Missing Brandy (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 2) (19 page)

The bag was one of those sealed plastic jobs with a flashy decal printed on it. The logo read Brite Messenger Service. Reflections from the East River slid over its surface.

“Your usual company?” I asked Trisha.

She shrugged. “I use Court Street Messengers, but Brite delivers from time to time, and I have colleagues who have accounts with them.”

I saw Cookie writing in her notebook and thought I’d better call Jane, so I punched in her number.

Trisha Liam walked to the desk and was reaching out for the bag when I said, “Do me a favor and don’t touch that.”

She frowned, but stopped.

“Just in case,” I added, snapping on some fresh latex gloves and handing her a pair.

She scowled at the gloves, then sat—a little heavily, I thought—before she steeled herself and picked up the bag.

“Is there a restroom I could use?” Cookie asked Phillipa, who had returned to the room and was setting Trisha’s lunch tray down on the desk.

“Show her,” Trisha said while she snapped on her gloves. The lawyer held up one end of the plastic bag between two fingers as if it would explode and examined it. “Addressed to Patricia Liam, Esq.”

“The sooner you open it, the better,” I said, punching Jane’s number into my keypad.

The lawyer tried to rip open the bag, failed, and handed it to me. On the edge of my vision I saw Cookie and Phillipa returning.

“I’m nervous, I guess,” Trisha said. “Not used to the gloves, even though this might have nothing to do with Brandy.”

“It has everything to do with her,” I said, feeling more than just the weight of whatever was inside the bag. My call to Jane was going to voicemail, so I hit End and set my cell on the desk. I tore open the plastic and pulled out the white business envelope inside. No address, no nothing. I held it up to the light and saw the shadow of something inside. My throat got grainy.

I slit it open. It held an 8½ by 11 sheet of paper, probably printed from a word processor, double-spaced, ordinary looking.

Trisha was seated, one hand on her neck while she read. No one moved or made a sound. When she’d finished, she handed me the note. Cookie leaned over my shoulder as I read it:

We have your daughter. If you want her returned, do not involve the law. Transfer $2.5 million to account 7289756, Piet & Cie, Geneva. A deposit of $500,000 is due by noon GMT tomorrow, the remainder in three business days. Upon receipt, she will be released.

My heart pounded as I considered what the note didn’t say. Who is “we”? Where would Brandy be released? Why was the amount so small—as ransoms go.

“My poor girl. My poor Brandy.” Trisha’s hand slid to her chest. She was gasping, and her face was blotched almost as bad as Phillipa’s. I felt pity for her gushing around my innards.

“Jane’s team will have a field day with this,” I said as my phone vibrated on the desk. It was the blonde detective.

“You read it—no police involvement, none!” Trisha said.

Cookie shot me a look.

I shut my eyes and spoke into my cell. “Trisha’s gotten a ransom note.” I told her the particulars. “Don’t worry, we’re not touching anything.” I read her the message, stressing the part about no police involvement, and ended the call.

“What do you know about this?” I asked Phillipa.

I thought she was going to explode, she was shaking so bad. “Nothing, nothing, it was a messenger. I … took it from him. Poor Brandy!”

“Because if you know something more, anything, you’d better tell us now.”

“Why would I, how could I—”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Trisha’s voice was like the hiss of a rattler. “I know you’re trying, even though your attempts up to now have been meager, but you don’t have to play big bad detective. Phillipa cares for Brandy almost as much as I do.”

I felt like I’d been slapped. I stared at the housekeeper, who rubbed her palms against her apron.

As if by a miracle, Phillipa straightened, calmed no doubt by her employer’s remark. “I wish I did. I wish I knew more than I do—I’d tell you in a heartbeat—but I know nothing except a messenger came and—”

“I saw him,” Cookie said, “this morning when I was watching the house. Tall, blond hair, bald spot in the back.”

Phillipa’s eyes widened.

There was more silence. It seemed to envelope the room, seeping into the corners, until Trisha dug out her smartphone and made calculations. She stood, pulling her slacks up to her nonexistent waist, but I noticed her hand shaking as she picked up the desk phone and dialed.

“Who are you calling?” I asked.

