Missing Brandy (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 2) by Susan Russo Anderson Page B
Authors: Susan Russo Anderson
Tags: Kidnapping
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a group. They’d walk down Hicks or Henry, traveling in a pack, sometimes back to the Liam house. No, the afternoon wouldn’t do.
Ben told him he needed a key to the plan. He needed a way in.
Before the girl went to school, the lawyer left the house at six ten or six fifteen. And before that, a woman would arrive, usually by five fifty. She was tall, a willowy brunette, and she wore a brown coat. She wore the same coat rain or shine, hot or cold. Nothing fancy, but not shabby either. A few minutes after the lawyer got home in the early evening, sometimes later, the door would open, and the willowy woman would leave. A servant, probably a housekeeper, he guessed. She was important, Ben told him, the key. So he began watching the house, too, waiting for the willowy woman while he ran by with whoever else happened to be running by, too, on their way to the Promenade. His cover. He didn’t stop at the house, but circled around the block. He’d see the housekeeper arrive with the morning sun while the limo waited for the lawyer. They’d wave to each other, the housekeeper and the driver, and the woman would take out her key and enter the lawyer’s house. Then Liam would get into the black car and disappear.
Sometimes in the evening, the housekeeper would stand on the stoop and talk to the lawyer, then flap a hand in the air, her back bent in a self-deprecatory farewell, and walk swiftly toward the subway entrance and the setting sun. There was something about the housekeeper that made Henry feel sad.
It took him a while to figure out that she had a day off once a week. But that day would change. Sometimes her off day was a string of Wednesdays. Abruptly it would move to Thursday or Tuesday. But always one and only one day off a week. Never on the weekends and never on Monday or Friday. On special occasions, either an important holiday or for no discernible reason, there were others who came to the house about midday. Servants like the housekeeper, he guessed, maybe to help with a party or to do a spring cleaning. The rich often had their houses scrubbed top to bottom. Invariably the days of multiple servants would be on a Monday, Friday, or Saturday, but each time, the housekeeper would let them in.
“She’s your wedge,” he heard Ben say. Ben was right. He needed the housekeeper.
When he’d had enough of watching the house, he followed the willowy woman to the Clark Street Station and took the Downtown N with her, hopping onto a different car, but all the while watching her through the window. When she transferred to the D train, so did he. He got off with her at Seventy-Ninth Street in Bensonhurst. Like a thin herd of cattle, the riders pounded up the steps. It was February, and the roads were slick, the few pedestrians burrowed into themselves. He followed her to the shops on Eighteenth Avenue. When she walked into an old-fashioned mom-and-pop grocery store and butcher shop, so did he. It was like that for months. Maybe close to a year. Once she nodded to him, and he froze, then smiled back. But he made sure he kept out of sight for months after that. He followed her home each night, stood behind a tree across the street, waiting like some pervert as she entered her building, his fingers frozen or his ears filled with sweat or ooze from the sky. And all the while, Henry planned.
Chapter 10
Fina. Evening One, Trisha Liam’s Study, Continued
I let Trisha Liam have her moment. If I had a daughter and she was missing, I’d be screaming. I’d break several bones of whoever else was in the room. “Then your housekeeper will have to let me in,” I said, scratching a note to myself.
“You have carte blanche,” she said, “and don’t forget to take Mitch’s satchel.” She reached underneath the desk and pulled out a large briefcase, whacking it onto the desk. “Haven’t touched whatever’s inside.” She put her nose to the leather, breathed in, and that started a fresh load of tears.
Her husband’s
Ben told him he needed a key to the plan. He needed a way in.
Before the girl went to school, the lawyer left the house at six ten or six fifteen. And before that, a woman would arrive, usually by five fifty. She was tall, a willowy brunette, and she wore a brown coat. She wore the same coat rain or shine, hot or cold. Nothing fancy, but not shabby either. A few minutes after the lawyer got home in the early evening, sometimes later, the door would open, and the willowy woman would leave. A servant, probably a housekeeper, he guessed. She was important, Ben told him, the key. So he began watching the house, too, waiting for the willowy woman while he ran by with whoever else happened to be running by, too, on their way to the Promenade. His cover. He didn’t stop at the house, but circled around the block. He’d see the housekeeper arrive with the morning sun while the limo waited for the lawyer. They’d wave to each other, the housekeeper and the driver, and the woman would take out her key and enter the lawyer’s house. Then Liam would get into the black car and disappear.
Sometimes in the evening, the housekeeper would stand on the stoop and talk to the lawyer, then flap a hand in the air, her back bent in a self-deprecatory farewell, and walk swiftly toward the subway entrance and the setting sun. There was something about the housekeeper that made Henry feel sad.
It took him a while to figure out that she had a day off once a week. But that day would change. Sometimes her off day was a string of Wednesdays. Abruptly it would move to Thursday or Tuesday. But always one and only one day off a week. Never on the weekends and never on Monday or Friday. On special occasions, either an important holiday or for no discernible reason, there were others who came to the house about midday. Servants like the housekeeper, he guessed, maybe to help with a party or to do a spring cleaning. The rich often had their houses scrubbed top to bottom. Invariably the days of multiple servants would be on a Monday, Friday, or Saturday, but each time, the housekeeper would let them in.
“She’s your wedge,” he heard Ben say. Ben was right. He needed the housekeeper.
When he’d had enough of watching the house, he followed the willowy woman to the Clark Street Station and took the Downtown N with her, hopping onto a different car, but all the while watching her through the window. When she transferred to the D train, so did he. He got off with her at Seventy-Ninth Street in Bensonhurst. Like a thin herd of cattle, the riders pounded up the steps. It was February, and the roads were slick, the few pedestrians burrowed into themselves. He followed her to the shops on Eighteenth Avenue. When she walked into an old-fashioned mom-and-pop grocery store and butcher shop, so did he. It was like that for months. Maybe close to a year. Once she nodded to him, and he froze, then smiled back. But he made sure he kept out of sight for months after that. He followed her home each night, stood behind a tree across the street, waiting like some pervert as she entered her building, his fingers frozen or his ears filled with sweat or ooze from the sky. And all the while, Henry planned.
Chapter 10
Fina. Evening One, Trisha Liam’s Study, Continued
I let Trisha Liam have her moment. If I had a daughter and she was missing, I’d be screaming. I’d break several bones of whoever else was in the room. “Then your housekeeper will have to let me in,” I said, scratching a note to myself.
“You have carte blanche,” she said, “and don’t forget to take Mitch’s satchel.” She reached underneath the desk and pulled out a large briefcase, whacking it onto the desk. “Haven’t touched whatever’s inside.” She put her nose to the leather, breathed in, and that started a fresh load of tears.
Her husband’s
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