Whiskey’s Gone (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 3) (32 page)

He gazed at the photo, shaking his head.

“Star Newcomb, a poor excuse for a painter, I might add. Oh, he has talent, all right, but talent isn’t everything. He thinks about the money too much. Success. So what good is a painting without character? The woman with him, the woman being dragged up the stairs, she had brown curls, just like the woman in your picture. Yes, I’d say I saw her with Star Newcomb.” He stared at the image again. “I can say for certain it was the woman. A lawyer, the kind Star Newcomb would hire, he’d dispute my ability to identify her. Never mind that. I saw her and hid it from you. So what will you do, lock me up?”

“You had a lapse of memory. Understandable,” I said, nodding to the piano man and motioning to Denny. “It can all be rectified if you give me the key to his studio.”

“But I don’t have—” He stopped mid-sentence. “There I go again with the ready lie. And you will ask yourself why I didn’t rescue her, why I hadn’t called the police.”

I held my palm out to him and waited.

He obliged. “He has my key, too, in case of a fire or if my children can’t find me, you know what I mean.”

We left, thanking him, promising not to use the key unless we had to.

Splintering Light

We ran down the hall, sliding into the turn, Denny talking to Jane on his cell.

“We can’t wait for her. We’ve got to rescue Whiskey now. She’s been here all this time.”

“You sure?”

I didn’t reply.

“But why Star Newcomb?”

“Later,” I said, not knowing how to answer him. That is, I knew why Star Newcomb took Whiskey Parnell—or I thought I did—but I didn’t have time to explain.

Denny pounded on the door. “Open up!”

Not a sound. My heart was hammering, my curls kinking, water dripping down my neck. I put my ear to the metal door and squeezed my eyes shut as if by doing so, I could will Star Newcomb to appear.

“He won’t be here now,” Denny said. “Give me the key.”

I handed it to him, asking him not to use it yet. I looked at my phone’s screen. It was six thirty-seven.

“If he’s holding her in his studio, he’ll be here—too afraid to leave her alone. If he doesn’t answer in two minutes, we’ll use the key.”

The thick metal door tore at my knuckles. I stopped pounding long enough to blow on my hands, which did nothing except give me another chance to catch my breath.

“I hear something,” Denny said, his ear to the door.

“My breathing, maybe.”

We waited.

“Jane should be here any minute,” he whispered. Dust swam in a shaft of light from the window in back of us.

“What good will she do?”

Denny cocked his head and gave me a look.

Then we heard footsteps coming from inside, the tumble of locks.

Denny drew his Glock and hid it in the pocket of his jacket.

The door opened a crack, and I saw a wedge of Star Newcomb’s face.

“Don’t you know what time it is?” His hair was disheveled. His eyes darted from side to side, and his body was shaking.

“Whiskey’s here,” I said.

Star Newcomb hesitated a second too long. “You’re crazy.”

“You won’t mind if we talk to her.”

“Leave now or I’ll call the police.”

“We just want to say hello.”

The crazed artist tried to shut the door, not a good move because Denny, who’d wedged half his body inside, gave him a shove.

Star fell backward, hitting the couch, teetering until he steadied himself with the help of a long wooden stretcher he grabbed from a nearby tabletop.

“It’s over, Star.”

He could bring us up on a number of charges—home invasion sprang to mind—but I didn’t care. We had Trisha Liam on our side.

“Whiskey?” I yelled, stepping toward Star, who was using the stretcher as a cane.

“I saved her!” He gnawed on a fingernail, looking like a mad bishop stabbing the floor with his crozier. He backed away from me.

I stepped toward him, hearing muffled sounds. “Saved her from what?”

“From them.”

I said nothing, moving forward.

“They took Arthur. They were going to take her, too, but I swept her up and ran. Sneaked into the alley. Found a dumpster. I threw her in and jumped in after her. We piled debris on top of us, wet cardboard, rotting food smelling of vomit, pieces of plasterboard. We heard them getting closer, shouting. Something bumped against the dumpster.”

He stopped talking, limping backward.

I took a few steps toward him. “Where are you keeping her?”

“We stayed still, covered in the junk of the world for hours. I saved her.”

His eyes bulged, his face was a beet, and he was drooling. “They would have killed her.”

“What about her child?”

