Missing Brandy (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 2) Read online

  “Asking her to call?”

  “No, telling her I was sorry.”

  There was a pregnant silence.

  “For?”

  “We’d had words this morning. I thought she was dawdling. She does that some mornings. On purpose, sometimes. She putzes around. Drives me wild. A child her age shouldn’t. A six-year-old, maybe, but not a teenager. I called to say I was sorry.”

  “Mind if I try to reach her?”

  “Why would I mind?” Trisha Liam gave me Brandy’s number. I dialed and was switched to voicemail on the first ring.

  I looked at Trisha Liam who stood before me, arms crossed. She seemed to be shrinking into herself as if she were a dissolving clip in a horror movie.

  After gulping down the rest of my water, I told Trisha Liam that I’d like to see her daughter’s room.

  Chapter 2

  Henry. Earlier That Morning, In Traffic

  Henry inched into the flow of early morning traffic. His latex-gloved hands gripped the wheel. All the while he kept glancing into the rearview mirror, part of his vision peeled on the crowd busy with whatever kids were busy with toward the end of the school year. His son never knew their excitement. He shuddered, his mind fixed on the memory of Stuart’s smile as he heard the bell and watched the students file inside. No teachers around, no one stared at them, no arms gesturing toward the van.

  Driving toward the BQE, Henry felt the knot in his stomach carve a path to his throat. He opened his mouth and breathed, felt the pain heave in his chest, the throb in his temples intensify.

  Silence from the back of the van.

  It would have been better if he could have managed the take alone, but the more he planned, the more Henry realized he’d need another pair of hands. And help with getting the medicine, too, or whatever it was Ben gave the girl that made her pass out right away.

  From the passenger seat, Ben reached for the radio dial.

  “No radio,” Henry said. He made a right-hand turn onto Atlantic Avenue, passing a traffic cop checking meters. Good, she had her head down, busy writing tickets.

  Got to get out of here, he told himself. Don’t drive too fast. Breathe slow. Relax. We rehearsed long enough; now we’re home free. Almost.

  On the expressway, Ben was jumpy, his usual mood. Maybe he should give himself some of that juice he squeezed into the girl.

  “You never let me drive.”

  Not that again. “You don’t know how.”

  “You don’t trust me.”

  Maybe if he didn’t answer him, Ben would forget it. From the back he heard the tarpaulin rub against the floor of the van. “She’s stirring. Tap her but be careful—not too much. Just enough to put her to sleep.”

  Henry heard the rush of air. Then the bundle stilled. He felt the stillness of the stars. “I love you, Daddy,” he heard his boy say. He saw the glint of sun as Ben drew out the needle.

  Cars and trucks surrounded them. Horns honked. Exhausts chugged as they inched their way underneath the viaduct and squeezed into the left-hand lane. The van slid into the turn, its bald tires unable to find purchase on a street made slick by the oil of a million trucks. He breathed hot fumes.

  “Should have gone the way I told you,” Ben said. “But you don’t trust me with cars. Now we’re stuck in traffic. Should have taken the bridge. Look at it, not a car in sight. Turn around, not too late. I feel cops breathing down the back of my neck. Gonna sweat the whole way back. Geezus.”

  “Look at me; I’m not sweating. Relax. Breathe deep. We practiced this, remember? We were like a well-oiled machine back there. If something went wrong, if the weather was wrong, if I saw pedestrians staring at us, if a kid looked cross-eyed at us—and I can tell, believe me. I know my kids; I can tell when a kid’s eyes are boring into me. I see my kid’s eyes in their eyes. I know every move kids make. I know what they mean. Don’t worry. Like I say, if something wasn’t right, I would have called it off. We would have waited for a better time. Relax, it went smooth, smooth as butter. Just kids looking forward to the start of summer and their last days in school when the teachers look the other way, and it’s almost better than not having school. I remember that time, don’t you? Trust me, their minds are blanks. All those summers my son never had because of that bitch. These kids were clueless. They haven’t missed her yet.”

