The Wrong Girl (Jane Ryland) Page 6

  “Okay, so no.” Tuck dismissed the idea with a flick of her palm. Then she touched Jane on her sleeve, entreating. “But Jane. Seriously. I have to find out. I do. What if…”

  This had the potential for disaster. Tuck should be prepared for a truth she didn’t expect.

  “Tuck? ‘What if’ this Ella Gavin has confirmed Carlyn Beerman is your birth mother? And that’s what she’s about to tell you?”

  Jane worried she was crossing some line. But Tuck had put her there. “What if you really are Audrey Rose?”

  *

  Ella Gavin wished she’d brought a hat, wished her feet weren’t so cold, wished she were anywhere but here in the parking lot of the Riverside T station. And this was all her idea. She squinted against the sun—how could it be so bright and be snowing at the same time? It was like everything was happening at once.

  Which it was.

  All she had to do was turn around, hop back on the T, show up at the Brannigan, and if anyone asked, say she’d gotten the all-clear from the dentist. She’d e-mailed Ms. Finch about her “early-morning appointment,” reassuring her supervisor she’d be in by 9:30. The folder of paperwork—in her Target shopping bag in case she had to take it back to the Brannigan—would be well-camouflaged. She could throw it away, or shred it, or, heck, toss it in a trash can here at the station. Done and done.

  She was leaving.

  But what would she tell Tucker Cameron? It was Ella’s suggestion they meet. If she canceled, or didn’t show up—that didn’t mean the inquisitive Miss Cameron would go away. It meant she’d persist. Certainly call the Brannigan, and probably reveal Ella had called her, bad enough, then, even worse, tell how she’d bailed on their appointment. After that, Ms. Finch—even Mr. Brannigan—would get involved. And probably lawyers.

  She was staying.

  Will I never learn to keep out of people’s lives? She took a deep breath, her nose wrinkling from the cold—but that was her life, wasn’t it? Everything she did changed people’s futures, whether it was saying yes, or saying no, or saying … guess who called us? And then, life went on. The dominoes would fall.

  This time, though, the dominoes could end up falling on her.

  Ardella Morgan Gavin, she scolded herself. You are a grown-up with an important and responsible job. Get a life.

  She turned and marched through the slush, heading toward the door of the Dunkin’ Donuts, whatever was about to happen.

  “I’m only trying to help,” she whispered. “That’s always a good thing.”

  16

  “I think I understand this,” Jake said.

  “Alert the media,” DeLuca said. “And it’s only Monday.”

  Jake ignored him, nosing the cruiser into the parking space in front of the once-bright-yellow clapboard house. When they first showed up this morning, every shoveled space on Hinshaw Street had been taken. Not by cars, but by metal trash cans, webbed lawn chairs, and in one parking space, an orange plastic playpen. Neighborhood rules said once you cleared the snow from your parking spot, it was yours. Ignoring the rules would get you a punctured tire, or the gash of a key along the paint. D had lugged two battered aluminum folding chairs to the sidewalk so they could park. Aware of the social contract, they would put the chairs back in place when they’d finished their visit.

  “It’s to save their spot, Harvard,” DeLuca said, palming the snow off his leather gloves. “Not just here in Southie. Probably in Wellesley and Dover, too. Or, ya know, they have their servants do it.”

  Jake shifted into reverse, then park. “Not ‘I understand’ the parking, D, I grew up in Boston, remember?” He grabbed his second-of-the-morning coffee from the cup holder and slugged down the last dregs. “‘I understand’ about this woman. About this case. The nine-one-one call tape was a bust, came from a cell, no ID. That means someone heard something—but why aren’t they owning up to it? The victim was dead when the call came in, if you go by what your Dr. McMahan is estimating the TOD.”

  “So either it was a witness who’s spooked for some reason, or the killer himself. Huh,” D said. “But the longer we weren’t on it, the longer the killer’d have to get away. So why call?”

  Jake cocked his head at the yellow house. “Because of them, I figure. The kids. Whoever killed our vic knew the kids were there. Must have. Knew they were going to discover their murdered mother sooner or later. So. Someone might have hated her enough, or been mad at her enough, or whatever the motive, to kill her. But even then. He still cared about those kids.”