He stepped toward the back, the stretcher clunking on the floor. “Whiskey is posing for me, that’s all that matters. A perfect model, an arresting face. My muse. In a few months, I’ll create a masterpiece, and then another and another. The world will see.”

His eyes were wild.

More sounds coming from the interior.

I tried to step around him.

With that, Star Newcomb grabbed me and spun me around so I faced Denny. The crook of the madman’s arm locked into my neck, the tip of the stretcher, hard as a rock, pressed against my temple. “I saved her.”

I gasped for air, watching Denny’s eyes pop as he stood facing us, helpless, hands at his sides.

“Saved her from what, Star?” Denny asked, his right hand slowly moving toward his pocket.

“Don’t move or I press this stretcher into your little lady’s brains.”

“Give up now, Star.” Denny’s voice was steady. “The police will be here any moment. We’ll tell them you saved Whiskey, but her little girl needs her. Think of Maddie.”

He tightened his grip.

“Think of your career, Star,” I gasped. “You’re too good.” My heart was pounding. Star Newcomb’s arm was crushing into me. Hard to breathe.

“Not too late to let her go.”

Running feet. Banging on the door.

“Police, open up.”

More banging.

Everything receding. Numb.

All at once, a blue herd in riot gear appeared as Jane, Willoughby, and several uniforms flew in.

“Get out or I’ll kill her. I’ll kill them both,” Star Newcomb yelled.

I felt myself being dragged away.

“Give up now, Star Newcomb.”

I heard glass breaking from somewhere high above. Shards from a broken skylight crashed to the floor as the room filled with light and more uniforms. When he released me, I gulped in freedom, air, life.

A policewoman cuffed Star while Jane told him they were arresting him for kidnapping and Willoughby Mirandized him.

“I saved her, I saved her.” Star muttered the words like a mantra.

I ran to Denny. “She’s here. I know she is.”

Denny held onto me as we waded through garbage toward the sounds coming from the back.

It seemed to take us forever. We stumbled over debris and broken glass. With each step, the cries grew louder. I heard furious kicking. We picked up the pace, calling Whiskey’s name.

Then I saw the door. I remembered it from my first visit and the scratching sounds coming from behind. Rodents, Star had said. Fool, I’m such a fool. I bit back my guilt and twisted the knob. Locked.

“Open this door!” I banged on the wood.

“Where’s the key?”

Incoherent crying from Star.

Denny and two others used stretchers to ram the door.

It splintered and the lock gave way and a stench hit us “Mother of God,” someone muttered.

Whiskey Parnell lay on the floor of Star’s closet, gagged, ankles tied, hands taped behind her back. A lock of her hair fell onto her forehead. She squinted up at me. Her face, neck, and clothes were filthy, her cheeks caked with dried tears and dirt, but she was alive.

I sat her on a rickety chair while the police untied her. She was shivering, so I looked around and found a piece of canvas. After shaking it out, I draped the cloth around her shoulders.

Whiskey rocked back and forth. She spit out something from her mouth. “Maddie? Tell me she’s okay. Tell me they didn’t take her.” She wiped her face on her sleeve.

They took Whiskey to the Brooklyn Hospital Center. Nurses and orderlies whisked her into a spacious room with a view of Brooklyn and the harbor, where the green lady held her torch high.

Whiskey insisted she was fine. She said she’d be better if it weren’t for all the bums in her life, and kept asking to see her daughter. Doctors and nurses did their thing, taking her temperature, bringing her orange juice, attaching her to the IV and whatever other machines they could dig up.

While we stood around her bed, Lorraine and Robert entered. Maddie led the way, shaking an eight-year-old finger at her mother. “Don’t you ever do that again!” Crying and holding out her arms, she ran to her mother and hugged her.

Several Weeks Later

Epilogue

We’d all been invited to the Saturday morning breakfast at the McDuffys—me and Denny, Jane and Willoughby, Tommy Marsh and Bertha, Cookie and Clancy, and of course the guests of honor, Whiskey and Maddie. While we squeezed around the porch table, Lorraine and Denny brought in steaming platters of scrambled eggs, buttered toast, and raspberry jam. I smelled bacon and freshly brewed coffee. The morning light obliged, doing its crisp fall dance on plates, cups, and glasses. Lorraine’s highbrow music played softly in the background, and I pictured the piano man.