  They’d practiced enough at the farm miles away from the nearest neighbor so no one would notice. Practiced almost too much. They rehearsed with a wooden dummy, then graduated to a mannequin on the curb, smiling, catching her eye. Over and over Ben slipped the tarpaulin over her head until his movements were seamless. They learned how to move like Bogie kissing Bacall. In his mind, Henry watched the actor slipping on his jacket, whisper smooth. If Bogie could move like that, so could they. They’d rehearsed until they were bone tired, tearing down each action, analyzing what went wrong, adding to it, taking angles away, perfecting it. First the van’s door had to be greased so it didn’t squeak. Then the grab. It must be silent, Henry said, so Ben could stick her with the meds before she knew it.

  The two of them, Ben and Henry, became like parts of a machine, well-oiled, together in a silent groove, a marriage of their own making which neither acknowledged. Henry thought up last-minute glitches. They must be flexible, focused, slide into Plan B or Plan C until they could master alternative movements a hundred times in a row without a hitch, until they could perform it like the steps of a complicated ballet with their eyes closed.

  The medic crossed his legs and sucked on a toothpick.

  That toothpick again.

  They ran into heavy traffic on the BQE from all the trucks heading for the Belt.

  “Accident ahead?” Ben asked.

  “Do you see flashing lights?”

  Henry watched the toothpick roll to the corner of Ben’s mouth, saw him look around, squint, move his head from side to side.

  “All right, then.” Sliding his eyes to the rearview mirror, he surveyed the lump under the tarpaulin, heard the faint whoosh of water and smelled urine.

  “Now look what you’ve gone and done. You’ve given her too much. I told you to be careful. She didn’t need much. Damn you to hell, Ben Small, you blew it!”

  Chapter 3

  Fina. Evening One, Brandy’s Bedroom

  Trisha Liam led me upstairs and through the door to a room facing the street. After flipping the light switch, she opened one of the windows. It was a teenager’s room, all right, huge with bright purple walls and a high ceiling, soft wooden floors, the kind that your feet can sink into, and deep crown molding, white lacquered woodwork like the rest of the house, an old-fashioned crystal chandelier hanging from the center. No dolls, but a few stuffed animals, those elf or dwarf things. Pink and purple pillows were scattered on the bedspread and in one corner of the floor. There were several posters on the walls, a few of Zac Efron and one which read, “Bitch, Don’t Kill My Vibe.” I couldn’t help it, I smiled when I saw Kendrick Lamar’s words on the wall and looked at Trisha who didn’t seem to get the joke.

  Opposite the bed was a white desk with a gleaming iMac sitting on it, bookshelves on one side, and in the other corner an overstuffed chair in purple and white zebra stripes. Over the nightstand was a crucifix and picture of the Virgin. I could identify with that—we used to keep holy pictures until Mom died and I took them down.

  I opened the doors to a walk-in closet. Shoes stood in a tree on the floor. Blouses hung on one rack, skirts, dresses, robes on the other, all arranged by type and color. Brandy was some kind of neat freak? There was an island in the middle of the closet. I opened the drawers and saw socks, undies, sweaters, everything folded just so. And luck be a lady, in the bottom drawer underneath some scarves, I found Brandy’s diary. I didn’t think teens kept them anymore, but what did I know? It was almost full and dated this year. Who knows, it might give me a lead or two, so I put it in my pocket. For a second I felt like a thief, but I had to get to know Brandy, and this room, while a good start
, wasn’t doing it for me, at least not with Trisha Liam lurking over my shoulder.

  Beyond the closet was the bathroom. Sparkling, like the rest of Brandy’s world, or at least the one she let me see, except for one damp-looking purple towel bunched up on the floor. I checked the medicine cabinet, because you never know, and found an outdated bottle of baby aspirin.

  My room never, ever looked this way, certainly not when I was thirteen. Believe me, I looked, but there wasn’t a mote of dust. No heaps of clothes slung over tables or chairs or on the floor, and the bed was made with the sheets and covers so tight and perfect like it was a hospital ward. Still, the room had a phony veneer, like some designer had stepped in and papered over everything that was real, except for the poster.

