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

  “You’d do better to leave that to the police and be a friend to my daughter.”

  “Mom!”

  “Really, Lake. You are too forgiving. She’s here to investigate? Where have your friends been these last five years? Where were they when you lost your baby? When that no-good husband of yours left you for a month?” She glared at me. “That’s right. I suppose you didn’t hear about that one? His disappearance probably caused the miscarriage.” She gave my stomach a once-over.

  I felt my temples pound but kept my mouth shut. She was right, and I could only look at my hands while the room began to spin.

  She turned to me. “And now I suppose you want to interview me. I’ve heard it all before: ‘The dislike of your son-in-law is well known; where were you when he was killed?’ Well, go ahead, you can grill me all you want. I have nothing to hide. I didn’t kill him, but given the chance, I would have. And as far as I’m concerned, whoever got to him did us all a service. Good riddance, him and his father, the two of them, a disgrace.”

  Lake began crying again, her hands cupped over her face, murmuring something to herself.

  My face was on fire, but the mention of Stephen Cojok’s father brought up the memory of the two of them, father and son, having words outside the church just before the wedding. Stephen was getting a dressing-down, that was sure, taking it on the chin from his old man in front of the arriving guests. I wondered if anyone told him his son had been murdered? I thought of Robert, Denny’s father, and how he treated his son like a million bucks, like a one of a kind—of course there were strings—and my heart bled for sons. Did they ever get over their fathers?

  “Do you know where I can find Stephen’s father?”

  She shook her head and seemed to shudder, her eyes boring into mine while her face changed course and softened. It was as if her emotions had turned on a dime, and Ina O’Neill became the woman I remembered. She stood and took a few steps toward me, her long scarf flowing, and wrapped me in her arms.

  “Fina, forgive me. I don’t know what comes over me sometimes. The fury brought on by wayward hormones or inner banshees, and it’s that time for me, I’m sorry to say. You’ll see what I mean all too soon. You’ve made a good life for yourself and I’m the first to admit it, and you’ve been there for Lake.”

  I shook my head, knowing the reality: I’d not been there for my friend. I pulled back. “You were a friend to my mother. I’ll never forget it.” I paused for a second. “But I want to make sure the police have contacted Stephen’s father about his son’s death.”

  “Of course. Never could stand the man myself, so if you get in touch, it would be a help.”

  “I have a number for him,” Lake said and walked into the other room. When she came back, she had a smartphone in her hand. “I never talked to him directly except for one time when Stephen was in the hospital. This was a couple of years ago when Stephen got hit by a car. Nothing serious except for a broken arm, but they kept him overnight for observation. He asked me to phone his father and tell him.” She texted me his information, and I said goodbye, telling both of them I’d have more questions and reminding Lake of our meeting tomorrow.

  A Blurred Scene

  When I got home, Mr. Baggins, the cat who’d been my buddy ever since Mom’s death, wound himself around my legs, his short tail wafting slowly in the air, his pink tongue darting in and out. I picked him up and squeezed him, the image of Lake hugging her cat playing in my head.

  “Where’s Denny?”

  Mr. Baggins licked his fur.

  “In here,” Denny yelled.

  “On your day off?” I bit my tongue, telling myself not to get into it with him. Before she left on assignment, Lorraine and I had had a long talk. It had been over a year since Denny’s father had died, and he didn’t seem to be snapping out of his mood, or whatever you wanted to call it. Depression, I guessed, would be a more accurate term. When I mentioned it to her, Lorraine had told me to let him have his grief: it would take a while longer. “But he didn’t say anything when I told him I was pregnant; still hasn’t,” I’d confided. And he hated Lorraine’s new boyfriend, wouldn’t shake hands with him, and snubbed him.

  Denny brought me back to the present, saying he’d spoken with his mother. “She wondered why Jane called her. I could hear the butcher’s gruff voice in the background. What she sees in him, I’ll never know.” He stared at my stomach.

