Dorset in the Dark: A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery 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

  Characters & Places

  About the Author

  Dear Readers

  Dorset in the Dark

  A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery

  by

  Susan Russo Anderson

  Summary:

  On a cold spring morning, private investigator Fina Fitzgibbons finds Cassandra Thatchley slumped over on a park bench, the victim of a memory-impairing drug. Her ten-year-old daughter Dorset is missing. Meanwhile, Fina’s father is hospitalized, and Denny wants to move away from Brooklyn. Dorset in the Dark is the sixth book in the Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn mystery series.

  Copyright © 2017 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.

  Dorset in the Dark 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

  Author’s Website

  susanrussoanderson.com

  Readers, I’d love to hear from you:

  [email protected]

  Tell all the truth but tell it slant—

  Success in Circuit lies

  Too bright for our infirm Delight

  The Truth’s superb surprise

  As Lightning to the Children eased

  With explanation kind

  The Truth must dazzle gradually

  Or every man be blind—

  —Emily Dickinson, 1830 - 1886

  Brittany, Tyler, Zach

  Jerry

  He lived in Brooklyn with his older brother in a large apartment high off the ground. They’d been there a real long time, way before his mother left and they moved her furniture out. He missed his mother. He missed her every day, even though, as his brother pointed out, her leaving gave them a spare room. Only trouble, he couldn’t remember what she looked like, and when he’d asked his brother for her picture, he just shook his head. “One day she’ll come back. You’ll see.”

  His brother called her old bedroom the studio, and Jerry used it to make pictures from bits of paper and cardboard and sometimes nails or round shiny things with holes in them he found lying on the street. Bottle caps, even. Once he found a dollar and pasted it on the back of a walrus cut out from a magazine, splashing paint on top of everything. And leaves, there were plenty of those. “Collages from found objects,” his brother called what Jerry made, and his brother helped him hang them on the walls. All over the place, except in the kitchen. His brother packed them in a big black case and took them around town. He showed them to people in white rooms with high ceilings. Once he took Jerry with him, but never again. Jerry worked on his pictures for hours, sometimes weeks.

  “One of these days, you’ll be famous,” he told him, “and we won’t have to do these jobs no more. Lucky, this one dropped on us like out of the blue.”

  Jerry shivered in the wind on the way to the job. He didn’t like spring even if there were Easter bunnies and chocolate eggs in windows. Used to be he got presents in baskets and dimes hidden under the couch. His mother saw to that. But those days were gone. And another thing, Jerry wasn’t his real name, but it’s what his brother called him. He couldn’t remember his real name. It might have been Rennie. That was what his mother had called him, but most people called him Hey You or Kid. It used to bother him, but lately he didn’t think all that much about who he was or where he came from. He just worked on his pictures.

  His memories of childhood were scattered, filled with bits and pieces just like the pictures he made. He didn’t remember ever meeting his father. But he remembered a long train ride like it was yesterday, rolling through dusty light, sitting on his mother’s lap and watching trees fly past while Kenny pointed out backyards filled with laundry or toys underneath high-flying clouds. One for all and all for one, his mother would say and kiss his ear as they moved from side to side and the wheels clacked. When he thought hard about it, he could still feel her arms around him, holding him tight on the rocking train.

  His neighbors used to like him, maybe because he smiled big when they looked at him. His brother told him to do that. Always look them in the eye and smile big. But that was a long time ago when they first came and most of those people had moved away or died. Now no one looked at him or asked how he was, except for the lady he met from time to time walking in the park late at night, a beat-up lady with whiskers on her chin and a funny smell and swollen bags stuffed into a shopping cart. She pushed it up and down sidewalks and through clumps of trees. He knew this because one time he followed her, even though Kenny told him to leave her alone. She was in need of a hot bath. His brother made him take one every night. No matter, she was a friend. She smiled at him. Whenever she saw him, her mouth made clacking sounds like the train. She saw him once sitting in the park and drawing in his sketchbook, the one Kenny bought for him. The artist, she called him after that, her words flapping out through her lips. He thought of the gummy lady and looked for her in the usual spot, but he couldn’t see her.

  His brother stared at Jerry. “Are you paying attention? And stop that rocking back and forth. If I catch you doing it, you’ll have hell to pay when we get home, just remember. I’ll bet you haven’t heard one word I said. And today of all days. We have a very important job.”

  “What job?”

  “What do you mean what job? Like we’ve been talking about, day in, day out.”

  “Oh, that job.”

  “Not so loud,” his brother hissed.

