The Wrong Girl (Jane Ryland) Page 7

  “Well, here’s why.” Tuck stopped her cup-spinning, took a sip, then grimaced.

  Remembering something? Jane wondered. Or maybe Tuck’s coffee was cold. They’d been here a good hour, maybe more, looking at documents and listening to Ella explain how foolproof the Brannigan’s system was. That alone was enough to make Jane skeptical. Nothing was foolproof, any reporter could tell you that.

  Tuck propped her chin on her intertwined fingers, elbows on the table, seemed to weigh what she was about to say.

  “Listen. There were two things from my—birth mother. One, a handwritten note from her that was tucked into my blanket when the Brannigan took me in.”

  “A note?” Ella tilted her head, frowning. She opened the manila folder, flipping documents, one by one, quickly, shaking her head as the pages rustled by. “No. That can’t be. If there was a note, it would be in here, definitely, a copy of it at least. I mean, I know I copied the whole file. What’s more, I know History and Records is required to keep any and all…”

  Her voice trailed off, one hand still turning pages as she stared at them. “I mean…”

  “A note?” Jane couldn’t resist interrupting. Why hadn’t Tuck told her that right off the bat? She’d certainly buried the lede of this story. “What did it say?”

  “Exactly.” Tuck pointed a finger at Ella. “And Carlyn Beerman, lovely a person as she was when we met, did not say a word about a note. I gave her every opportunity. Since you say there’s also no copy of the note in your file, that means your infallible Ms. Finch got it wrong this time.”

  “Ms. Cameron, that’s not—”

  “But Tuck, how’d you know there was a note?” Jane had to interrupt again. This didn’t make sense. Tuck had explained she’d been left at the Brannigan in a closed adoption, which meant all the papers are sealed until the child is an adult, and opened only if both parties ask to see them. The whole point was to keep everything secret and private. Had a remorseful birth mother tried to leave Tuck a clue about her first identity? “Forgive me, but are you sure it’s real? Do you have it? What does it say?”

  “How do I know it’s real? My adoptive mother told me. And my adoptive father.” Tuck said. She peeled back the plastic lid of her coffee cup, then tore the lid into pieces, dropping each shard, one by one, into the dregs left in the cup.

  “Told me about it from the moment I could remember. I’ve seen the note, of course, a million times, but Mom has it. It was my birth mother’s way of saying good-bye, but it’s also my way to prove … well, I know it by heart. ‘We each travel our own road,’ it says. ‘Always choose the future over the past.’”

  Jane stared at her, trying to comprehend. To get a message like that from your mother? The message she left as she was walking out of your life? This one pretty much implied—don’t try to find me. Poor Tuck. The two little kids from Callaberry Street, too. There hadn’t been a note for them, of course, when their mom left. How could they possibly learn to accept the story they’d hear, someday?

  “Of course we could do a DNA test, Miss Gavin.” Tuck tossed her head, pushed the ruined coffee cup away. “If your agency agrees to pay for it. But why bother? That note is my proof. And so is this.”

  Tuck plunged a hand into her parka pocket, and came out with a black velvet bag. Pulling apart the thin black drawstrings, she drew out a delicate gold bracelet, one circular charm dangling from the chain. She held it between two fingers, and it glinted in the too-bright fluorescent lights of the coffee shop.

  Jane leaned in, trying to get a better look.

  Ella leaned in too, frowning, touching her fingers to her lips.

  “Again, you’re perplexed,” Tuck continued. The gold charm twisted slightly with the motion of her sigh. “Which answers my next question. This baby bracelet was also attached to my blanket. But there’s nothing about it in your file, correct?”

  “I—we—well—,” Ella stammered. “Ms. Finch will have to look at … we can call her and—”

  “I see. And here’s another question for you and Ms. Finch. If I’m Audrey Rose Beerman, how come this charm bracelet is engraved with my birthday—and the name ‘Tucker’?”

  19

  Jake watched Brannigan settle on an attitude. His face had registered surprise, certainly, then anger, maybe even a little fear. He had apparently decided on sorrow, which, in Jake’s assessment, wasn’t a comfortable choice for him. Jake and DeLuca remained standing near the doorway. Apparently this Brannigan had no interest in making them comfortable, either.