“My broker.” The line beeped. “Chad, Trisha here. How many shares of Berkshire Hathaway do I own?” She waited. “Sell ten. That’s right. When will the trade go through?” She looked at her desk calendar, waited a second, and said, “Fine.”

I breathed out. It must be nice—Trisha didn’t even need to work up a sweat—she had $2.5 million at the ready. She tapped her landline’s keypad.

“You’re not going to transfer the money now!”

“Just the $500,000, not that it’s any of your business. I had to sell some stock to raise the rest. It’ll take three business days for the transaction to settle.”

“But you have until noon tomorrow to deposit the $500,000—”

She looked at her watch. “Noon, Greenwich Meantime, remember? Less than eighteen hours from now. This is my daughter we’re talking about, and I’ll do as I damn well please.”

Phillipa looked at her shoes. Cookie shot a glance my way.

Trisha Liam closed her eyes and pressed the mute button. “I’m sorry. You’ve been trying so hard, and I appreciate it.” She slumped into a chair, still holding the receiver. “You’ll find whoever did this to Brandy, I know you will, but all I can think of right now is to throw at them whatever they ask. I just want Brandy back.”

She spoke into the phone. “Ruth, sorry for the delay, it’s Trisha. I need to transfer some funds to a numbered account in Switzerland. Can you handle that for me? … $500,000 … What do you mean I need to sign? Aren’t you my … I see, how stupid of me. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

She cradled the receiver as the doorbell rang. In a few seconds, Jane came bounding into the room and shook a finger at me. “Where is it? You better not have touched anything.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“You think I take orders from abductors? Don’t worry, they won’t know—I parked blocks away—I can be discreet.”

I said nothing.

Trisha shook a finger at the detective. “If my daughter dies, I’ll ruin you.”

Cookie looked from me to Trisha to Jane. The wad of paper towel returned to Phillipa’s mouth.

Scrambling in her bag, Trisha pulled out her car keys. “I’m going to the bank.”

“Let’s see the note,” Jane said.

Trisha ignored her and started for the door.

“We’re going with you,” I said. “You’ll want witnesses when you sign the transfer of funds.”

I watched Trisha’s face working. “The bank will have a notary, but the insurance might want independent witnesses.” She looked at me and Cookie. “You two, with me.”

“The insurance company?”

“Because of the types he usually defended, Mitch bought kidnap and ransom insurance for me and Brandy. After he died, I hesitated when it was time to renew, but I decided as soon as Brandy was a little older, I might want to take her to some dangerous parts of the world, see how others live. So in the end, I kept the policy. Now I’m glad I did.”

It crossed my mind that Brandy might not ever be “a little older,” but I had the grace to keep my trap shut and marveled at the return of Trisha Liam’s calm.

During the lawyer’s explanation, Jane stood unmoving, like an elephant in the room, but too soon she recovered. “I’m taking the ransom note,” she said, swooping it up. “I’ll send a patrol officer with a copy.”

“Not until you write me a receipt, signed and dated,” Trisha said. “Make sure you include the time, and I want the original returned within twenty-four hours. As soon as I call them, the insurance investigators will be knocking on my door—I know how these people work—and they’ll want the original, too.”

“Great. More snoops, just what we need.”

“They’ll work with the FBI agent assigned to the case,” Jane said. “The more the merrier, as long as they keep us in the loop.”

Trisha Liam was in her element, maybe her way of coping with her daughter’s abduction. But I relaxed as well, and I could tell Jane and Cookie did too, and for a couple of reasons. First, the kidnappers wanted money; they weren’t into human trafficking. Second, Trisha was not balking at the amount she had to pay or the time frame in which she had to come up with it.

The only one who still seemed out of sorts was Phillipa. Her complexion was blotchy, her nose was swollen and red, her eyelids almost shut. The photo she’d showed us earlier of Freddy flashed in my mind. Was her spirit more fragile than normal because of her son or because of collusion? On the way out, I told Phillipa I had a few more questions to ask her, nothing pressing, I’d be back.

The way I saw it, the kidnappers had to have inside help, and Phillipa was probably it. I worried over the words of the ransom note—
If you want her returned, do not involve the law
. Or what? Was Phillipa in touch with the kidnappers? Would she tell them about Jane’s presence? I was relying on my sixth sense, which told me to be careful with Phillipa. Once the kidnappers got their money, I didn’t want them to pounce on Brandy. Or on Phillipa. Both lives, I figured, were dangling from a string, and that string was stretched taut and could snap at any moment.

