Death and Disappearance (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 5) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page copy

  Summary copy

  copyright copy

  Foreward copy

  Dedication copy

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Characters & Places

  Death and Disappearance

  A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery

  by

  Susan Russo Anderson

  Summary:

  While Denny battles demons of his own and Cookie and Clancy disappear, a pregnant Fina Fitzgibbons investigates the death of her friend’s husband and in doing so lands in the middle of a group of art and drug traffickers.

  Copyright © 2016 Susan Russo Anderson

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Death and Disappearance is a work of fiction.

  Names, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination

  or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead

  is purely coincidental.

  Cover design: Avalon Graphics

  Proofreading: Pauline Nolet

  ISBN:

  Author’s Website

  susanrussoanderson.com

  Readers, I’d love to hear from you:

  [email protected]

  I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,

  And Mourners to and fro

  Kept treading—treading—till it seemed

  That Sense was breaking through—

  And when they all were seated,

  A Service, like a Drum—

  Kept beating—beating—till I thought

  My mind was going numb—

  And then I heard them lift a Box

  And creak across my Soul

  With those same Boots of Lead, again,

  Then Space—began to toll,

  As all the Heavens were a Bell,

  And Being, but an Ear,

  And I, and Silence, some strange Race,

  Wrecked, solitary, here—

  And then a Plank in Reason, broke,

  And I dropped down, and down—

  And hit a World, at every plunge,

  And Finished knowing—then—

  —Emily Dickinson, 1830–1886

  For Brenda and Ricky

  Prologue

  Stephen had been waiting over an hour. The guy would show up. He’d better—he needed the dough. He looked at his watch. Now his ass was frozen and a cop with a K-9 was walking toward him, so he scrambled to the clump of trees at the other end of the park and watched as the dog pricked up his ears and turned his head, his body still except for the panting. Smart bastard. Must be trained to find the hard stuff. Luckily he didn’t have a problem with it anymore, although many times he’d been tempted. Now he could take it or leave it, but, hey, what could you do with no coins? All the same, the dog might be able to sniff the residue on him. They said it stayed in your hair, on your clothes for months, but by now, it must be lodged in his soul. A loser, his old man had called him when he was in the hospital. And not just once, either. Day after day after day. Turns out the old man had been right: if there was a ladder in life, he was on the lowest rung.

  And here he was doing what he promised his wife he’d never do again. It hurt his head like hell to think of her. She’d told him he must be crazy, mixing with men like the Bastard Boss. That was what she’d called him after he’d looked at her paintings. Snubbed her, she’d said. They’d fought about it. Must be some mistake, Stephen told her. But later, after the making up—so sweet and tender he ached for it now—she’d caved and referred to him as that man. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all, she’d said. No matter, he’d promised her the last job had been it, the very last, and here he was again.

  When he first started working for him, the drive had been shorter, from the Upper East Side to a place in Chelsea; the load, fancy objects in wooden crates. He loved the smell of the straw, the new wood. He’d show his old man: he was moving up. Art objects, the dealer had called them, explaining some were originals from the Ming Dynasty, others were works on paper by some old guy—he’d forgotten the name, but Lake had heard of him. He thumbed through a portfolio the man had given him, but he couldn’t see the point. Old drawings of jockeys on horses. Sketches, Lake called them, worth a fortune, she’d said. Stuff like that. Expensive, he could tell. So he’d lovingly laid them in straw and hammered a top onto the wooden crate as instructed. The boss’s right-hand man watched him like a guard dog, always in his face. Afterward, he told Lake about the drive up to the country, winding on the Henry Hudson, just like the old days before his mother had disappeared when both his parents had driven him and he’d sat in the back on the worn vinyl seat, the top of their old car down, snow swirling around him as if it were summer.

  But vases and pictures were one thing; now he was sure drugs were in the crates—coke and heroin. No one had told him, they didn’t need to. He’d seen the bags; he’d seen the bricks. The first time there’d been just a few crates. He’d looked inside and, sure enough, no vases. He closed his eyes and still saw them. That first time he’d had trouble nailing the tops back on. They’d never miss one bag. And the thought of it was like a knife: he kept thinking about it, that and the farm. No, that was wrong: the farm had been a pleasant memory, the house standing on the edge of a country road. The ride back had been horrendous. He’d stopped a couple of times, even gone back there and pried open one of the crates and looked inside again. But the thought of Lake and what she’d do if he started in again had stopped him. Afterward he’d washed down the insides of the van with lye and drove around Brooklyn in the dead of winter with the windows down so Lake would never know, not that she rode around with him, but still. Knowing Lake, she’d find out. Beyond that, even if they didn’t tell him what he was carrying, he could be implicated.