  “Mr. Brannigan?” Jake pulled out his BlackBerry, ready to take notes. DeLuca still razzed him about his habit, but it was easier than trying to read his pitiful handwriting. Plus, this way the info was already transcribed, and he could zap himself an e-mail and send it to his files. Jake saw the green 2 on his message icon. He’d have to call whoever it was later. The Supe knew he was here; he’d assigned them this notification, even though they hadn’t yet inspected the crime scene.

  “May I ask, did Ms. Finch seem worried about anything? Depressed? Had she mentioned any reason she might be under unusual stress? And may we sit down? This may take a few minutes.”

  “How did she die?” Brannigan waved them to the club chairs in front of his desk.

  “Well, that’s under investigation, Mr. Brannigan.” That was true. The Supe had told Jake that Crime Scene reported Lillian Finch was a possible suicide—plastic bag over the head. Or possible homicide—pillows had been duct-taped over her face.

  Question was, how much did Brannigan know?

  “That’s why we’re here.” DeLuca took the chair on the left. He propped one ankle on the other knee and tapped his notepad with his Bic pen. “Investigating.”

  Brannigan lowered himself into his leather swivel, steepled his hands on the desk.

  “Could you … give me some time, gentlemen? This news is very distressing. I’ll need to compose myself. I’m sure you understand.” He stood up again, barricaded behind his desk, fingertips grazing the mahogany. “And in the meantime? I’m calling my lawyer. I’ll instruct my secretary to give you his number.”

  This guy watched too many cop shows. Might have been smarter for Mr. Bigshot to suss out what Jake was going to ask, instead of kicking them out.

  Still, not necessarily a bad thing. Calling a lawyer? Put Brannigan square on the guilty list.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Jake said.

  “Soon,” DeLuca said.

  *

  “Jane Ryland to see Margaret Gunnison?” She was late. She’d barely gotten to the twenty-third floor in time, risking her car in an iffy parking spot outside the bleak brick facade of the state’s Department of Family Services building. The text from the DFS public relations person arrived soon after Tuck had pulled out that charm bracelet, and Jane raced away, leaving Tuck to her own devices to get wherever.

  “Now, or after next week,” the PR flak had warned. Margaret Gunnison, apparently knower of all knowledge about the state’s foster care system, was about to spend the second week in February in Anguilla, eager to take off from Logan this afternoon before the snow hit.

  Jane untied her coat and stuffed her gloves into the pockets. I better not miss this meeting because of Tuck. She leaned closer to the barrier separating her from the elaborately coiffed woman commanding the blinking phone console. “Ms. Gunnison is expecting me.”

  The receptionist assessed her through tarry eyelashes, then pushed a button on the intercom, setting columns of red and green lights flashing.

  “DFS. May I help you?” she said into the phone. “No, he’s not here, but I’ll patch you through to his cell.”

  Her necklace announced—in rhinestones—her name was Vee. On the wall behind Vee, a chronologically arranged row of eight-by-ten framed and dated portraits labeled DFS COMMISSIONERS showed prune-mouthed white men in increasingly contemporary suits and haircuts, one after the other—until the last picture in the row, a black woman in a carefully tied scarf.

>   “You’re the one from TV, right?” Vee said. Two more green lines began to ring. Then another. Vee ignored them.

  Jane kept up her smile. She was tired of explaining why she’d been fired, and even more tired of accepting sympathy and support because she had protected a source. It was over, she had a new job, she was happy happy happy. And as she so often heard, nobody watched local TV anymore. Which, truth be told, made her even happier.

  “I’m with the Register now.” Jane looked at her watch. Cutting it so close. She had to get the scoop about the victim’s children, learn what would happen to them and how this system worked, and she absolutely could not wait until someone got back from a Caribbean vacation to get those answers. “Like I said, Ms. Gunnison is expecting me, and—”

  A buzzer interrupted, and a thick metal door clicked open.