  With an effort, I said nothing, although I thought of a few zingers. I’d never seen Denny like he’d been acting for the past year. One of NYPD’s finest cops, he hadn’t bothered to shave or dress yet, but sat in the overstuffed chair by the fireplace, clothed only in his undies and a robe caked with bacon bits. His father, Robert, an ex-cop, had died one cold day over a year ago. As death’s go, his was an easy one. I imagined Stephen Cojok dying in agony and alone on a dog run, his eyes clouded over, his blood staining the grass where he lay. But Robert’s death was quick, and in the arms of the woman he’d loved for over forty years. And that woman, my mother-in-law and colleague, was getting on with her life, unlike her son, who’d been devoted to his father. Obsessively so.

  “Robert would be the first one to praise Lorraine for moving on.”

  “Into the waiting arms of that sexed-up money grabber?”

  “I have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon, which I might have to cancel.” When he didn’t respond, I switched gears, telling him about Jane’s call and my investigation so far of Stephen Cojok’s murder.

  His eyes narrowed. “I know the name. Couple years younger than me. A pusher who got what he deserved. He’s been picked up several times on suspicion of selling. So it’s a drug-related death, case closed. That’s why Jane gave it to you—she doesn’t want another homicide on her patch.” He stared out the window.

  I was going to give this one more try before I gave up, so I told him about meeting Lake. “Her grief is overwhelming.”

  “Of course. Now she’ll have to work.”

  I couldn’t help it. I felt tears welling up and dug my fingernails into my palm. I pleaded with myself to let it be, but my mouth won out. “When are you going to get over your father’s death? All you do is sit and mope. It’s a wonder they still keep you on the force. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m pregnant with our first child. We’re starting the family you always wanted, and as far as you’re concerned, our marriage might as well be over with.”

  He opened his mouth, but I stopped him. “Don’t you dare say anything until I’m finished.” As I walked back and forth, I could feel my hair kinking up while the words poured out of my mouth. Vaguely aware of Mr. Baggins cowering in the corner, I told Denny he’d better grow up and start acting like the man his father always thought he was. And with that I slammed out of the room and up to my study, staring out at a blurred scene outside my window, expecting Denny would open the door any minute and hold me. But it wasn’t to be.

  Cookie

  I arranged to meet Cookie in Teresa’s, our favorite coffee shop on Montague Street in the Heights. I was starving as I walked in, but as soon as I sat down and smelled the rich mix of coffee and eggs and syrup, I lost my appetite. The stale smoke coming off the guy’s jacket in the booth across from me didn’t help. My stomach did a roll and that was that.

  While I waited for her, I made a quick call to my FBI friend. I heard myself say, “Please, Tig.” It came out like the whine of a buzz saw grinding through a two-by-four. I have such a high-pitched voice when I beg that a passing waitress carrying a tray of flapjacks sidestepped my booth. Tig Able, my fellow intern and buddy at Brown’s Detective Agency way back when, had the grace not to hang up, even after he’d insisted he couldn’t get a list of phone numbers for me even if he wanted to, which, he assured me, he didn’t. He sighed but listened to me describe the victim and my next-to-nothing leads. “I need a list of the calls made to and from both his landline and cell, preferably for the last three months, and it goes without saying, the sooner the better,
but this afternoon will do.” I gave him the numbers.

  “Nada. Not on your life. Forget about it. Just could not do it.”

  I sighed and said tomorrow would do. He cited recent high-profile cases, privacy rulings. I cajoled, told him he meant wouldn’t, not couldn’t; I reminded him of our years working together, of all the free surveillance we’d done for him, that we—meaning the detective agency I’d started some three years ago—yes, we were at the ready anytime he needed another assist. I told him a little about the case, emphasizing how bereft Lake was, how it was going to be a pro bono for me and I didn’t have a clue where to begin.

  “So what’s new?”

  I ignored the remark. “Did I ever introduce you to Lake? She’d be perfect for you.”

  “I’m gay, remember? And up until this morning, she was married.”

  “I know, but there might be a time when you need a—”

  “Are you living in the present?”

  I bit my tongue to keep from yapping.

