Whiskey’s Gone (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 3) (12 page)

I summarized our visit to Whiskey’s apartment, Arthur’s visit, meeting Maddie, and Tommy Marsh. Then I gave her the scant information I’d uncovered so far from studying the contents of Whiskey’s purse. I withheld nothing—except for my off-the-record call to Tig Able. I even gave her Whiskey’s computer password, her social security number, the image of her I’d scanned, and her prior address in Cobble Hill. I finished with, “I need Arthur’s last name and address. He’s our prime suspect. Think you can get it for me?”

Jane said nothing. She spun around and was about to leave when I asked her not to disturb the McDuffys this evening, explaining they had their hands full with Maddie. Still Jane made no reply, as with head down and feet splayed, she marched out of the conference room, a loose cannon passing the videographer and all the CSU techs now taping the scene and crowding us out.

Jane and Willoughby

“So what do you think?” Jane asked. She pounded the steering wheel and told herself to “simmer down,” one of her father’s favorite expressions. She could see him now, beak of a nose, hands on hips, the hair underneath his arms disgusting, standing underneath the kitchen light and glaring down at her while she worried about the dome of his head clearing the chandelier.

She and Willoughby were on Adams heading for the precinct, working their way through bridge traffic. Painful when she had so much paperwork. She wanted to go through downtown Brooklyn, but oh no, Willoughby had to have his food fix, so once again they’d stopped on Tillary Street so he could stoke up on hot dogs. Making himself comfortable in the passenger seat, he held a bun in each hand. She thought of all the reports they’d have to file. The picture of raccoon girl flashed across her brain, but she made herself focus on the traffic. Why hadn’t Fina Fitzgibbons phoned her sooner about that Liam woman’s office manager?

“How long has she been missing?” Willoughby asked, chomping on his dog.

The man was uncanny. Now he even knew what she was thinking. She supposed he was going to start in with her again about working with the locals. No question, Willoughby had a soft spot for Fina Fitzgibbons. And with that lawyer lady having the chief’s ear, Jane knew she had to watch her step. Well, she’d do her best. After all, Fina meant well, a little young, but she’d been through a lot, what with her father disappearing and her mother dying. But haven’t we all? Come to think about it, not only was the PI well respected in the community, but she was Denny McDuffy’s fiancée. The man was bonkers for her. Although … maybe Fina’s halo was tarnishing in his eyes. It surprised Jane that Denny had called to tell her about the missing office manager. She adjusted her seat belt and cleared her head, telling herself, focus, focus, focus.

She shot Willoughby a sideways look. “Doesn’t Sally feed you?”

He looked straight ahead, his cheeks working like a chipmunk’s. “Poorly worded question.”

Willoughby still had that chip. She didn’t blame him. He’d been passed over twice for promotion and here she was, one of NYPD’s few female detective first grades. He brushed crumbs from the seat and smirked, then must have thought better of it when his hand came up smeared with a mix of mustard, cooked onions, and catsup.

“God bless America,” he muttered. “The guy squeezed too much red stuff on my dog and I got it all over the seat.”

“Just be grateful you’re not sitting in my Z.”

He stuck out his chin. “What would you do about it if we were?”

Jane kept her mouth shut and drove. Her knuckles were white from gripping the wheel. Willoughby was still bruised, she could tell, and she wasn’t going to pick a fight with him, although what Sally saw in him she couldn’t understand. She dug her fingernails into her palms and tried to think of his good points. For one thing, he was always ready to help. For another, he was on her side. Just the other day she’d overheard him defending her promotion to a bunch of patrol officers hanging outside One Girl Cookies. And he was great with financial stuff, which helped out a lot on the last big case they’d solved. All right, they’d solved it, but not without Fitzgibbons. She’d been up to her eyeballs in that one, too. What a misery.

Jane eased up on the gas. Almost there. She had half a mind to hold up on the paperwork. She needed to meet with the team, get them involved in this disappearing female act. She’d get them all juiced up and wouldn’t you know the missing chick would appear, like, “What’s all the fuss about?” Still, they might have an idea or two. Which reminded her.

