Too Quiet In Brooklyn (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 1) Read online

Cookie applied lipstick and fixed one of her drooping lashes. She stowed her mirror and took a good look at me. “Tell me more about the weird-o.”

  “In a minute. I want to hear what you learned.”

  She hadn’t found too many people to talk to, she told me, but she pounded on the doors of all the apartments in the two brownstones facing the scene and found one old lady at home who’d seen nothing much all day except for delivery guys. “She’s got to be the neighborhood snoop.”

  “One of them,” I said. “What about Mr. Nose who sits on his stoop all day rain or shine wearing boy scout shorts?”

  “The one with his briefs showing?”

  I shrugged. “I never noticed.”

  “He turned out to be a dud. Says he’s not paying attention to anything around him, he’s thinking about the market. Best to stare into space long and hard, he says to me, before you make a move. Might look like he’s snooping, but not a chance. He’s—are you ready—‘thinking’. Got himself a tablet so he’s plugged in twenty-four-seven and thinks, thinks, thinks before he trades. Upshot? He saw nothing.”

  “So get back to the old lady.”

  “She lives next door to the trader. She’s the one with the lace curtain. She swishes it every time I look up. See, whenever I pay a visit to Lucy’s, I look up at her window to see if the curtain’s going to swish or not. Most of the time it does.”

  “Did it today?”

  She nodded. “So I climbed the stairs to the third floor and knocked on her door.”

  Cookie paused to consult her face, but I told her to continue. “It took me longer than it should have. You know how old ladies are, they want to talk of this and that and blah blah blah you until you turn into a tree. Basically she said it was busy in the morning, a few vans double parked. She heard some drilling and buzz sawing, but hard to tell where the sound was coming from, she said, maybe from Hicks or Joralemon, who knows. She kept getting sidetracked, so I had to harness her lots of times and pull her back, but she told me she saw a Caputo’s delivery bike. He was chaining it to a tree, like he’s not supposed to do, she says, almost bumping into two men carrying what looked like a hefty bag.”

  “Did you ask her what time she saw the bike?” I asked, scribbling.

  “It was a little bit after eleven, she said when the bike came sailing up the street going the wrong way. The Caputo delivery guy gets a bag out of his bin and starts walking to Lucy’s, and—”

  “Perfect. That’s the time Minnie told me, too, because the same Caputo’s guy came to see her this morning—long story as to why, but he did,” I said, turning the pages of my little black book, scrambling to find the right notes. As I re-read my Minnie and Caputo notes, I noticed that my eye had stopped pounding, but my notes jumped on the page.

  “So we got three people seeing the same thing at approximately the same time!” I repeated what Cookie had just told me, making sure I’d gotten it all down. “Did she say anything about double parkers?”

  Cookie thought for a moment. “I asked her where the two workmen came from, but she didn’t know. She said they just appeared. ‘Bums, the both of them,’ that’s what she said. After that the street kind of quieted down and her soaps come on about that time anyway.”

  “So the curtain swished.”

  Cookie smiled.

  I thanked her and I meant it.

  “Text me, I’ll be happy to do whatever,” Cookie said. “I’m studying for an exam, but it’s in the bag, so no worries, I’ll be there. I’ve got nothing better to do.”

  She said that last part with her eyes looking away from me. I know Cookie from way back. We met in kindergarten, been best friends ever since. I know when Cookie gets into a mood and I know when it’s time to listen.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “I know better. What’s up.” I waited. “Say something. Anything.”

  “What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I do anything right? Why can’t I find someone who likes me for me? Like Denny loves you, for instance. Why can’t I create? Build a life? Be someone?”

  “You are building a life. Look at you, a graduate student at Columbia, a figure I’d die for, my best friend, giving me information that those NYPD boobs couldn’t find out.” I went on and on, told her how much our friendship meant to me, how smart she was, blah, blah, blah, but it was like talking to a rock. Then it hit me. “I thought you had a date tonight.”