As we walked to the car, I asked Trisha to wait a few seconds. I decided to crank into Jane, because if she thought the heat was off this kidnapping—and I could tell she’d eased up a touch in her mind—I wanted to make sure she reconsidered.

“A straight kidnap for ransom,” I said. “Probably with help from inside.”

Jane narrowed her eyes, said nothing.

“Pay up, and the crooks will spit up. Simple, job done. Is that it?”

Still the detective said nothing, but I sensed her fear returning.

“Unfortunately it doesn’t always work that way, does it? Think about it. What would happen if—”

“You don’t have to spell it out.”

But I did, because sometimes fear sets in only when the words are spoken, so I sallied forth. “I hope Brandy is bright enough not to let on if she knows who her captors are. What do you think would happen to her? What if Trisha Liam pays up, and Brandy’s body is found in a ditch? Or six months from now, her bones—”

“That’s enough!”

“Remember what Trisha said about ruining you. And she can, too.” I held up crossed fingers. “I know she and the chief are like this.”

My good deed done for the day, I walked back to Trisha’s car. But my words hung in my head. I mean, what would happen to my sanity, let alone to my business, to me and Denny, if, in fact, Trisha Liam paid up, and her daughter was found dead or never found at all? That would surely happen if the kidnappers thought the teen recognized them, or if they felt our heat. The Brandy Liam case would gnaw at me forever. In short, all our titties were in a sling.

Chapter 35

Brandy. In Chains

Footsteps outside. It’s the nice one. I feel air instead of a knife blade against my neck. Mr. Mean slinks away. Barf on him forever.

“You yanked my head off, creep.”
Don’t trust that moron runner, either. He just ripped away the tape covering my eyes. Left the zits, of course, but peeled the top layer of skin from my face and tore off a bunch of my curls. Now there are blobs of bright light swimming around when I close my eyes, and my heart is pounding. Dad, you’ve got to get me out of here. I’d look so-called Mr. Nice in the eye, see if I could melt him, but the light’s blinding me.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Tell me another one.”

“We’re going to make a movie, and you’re the star.”

“That’s what they all say.”

I’d better button it up. I’ve decided the less I talk to these jerks, the better off I’ll be. They’re dumber than dumb, believe me, tripping over one another when they’re not fighting. But it’s like this, I was born to talk. Dad used to call me Marathon Mouth. Words come spewing out, I can’t help it. Are you listening? Because I’m talking to you, You. Dad, too. I know you guys can’t answer me, but you’d better not let me down. I guess I could talk to myself, but I’d get tired of listening to all the crap.

Mrs. Coltran says when you talk to yourself, you’re actually talking to your conscience. Her word. In case you didn’t know it, conscience is that still small voice that never leaves. Dad called it my inner voice. He said it’s talking to me all the time if I’d only pay attention to it. Maybe if I’d listened to it the other day, I wouldn’t have gone to the deli, and these bums wouldn’t have nabbed me. My inner voice tells me when I’ve been bad, which is most of the time. Although Mrs. Coltran says if you train it right, it’ll tell you you’re fine just the way you are.

“Look at the camera.”

Him again, giving me orders. So I turn my head and smile, but nothing happens except the bright lights get brighter, then go out. I guess they didn’t like the way I look. First off, I haven’t brushed my hair in forever, forget brushing my teeth, and I’ve been here at least a month, maybe two. I itch and I smell.

“Hold on a moment. We have to do something about the hair.”
The nice one says something to Mr. Mean. He yells back and disappears. The lights go off, and I’m in the dark again.

When they come back on, I have to shut my lids fast or the swimming blobs will get me again. While I try to make them go away, I start in with the questions, but Mr. Nice begins brushing my hair, and I can tell he doesn’t know how to do it.

“Give it to me before you scalp me!”

I do the best I can without a mirror, but I can’t stand it when no one’s talking. So even though they tell me to shut up, I just have to talk. The mean one says I’m a pain. He can’t wait to fix it so I can’t talk anymore. At first he scares me, but what’s he going to do to me, right, Dad? Dad, are you listening? Can you hear me?