  “All right. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “And while you’re at it …” It was pressing my luck, but I was about to give him the number I’d found in Stephen Cojok’s wallet when he hung up just as Cookie shouldered Teresa’s door, waving. She slid into our booth.

  “You remember Lake Cojok?”

  And Cookie, coiffed and glowing and looking like she’d just stepped onto a movie set, launched into how she’d attended Lake’s show last month in Greenpoint.

  “Where was I?”

  “Who knows, least of all you? You’ve been duller than dull lately.”

  The waitress took her double order of pancakes and refilled my mug.

  “Not eating?”

  “Stomach’s a little rocky,” I managed, the bile rising to my throat at the mention of food. “Don’t mind me, I’ll suffer in silence while blueberries ooze between your teeth.”

  “You? Silent?” After stowing her mirror, she shot me a look. “Anyway, good job you’re not eating.”

  “Don’t you start on me, too. Just because you’re having an easy pregnancy.”

  “Ease has nothing to do with it. You’re letting yourself go. First off, your hair looks electrocuted. No makeup, and today you could use two layers of thick pancake. And not for nothing, the puffs beneath your eyes have gained ten pounds. You’d think you were six months pregnant instead of only three.”

  The waitress brought Cookie’s food and refilled my mug. Cookie, who’d lost all the weight she’d gained and then some after her daughter, Brooklyn, was born, murmured her thanks and dug in while I told her about the words Denny and I had just had, about how he didn’t care about anything anymore, least of all his child about to be born.

  “Give him space. The guy’s lost the dad he doted on. And knowing you, I’m sure you’re exaggerating.” She took a bite.

  “It’s been over a year since his father’s death. When is he going to grow up?” I told her I had a doctor’s appointment that afternoon I had to cancel and finished with, “Do you want to hear about our case or not?”

  I didn’t give her time to reply but told her everything I knew so far about Stephen Cojok, which wasn’t much—where his body was found and how he’d been killed, the tattoo on his right hand, how I’d found scant information in his wallet other than a Class C driver’s license and a crumpled slip of paper with a phone number. She cocked an eyebrow while I described what little I knew about Stephen’s employer and the nature of his work.

  “Did you call the number?” She blotted her lips.

  See what I mean about my being dull? I knew the pills they gave you were supposed to help, but you had to remember to take them. I thanked her for reminding me and dialed the number, letting it ring over twenty times. There was no pickup, no answering machine, but at least the line wasn’t dead. I did a lookup. Nothing. Strange. Now I was a dog with a bone. Not to be deterred by Tig’s frosty response to my pleas for help a few minutes ago, I texted him, asking him to give me whatever information he could on the Upstate number.

  After Cookie commandeered the waitress, asking her for orange juice and a few more pancakes, I told her about Lake and her grief and what she’d said about Stephen. “She told me he hauled objects for an art dealer.” That perked Cookie up. Cookie should have been an artist, but she wasn’t encouraged at home—too long a story to go into here. I could see the wheels turning while she silently soaked her second helping in a pool of syrup.

  “One thing I don’t get,” Cookie said, finally breaking the relative silence while other customers chattered on and dishes clattered in the kitchen a few yards away. “I mean, how did she square it?”

  “Square what?”

  “That the man she loved was such a loser. Here she’d let him violate her, duped her into thinking she had to get married, which turned out not to be true, and then he goes and does drugs. Don’t look at me like that, it’s well known. And he’s up to his elbows in scuzzy types. Why does she keep on loving him?”

  I didn’t have an answer for that, so I focused on my coffee cup. From the corner of my eye I caught the guy in the redolent jacket quickly glance down at his food. My stomach did a rumble.

  “Something about Lake that was strange,” I blurted, surprising myself.

  “As in?”

  “Don’t know. Something she wasn’t telling me.”

  “Do you think she killed him?” Cookie asked.

  “Not a chance. You should have seen the body. And you should have seen Lake. She’s devastated.”

