Free Missing Brandy (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 2) by Susan Russo Anderson Page B

thought Ben might be losing his mind. He couldn’t be sure of him any longer. He was becoming a hazard.
    Henry looked up over his shoulder. If only he could be sure about the tugboat crew. He walked over to the other side, careful to hold onto the cars, trying to imagine the sightlines from the tug’s wheelhouse. Maybe he could lure Ben to stand between two cars. One swift blow to the back of his head, that’s all it would take. He walked back and stood behind Ben and leaned in closer. One tap, no suffering. And it wasn’t like Ben had anything to live for. No wife, no job, not a real one, no memory of a dead son to assuage. After this whole thing was over, he’d go to Switzerland and grow his consulting company, make a new life. He raised the hammer high over the bald spot on Ben’s head. The barge lurched, and Henry almost lost his balance. The moment passed.

Chapter 14

    Henry. That Morning, The Farmhouse

    Coming into his farmhouse after the grueling drive, Henry Gruber hunched his shoulders, looking at the familiar carpet. He pulled on his nose, glad the ordeal was over. As he went from room to room checking everything on the first floor, he caught sight of himself in the dining room mirror with its heavy gilt frame. It hung over the mahogany buffet and had done since his childhood. His curls fell dangerously close to his collar. He’d have to get a haircut soon. He felt dirty from the drive, unworthy to be in his grandfather’s house. After he got the girl into her room, he’d take a shower, but the haircut would have to wait until the girl was off his hands.
    Ben came into the dining room, rubbing his hands. “Show me the roof. You keep telling me you’ll take me up there, but you don’t.”
    It was as if nothing had happened between them, no abduction, no arguments, no girl in the trunk. Ben Small was full of energy and delight, as if he were a tourist in a new world. Still … Ben’s enthusiasm gave Henry new determination.
    The farmhouse was built in the 1880s. It was set fairly close to the highway, an ominous presence people could see as they drove by. It was a white clapboard Victorian monstrosity, big and square, with a round turret in the front projecting from the third floor and a widow’s walk on the roof. Inside, the rooms were large and square with high ceilings and crown molding and narrow passageways leading to the kitchen and the back of the house. There were two stairwells, one in the back, which led to the attic and small garret where Henry planned to keep the girl. The main staircase of dark carved wood stood lofty and imposing off the grand entryway. It wound up to the second floor and to the large study and library his father built on the third floor.
    Henry pictured the lawyer sleepless and alone, in agony, pitchforks from hell pricking her conscience over her daughter. After she paid up, after she’d suffered enough—not like he’d suffered—he’d give her back her daughter, but he’d take his time. He knew how to do it. He wanted the ordeal to haunt her for the rest of her life. He knew he had to inflict deep pain, almost to the point of killing her daughter, but not quite. He wasn’t a beast, after all. He had a plan, and so far, it was working, smooth and trouble free, except for Ben. He’d do something about Ben after he settled the girl, should have done so on the scow, but there’d be another time, a better moment, one he’d carefully orchestrate, just like he’d done with the capture. He’d sit in the library and look out over the land. He felt safe in the house, his mind back to normal, wrapped in the presence of his father. He knew he could do no wrong. He knew his father would guide him.
    When he came to this country in the 1930s, Henry’s grandfather settled in Central New Jersey. He bought the house and two barns. He farmed the land and raised four children. Henry met him once, or maybe it was just his imagination. An old-world figure, his grandfather’s