Free Whiskey’s Gone (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 3) by Susan Russo Anderson Page A

office manager. His father had said as much in the phone call, but told Denny the story from the old man’s point of view—was there any other—their tenant was missing, the stubborn redhead wasn’t calling it in, and how would it look if he, a retired officer of the law, hadn’t done the right thing? The old man had a point. And not for nothing, he sounded worried. All he asked was that Denny call someone at the precinct, give them a heads-up about the missing woman. “That blonde detective, Templeton, she’d be the one to call,” he’d suggested. Weren’t they friends? He’d heard, the old man had, that the female dick had a soft spot for Denny, always asking for his help. So why shouldn't Denny ask for hers? Then he started talking about the woman’s kid. Denny remembered the girl from a Saturday morning breakfast when he’d stopped by, his regular visit, to stoke up on his mother’s cooking: the girl had been sitting next to his father in Denny’s usual spot. The old man was nuts for her, claimed he didn’t want the kid to get hurt. So he, Denny, had called Jane.
    Afterward, he’d stayed in the cabin instead of fishing. Said he wasn’t feeling well. Coughed to prove it. He had to decide. The best thing to do was to call Fina right away and tell her. Leave a message if she didn’t answer this time. He punched in her number and listened to her canned greeting. Maybe she already knew about his call to Jane. Maybe she saw his name flash across her screen and didn’t pick up. So he didn’t leave a message.
    Enough. He’d had it with the Maine woods. He left a note, threw his pack in the trunk, and careened out of the drive onto the highway. If he didn’t stop, except for gas, he could make it in seven, eight hours.

Brandy

    Lorraine was busy in the kitchen. I had a few more hours, so I decided to head back to Liam, Trueblood & Wolsey and talk to whoever was there as well as snoop through Whiskey’s things.
    The office staff were still buzzing about or had their heads deep into their computer screens—some work going on, but mostly late afternoon activity, Twitter and Facebook and YouTube—but I found Trisha Liam’s door open. She was surrounded by a group of teens and she was shaking her head. Brandy, Trisha’s thirteen-year-old daughter, and her friends. I smelled books and sweat and old socks. A few of them wore Parker Collegiate hoodies.
    Brandy was smiling, her feet rocking to the sides of her shoes. It was the first I’d seen her since her ordeal a couple of months ago. She’d changed, but not by much. Cleaner for one thing, and her wounds had healed, but she wore that same lime green hoodie I remembered from the last time. She had that same elfin grin and eye sparkle. A slew of words streamed from her. Not surprising. I heard snatches of the conversation and watched Trisha Liam, hunched a little in the shoulders and shaking her head. “We don’t know where she is.”
    “Aren’t you going to call Fina?”
    “She’s already on it.”
    “Can’t we help?” Brandy asked.
    “Nothing you can do, I’m afraid.”
    Brandy turned to me when I entered and hugged me with her eyes. She was way too cool to cling to an old lady like me when she was with her friends.
    “How do you know Whiskey?” I asked.
    Brandy shrugged. “We know Maddie. She’s cool, and her mom is, too. I like her.”
    “We all do,” a girl said, her voice soft in contrast to Brandy’s. I’d recognize her anywhere. I said hello to Heather, Brandy’s best friend, whom I’d met on the last case, and watched the window light turn her silky black hair into shades of blue and red.
    “Yeah, Whiskey used to live close to us in Cobble Hill,” a lanky girl said. She had caramel eyes and a wide smile. “And she used to read to kids on Saturday mornings at the BookCourt. She was real good, not like some of the other readers.” She looked at Heather, who crossed her arms and nodded.
    One of Brandy’s other friends, a boy