  “He cancelled.”

  I thought she was going to cry. I thought I was going to cry.

  Ralph Didn’t Want to Do It

  The bridge had lots of honking, wise guys beeping and cutting Ralph off, a few getting out and standing up, adjusting themselves and squinting ahead at the long row of cars. One jerk inched past him in a lane only he could see. Ralph wanted to smash him good, but instead he squeezed the wheel. He didn’t even raise his fist, kept his cool, just like Arrow told him.

  “No rush now, the boss doesn’t expect us for a few hours. And you know he wants us to get rid of the kid. Can’t have no kids hanging around.” Arrow brought a six-pack with him and was already flipping the top on the third can. Ralph knew they’d be stopping soon, if they ever got off the bridge.

  The tunnel made Ralph’s eyes weep. It always did. It was wall to wall and it smelled, but once they were through, they moved real good, traveling nice through the Meadowlands on the old road Ralph knew almost by heart. Ralph knew the area. This time of year the grass was light green and there were lots of birds, white ones and gray ones, and flowers, pink and yellow ones. To his right he saw big white oil drums with silver pipes going this way and that, flames shooting out of the tops. Smelled almost as bad as Arrow’s farts.

  Arrow told him to take the access road ahead. Here’s where he was going to do Charlie, Ralph knew it, but he kept calm, gave nothing away except for his palms got sweaty and he felt his balls shrinking. He looked in the rear view mirror. Charlie was asleep.

  Ralph kept his foot on the pedal, planning. It was Arrow or Charlie. He had to use every part of his head to think.

  “Why so quiet? Aren’t you proud of yourself? We done it, man!”

  Ralph said nothing.

  They had to stop once to clear junk off the road, pieces of tire and rotting boat and rusty tin cans. Ralph looked at the boat moored in the grass, one side caved in, a ragged flag hanging from its stern.

  “Oh, now I get it. You don’t want to lose Charlie. Don’t be so glum. He won’t feel a thing, I’m telling you. I’ll fill him with the stuff and he won’t even wake up. Look at the little bugger, sleeping now. Almost gone as it is. What chance does the little guy have? Think of him, don’t be so selfish, man. You, you’re going to mess up his head, don’t you see. Besides, the boss told me to get rid of him, so we gotta do it. Think about it, what are we going to do with a kid hanging around us all the time? Be over in a second. If it’s any better, put me and him out of the car and drive away, round the corner or something and hang out. Don’t have to do a thing, don’t have to even see. Let me handle it.”

  Ralph gripped the wheel, looked straight ahead, said nothing. In his head, he could feel Charlie’s soft flesh. It wasn’t fair to make Ralph let Charlie go now. Not now when he was so close.

  “Slow down. There’s a spot up ahead. Over there. See it?”

  So Ralph slowed down and parked in the carved-out rim of a hill. They were next to the marsh and when he killed the engine, two white birds lifted, flying high, skimming the top of their car, playing on the currents of air, their legs dangling behind them.

  Ralph opened the back door and lifted Charlie out, holding him in his arms, his head flopping to the side. He could feel the boy’s breath on the underside of his forearm. So soft. He felt himself get hard. Ralph didn’t want to do it, but he knew he had to.

  The Clark Street Station

  I felt the rumble of the N train passing deep beneath my feet as I rounded into Clark Street and banged my way into the station. It see
med to retain the heat of the subway on warm afternoons, and I smelled grease and sweat and cleaning fluid.

  I recognized the seller at the flower stall, a sweet Asian woman. She was closing down her shop for the evening.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  But she seemed not to hear. She kept me waiting several long seconds before she swiveled around as if I were invading her space. My presence wasn’t welcomed, that’s for sure. But I didn’t blame her. She was on her way out, probably had lots to do at home, a hungry family to feed, a grumpy husband, the full catastrophe.

  “Sorry, we’re closed.”

  Sensing my unmoving presence, she turned to face me, one hand on the metal shutter, her shoulder sort of steadying it. “My, what happened to your eye?”