  “Brandy keeps her room this way?”

  She shrugged. “Phillipa.”

  “Phillipa?”

  “The housekeeper.”

  “But it’s her day off, no?”

  Suddenly Trisha doubled over, barely making it to the chair. She took off her glasses and wept. “My girl is neat, isn’t she?” She was bawling now.

  I’m not so good with the emotion stuff. You’d think I would be, wouldn’t you, being part Italian, but not a chance. I nodded, grabbed a box of tissues from the desk, and handed her a clump of them. I waited several minutes until she dabbed and blew and composed.

  “She’s a good girl,” she said, sniffing. “Studies hard. She has to, gets that from me. Maintains an A-minus average.”

  “And her father?”

  “He died two years ago. Brandy loved him. He used to take her to ballgames, that kind of thing. Tried to teach her baseball, but it was hopeless. She’d get straight A’s if it weren’t for gym. That’s where the minus comes in.” She stopped talking and stared, lost. Who knew what pictures were flickering in her brain?

  “You were going to tell me about your husband’s death, at least I think you were.”

  Trisha Liam swallowed. “His death was unexpected. Swift. It was hard on Brandy. They were close, you see. Mitch had a way with her. They were pals, and since his death, she’s been … not so happy—at least, not around me. But she has her friends and stays after school. Brandy’s a good girl. That’s why I can’t understand this. Why she’d leave.”

  I put down my pen and studied this woman who seemed so bereft. My mom told me that some people were immersed in sorrow. It came to them in layers, life hitting them like giant waves, one lousy deal after another, and I thought if anything else hit her soon, she’d just disappear like cotton candy melting in the mouth.

  “Tell me about your husband’s death,” I asked again.

  She hitched up her slacks and folded her hands. “What does Mitch’s death have to do with Brandy?”

  “The more I learn about you and your late husband and the rest of Brandy’s life, the easier it will be for me to find your daughter. I know it doesn’t seem logical, but you’ll just have to trust me or get another investigator. It’s the only way I know how to work, Mrs. Liam. Trisha.”

  “It happened suddenly.” She was silent for a bit, weighing words, I guess. “Sometimes I think the sudden things must keep on happening over and over. A change of seasons brings it on, for one thing. Or a year’s turning. Another spring without him and I wonder how far gone he is underneath the cold ground. With the first cherry blossoms in Prospect Park, I think of him in court, him and his bow tie, or the first time we met.”[ This is repeated, in parts word for word, later on (also marked with a comment)—wanted to mark it in case it wasn’t intentional.]

  She stopped. And speaking of far gone, that was Trisha Liam right now. She was staring into the distance. “When we met, he was defending a member of the mafia. How could he do that, I asked him over coffee, and he answered. One thing led to another. Next thing I knew, we were married; then Brandy was born, and then …”

  I pulled out the desk chair and sat, scribbling in my notebook. “When did the school call you? I need the exact time, Mrs. Liam.”

  “They didn’t. And it’s Trisha, please. I’ve already asked you to call me Trisha.”

  “So how did you know she was missing … Trisha?” I emphasized the name. I’m such a cold rat. “Is she usually here when you get home?”

  “No. I had this feeling, you know, even though I was in court this morning. It was a feeling I couldn’t shake, a fright, like something horrible had happened. I usually call Brandy after school, but today—like I’ve already told you—I left a message on her cell phone about noon. She usually checks her messages at lunchtime. When I didn’t hear from her, I phoned the office. That was about two fifteen, two twenty.”

  Trisha stopped talking. Fear slid down her face like a haunting sheet.

  “And?”

  “And they said …”

  I felt my heart climbing into my throat. “And they said what, Trisha?”

  “And they said she hadn’t been in school all day.”

  Trisha Liam swayed. I thought she was going to faint.

  “She’d faked an excuse?”

  “She wouldn’t do that. My girl would never do that.”

  I said nothing.

  “They said I’d called and told them there was a death in the family and Trisha wouldn’t be back in school until Monday.” She put a hand to her chest.