  After each job he’d made a kil
ling. Lake had started talking about having kids. That was two months ago and the money was gone already—he didn’t know where. Now, as usual, he was desperate for dough, and the pay was fantastic—upper five figures for six hours—three out, a pickup in back of some fancy country gallery, a drop-off in the wilds of wherever, and four more hours back to Brooklyn. If he didn’t make payment tomorrow, at least come up with half of it, they’d lose the apartment. Well, maybe not that bad, but they’d go into default on the car, that was for sure. And Lake needed medicine; she hadn’t had any for over a week, and he hadn’t been able to come up with the money. Just this little gig, the very last one. Next week he’d get a real job and the nightmare would end. They were hiring at Al’s, he’d heard. He’d beg the guy. He knew he had a soft spot for him and regretted canning him. If they took him on again, they’d get no better mechanic and they knew it. As soon as he started working again, he’d make it up to her. He’d promised her. He could see her eyes in the dark now, eyes that begged and haunted. He sickened Lake, he knew. She tried to keep painting but was having a rough time of it—claimed she couldn’t get out of bed in the morning; room spinning, she’d said. He ran two fingers over his mouth and tried not to think of what would happen. He swore this would be the last time, but he was desperate for the quick buck. Why hadn’t the money guy shown up?

  At least he was good in the luck department—the cop and the sniffer were nowhere in sight. Walked right past him.

  That was when he felt it, like a poke at first.

  He turned.

  “What are you doing here?”

  No answer. Then he felt the sting grow hot, a horrible pain, and his world went silent.

  Jane Templeton

  An insistent buzzing woke me. Slowly I lifted my head from the pillow and stared at the vibrating piece of metal on my nightstand. My cell. Jane Templeton’s name flashed across the screen. Hadn’t she heard of sleeping in? I sat up too quickly and felt sick, then pressed the speaker.

  “Just a friendly wake-up call.” Her voice was so grating in the morning—come to that, anytime. Jane Templeton, NYPD Detective First Grade, my nemesis.

  “Right.”

  “Are you still in bed at this hour?”

  “Was.”

  “We’ve found a body in Brooklyn Bridge Park near the dog run. Not much blood. Killer knew how to handle a knife.”

  She needed help. Even I knew that, despite the time, or why would she be calling me? I glanced at the clock. After nine? I looked at the rumpled bed. Denny’s day off, so why wasn’t he still sleeping? I sniffed to see if food was in the air because my guy, when he wakes up, heads straight for the kitchen and works his magic with eggs, toast, bacon, the works. But I could smell nothing.

  I asked her why she was calling.

  “If you want the real truth, I’m doing your husband a favor. Denny said you hadn’t had a case in a while, and he thought it might be good for you to get out of the house, you know, sink your teeth into work for a change.”

  She continued. “I thought you might like to know about the homicide, seeing as how the victim was the husband of one of your friends.”

  I tried not to sound too excited. “And who would that be?”

  “Her name’s Lake Cojok.”

  It took me a while to register, so there was silence for a few beats. Jane gave me an address and an apartment number in Cobble Hill. Then I remembered. I blamed my sluggishness on distance—I hadn’t seen Lake in years, don’t ask me why. And Cojok must be her married name. What was her husband’s name? I’d think of it in a minute.

  “Right,” I said, swallowing. Slowly I rose from the bed, but pregnancy was not all it was cracked up to be, and I sat down again. “We went to school together, but I haven’t seen her in an age.”

  As a matter of fact, I hadn’t seen her since her wedding two weeks after graduation. In school, she was part of our inner circle before she started dating that awkward jerk. Slowly the ceremony came back to me, how Cookie was bummed not to have been chosen as a bridesmaid, the meager church attendance, the stale hors d’oeuvres served up in a small restaurant in Cobble Hill. Lake had thought they had to get married, Cookie told me later, but she’d lost the baby a few weeks after the wedding or it was a false alarm, something like that. Whatever, I’d taken an instant dislike to him. But Lake was in love. Now she was a widow. Widow? The word made her seem so other.

  Jane started in again. “Lake is the deceased’s next of kin.”

  As if I didn’t know. “His name?”

  “Stephen Cojok.”