  Then he remembered. It was their secret. He had a bit part in it, but it was an important one, very important. His brother had said it over and over and the job paid big time and might lead to others, depending. Kenny told him it would, and Jerry believed in his brother, and besides, that week, he’d given him an extra dollar. He counted his allowance money and thought his brother had made a mistake, but no. He put the
money in the bottom drawer of the dresser in his bedroom and thanked him. He wouldn’t forget it. His brother had clapped him on the back. Whatever Kenny told him to do, Jerry did it and fast. Because his brother knew best. One for all and all for one.

  So earlier when Kenny said it was time, he’d dressed with care, putting on a clean shirt and some baggy pants his brother had bought for him at the Meeker Avenue flea market. He ran the comb under the tap and pushed it through his hair—what was left of it—slicking it back and making sure the sides wrapped around his ears. One of these days he’d have to get it cut, only he didn’t like going to the barber. This morning, when he looked in the mirror, something pounded in his head. If only his mother could see him, she’d be proud of him. That was what Kenny had said. His brother reminded him to take his sketchbook sketch book so he could show it to Dorset. She was his friend, an artist, just like him.

  Jerry put on his hat and gloves. He got to wear his brother’s overcoat because it was cold out. That was what his brother had told him after looking it up on his phone. “Watch out, it’s spring, but still, there might be ice,” his brother had said. Jerry didn’t like ice. Just saying the word made him shiver and he remembered the time he’d slipped and gone down and couldn’t get up. Worse, all the groceries had spilled all over the sidewalk and a woman walking her dog had almost tripped. He could still feel the pain when he thought about it. That was something about him. “You think too much,” his brother said.

  He stepped with care because of the ice and because of the dark. At first he could feel the stares from all the people who hid in alleys, waiting for him, but his brother told him to relax and get into the part and wait for him outside the shop while he went inside for the coffee. So he did, and after they turned the corner, there she was, Dorset and her mother. Dorset’s mother sat on the bench in a long black coat, doing something with a small screen, but when she saw them, she waved them over, just like her brother said she would. “I ain’t been cultivatin’ her friendship for nothin’.”

  His brother held out a coffee and Dorset’s mother took it. Jerry watched it steam when she took off the lid. He didn’t like coffee because it made him like a jumped-up clown. That was what his brother told him. Dorset’s mother knew Jerry and smiled at him and called out his name, just like always, but he didn’t want to look at her because of the job.

  Instead, he looked at Dorset. She sat next to her mother. Dorset wore her blue coat with the fluffy collar and the beat-up baseball cap she always pushed down low on her head. He didn’t remember which team, although Kenny told him millions of times. Dorset was an artist, just like Jerry. Only she went to a special place for artists after school, where they did drawing with a model. He knew because on their last visit she told him so. It sounded scary because of all the people. Jerry’s art wasn’t that sort. Today Dorset had her sketchbook with her. Jerry had seen it before. She drew shapes using a pencil, only she called it a charcoal, and the shapes told stories. He liked drawing and all, but he wasn’t into it. He couldn’t make his hand do what he wanted it to do. Dorset could, though, and she said one day she’d teach him how, but Jerry told her he wasn’t interested. He liked to look at the ground and find things and put them together until they made his heart swell and he forgot everything else, about his mother leaving and how they couldn’t talk about her even though he thought he’d seen her walking on the street about a million times.

  This morning Jerry knew what to do. He’d been told about a million times and they’d rehearsed it lots, him and his brother. Except now that it was time, he got those bugs in his stomach. So he waited for the signal from his brother before asking Dorset if he could see her drawings, and she got up and held out the book. Just like they’d rehearsed, he took the book from her and began looking at her pictures. There were drawings of parks and trees, of children running, and of the harbor, pictures of people sitting on a bench, looking up at stars. “On the subway,” she told him. He stared at her drawings and turned the page.

  “I thought you’d forgotten us today,” the woman said.

  “Never.” His brother sat down next to the woman. “I had to wait in line, is all.”

  “I hear you like Dorset’s work,” the woman said.

  His brother looked hard at him. “Talk to the woman.” His brother spat the words, and Jerry felt his face get all hot.

  “She’s going to the Art Students League next week.” The woman sipped her coffee. “She’s taking a drawing workshop for young artists.”

  Jerry knew what he was supposed to say, but he wanted to see what would happen to the woman. He watched her face.

  His brother poked him in the ribs and his eyes became nails. “Ask her, Jerry.”