  “Long story. I don’t want to buy flowers today.” I heard the shutter slip down into place, the bolt of the lock snap shut. “I used to see a woman here, older. I think she loved your flowers, but I don’t think she worked for you.”

  She frowned just as I heard the elevator discharge twenty-five or thirty passengers buffeting one another. They thundered through the lobby toward the exit. I heard snatches of conversation as they walked through the slipstream of subway grit and into the cool spring evening.

  “She might have been a frequent customer,” the florist said. “It may surprise you, but we have a lot of them. My husband and I have had the concession for years.”

  “And you’ve worked here how long?”

  “Not usually. I keep the books and do the paperwork. You’d be surprised all the things you need to do if you have a concession. My husband keeps the shop. You may remember him. Tall, dark skin, turban? You can’t miss him, but he’s home with the flu this week, so I’ve been covering for him. He may know the lady.”

  “Anyway, would you mind looking at a picture of her?” Before she could object, I whipped out Cookie’s drawing and held it out. She squinted in the bad light and shook her head, determined not to know her. I thanked her for her time and walked to the ticket booth.

  After I stood there for a minute, the agent looked up from whatever it was she was doing. I waited for her to recognize me like I was ruining her break or something. I gave her my spiel. I don’t know why, but I decided to show her the photos, maybe because people seemed to be having problems with the drawing if they weren’t standing in bright light.

  She took my phone and fingered through the photos, a grimace spreading over her face. She wrinkled her nose. “What you doin, girl, showing me dead folks? Trying to spook me out good?”

  “Have you ever seen the woman?”

  She shook her head. “Might have, but I don’t know her, that’s sure, not enough to say hello or nothing.” She handed back my phone. “You need your pass updated or not?”

  “Sorry, I’m in your way. It’s just that this woman’s body was dumped on the sidewalk near my house, if you can imagine that. Freaked me out. I called the police and they’re taking care of the body, but no one knows who she is. Imagine if it were your mom? She just disappears one day and no one knows where she went. I have such problems with it. Maybe because … I don’t know.”

  “Let me see those pictures again.”

  This time she looked at the photos, swiping her finger back and forth on the screen, her head nodding. “Seen her around, that’s sure, but can’t say as I know her name. Did you ask the florist? Always around there, that’s sure.” She made a call and in a few minutes, a man wearing a Day-Glo vest came out, stowed his cleaning gear in the closet and sauntered over.

  “What’s up?” He smiled at the agent.

  “Show him,” she said, gesturing to my phone.

  After I taught him how to swipe the screen and enlarge the picture, he looked at the photos.

  “Check out the ring,” the agent yelled through her speak hole.

  The man bobbed his head several times. “Seen her before. Name’s Mary, I think,” the service cleaner said. “That’s right. Friendly and all.” He stared at the screen for a time, blinked. “Always says hello, asks how the family is. Once, she had some pretty flowers in her hand. Put one in my button hole. Real nice lady, yes, ma’am.”

  The agent nodded. “Lives around here,” she said.

  “Do you know where?”

  They shook their heads.

  But still I felt a sliver, a small brush of something. That’s how it began, I remembered from my cases at Brown’s. Cracking the case began with a lot of leg work before there was an inkling, a small step forward, then another, and a third before a picture started to form, fuzzy at first. I didn’t want to think about the dead ends, the dog-tired, back-breaking thankless work. The trick was to let go of preconceptions and keep at it. But at this moment, I’d gotten something. I hadn’t been wrong, I’d seen her at the Clark Street Station.

  “She don’t ride the rails, that’s sure.” The transit workers looked at each other and laughed.

  I thanked both of them for their time, gave the agent my cell phone number in case she thought of something or wanted an update and left.