  D nodded, scratching his nose with one finger. “And if he knew the kids—”

  “The kids knew him. Exactly.” And was there another child? That cradle haunted him. Jake patted his jacket for his cell, then opened his car door. He looked at DeLuca. “You ready?”

  D joined Jake at the bottom of the shoveled front walk, gesturing go ahead. The front door was only a few steps away. Cast-iron window boxes were filled with snow, a wood-burned sign over the door read CEAD MILE FAILTE. “So, you’re thinkin’ the kids might tell us who he is?”

  “Yup. If we’re lucky. And sometimes we are.” Jake pulled out his badge wallet for ID, in case someone demanded to see the gold, even though he knew the court-appointed guardian who lived here was expecting them. Jake had a good record of talking to kids, but a text message from the brass reminded him that this Bethany Sibbach, a child therapist, was required to be their conduit, since the not-quite-witnesses were juveniles. About as juvenile as they come. If there was a baby somewhere—well, someone knew. And Jake would soon find out.

  He lifted a fist to knock on the gray front door, then opted for the black button of a doorbell. He heard the bing-bong, hollow, inside. “If we’re lucky, Phillip and Phoebe might be able to tell us who the bad guy is. Or, almost as good? Tell us who their mother is.”

  “Poor kids,” DeLuca said.

  “Detective Brogan? This is dispatch, do you read?” Jake’s radio crackled from his belt. “Superintendent Rivera requesting a landline, stat, please.”

  DeLuca puffed out a breath. “Now what?”

  Jake took the radio mic from its holder. “Brogan, I copy. Can you—”

  The door opened.

  A forty-something woman in a nubby sweater vest, leggings, and an oversized heather green turtleneck balanced a squirming little girl on one hip. From somewhere behind her came the beeps of a video game.

  The woman, smiling, pointed at Jake’s radio with the cell phone in her hand.

  “I know. I’m Dr. Sibbach, hello and good-bye. Someone from your headquarters called to warn me you’ve got another assignment.” Her voice had a soft burr, and she placed a quick kiss on top of the little girl’s wispy brown hair. “No worries. Phoebe and I will be dandy until you get back.”

  *

  Tuck’s stupid hat was incredibly itchy, but Jane had to admit this Ella girl—woman—hadn’t given her a second glance. Tuck introduced her as “my friend Jane,” then Jane had been dispatched to stand in line for three regulars, one with Splenda, and six chocolate doughnut middles.

  When Jane arrived at the table in the corner balancing the flimsy cardboard tray, Ella was holding up a piece of paper. Pointing at something. Tuck leaned in, peering at whatever it was. A thickly stuffed manila folder took up half the table in front of them, and a red Target bag took up all the room in Ella’s lap. They both looked up as Jane approached.

  “Here’s the coffee,” she said. There was utterly no reason for her to be here. This was as nuts as it gets. “And the middles.”

  The two women muttered their thank-yous and went back to focusing on the paper, their heads almost touching.

  Weird, they both have the same color hair, now that Tuck’s gone auburn crazy, Jane thought. Whole thing is crazy. Tuck had still not told her exactly why she felt she wasn’t Carlyn’s daughter. She’d kept repeating, “Let’s go hear what this Ella Gavin has to say.” Well, she was hearing it now.

  Jane grabbed a molded plastic chair t
o sit across from them, wincing as it scraped across the tiles. She didn’t have to check in with the city desk until ten. She’d already e-mailed Family Services with her request for info about the foster child system. For now, she could sit here. Drink her coffee. Then this would be over.

  “So, Jane?” Tuck pronounced her name carefully, as if to create the illusion that somehow “Jane” was an alias. “Miss Gavin seems to think—”

  “Ella,” the girl interrupted.

  Well, she’s acting like a girl, Jane defended her own assessment. High little voice. Bitten nails and fidgeting. A bobby pin holding obviously growing-out bangs.

  “Ella.” Tuck offered the briefest of smiles. “Seems to think the Brannigan doesn’t make mistakes.”

  Ella nodded, her curls bouncing with her certainty. “The Brannigan has a fifty-six-year history of reuniting families. We would never—”

  She looked around, seemed to remember they were in a bustling coffee shop. “Are you okay talking here?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I mean, it’s not very private.”