  Cookie was silent. I supposed she was mulling it over, the murder and all, because I saw her shiver and make the sign of the cross, her usual response in the face of sudden catastrophic change. In a few minutes, she continued. “So his boss insisted on using Stephen’s van? You’ve got to be kidding. Call me looney, but I’m certain this art dealer’s pushing stolen goods. Hauling precious objects around in a hired guy’s rusting van with suspect shocks? I don’t care how carefully they’ve been crated, art objects can be worth thousands, maybe millions. Take your Ming vases.”

  I nodded, pretending I knew what she was talking about.

  “All art is so fragile. Paintings, for instance: touch the back of a stretched canvas a little too firmly and a few months later, you’ve got a dent. The client returns the violated painting and there goes a fifty-thousand-dollar sale.”

  “So first thing, we’ve got to find his employer. He’s the primary suspect.” I put my hand over my coffee cup when the waitress came around.

  “Anyone else?”

  I told her about Ina O’Neill’s behavior. “She hated her son-in-law, and she had words for me. Crazy, if you ask me.”

  Cookie rolled her eyes. “Seriously? I know Ina O’Neill. She’s a little hyper, but not a killer. Besides, you told me he was stabbed in the heart. I could see the old gal pricking her son-in-law with a needle filled with potassium chloride, but not knifing him in a dog run.” She blotted her lips. “I suppose they haven’t found the knife?”

  “Not according to Jane, but that was a while ago.”

  We were silent for a while. The waitress came with the check and asked if we needed anything—our cue to go.

  We didn’t move.

  “Anyway, I need your help with finding galleries.”

  Cookie told me her knowledge of the art world was a little rusty lately, that the real skinny—who had a vested interest in which gallery, the backroom alliances, the hot venues, the movers and shakers—was gleaned from footwork and word of mouth, but she’d try getting information. If she couldn’t find anything online, she’d visit the main branch of the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue and consult art reference. With luck, there wouldn’t be too many owners with multiple galleries. “One in Manhattan and another in Dutchess County? The overhead must be huge.”

  I nodded, remembering what Denny had said about Stephen having been stopped on suspicion of selling drugs. “While you do that, I want to tap Jane Templeton to see if the v
ictim had prior arrests. She unloaded this investigation on us in the first place, and it’s about time she gives us a little help.”

  Cookie was sliding out of the booth.

  “One more thing.”

  “I knew it.”

  But she grinned when I told her about our date to see Lake’s studio tomorrow afternoon.

  In the meantime, we had work to do.

  Denny

  Denny stared at the wall, thinking about the night that changed his life, the night his old man left him without a word. He felt the void all over again in the pit of his stomach, had the usual sweats he’d grown to expect each morning. He wiped a hand across his forehead and pushed the unread paper to the floor.

  His father never did understand him, never would have. Thought he, Denny, walked on water while instead Robert McDuffy had raised a loser. If only they’d been on good terms when his father died. Instead, they’d had one of their fights. The old man had made some remark about wives should stay at home while he looked Fina full in the face. Of course he had to stick up for Fina. But how was he to know the old man would be dead the next day? So he’d gotten up from the table, thanked his mother for the meal, and left without a word to the old guy. He could still see the shock on Robert’s face. They’d fought many times before that, sometimes not spoken for months. This time, however, Robert didn’t wait for an apology, not that any was forthcoming.

  The call came in the middle of the night, and he’d known even before he heard his mother’s voice, not the shock of it, although it was there, not in her words but in what she didn’t say. He just hadn’t expected it. “Your father’s dead.” The words cold, implacable, final.

  Had he ever shown his father respect? Perhaps. In the car as they rushed to be by his mother’s side, Fina insisted he revered his old man. One thing was sure, Robert had died at the wrong moment, but then death never appeared at the right time, and Denny ought to know: he’d had plenty of opportunity to cozy up to it. He’d seen it every day—shootings, natural causes, suspicious deaths, the sudden vicious death of children, capricious, catastrophic—he’d seen it all. Except for his father’s dead eyes staring back at him. Cold, so cold.