much. Nice enough. Seems good for her. Oddly enough, ever since they’ve been dating, she’s been more focused on her work. She wants me to buy into his shredding company, but I won’t do it. I’ve got to keep paper trails.”

“What’s Huey’s last name?”

She didn’t have a clue. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“Because I don’t trust the guy.”

She put me on hold and was back in a couple of minutes. “Rhoda says his last name is Smith.”

“I don’t believe it,” I said.

I could tell by the long pause at the other end that frustration was sounding in my voice. And then I got my idea, which was why I think of the phone call as a lucky one. “Sounds like a good job for Brandy,” I said.

Then, for some reason I got totally honest with her, telling her I was scared, that I’d barked up the wrong tree with Arthur, that I was just plain stuck, I had no idea where to start looking for Whiskey. And to make matters worse, I seemed to have stirred up a hornet’s nest and gotten various factions of the Mafia angry with me.

“You’ll find your way or die trying to. That’s why I hired you.”

After I hung up with Trisha Liam, I ran through my notes while Cookie and Clancy cuddled and Denny helped Lorraine clear the table.

“Something strange about this guy Huey,” I said when Denny returned. “He asked me to find him leads but was reluctant to give me names of customers who’d recommend his company. Said it was confidential.”

“Maybe the guy’s paranoid,” Denny said, drying the sandwich platter.

I went into one of my moods. Next thing I knew, Denny was shaking my shoulder.

“She gets like this,” I heard Cookie say.

“It’s time to take a look around Dumbo,” I said.

Before we could make our way out the door, my phone started vibrating. It was Tig Able texting me, saying my hunch was correct—they’d identified the Gravesend body as Berringer’s middle son, Keegan.

“So how did Whiskey Parnell’s smartphone get near him?”

“We don’t know, but they found his prints on the phone.”

Waste Management

I shivered in the night air, and Denny checked his Glock before we piled into the Jeep. The lights of a waiting car flashed and backed into our spot as we drove away. On the street, two couples ambled toward Vinegar Hill House, their laughter warm and inviting.

“Here, take this flashlight, just in case,” Denny said, the four of us otherwise silent on the short ride to Dumbo. I heard cars rattling over the bridge high above us, a strong scent of coffee mingling with the smell of spices. So much was changing in the neighborhood; I loved that sometimes I didn’t recognize it.

“What are we doing, again?” Cookie asked.

“Paying Huey a visit,” I said.

Close to the old landing, we parked in front of a facade made of ancient bricks reinforced by arches and iron bars. It took up half the block. No street numbers, no windows or doors or roof. My stomach churned as I peered through the doorway into rubble and looked up at a moon covered in mist.

“Are you sure this is the place?” Clancy asked.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cookie snuggle into Clancy’s side. I pulled out my flashlight, double-checked the numbers on the surrounding buildings, and reread Huey’s card. This hulk had to be what was left of Huey’s business location.

My heart raced. “We’ve got to find him.”

Huey’s wall looked like it had been constructed around the time of the Civil War, probably as a stable or a jail for confederate soldiers, later converted into a warehouse. It told a haunted story from long ago when there were no bridges connecting Brooklyn to Manhattan, when Boss Tweed ran Tammany Hall and this area was a teeming waterfront.

We went in, kicking at stones, watching the shadows of rodents scuttle across the floor. Could Whiskey be inside? I held onto Denny’s hand, but the gnawing in my head wouldn’t stop: I’d let myself be duped.

Bundled newspapers stood in rows along the walls. Denny and I walked over and flashed the light, reading the date on the top newspaper. It was recent, printed less than four years ago.

“Get the big flashlight from your jeep,” I said.

Denny had a better idea. He suggested driving through the large opening in the middle of the wall and using the Jeep to beam light inside. In a while, I heard an engine idling and saw bluish steam rising from the Jeep’s headlights, some of the beams arcing off the walls and spilling around the interior. Denny turned on the brights, creating mean shadows.

“Spooky,” Cookie said, and put her arm around Clancy’s waist.

A stone lodged in my throat, but I was beginning to get a feel for this place, sure that Huey’s business had been here recently. Huey and others. While Denny followed us with his side beam, Clancy, Cookie and I inspected every square inch. We discovered a decomposing rat, pieces of rotting gunnysack, and wisps of shredded paper. Nothing more. From my jacket, I produced a baggie and picked up the found objects, except for the rat remains.

I leaned against the driver’s door and smiled up at Denny, suggesting we make a final inspection.

“So Huey’s business could have been here,” Denny said.

“Maybe Arthur’s warehouse, too,” I said, watching a tic pulse on one side of his face. “You were right. I’m glad we left the key for Jane to discover.” I gave him a peck on the cheek.

Denny got out of the Jeep, and together the four of us walked around the perimeter. If Huey moved his business, why didn’t he update his business card? At least he could have told me the address was wrong. I thought back to our meeting in Trisha Liam’s parlor—his shifting eyes, his sly grin, his acquaintance with Arthur. Why hadn’t I dug into him with my questions?

“He’s in waste management?” Clancy asked. “This is the perfect place for it, but maybe he had to move when the holding company jacked up the rent or decided to renovate.”

While Denny parked the Jeep, Clancy shone a light on a battered sign hanging on the outside wall. It read, “Berringer & Sons Holding, Space Available.” Underneath was an 800 number. Feeling my stomach do somersaults, I punched it into my cell and got one of those phony busy signals. When Denny returned, he stared at the sign and shot me a look. I smelled a cold mist rising from the East River.

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 Templeton, I felt a weight crashing down on me; I felt myself receding.