  “I’m fine, Ella,” Tuck said. Not whispering. She flipped up the plastic lid of her coffee, took a sip, flapped the lid back down. “Go on. Tell my friend what you said.”

  “We put families together, that’s what we do.” Ella looked at Jane, her eyes wide and sincere. “These are the documents in Miss Cameron’s—I mean Tuck’s—file. I can’t give them to her, of course, but I wanted to show her at least a few of them. So she could understand how carefully her history is documented. It’s not paperwork. It’s reality. Lillian Finch—I explained who she is, right, Miss Cameron?”

  Tuck nodded. “Go on.”

  “Ms. Finch puts together the files, confirms with the History and Records department, of course, and then, when Mr. Munson from H and R says go, she makes the Call.” Ella made finger quotes around the words. “That’s what we call it. The Call.”

  Jane could almost hear the capital letter. She risked a look at Tuck. The Call?

  Tuck raised an eyebrow, so quickly Jane almost missed it.

  “If you get the Call from Ms. Finch,” Ella continued, “there’s no question about it. It’s—a big step. Sometimes people aren’t ready to hear it. But Miss Cameron? Tucker? Trust me. You’re Audrey Rose Beerman.”

  Ella paused, as if waiting for a response from Tuck.

  Jane couldn’t read Tuck’s face. Posture perfect, arms folded on the table, Tuck was staring at Ella, silent.

  “What I guess I wonder,” Ella finally said, “is—why don’t you think so?”

  17

  The entire place was going to hell. Niall Brannigan tapped one finger on the mahogany expanse of his desk. This Monday morning certainly seemed to prove it. Something would have to be done.

  He leaned across his paperwork and punched his phone to speaker, almost knocking into his ceramic mug of Irish Breakfast. Grace had delivered it with exactly the right amount of cream and sugar, accompanied by a chocolate cruller served on his mother’s favorite fluted crystal plate. Monday mornings were supposed to begin another week of Brannigan success. But not this Monday. Nine forty-five, and already—

  “Miss O’Connor? Have we heard from her yet?”

  “No, Mr. Brannigan.” At least Grace had picked up the phone.

  “Or the girl, Ella?”

  “No, sir.”

  Brannigan’s fingers drummed on the desk, the only sound in the room. Outside he could hear the snowblower, about time, and down the hall, phones ringing. Unanswered. Things were about to change. He’d see to that.

  “Sir?”

  “That’s all, Miss O’Connor. Ring me when you hear from either of them.”

  “Sir?”

  What was wrong with this girl? Could she not hear?

  “Sir?”

  He paused, calculating. “Is it Lillian Finch?”

  “Sir? They say—it’s the police.”

  *

  “Come. Freaking. On.” Kellianne Sessions could not believe it. Could. Not. Believe it. Kev and Keefer were lolled on the couch of the dead woman’s apartment, watching the freaking Simpsons on a junky TV. Was that show always on? Her moron brothers had assigned her to the back of the place as soon as they’d arrived this morning, told her to pack up the bedrooms and check for any residue or externals, vac the rugs and bag the contents. Now it was pretty darn obvious they were trying to get rid of her while they goofed off.

  “You guys billing for this? That’s pretty freakin’ bold.”

  “You hear that?” Kev didn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Miss Priss here is worried about billing.”

  “Who’s Bill Ling?” Keefer jabbed his brother with an elbow. “Good one, huh?”

  Kellianne saw they’d at least baffled up the kitchen with plastic, rolling out clear sheets of it, overlapped and tacked them from ceiling to floor, so the solvents from the kitchen area didn’t contaminate the rest of the place. It was strong stuff. She’d had her first whiff in the hazmat class practicums, now she was kinda used to it. Which was disgusting. She didn’t want to be used to it.

  Someone had died in this very place. Well, not died, been murdered. Creepy. She’d seen it all on the news, every channel. The reporters, the cops, and the freaky onlookers. She never watched cop shows on TV, or any of that serial killer stuff, but all her friends geeked out on it. “Did you see the dead person?” they always asked. “What’s it like?”

  It was like, horrible, that’s what it was.

