Whiskey’s Gone (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 3) (2 page)

Below her likeness were the usual pieces of information, an employee number—not that they needed numbers in an office this small—a signature, a date, and an emergency contact. There were a few other official-looking forms. One had Whiskey’s name and an address on Ocean View Avenue. My geography was off a tad—pretty rotten, actually—but I looked it up on my phone. It was way the hell out on the tip of Brooklyn in Brighton Beach. Before I did anything else, I copied her information into my contacts, scanning her photo into my phone with a fancy app I’d downloaded in the wee hours one morning when Mr. Baggins had pawed me awake.

As if anticipating my question, Trisha Liam said, “Our human resource files are kept online now. These folders hold the bare bones—copies of government forms new hires signed on their first day. We’re obliged to keep them.”

One of the papers would contain her social security number, I knew, and I might need it, but not right now, so I resisted looking at it, but only for a moment. You might say I am conflicted about privacy issues. All right, I riffled through the papers, and what do you know, I found her social and copied it down, not that I was going to use it right away. I hunched into myself. Our right to privacy is one of my favorite subjects to jaw about, yet I’ve been known to trample on it whenever I think it’s necessary.

As for the quality of the information in the folder, I was looking at old stuff, a fleeting moment in Whiskey Parnell’s life, probably from the day she started at Liam, Trueblood & Wolsey. I tried to pick out what remained of the real Whiskey—her soul on paper. I stared at her signature. It was neat, small, in a slight right-hand slant, each letter formed to perfection, all the Os closed, an honest, careful woman, a straight-ahead sort of person. I wondered why she’d no-show at a place where she was respected, needed.

“She commutes each day from Brighton Beach?” I asked. “That’s a forty-five-minute ride one way, if she’s lucky.”

Trisha Liam punched a few keys. She had a top-of-the-line laptop attached to one of those humungous Apple monitors and was busy looking at both screens. While she peered at Whiskey’s digital files, I waited. The lawyer was doing a passable job poking at her computer, but I could tell she was no techie.

“Whiskey aced all her tests. She’s a whizz, you know. Types over 140 wpm; even knows the old-fashioned shorthand.” The lawyer peered at her screens for a minute before nodding her head my way. “Some of the information in that file I gave you is old—her phone numbers, for instance, and her address.”

Swell.

She turned back to her screen. “Says here she lives on Baltic Street. That’s Cobble Hill, but I know she lives in Carroll Gardens now and has a little girl. I know that much about her. Moved there a few months ago. The child’s name is Maddie, I think.” She seemed proud of herself and squinted some more while I copied down her old Baltic Street address. “I have her phone number in my contacts, I must have, but apparently they’re not in her file. And we haven’t updated her personal information with her new address; we just note ‘Moved to Carroll Gardens.’”

“Minor points.”

“Whiskey’s moved a couple of times since we hired her.”

“Of course you called her house?”

She gave me a withering look. “And her cell phone, too. And, yes, I’ve left messages.”

“I’d like to have a look around. This is a huge building. Perhaps there are clues in other rooms. Or perhaps she—”

“Waste of time. We’ve already searched everywhere, even though she never goes up to the third floor. Never. But on the off chance she was in one of the conference rooms having breakfast or making a private call, we took a look. I tell you, she didn’t show up for work.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Yesterday evening.”

I shrugged, watching a line of color flood her face.

“You think this is premature, don’t you?”

I said nothing.

Trisha Liam’s hand grazed her forehead. “But I’m telling you, it’s not like her not to show up for work. And my gut tells me she’s in trouble. I hope I didn’t jump the gun by hiring you to investigate, but I don’t think I’m wrong.”

“When you saw her yesterday evening, did she seem normal?”

She frowned as if not understanding why I’d have questions.

“Did she say anything at all, like maybe her child was coming down with a cold or acting funny? Maybe the girl’s really sick and Whiskey’s at the hospital and, in her single-minded fear, forgot to call in?”

Trisha Liam frowned. “You don’t understand. Whiskey would have called if she couldn’t be here. Or she’d have asked someone else to call for her. This job is her life. She’d never just not show up. I know something’s wrong.”