  “Who said you’d called?”

  “Someone in the office—Betty, I think. Yes, that’s her name. She’s the one who usually answers.”

  “So anyone could have called and said they were you and excused Brandy from school for three days?”

  She shook her head several times, her body bent. She was drooling. “Tell me she’s all right. She’s been missing since she left this morning. I didn’t kiss her goodbye. She slammed the door.” By now Trisha Liam’s eyes were wide. She was thrusting her arms out to me. “God, you’ve got to find her. Please say you will. She’s all I’ve got. When I think of her all alone … maybe she’s hurting …”

  I couldn’t bring myself to hold Trisha Liam. Mom would have. She’d have melted in a flash, but I didn’t have the stomach for it, not tonight. “We’ll find her. I swear we will. The police and the FBI are already looking. How would this Betty woman know she was talking to you?”

  “I don’t know. Brandy’s never been ill. I’ve never had to call the office.”

  It was getting stuffy in Trisha Liam’s conservatory. I didn’t tell her that, but I could hardly wait to get out of there. I told her I might have more questions and as soon as they entered my head, I might have to knock on her door.

  “Anytime. I won’t be sleeping.”

  Chapter 4

  Brandy. Her Diary, Part One

  When I got home, you’d think I’d fall asleep I was so dog tired, but after Denny’s warm greeting and my telling him about Trisha Liam and her missing daughter, my eyelids wouldn’t function. So I slipped into my study, and by the light of my iPhone and the comfort of Mr. Baggins purring like a fire engine beside me, I began reading Brandy’s diary.

  Me? I’m an everyday kind of teen with curls so tight on damp days they stick to my scalp. I can feel them winding up. They move like baby snakes, all slithery, while I reach for my alarm clock. That’s why I don’t always pay attention in class—especially History. My kinks and my zits drive me wild, to say nothing of the braces. I’ve had them on for a year and will probably need them for most all of high school. That’s what Dad said before he decided to die.

  You’d have loved him. He took me to ballgames. We’d walk to Borough Hall and take the subway to 161st Street, and when we got to the stadium, we’d hold hands, swinging our arms high and fast. It was like taking a ride on a high-flying machine, that’s what Granny called it. Dad bought me hot dogs and soda and talked about winning and losing and when winning’s important and when it’s not. When I was seven, I could name all the Yankee pitchers, but now I’ve lost touch.

  First Dad died, then Aunt Caroline moved to London. The wrong ones went away and left me, an
d now I’m alone with Mom. Except for Granny Liam, of course, but she goes in and out.

  Mom never thinks of me. She never listens to me, but Mrs. Coltran says that’s not true. She knows my mother loves me. I wish I could believe her. My mother’s so out of it. Come to think of it, I can’t even tell you what she looks like. Except for when I close my eyes tight, all I see are bags under her eyes caused by the tinted glasses she wears.

  Like here’s one. Frankie—she’s one of my friends—a girl, would you believe. Anyways, when Frankie got her nose piercing, a turquoise little nob of a job with a touch of gold around it, fits real nice on her right nostril. Well, I thought I might try it, but they all said, “Better ask Pah-tricia, you know how she is.”

  I refuse to call my mom Trisha, by the way. I like the name Trisha too much. I told her I’d call her Patricia, but not Trisha like she wants to be called instead of Mom. So when I started calling her Patricia with the accent on the “Pah”—like this, “Pah (hold it for two beats)-tricia”—she said to stick with Mom.

  Anyway, why did I bother asking her about the piercing? Clara had one, I told her. I just made that up because I knew she’d never see Clara because Clara doesn’t come to the house and Pah-tricia doesn’t come to the school. But I told her about Frankie’s piercing and how she got it and what it looked like and where she got it—on Seventh Avenue in South Slope, real close—and I wasn’t even finished talking, see, and she just interrupted and said, “No.” Slammed right in and stopped me. Didn’t look up from her papers she’s always reading or anything. Matter of fact, she didn’t look at me the whole time I was talking.