Whiskey’s Gone (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 3) Read online

“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 ent
ertain 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.

  So. You might as well hear the full catastrophe. As it turned out, Whiskey moved down the block from me as soon as she could afford it. A convenience, that’s the best way to describe our relationship. I just slid into it and so did she, one hot summer night when the goddamned tension in the office flooded the streets and lit the lamps. Brooklyn was pulsating. One thing led to another—you know how it is—skirts billowing, tits bouncing. Christ, she was right there for the plucking, so what do you expect? I found a corner in the park and we made our own explosion.

  Afterward she wouldn’t look at me.

  I offered to help her and the kid, maybe find them a larger apartment. She wouldn’t hear of it, kept shaking her head. Am I that much of a loser? I look in the mirror and wonder if there’s a mole, some other kind of malformation I’ve missed.

  For months after our little encounter, I wished she’d just disappear. And now she has. It’s early days yet, but I have a bad feeling about Whiskey Parnell. She’s met a no-good scum, and he’s done her in.

  Who knows if that fancy-looking piece with the red curls and a dick’s card will ever find her? But she’ll try, by God, she will. Got to earn her keep like the rest of us. I can see venom pouring from Liam’s eyes if she fails. Liam is nothing if not resolved.

  Lorraine

  Lorraine, who tapped into the lifeblood of Carroll Gardens, was almost sure to know the address of Whiskey Parnell’s apartment, so I decided to stop at Lucy’s, my cleaning service and detective agency on Henry Street, where I was hoping to find her.

  When I opened the door, Minnie waved from the back desk, where she was munching on potato chips as she yapped on the phone. She’s Lucy’s office manager. Most days she wears one of two dresses. Today it was the orange print. Judging by the smile on her face and the thumbs-up she gave me, Minnie was schmoozing with a customer.

  Lorraine popped her head out from behind a computer screen, probably deep into research. Better her than me. Last month, Trisha Liam hired us to investigate her husband’s sudden death two years ago, prompted by hearsay of hit man involvement. So far, nothing concrete, but the other day, Lorraine told me she’d dug up information on some seedy Brooklyn types surrounding Mitch Liam’s last cases.

  She raked a hand through gray hair. “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning. Our new tenant is missing. I was hoping you’d help me find her.”

  “Let me guess. Her name is Whiskey Parnell?”

  While Lorraine closed her mouth, I gave her a brief rundown of my meeting with Trisha Liam and showed her the retainer. “So finding your tenant is business.”

  “A neighbor rang our bell about nine. She said Maddie showed up on her stoop right before school saying she couldn’t find her mother.”

  I must have given her a blank look because Lorraine explained the neighbor’s little girl and Maddie are best friends. They walk to school together; they’re in the same homeroom.

  Lorraine pushed up her glasses. “Long story short, the neighbor said she’ll watch Maddie after school and bring her back to me about dinnertime. By then, maybe Whiskey will have shown up.”

  From Lorraine’s lips to God’s ears.

  “After the woman left, I told Robbie about it. Seems he’d missed the neighbor’s visit, even though he’d been sitting in the same room with us the whole time, engrossed in something on TV, probably the replay of a tennis match.”

  I pictured Denny’s father sitting in his overstuffed chair, swiveling his head from side to side watching a yellow ball fly through the air.

  “‘This is what comes from having a tenant with a name like Whiskey.’ That was his take on it. Robbie never wanted me to rent the upstairs apartment. And of course he didn’t lift a finger to help, even though when it comes down to it, he’s crazy about Maddie.”

  Why was I not surprised? Before he retired, Robert McDuffy rose to sergeant or lieutenant or something big in his precinct. I’m sure he was a great policeman and provider, but in retirement he seemed like a doormat.

  “What exactly did the neighbor say about the girl?”

  “When Maddie appeared on her doorstep, her hair was uncombed. She hadn’t had a bath, her outfit was unmatched, and she was looking for her mom. She said when she woke up, her mom wasn’t in the apartment. There was no note, no nothing.”

  “Horrible! You mean the girl stayed the whole night in the apartment all by herself?”

  Lorraine shrugged. “Well, we don’t know, do we? Whiskey must have left after Maddie was asleep. Maybe she realized in the middle of the night, she’d run out of bread and went to the store and had an accident.”

  “Where is Maddie now?”

  Lorraine looked at her watch. “In school.” She placed a hand over her heart while she told me the rest of the story—how she’d gotten the key to Whiskey Parnell’s apartment and together she and the neighbor entered. “But I didn’t need the key, did I—the door was ajar, a child’s doll wedged between it and the jamb.”

  Smart kid. Despite my working veneer, my eyes started to water, so I blinked hard, waiting for Lorraine to finish.

  “‘Whiskey?’ I called out. The silence was eerie. I don’t mind telling you a shiver went up and down my spine. No movement behind the door. No sign that anyone was there. I waited as long as I could, but my heart was pounding. This was our first experience with a tenant. As I say, Robbie didn’t want to rent out the fourth floor, but he doesn’t do any of the cleaning, now, does he? It’s getting to be too much for me, what with working for you and all. He won’t hire cle
aners.” She swung a glance at Minnie. “No offense. It wouldn’t be so bad if he’d help with the housework, but that’s not Robbie.”

  I tried hard to imagine Robert in an apron, holding a duster.

  “Says I’m the best cleaner he’s ever met, and if we let strangers into the house, that’s when the thieving begins.”

  My turn to look at Minnie, who was creasing her bag of potato chips. Saving the dregs for lunch, I reckoned.

  Lorraine rolled on. “The apartment was neat and clean, not a dish in the sink. Well, neat except for the bedroom, but you’d expect that, wouldn’t you?”

  My turn to shrug.

  “Quite frankly I was afraid to look too hard. I don’t like to barge into other people’s homes, but I did notice both beds were unmade.”

  “Both?”

  “It’s a one-bedroom, and it looks like Maddie sleeps on a cot in a corner of her mother’s room.”

  I looked out the window, distracted by blaring horns. The usual Brooklyn struggle for parking—an altercation was becoming heated across the street. As I watched, I considered Lorraine’s theory. It sounded plausible. After the girl was asleep, Whiskey discovered there was no food for breakfast, went to the store, and on the way had an accident. But wouldn’t the hospital notify next of kin? My mind segued to the county morgue. I pictured Whiskey’s body gray and stiff lying on a slab, her eyes sightless, her face fixed in a grimace.

  Lorraine went on. “Well, after a few minutes, we knew Whiskey wasn’t there, so on the off chance she wouldn’t return until tomorrow, the neighbor packed some clothes for Maddie and we left. Maybe it was wrong, but we decided to wait until this evening before reporting Whiskey’s absence. You never know, maybe something happened to her, like I say, maybe she had an accident and it’s taking the hospital a while to find out where she lives.”

  Minnie chimed in. “Besides, you know what they say about a person not being missing until twenty-four hours has elapsed.”