  “Thanks, Vee. Jane? I’m Maggie.” Maggie Gunnison had poked two yellow pencils through her dark ponytail, misbuttoned her navy cardigan, and was now battling an unwieldy stack of paperwork. As she adjusted the pile in her arms, trying to keep the door open with one hip, one of the pencils clattered onto the floor. She rolled her eyes behind her wire-rimmed glasses. “Perfect. That’s what happens when you try to rush, right? I only have about fifty million cases to handle before I go. They told you I don’t have much time, right?”

  “Right.” Jane tried to look sympathetic as she picked up the pencil. “The day before vacation is always a bear. You’re very kind to see me.”

  Maggie was already through the door, motioning Jane to follow her down a dingy hallway warrened with modular office cubbies and cartons of copy paper stacked shoulder high. It smelled of aging drywall and stale coffee.

  “What do you want to know? They told me you wondered about the Callaberry Street kids. The police notified us of the … incident.” Maggie stopped in the middle of the hallway, took a breath, turned to Jane with a frown.

  “Look. I can’t discuss any specifics. I’ve seen your stuff on TV. You know the drill. They’re juveniles, it’s private, it’s protected, it’s confidential, there’s no way under any circumstances I can—”

  “I completely understand.” This was not the moment for a hard sell. But Maggie looked crazed with paperwork, about to be sprung from this fluorescent sweatshop into a sun-filled week on the beach. Jane should certainly be able to convince her to spill the beans. On something. She pulled out her reporter’s spiral notebook and twisted open a ballpoint, realizing Maggie had already revealed some big info.

  The police had called DFS. Why? Were the Callaberry Street kids about to go into foster care? That gave her story a perfect news peg. She’d keep it vague, like she was only getting background.

  “I’m researching a consumer education story on foster kids. Foster care. Why the children get placed, and what happens to them later. How foster parents are chosen. Are there enough DFS people—”

  “Caseworkers?”

  “Caseworkers. To get to know each child and family individually? To make sure the kids are in a good place?” She eyed the files in Maggie’s arms. “What if it doesn’t work out?”

  Maggie tightened her stranglehold on the paperwork, as if shielding it from the marauding reporter. Made no move to lead Jane to her office. “I’m not sure why they directed me to speak to you.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not asking specifically about Phillip and Phoebe. But kids like Phillip and Phoebe.” She paused, wondering if Maggie would correct her, or ask how she knew the names. But—nothing. “What their future holds. Generally. That’s all.”

  “Listen.” Maggie looked at the floor, institutional carpeting battered and flattened by decades of trudging civil servants, then back up at Jane. “It’s not like a private adoption agency, where, I don’t know. It’s difficult, and often heartbreaking, but it’s all civilized. It usually follows … a choice. Foster care almost always follows tragedy. Kids whose parents abuse them, or abandon them, or get arrested and leave them with no one. The kids stay in state custody, fostered, until they’re adopted. Sometimes the short-term parents fall in love and that’s a relief. But it doesn’t always happen. So there’s a cycle. A stupid, relentless, impossible cycle.”

  Jane could see the tension around the young woman’s mouth, the beginning of dark shadows under the rims of her glasses. “Cycle?”

  “Yup. Like Callaberry Street. That’s why you’re here, right? When something goes wrong, those children go back on the foster list, and we try to find another approved family for them. Emphasis on try. Sometimes a relative will show up, and offer to take them in, but even those homes have to be approved. That takes time. Even infants have to wait. The longer they wait, the more difficult it gets. Yes, the families get a state-funded stipend for each child they take in. Is this the kind of thing you want to know? I don’t have much more time. Five minutes.”

  Maggie pointed toward a closed office door, and Jane followed her down the corridor, processing the surprise Maggie had revealed. Phillip and Phoebe were already foster kids?

  That would mean the victim was their foster mother, not their biological mother. Maybe they weren’t even brother and sister.

  What if an overburdened state system had actually put them into danger? Placed them with exactly the wrong woman? That could be a big story. If Maggie was aware of that? An even bigger story.

  Jane would behave as if Phillip and Phoebe’s past was something she already knew. Now she had to learn whether a foster father existed. Who the birth parents were. Those people would be instant suspects. Did Jake know this? He had to.