With one hand, Jane groped for her cell and punched in a number at the
Brooklyn Daily Eagle
. “You didn’t hear this from me, but thought you’d like to know. Liam, Trueblood & Wolsey reported their office manager missing today. Seems she didn’t show up for work this morning.” After considerable prodding from the journalist, Jane told her about Whiskey’s status, the eight-year-old daughter, their current and old addresses. “I suggest taking a walk on Baltic, maybe visit some of the local merchants on Court, the bookstore for instance, I forget the name. Just remember where you got this information—one good turn and all that.”

She wondered about this Whiskey Parnell person. After seeing the contents of her purse strewn all over a conference room, her gut told her the woman had met with foul play. Who knew why. Jane felt her toes tingle. There was something exhilarating about the start of an investigation. For all she knew, the woman would return this evening, chagrinned and a bit hungover. But maybe not. Maybe Jane ought to send some of the team on a neighborhood. And she’d better start playing nice with Fina Fitzgibbons. She punched in Fina’s number, but the call went directly to voice mail. In her sweetest-possible-chums-forever voice, she left a message telling Fina she had a few leads and could they meet for coffee.

She had to hand it to raccoon eyes, she was nothing if not quick on the draw, producing evidence and clues to impress even the most hardened of clients. Like Trisha Liam, for instance, a good friend of the chief’s. Come to that, the chief liked Fina, too. Jane could tell from his deferential manner when he met the investigator. She’d stood up to him, that’s why. And if it weren’t for Fina … Jane shuddered to think of what would have become of Brandy Liam.

It began to spritz. Just her luck, there must be a black cloud following her, because just a quarter mile ahead, the sun was glinting on the Brooklyn Bridge. Matter of fact it was bouncing off the Watchtower windows. On their car, the drops were getting bigger now, plonking down heavy on the top, falling all over them and a few surrounding vehicles—just enough schmutz to turn on the windshield wipers. Worn-out rubber squeaked across the glass. Other than the blades’ muffled slapping and the horns up ahead and some guy yelling his pants off, there was silence. Willoughby was on mute; she could feel him processing.

“Just kidding,” Willoughby said, swiping at his pants with a handkerchief. His ears were red, a good sign he was angry.

“Kidding about what?”

“Never mind, I made a snide remark. Sorry.”

Jane slid her eyes in his direction. He was smiling, but his eyes were sad. Lint all over his pants in the area of his parts. She chewed on her lip and looked straight ahead. In a minute her cell started vibrating. The team. They’d found particulars on the suspect.

“Name’s Arthur McGirdle. Can’t be too many of those in Brooklyn. Or Manhattan, for that matter.”

“So find him.”

Ten minutes later Jane and Willoughby were closer to the precinct but not by much when she took another call from her team.

“Suspect’s current address unknown.”

“You called to tell me that?”

“Got more. He lived on Neptune Avenue ten years ago. Worked Coney Island in the early 1990s.”

“Doing what?”

“Says here Shoot the Freak and the Wonder Wheel. Had a stint for a time with the fat lady.”

“There was a fat lady?”

“Guess so. Joined the army. Assigned to the 212th Fires Brigade at Fort Bliss in the late 1990s. In 2003 went AWOL with a friend. Still combing the court martial records on what the army claimed was desertion, but long story short, Arthur said it was the illness and sudden death of his mother. Somehow his punishment was reduced to a dishonorable discharge.”

This was an impressive bit of background, but she needed Arthur’s current address. Only one person she knew who could find it fast—Fina Fitzgibbons. She put in a call to the edgy investigator but hung up when her call went directly to voice mail. “Where is she when we need her?”

“When does Denny McDuffy return?” Willoughby asked.

“The guy calls me once and you think we’re in bed? Holy be-f’in’ J, how should I know?” She slammed on the brakes in front of the precinct, banged the door shut, and ran inside.

The Day I Met Arthur

Whiskey’s Diary

A Sunday in August

My first job after high school was nothing much, a gig in Coney Island selling hot dogs at Nathan’s Famous. Not the main stand, but one in the northwest corner of the park hidden away and known only to a few luckies, frequented mostly by employees. The lines were nonexistent. Most of the dogs were overcooked. They rode around on their silvery bars, sweating and shriveling. We sold them for half price. One of my friends who worked for the fat lady came every hour. “I want two dogs, hot and sizzling not shriveled. They’re for the lady, you know who.” She always paid full price.