Whiskey Parnell’s emergency contact, I noticed, was a Thomas Marsh. “Brother” was written on the line beside his name. He’d have her current address, and if not … If not, I’d use her social and find out all sorts of stuff about her—I’d learned the art of the snoop while an intern at Brown’s Detective Agency—but that would be my last resort.

While I dialed Mr. Marsh’s phone number, Trisha Liam pushed a check across the desk. “If she walks through that door this evening, you can keep the money.”

I stared at the bank note, a retainer and then some. When I thought of me and Mom and Gran during those last two years of Mom’s life and how we struggled, especially that last year, my head started hammering. But I tried for mental plastic surgery and stuffed the check into my wallet while I waited for my call to be answered. Lucy’s could use a paint job.

I switched my mind back to my cell when I heard a bored voice on the other end, answering not with a chipper hello but with the name of the company where, presumably, Thomas Marsh worked. It sounded like another law firm to me. I asked for Mr. Marsh and was told he’d be in later that afternoon.

I told her a legal emergency had arisen with one of the cases he was trying to settle, and it was urgent he call me. That ought to fix her.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Trisha Liam said as I clicked off.

So I had to reassure her that everything was fine and reminded her I needed Whiskey’s current address and phone numbers.

She had begun clicking through screens again when a snaggletoothed presence shadowed over the desk.

The Polar Bear

Leaning over the desk was a polar bear of a man wearing a flashy yellow vest underneath his navy-blue suit coat. When Trisha Liam introduced him as Seymour Wolsey, one of the partners, he grabbed my hand, holding it as if it were a piece of raw meat. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a bulbous nose and an overbite. I could imagine a jury being mesmerized by him, or at least overpowered by his ambience. I smelled a faint undercurrent of body odor doused with Old Spice.

“What is it now?” Trisha Liam asked, squinting up into his face.

“Where’s Whiskey? She promised my brief would be ready this morning. Hasn’t been here all day, and I’ve got to get my work done.”

“She’s not our only paralegal, you know.” Trisha Liam interrupted herself long enough to give me an overview of the office workflow, telling me the paralegals were assigned various tasks, including typing and filing. “Our job descriptions here are fluid—everyone knows that when they sign on.” She turned back to Seymour Wolsey. “She may have finished it yesterday and filed it. Did you look?”

He heaved himself into a chair. “I barely know how to turn on a computer, you know that. I hate the damn things. I long for the days of paper and filing cabinets, workers who stepped and fetched, women who lovingly brought me coffee. Besides, it’s not my job to find paper. Whiskey’s always done my work and printed a copy for me, had it sitting on my desk as expected. Never failed, until now.”

Liam’s hair resembled an electrical halo, but her face remained inscrutable. “Well, I’ll have someone look.” She paused. “I’ve hired a private investigator,” she said, gesturing my way. “She’s here because I’m worried about Whiskey.”

“It’s only two o’clock. She may still show.”

I stared at this Seymour Wolsey guy, trying to figure him out. One thing I knew already: I didn’t trust him.

Trisha Liam continued. “Our personnel files are in terrible shape.”

He shook his mane. “No such thing. They’re called Human Resource data—initial caps.”

“You know what I mean. If you have any information, like Whiskey’s whereabouts or her street address or the name of her daughter and what school she attends, give it to me now. Otherwise, stop being such a whiny brat and find your own damn brief.”

Wolsey studied me with his roving eyes. I could see I was not his type, thank you God, but he graced me with a toothy grin. A charming defense attorney, no doubt about it. It crossed my mind that the two of them, Liam and Wolsey, were putting on a show for my benefit. My phone began vibrating, but I let the call go to voice mail—their relationship needed my full attention.

“Let’s see. Best I can recall, she lives on Third Place near Court Street.” Wolsey pulled his chair closer to the desk, pressed his fat hands into the glass top, and hunched toward Trisha Liam.

She arched a brow.

My mind focused on geography. Third Place was where Denny’s parents lived. As the two lawyers stared at each other, I punched in Lorraine McDuffy’s number. You’ll meet her soon and can decide for yourself, but Lorraine knows everyone and everything about Carroll Gardens. She was a paralegal back in the day and now works for me, helping me out with background detail, all the legal stuff I hate.

“You can do better than that, Seymour,” Trisha Liam said.