As we started eating, I was still glowing from the successful finish of the case. Seeing the happiness of a daughter whose mother had been returned to the living was reward enough for me, although earning a hearty fee didn’t hurt. For once, my manners were perfect, keeping my left hand and napkin in my lap.

Sitting next to her mom, Maddie stared at Tommy Marsh and his girlfriend, Bertha, a Brighton Beach version of a football in a dress. They sat across from Whiskey, obviously relieved at her return. After every bite of toast, Bertha patted the corners of her mouth with her napkin while Maddie stared at her.

“Pass your Aunt Bertha the butter,” Tommy said.

“Pass it yourself,” Maddie said, shoving her hands into her pockets.

“Maddie …” Whiskey said. Her face had a faraway look.

“Sorry, Mom. Here, Bertha.”

“By the way, sis, was that you who called me in the middle of the night?”

Whiskey stared at the table.

Maddie glared at him. “Of course it was, you idiot.” She looked up at her mom.

Slowly Whiskey focused. “I tried my best to talk to you without actually holding the phone to my ear. Arthur was in one of his moods, crazed. I didn’t know what he was going to do next.”

I put down my fork.

“He said he needed money and would I lend him some and where was my bank, so at first, while he held onto my arm and shoved me down the street, I kept talking like I usually do.”

“He’s been like that before?”

“What do you think, you moron?” Maddie asked.

Something in Whiskey woke up. “Maddie!” she boomed.

Maddie beamed. “Sorry, Mom.”

Lorraine smiled.

“So go on,” I prompted. “You were telling him about your phone call.”

“Him?”

“Uncle Tommy. You were telling him the story of your kidnapping,” Maddie said.

Willoughby took a second helping of scrambled while Jane looked on.

“I tried calling you without being obvious, so I punched in your number, popped on the speaker, and shoved the phone in my pocket while Arthur was pulling me toward Sovereign’s ATM. But you kept asking if it was me.”

Maddie said something under her breath. It sounded like jerk.

“But I ended the call because Arthur, for all his weirdness, was catching on to what I was doing, asking who I was talking to and demanding my cell.”

“So he took your phone?” Robert asked.

Whiskey shrugged. “Later, after I gave Arthur the money, a car pulled up and some jerk grabbed me, and I don’t know what happened to the phone. All I remember is this huge struggle, and Star appeared as if by magic and saved me. He saved me all right, but now he’s in jail.”

No one spoke for minute except for Whiskey, who kept insisting Star had saved her life, even though “he turned all weird,” as she put it. She told us she knew how to handle him and she would have been free in a while without our help, but she didn’t know how long it would have taken.

Maddie rolled her eyes.

I didn’t say anything, but I knew that victims fall in love with their captors, if you can call what Star did to Whiskey an act of love. If you can call anything love. I felt my stomach elevator fly up until I looked at Denny and remembered last night. A warm glow filled me, and I forgot to be worried or whatever it is you call the feeling that hits you when you think about loved ones leaving. I knew now I loved him and rested my head on his shoulder for a second.

Willoughby shoveled more egg onto his plate. “It took us a while, but in the end, we found you.”

“We?” Denny asked.

Jane shook her head. “Give the devil her due; it was Fina who found Whiskey. She never gave up. We helped by finding Flossie.”

“I had lots of help, but talking to Flossie and discovering the list in Finn Trueblood’s book made it come together for me.” I turned to Whiskey. “And don’t forget Maddie and Trisha Liam and Brandy. They never gave up on you.”

Jane sipped her juice.

“Trisha Liam knew you’d never no-show for work,” I said, “not without telling someone, and she fought Seymour Wolsey all the way, getting me involved that first morning. Your daughter wouldn’t hear of your death, just wouldn’t believe it.”

I thought of Finn Trueblood. In a way, he was his own worst enemy. For starters, he led us to Whiskey. He had to make his scratch, you see, to tell the world what a powerful force he was. That’s why he kept a hit list, I figured, a part of him thinking one day it would be found, and the world would appreciate his power. Of course, the list wouldn’t hold up in court, not with my fingerprints all over it. NYPD’s organized crime bureau would have to find something less tainted, more solid, and I figured Finn Trueblood would work hard to defend himself, him and his fancy band of oily lawyers. Oh, they’d taken Finn in for questioning, all right, but that was all—no judge was going to issue a warrant to search his office or home, not without probable cause.