While we talked, I saw a guy out of the corner of my eye. Kind of stringy, not bad looking, sparkly eyes, red hair sticking up like a brush. I didn’t give him a second thought.

So I kept up with the questions to my friend all the while sneaking looks at the guy, a lusty-looking dude if I ever did see one.

The next day Mr. Nothing came around again. This time his hair was slicked down so it was real dark red, but blue in spots where it caught the light off the ocean. He bought two dogs and an egg cream. As he slurped, he looked at me with his sparklers and his smile.

“Care to take a ride?” He licked some mustard off the bun with a tongue full of purpose.

I looked straight at him and said, “My ma doesn’t allow me on dates.”

He smiled but said nothing, biting into his dog and chewing ever so slow.

I thought that would be the end of him, but he kept coming back. Finally I gave in when he told me he’d seen my ma working Brighton Beach Avenue underneath the el.

“You’re a liar. She’s not even Russian.”

He shrugged and told me his name was Arthur Victor. I didn’t believe him. Said he worked at Shoot the Freak and part time for the fat lady and did I want to accompany him on the Wonder Wheel or maybe even the Whip and did I know that Fatty Arbuckle rode the Whip.

From the giddyup, Arthur used big words.

“You talk funny,” I told him, but he stared at me like I was naked as a jaybird or something. My interest perked.

“I drive a bread truck and read in the back warmed by all the loaves.” He pointed to the Wonder Wheel. “Built in 1920 by the Electric Ferris Wheel company,” he said, chomping on his dog.

As if I cared.

“Give it a whirl.” He gulped his cream and wiped his hands on his pants. “My treat.”

His treat, all right. When we got to the top I looked down to see his fingers creeping up my skirt. I get the spooks every time I think of that first time. I was a goner. After that he was a regular at Nathan’s Famous, two dogs and a cream and a real good ride, don’t mind saying it.

When I got home that first day, Ma asked about my windblown hair and flaming cheeks and I shrugged. I told her I had a ride on the Wonder Wheel.

“So that’s what they call it,” she said and went back to polishing her nails and sipping her whiskey.

A Tuesday in August

Like a Snake

How the fat lady figured into Arthur’s life, I couldn’t tell you. Arthur had his outré moments, but I can’t fault him. He used to taunt me with the telling of his encounters with her. They were rough, I can tell you that much. Rough on my ears, and me, just a girl with delicate sensibilities. But I figured it was the effects of the war in wherever and Arthur’s part in it—or non-part, as it turned out. He couldn’t go, he told me. He and Berringer snuck away from base, more like it. Slinked off into the sunset, leaving a life that warps a man’s ability to be and to love with any kind of success. And the things that matter became displaced. Replaced. Scattered. Here today, gone tomorrow. Arthur took leave like a snake sheds its skin. Mostly he took leave in his head, where, come to think of it, all leaving takes place. I ought to know.

Every once in a while I remember the first time I laid eyes on Arthur—a blip on the horizon, a crumb in the crowd. That’s how my life has always changed, so slow you don’t notice it at first.

The Photo

As I made my way to my BMW, I saw Brandy and her group leaning against the stoop of her home, so I waved. When they saw me, they came over like a shot to the car. “The cops came with their flashing lights,” someone said. “And the tallest woman I’ve ever seen ran up the stairs.”

I nodded, smiling.

“We got his picture.”

At first I didn’t know who they meant, until Brandy held out her phone.

“The guy entering the bar? Is it Arthur?”

I looked at the image on Brandy’s screen. It was grainy, poorly exposed, a dim photo taken across the street from Cody’s, a local hangout. The door to the bar was open, and I could see part of the interior, people sitting around, the bartender’s apron, and the back of a man as he opened the door. The scene was partially obscured by passersby and the tops of cars, but the man entering Cody’s was short and had Arthur’s build. Brandy had captured a man with a muscled swagger. And the plaid flannel shirt he was wearing looked familiar. I pinched to enlarge the part of the image with the door and the man. The hair on the back of my neck rose: I’d recognize the fierceness in that back anywhere.

“You didn’t call or text me?” I asked.

Backpack shrugged. “We weren’t sure.”