“Downtown side, third house from the corner, large front lawn, live-in landlord. Whiskey’s got the fourth floor, high ceilings, bay window, one bedroom with a view of Manhattan if you crane your neck. Makes a mean chicken pot pie. Got one daughter, Maddie, about eight or nine, I’d judge. She goes to PS something or other on Henry Street, I think. Why wouldn’t she? It’s the closest school. Cute little thing. Smart, too. Only trouble is, mother and daughter share the same bedroom.”

While the two partners glared at each other, I flashed through the scant pictures of Third Place in my head, trying to count houses from the corner, wondering if the McDuffys lived close to the missing office manager’s apartment. My phone was vibrating for the umpteenth time, but I’m good at ignoring it.

“Where the hell did all that information come from?” Trisha Liam closed her mouth and waited for a reply.

Seymour Wolsey beamed.

“Never mind, I don’t want to know.”

But I did. This Seymour Wolsey guy gave me the creeps. While I scribbled down Whiskey’s phone numbers, I made a mental note to question him if Whiskey Parnell didn’t turn up soon. Then I tried her cell, which went straight to voice mail, left a message on her house phone, and stood up. “I’ll return, and when I do, I might have more questions. I’ll want to talk with your staff.” I looked at the polar bear. “And that includes the partners.”

Seymour Wolsey

Seymour Wolsey’s Monologue

What a misery Liam’s become. One crisis after another. Makes my stomach twist. Wouldn’t dream of bedding the old hag, but in our own way, we’ve gotten close over the years.

God knows I cemented our relationship when that kid of hers got into trouble. I swooped up Liam’s caseload like that; made her think she was still working when in fact she wasn’t. And, yes, I secured my future, at least for the middle distance. Because although we’re partners, there’s no such thing as equality. No such thing as second-guessing Liam’s mind. She could turn on me like that. Seen it happen. Not that I’m expecting it, no. Still, deep down, she’s not fond of me. Some days I feel her venom on the back of my neck when I walk in the door, as if she knows my secret. Creeping Christ, I dare not entertain that thought. If she knew too much about me, I’d be out of here like the rabbit running down the hole.

Once when I’d had a snootful, I made the mistake of telling her I was christened Thomas Wolsey after some fat cardinal who lived when kings really ruled, but I changed it to Seymour because I do. Hitched up that half-smile of hers and said, “Really?” Some days she’d like nothing better than to throw me out of here. And yet she knows that without me, there’s no Liam, Trueblood & Wolsey.

So why should I worry? I’m a damn good lawyer. Damn good. Liam couldn’t have built the firm without me. I’m the one who landed the first malpractice suit. Went to trial. I won, of course. They kept coming after that. So, yes, she’s my partner, although she thinks it’s the other way around.

You should know something fundamental about me. I hunt down the exciting angle. In life, in love, in court. Creeping Christ, it makes me tick. And if there’s no angle, I create it. Screw the law—it’s a boring old lady. Puts the jury to sleep. Yes, I got to know all the ins and outs, the ands and buts, all of that. But in the end, I build my case around angle. That’s what wins for me.

So when Whiskey came through the door, I saw an exciting angle. There she was, standing before me, tattered around the edges, a true babe of Brooklyn, but I could see, given a few strokes, how she’d become arresting. It wasn’t her name, if that’s what you’re thinking. It was her unflappable gaze. Her presence. That was it. That and her great gams and redoubtable tits.

Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t smitten with Whiskey. Never have been. No, life for me is all about work. Liam knows it, too. The brains of the house, she called me once.

I will say one thing about the old lady, she’s an organizer. Got a crack brain. And she’s got resolve, Liam has, and she knows enough to consult me when it comes to the major decisions. New hires, the rise and fall of resources—she and I confer. Forget Trueblood—his name should be Bloodless. It was no wonder that I agreed with Liam’s choice to hire Whiskey Parnell.

“That’s not your real name, is it?” I asked Whiskey on her first day. Not that I wanted to know all that much about her. Christ, too much knowledge about a person is a weakness. Still, she could pound the bejesus out of the keys. Took dictation like she was a magician pulling words out of a hat. Her fingers whirred so fast over the page they cast a spell over me, I’ll tell you that. Wasn’t looking for it, no, not at all. And I don’t mind saying it, the office seems empty without her.