  Of course. I ranged back over the years. When we were introduced, I’d called him Steve and he’d corrected me. Said he wanted to be called Stephen, never Steve—only his father called him Steve and for that reason, he’d hated the diminutive. Tall with unruly black hair, a sneer for a smile, caked jeans, dirt underneath his fingernails. That was how I pictured him, an outsider. But Cookie insisted he treated Lake like a princess. Last time I’d seen them, the two passed me by on Court Street, laughing, talking to one another, in their own world.

  Jane brought me back to the present. “We’ve done most of your work for you, like giving his wife the news.”

  Poor Lake. “Let me get this straight. You’re hiring the Fina Fitzgibbons Detective Agency to take over the case?”

  “Not hiring exactly. You owe me.”

  “And Stephen’s father?”

  An embarrassed silence from the other end. I had my work cut out for me. It was early and my mind riffled through recent events. I didn’t remember owing her anything. The reverse, actually, but according to Jane, I was forever in her debt, especially when it came to her catching me cutting legal corners. I wouldn’t argue with that one.

  “I’d like you to clear up a few odds and ends.”

  As in, find out who had done it, corner him, and call for an assist. “Seeing as how you know the victim’s name, you must have some form of identification. I’ll need to see it.”

  “I don’t under any circumstances permit an outsider to trample through evidence. Besides, the wallet’s locked up.”

  Perfect. “You want me to help?” In the end, she saw my point and confessed to having the goods in her office.

  “Keep me informed; call when you need me, that sort of thing. Getting back to your friend. At least that’s what she called you when we told her about her husband. Said she heard you ran a detective agency and she asked for you. Didn’t say much more; I don’t blame her.”

  Nor did I, but I held my tongue, wondering who would want to tell Jane Templeton anything.

  “We woke her up. She seemed not really with it, and the apartment was a mess.”

  “After you searched it, I suppose.”

  “You’re wrong there: we didn’t have a warrant, so we didn’t touch a thing.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I think she’s withholding.”

  Who wouldn’t be? But Lake would want to talk to me, a regular human being. I felt a surge of energy.

  “Say, what’s with you? Usually you’re halfway to the scene by now. I would have called Lorraine, but rumor has it these nights she’s not alone.”

  She was referring to Denny’s mom and my indispensable assistant, especially when it came to legal matters or anything else where half a brain was needed. “None of your business, and more power to the old girl.”

  “That’s not what Denny says.”

  “Denny’s deranged on the subject of his mother and her relationships. Still grieving for his father, I guess, but if you ask me …” I let my last sentence dangle, realizing I was getting too deep into family business. There was a long pause. I opened the window and sniffed the faint smell of ocean fish and seaweed. Ah, sweet Brooklyn. The branches of a nearby tree blew against the panes, their buds full of promise in soft morning light. “You called Lorraine, but she wasn’t home, so you decided to call me?”

  Jane Templeton, the detective I loved to hate, sighed, and for a second I listened
to the ether’s white noise.

  “Is the body still in situ?” I asked.

  “It was when we left. I told the crime scene super to slow it down, knowing your condition and that it might take me some time to rouse you.”

  I yawned.

  “As far as I know, the MLIs are on hold until we finish our site investigation.”

  MLIs, short for medicolegal investigators, was a fancy term for morgue workers. In New York City, they were dispatched by the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner and were among the first responders to the scene, investigating along with CSI detectives, after which they hauled the body to the morgue for autopsy before the forensic pathologist assigned cause of death.

  Jane continued. “This isn’t like you. Don’t you want to know more of the particulars?”

  I mumbled a let’s hear it.

  “Like I said, the victim was stabbed. We haven’t found the murder weapon.”

  While I was talking to my favorite blonde detective, I was grunting and pulling on my tights over my now huge belly, reminding myself never ever to roll in the hay again. I imagined Jane Templeton’s full lips in the form of a chuckle, the svelte lines of her profile, her eighteen-inch waist, the press of her Armani suit against humungous boobs, an immaculate blouse with the lace trim, mile-long lashes, perfect skin, painted talons. To be sure, a Brooklyn babe, like a picture torn out of an old-time catalogue, but still. I looked down at my frontal bulge, got a little dizzy, and had to sit again.

  “So you need me to help you investigate, is that it?”

  “You’re repeating yourself.”

  I said nothing.

  “Got five balls in the air right now, and you know how it is in late spring. Maybe you don’t. You specialize in taking one case at a time, and we get multiples thrown at us all at once, whatever’s thrown out in the garbage, and I do mean garbage. Every weekend it seems like it’s time for another major crime spree.”