Read Whiskey’s Gone (A Fina Fitzgibbons Brooklyn Mystery Book 3) for Free Online Page B

Whiskey character. Both of you.”
    Lorraine knew enough not to argue. I just shook my head.
    “She’s been gone how long—four, five hours? Too early to say there’s been foul play, other than she’s left her kid.”
    Whatever broom was up Cookie’s rear, it was a big one.
    I concentrated on the book, the way it felt in my hand. It was covered in soft leather with a shiny ribbon marker, the kind I’d seen in a dozen stationery stores. And there was a lightness to it, like Whiskey’s soul weighed against the grand sum of global heft. But as I stared at it, the diary seemed to come alive. I thumbed through until the words began to pop out and coalesce, accusatory. “Why haven’t you found me yet?” it whispered. I couldn’t help myself, I had to read more.

    A Monday in January
    The last time I saw Ma, she was standing under a streetlight waiting for the bus. It was early, before the sun was up, and she was tilting against the wind, none too sober.
    I get this feeling in my socks every time I think of it. It makes its way up my legs and works my stomach like a bulldozer scraping out my insides and spewing them onto the road. To this day I can see her standing there, the first in line, etched against the dark, a stubby woman swaying a little and patting the locks of her hair. Out of nowhere it comes again, the screech of metal, the hulk slamming into her. They said she didn’t feel a thing. But I knew, I knew what would happen seconds before the truck rammed into her. If I’d have been two feet closer, I could have saved her. I could have yelled out, but I didn’t. Knowledge like that slowly sucks the life out of you. That’s maybe what’ll get me in the end.

    I closed the book, disinclined to share. Instead I slipped the journal into my pocket. It seemed to have a pulse when I touched its edges, telling myself the next chance I got, I’d read some more. So I closed my eyes, hoping I’d had the smarts to find its writer. At the very least, Whiskey was in peril. I knew it. And if she were in danger, what about her daughter? I mean, if someone took Whiskey for whatever reason, would they come back for Maddie, too? I wrestled with myself, but I couldn’t call Jane, not yet. If only Denny were here, I could talk things over with him. He’d understand my predicament, but I couldn’t call him, not on the only guy vacation he’d taken since we met.
    We spent the next hour scouring Whiskey’s apartment for more clues into her disappearance. At first we found nothing, no notes like “I’ve gone to the store, be back soon,” but Lorraine found more journals, a load of them in the closet—in, of all places, a hatbox. I found her checkbook and copied down the bank and account numbers. There were some other legal-looking papers in the desk, but I declined to read them. It wasn’t time yet. Besides, with Lorraine being the landlady, we had easy access to the room for a deeper snoop should Whiskey not show up by evening.
    “At least we didn’t find any suicide notes,” Cookie said. “No evidence of madness beyond self-absorption.”
    I stared at her.
    “Or dunning letters from creditors,” Lorraine said as she locked the apartment door.

Lighting a Fire

    We entered Lorraine’s parlor and sat.
    “You’re making too much of Whiskey’s absence,” Cookie said. “But I must admit, Arthur is one strange dude.”
    Did I detect a softening in her tone or just mild curiosity?
    The sounds of raucous whooping and canned clapping drifted into the room from somewhere down the hall. I turned to Lorraine. “We’d better be off. I wouldn’t want to disturb Robert.”
    “Robbie and I have been together for over fifty years. I’ve never known him to be disturbed. Ever.” She pushed up her glasses.
    So we sat in the parlor, deciding what to do about Maddie. As the minutes ticked away and Whiskey didn’t show up, it became increasingly clear we’d have to report her absence. I could hear Jane Templeton ranting