  She stamped a foot, though its intended drama was muffled by the cotton-then-plastic boot thingies she had to wear over her shoes. Her Tyvek moon suit was about four sizes too big, it was hot, and it was grotesque. Flipping burgers—even babysitting—would be better than this. How could she get enough money to bail on this whole nightmare?

  Kev and Keefer were annoying. The laugh track from the show was incredibly annoying. How could they sit there and watch a dead woman’s TV? Sit on her couch? Shove over her stuff so they could put their moron feet on her coffee table?

  Just then, Kellianne had an idea.

  A really, really good idea.

  *

  “No, sir, the officers didn’t tell me what it was about.” Niall Brannigan’s receptionist was clearly having a hard time trying to give her boss information without giving Jake any. She’d been pleasant enough, introducing herself with a polite “Good morning, may I help you?” when he and DeLuca arrived at the executive director’s well-appointed outer office, maybe figuring they were potential clients. After they’d shown their badges, though, Jake saw call-me-Grace go a little white under her careful makeup. Now, “helping” them did not seem to be her first priority.

  Jake couldn’t hear Brannigan’s questions on the other end of the phone, but even with the woman’s guarded answers, what he was asking was obvious. It was also obvious the young woman was intimidated by the man in the closed-door office behind her.

  “Yes, Mr. Brannigan. I did,” Grace insisted. “But apparently they need to talk to you. No, they wouldn’t give me any further…”

  She looked at Jake, eyes wide, silently pleading for assistance. Jake smiled, but shook his head. No way. He and D were here at Brannigan Family and Children Services to talk to the executive director, end of story. If Grace was having a hard day? Welcome to the club.

  “Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I will.” Grace hung up, then glanced at the closed door behind her. She looked at Jake with an expression he’d seen a million times. “Mr. Brannigan is in a meeting, I’m afraid. And he wonders if—”

  Jake interrupted. “I see.” Which was true. “Detective?”

  “After you,” D said. He gestured toward the closed door.

  “Wait, you can’t just—” Grace stood, her chair swiveling, both hands up as if to push them away.

  Jake was faster. He was already at the inner door, hand on the knob, pushing it open. “I’ll explain to your boss, ma’am,” he said, “but we—”

  “I’m so sorry, Mr.
Brannigan.” Grace squeezed past the two of them, trying to get into his office first. “They’re—”

  “I’m Detective Jake Brogan, Boston Police.” Jake flipped his badge wallet closed. The guy, tight-ass in a gold-buttoned navy blazer and prissy pocket square, was already standing, barricaded behind his big desk. One finger tapped the shiny wood.

  Jake suppressed a smile, as well as his instant dislike. “My partner, Detective Paul DeLuca.”

  DeLuca followed Jake into the room. “Sorry to interrupt your … meeting.”

  Brannigan touched the shiny clip on his tie, narrowed his eyes for an instant. “That’ll do, Miss O’Connor,” he said, as the door closed behind her. “Gentlemen? What can I do for you?”

  “You have an employee, Lillian Finch.” Jake kept his voice noncommittal, aware of their tightrope. This was always one of the crucial moments. Jake and D had information. Maybe Brannigan had it, too. Maybe even more. Or maybe he didn’t know.

  “Yes.” Brannigan frowned. “But she’s not in yet this morning.”

  Then Brannigan switched on a smile, Mr. Helpful. “I’d call her assistant for you, but she hasn’t arrived this morning, either.”

  Jake exchanged a glance with his partner.

  “What’s the assistant’s name, sir? Did she call to say she wouldn’t be in? Is she usually late?” DeLuca had taken out his spiral notebook, pen poised over a page.

  “Ella Gavin is her assistant’s name. And no, she’s not usually late.” Back at Jake. “Detectives? Is there something wrong?”

  “Ah, there is, Mr. Brannigan. I’m sorry to have to tell you. Lillian Finch is dead.”

  18

  “Why don’t I think she’s my birth mother?” Tuck spun her coffee cup between her thumb and forefinger, seemed fascinated by the sound of it scraping on the plastic tabletop. The coffee shop’s morning crush and bustle had dwindled, and the three women were the only customers still at a table. The place smelled of fresh coffee and something cinnamon. A TV, mounted in the corner above the cash register, flickered a muted CNN. Jane read the screen crawl: “Severe weather on the way for New England. Officials warn residents may have to…”