  If she got the scoop, Alex would have to let her take over the Callaberry murder story. And that would be the good news. Every big headline equaled job security. This one could be her biggest headline yet.

  20

  “So, Phillip? Do you have a little baby at your house?” Jake sat cross-legged on the floor of Dr. Bethany Sibbach’s toy-strewn living room, running a bright blue Batmobile across the carpet. Jake and DeLuca had purchased the toy at a CVS after leaving the Brannigan. The Supe assigned another team to the Finch case, agreeing Jake needed to focus on Callaberry. Jake couldn’t help but think the kids were the key.

  That empty cradle. Bugged the hell out of him. Dr. Sibbach insisted she’d been given no paperwork about a third child. Insisted there were only two kids. But that didn’t add up. Nothing added up. They still hadn’t found ID for the victim, no files, no paperwork of any kind. That bugged him, too. More than bugged.

  Was there a baby somewhere? In trouble? Though everyone said no, little Phillip would know for sure. Question was, could he tell Jake?

  Leonard Perl, the Florida landlord, hadn’t called back. Seemed like time to notify the Ft. Lauderdale PD. Get them to put some fear into the guy. DeLuca stood in the hall, talking on his cell to Kat McMahan, insisting he needed to check on the medical examiner’s progress. D had never been so fascinated by the morgue.

  “Baby at youah house!” the little boy said.

  Jake looked at the therapist, who sat on the flowered couch, Phoebe in her lap. The little girl clutched some kind of thick toasted cracker, crumbs from it dribbling down the front of her dress. There was more cracker on the pink cotton than in Phoebe’s mouth.

  “Is that a yes?” Jake asked. “Would you say he’s confirming—?”

  Bethany shook her head. “Phillip’s in a repeating phase, Detective Brogan. He’s two, I’d estimate. He’ll try to echo whatever you say. Repeating is how they learn. It’ll be unlikely he’ll be able to tell us anything. Feel free to try, though—Phoebe, honey, shush—I suppose it can’t hurt. He’s quite taken with you, it seems. He only stopped crying when you arrived.”

  “Everybody likes a Batmobile,” Jake said. The little boy had snatched the car, trying to balance it on his head. “Phillip? Are you making the car into a hat?”

  “Hat!” the little boy crowed. He showed Jake the car. “Cah!”

  “Car,” Jake reached for it. “Thank you, Phillip. Batcar.�
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  “Bahcah!” the little boy pulled it back, hugging it to his chest.

  “Batcar.” What they don’t teach you at the police academy. “Phillip? Do you know your mommy’s name?”

  “Mommy name!” Phillip replied, still clutching the toy. Then his forehead seemed to crumble, and his lower lip quivered. “Mama?”

  Phillip let the car drop to the floor. It landed, upside down, one wheel spinning, forgotten. “Mama?”

  “Oh, dear.” Bethany glanced at Jake, mouth tightening, shaking her head. She brushed the crumbs from Phoebe’s dress, then handed the little girl to Jake. “Can you hold her for a second? I’m afraid Phillip’s about to—Come here, sweetheart.”

  Jake smelled the sweet shampoo in Phoebe’s hair, felt his two suddenly huge hands almost encircle the white sash on her waist as he reached out to take her. He propped her on his lap, then adjusted the white cotton sock drooping precariously from one foot. He felt her little body settle into the crook of his elbow. With a gurgle and a coo, she grasped his forefinger with her hand. “Gah,” she said.

  Jane, he thought. And then dragged his attention back to where it should be.

  “So much for that idea,” Jake said. “Would have been much easier if Phillip here could have pointed us in the right direction.”

  “Probably better though, for him at least, Detective, that he couldn’t.” The boy had buried his face in Bethany’s sweater, glued his wiry body to hers, and planted his sneakers on her leggings. “His brain function hasn’t developed enough to comprehend what happened. He clearly has a memory of a ‘Mama’—that’s okay, honey, everything will be fine—but we hope that will fade and be replaced by some new and kinder memories. Ms. Lussier is deceased, I’m told. And Phoebe, at this age, she should be completely free of—well, one step at a time. Detective? Seems like you’re done here. Unless you’d like to babysit a while.”