  Jerry didn’t like it when his brother hissed at him like that. “Do you have time to see my pictures?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? Call them collages.” His brother turned to the woman. “Large bright things, they fill his studio. A born artist. Never had no lessons. Finds paper, wood chips, screws, bent nails, you name it. Puts them together. Pastes them onto the canvas. Dribbles color and glue all over it. A handful of that shiny stuff, those sprinkles or whatever they’re called. Let’s them dry. His studio’s filled with them. Sparkly stuff all over the floor. Worth a look.”

  “You don’t have time this morning, Dorset. The dentist, remember?”

  His brother breathed in and sat straight, waiting for Jerry to say something.

  “It won’t take long. Just around the corner.” Jerry pointed over his shoulder, just like his brother had told him to do. He didn’t like this job.

  “Please, Mom. This isn’t like you.”

  “They’re stunning collages,” his brother added. “And there’s a gallery in Williamsburg going to show them next year. They gave him a one-man show in January. I tell you, the guy’s a real talent. Who would have thought? My little brother.”

  “You have twenty minutes,” she said to her daughter. “That’s all.”

  Dorset grinned.

  “Did you bring your phone?”

  Dorset shook her head.

  The lines in his brother’s face disappeared. “Don’t worry. She’ll be back in time. I’ll bring her home myself.”

  The woman looked at her screen. “Twenty minutes. No more.”

  “Come on, Jerry.” Dorset pushed her cap low on her head so her ears bent.

  His brother stayed behind, talking to the woman just like they’d rehearsed.

  They waited for the light and crossed, Dorset walking next to him, pulling at his sleeve. He was surprised she knew the way. Over his shoulder, Jerry watched the woman’s head droop. He saw his brother catch her coffee cup before it spilled and lob it into a garbage bin, but Dorset was too busy walking ahead to notice her mother slumping over. “Is your studio big?” she asked, looking into his face. She smiled. He liked it when Dorset smiled at him. She took big steps like a grown-up, like his brother tried to get him to do, but walking fast made him dizzy. He hurried to keep up with her and began having trouble breathing.

  The Woman in the Park

  It was Denny’s turn to get the twins ready for the nanny, so earlier that morning, not suspecting what lay ahead, I watched the rise and fall of his perfect body and kissed him as he slept while Mr. Baggins jumped up on the bed and began purring in my ear. But I had work to do, or at least some heavy planning. After dressing in my usual outfit—jeans, baggy sweater, and down vest—I tiptoed out of the room, one ear cocked for any noises that might be coming from the cribs across the hall. A sudden squeak from Robbie’s rubber giraffe sent my heart flipping, and I tiptoed to the door, opened it a crack, and waited while my eyes adjusted to the gray light seeping through the blinds. For several seconds I stood there surveying their room, listening to Robbie’s rasping, Carmella’s soft breathing, resisting the temptation to wake them and cuddle them and love them. We’d been lucky, Denny and I, with two babies who for the first six months of their lives had given us nothing b
ut joy. No fevers, no coughs, no allergies. I entered their room and stood still for a moment, breathing in their scent. Just then I felt something soft curling between my legs and looked down to find their guardian, Mr. Baggins, who after he’d wound himself around me a couple of times, plunked his fat body down on the rug that lay between the two cribs. I left their door open a notch in case Mr. B needed a break, and slipped down the stairs. Unmindful of the dietary promises I’d made to myself the night before, I grabbed a donut from the kitchen counter and made a beeline for the front door, taking care not to slam it.

  Outside, a cold March wind hit me full in the face. We’d been lucky so far this month—no frost to spoil the magnolias that bloomed in the backyard and the grass was doing a good job with green although the air that morning had a distinctive dampness to it, as if it were longing for the white stuff. I noticed a few new leaves on the ornamental pear tree in the front yard as I wrapped my arms around me and thought of warmer days soon to come. In the distance, the lights lining the Brooklyn Bridge gleamed and I quickened my pace. No sounds except for distant trucks rattling across metal, although in the early morning light, long shadows began spooking me, so I jogged the rest of the way to the park a few feet from the Promenade. That was when I saw her, a woman in a dark coat sitting on a bench in front of the swings.

  “You’re out early,” I said, running in place to keep the blood flowing. She didn’t answer. She’d probably come here to be alone and think, just like me, and I was disturbing her.

  I walked to the fence separating the playground from the Promenade and gazed across New York Harbor to the Statue of Liberty. I tried to focus on work, but my brain was fizzing with last night’s pandemonium, what with the babies crying and Denny moaning about the high cost of living in Brooklyn and swearing we had to move and the phone buzzing with a crazed neighbor’s call asking me to investigate another robbery in his drugstore on Montague Street.