  Meeting Barbara

  Outside, I breathed almost fresh air and looked to the west and the sky all orange and red. I smelled newly mown grass, the first cut of the season. Random shards of light full of energy bounced around the neighborhood’s smooth surfaces. It was the last hurrah of the setting sun, a blast of light. I held a hand over my bad eye and looked at my watch. It took me several seconds to focus on the minute hand. I had fifteen minutes to do something about my throbbing head and get to Third Place in time for dinner. Two hours of work and no information to show for it. I’d struck out.

  As I walked away with my hand on my eye, I almost missed seeing it, a car careening into the block and coming to a halt across from the station, hazards flashing and a tallish woman, dressed in a light blue pantsuit fell out and flew across the street, her keys jingling, her purse rocking back and forth from the strap on her shoulder. I doubled back and tried to catch her.

  “Oh my God. Sweet Jesus, where could they be?” she screamed. “My mother. My child. Where are they?” She twirled around and slammed her fists into flower shop’s steel shutters.

  “Somebody, anybody!”

  Definitely ballistic.

  By this time I’d caught up with her. “Hold on. Calm down.”

  She whirled on me and glared.

  “No, I’m sorry. I hate it when someone says that to me.”

  The exchange seemed to bring her back to herself.

  “I can’t find my mother. She’s got my son.”

  “Describe her. Older woman?”

  She nodded.

  “Hair color?”

  I could see the two transit workers watching us. Some stragglers emerging from the subway cut a wide swath around us.

  “Blonde. No, gray and blonde.”

  “Fixed in a bun?”

  She nodded. “With a child, four years old. She’s got my son. I left him with her this morning. The school I take him to has had an outbreak of the flu and I didn’t want Charlie to catch it, so I brought him here, before I drove back to work in Manhattan. They’re not at home. Her car’s in the garage. No sign. No note. Not home. Waited an hour for them. This is so not like her. She should be home! My baby! My baby’s with her.”

  My head pounded, my eye throbbed, I had to pee, and I felt so bad for the woman. I had to tell her about her mother, but I had to know for certain we were talking about the same person before I told her anything.

  “I might know something.” I rummaged in my purse, brought out my wallet and showed her my ID and badge.

  Her voice rose. “What do you mean, you might know something. Either you know something or you don’t know anything. Are you stupid? If you think you’re going to get money from me—”

  I crossed my arms and looked into her face. “A photo. I need a photo of your mother before I say anything more. Do you have one?”

  She started rooting through her purse for her wallet, whimpering
, the tears spilling from her eyes.

  I knew. Oh God, I knew. I was staring at a slightly younger version of the dead woman. My stomach took a dive when she held up the photo.

  There was no easing into this awful truth so I spit it out as gently as I could. “I have bad news. Your mother’s dead and she died under unusual circumstances.”

  She stared at me, not comprehending.

  “No. This isn’t happening. My mother’s not dead. You’re wrong. She’s in perfect health. She’ll be home any minute.”

  She started for the door.

  I knew I’d have to say this over and over, but I caught her elbow and explained to her how I’d found the body of her mother a few hours ago in front of my home. It looked like she’d been murdered elsewhere and her body moved.

  Her eyes were wide as she stared at me in disbelief.

  I continued. “When we found the body, there was no identification. Because I thought I recognized her face and may have seen her in the Clark Street Station a few times—”

  “Yes, the flower stand inside. A thing with her, a crazy thing, she talks to people about flowers like she’s some sort of crazy.”

  “I’ve been trying to find out who she was and send ID to—”

  “Not happening!” She stopped.

  “Is there someplace we can go? Where do you live?”

  “Cobble Hill.”

  “Your mother, where did she live?”

  “How could this happen? Not my son, too. Not him, too?”

  She was wild, sitting on the floor in the station and pulling me down by the sleeve.

  In my head I had this weird image of a crowd watching us rolling around on the floor.

  “Your son wasn’t with your mother, at least not when we found her body.”

  “My son, don’t you see? But what’s happened to him? Oh my God!”

  She screamed and now people did stop and stare at us but I gave them the look of ashcans and they strutted out of the station with their heads down.