The Wrong Girl (Jane Ryland) Read online

  Jake realized he was jiggling his leg, bouncing Phoebe, and she was still hanging on to his finger. Where would she be, a year from now? Ten years? She was at the mercy of the system, thanks to a killer Jake had no idea where to even begin looking for.

  “Hard to tell which would be more difficult, Doctor,” Jake said. “Taking care of these two, or finding out who killed their mother. Guess I’ll handle the one I’m trained to do. I think we can clear these two from our suspect list. Should I—?” He looked at Phoebe, straining toward the floor.

  “You can put her down, Detective. She’s not going anywhere.”

  Exactly like this case, Jake thought. Not going anywhere.

  Jake stood, his knees complaining. He shook out a leg and reached for his jacket. Where was DeLuca? “Thanks, Bethany. Let us know if they spill the beans.”

  “Will do, Detective. At this age, spilling is what they do best. And you know—”

  “Excuse me, ma’am.” DeLuca appeared in the entryway to the dining room, cell phone in hand.

  Phillip turned at the sound of male voice, then snuggled closer to Bethany. Phoebe, clattering multicolored wooden blocks into a cardboard box, didn’t look up.

  “Hey D.” Next on their agenda, tracking down Leonard Perl and hitting up the Callaberry Street neighbors with a few more knock-and-talks. Now they’d turn the heat up a notch or two. Not even a day since they found the body, but already this case worried him. Doors were not opening the way he’d so optimistically predicted yesterday. “The kids are a dead end, it appears. They don’t have a clue about their mother’s name.”

  “They don’t, huh?” DeLuca stashed his cell into his jacket pocket. “That’s okay. Because I do.”

  21

  Jane watched Maggie Gunnison tap a pass code on a number pad, heard the office door click. Maggie put a hand on the doorknob, but seemed reluctant to turn it.

  Jane had to keep her talking. And she’d just thought of how. “Do you allow single parents to be fosters?”

  “Well, sometimes we—”

  “Hey, Maggie.” A young man approached, wearing pressed jeans, earbuds plugged into his ears and a white cord dangling down his fashionably untucked plaid shirt. He pushed a rickety metal cart stacked with file folders. A shock of dark hair curled under the bright green Celtics cap he wore backward, its plastic band making a green stripe across his forehead.

  “Sorry, ladies. Comin’ through. Cool that we’re getting out at three for the snowstorm, right? Makes me proud to be nonessential.” His voice was too loud, as if he’d forgotten no one else could hear his music. He put a steadying hand on the files, then narrowed his eyes at Jane. “Hey. You’re Jane Ryland! I’m a big—”

  “Hey, Finn.” Maggie shot him a look, then pointed down the hall. “Let’s go into my office, such as it is, Miss Ryland.”

  Jane followed as she entered, turning to give the guy an apologetic what-can-you-do wave. Always nice to have fans.

  “Sorry,” Maggie was saying. “Finn Eberhardt’s one of our newer caseworkers. He can be a bit of an oversharer. Forgive him. Anyway, you asked about caseworkers before—we’ve got five full-times. Me, Finn, three others. Five! And two thousand seven hundred fifty-eight children. The math stinks. It’s not that there aren’t families who might want them, it’s that we can’t do the home visit assessment paperwork fast enough to assure the kids are in safe places. So they wait. Even infants wait. You asked about parents. Yes, sometimes we use single mothers. It’s not ideal, I suppose, but what can we do? Too many kids need help.”

  “And now there are two more.” Jane risked it. “What will happen to them?”

  Maggie closed her office door behind her, pushing it shut with the flat of one running shoe. The windowless room was a nest of file folders, stacked against the walls, tipping next to a green four-drawer file cabinet, piled chest high on a wooden desk. A seemingly endless philodendron carefully coiled on plastic hooks garlanded the walls, glossy heart-shaped leaves snaking up to one corner, edging along the ceiling, then down the other side.

  Maggie dumped her paperwork on top of an already precarious mountain of manila, a tiny cloud of dust puffing from the bottom.

  “All these are children who need foster homes.” She patted the files. “Their parents are dead, or crackheads, or sick or crazy or basically defeated. Parental rights terminated. The children did nothing wrong, but they got dumped. One flutter of a butterfly wing—you know?—they could have been a Kennedy or a Saltonstall. But, little Phillip and Phoebe? They got dealt the shit hand. Sorry.”

  Jane shrugged, Got it, eyed the one visitor’s chair. Stacked with files.

  “So Phillip and Phoebe?” Jane began.

  “Look. Eventually the two kids will be sent to another foster home. I’m hoping they can stay together. But there’s no guarantee.”

  “But that’s…”

  “Yeah. I know. I’ve only been in charge here a year. And I cry every night.”

  “Your job is so difficult,” Jane said.

  Maggie adjusted the leaves of the philodendron, carefully draping a loop across a beige metal bookshelf. “Well, we do what we can. I’ll be better after a week off, right?”

  “Absolutely. But, um, their foster mother,” Jane kept her voice oh-so-casual, as if this were something that just crossed her mind. “Were these the first children she’d taken in? How do you spell her name again? I’m not sure I have it right.”

  “Good try.” Maggie shook her head. “That, I can’t tell.”

  With a rasp like an insistent wasp, the intercom on Maggie’s desk broke the silence.

  “I told Vee to tell me when twenty minutes was up. Thanks, Vee,” Maggie said into the speaker. “I’m okay. We’re done.”

  “It’s not the time,” Vee said. “I forgot about that, actually. It’s the police. They’re on their way here. To see you. They’re asking about Brie—”

  Maggie lunged for the phone on her desk, grabbed the receiver, punched off the speaker button.

  Brie? Jane didn’t want to write it down, but she’d remember it, because it was past lunchtime and she was starving. Brie? Maybe it was Bree. Part of a name. Part of a name Maggie definitely did not want her to hear.

  Maggie turned her back, whispering into the phone.

  Maybe “Bree” had nothing to do with the Callaberry Street kids. But judging by Maggie’s demeanor, and if the police were on the way, then Jane had overheard a pretty tantalizing tidbit.

  Jane pretended interest in the framed photos of children on the office wall until she heard the click of Maggie hanging up. She waited a beat before turning around, so it wouldn’t look like she’d been listening.

  “I should never have come in to the office today,” Maggie said.

  “The police?” Might as well go for it. “Anything you can tell me?”

  “Yes,” Maggie said. “Good-bye.”

  22

  Alone in the echoing faux marble elevator lobby of the Department of Family Services building, Jake punched the “up” button, then watched the number twenty-three go green above the only car that seemed in working order. The door of one elevator was propped open with a couple of two-by-fours and zigzagged with duct tape. The other had an orange sawhorse barricading it, a hand-scrawled sign proclaiming OUT-A-ORDAH.

  Our tax dollars at work, he thought.

  But the good news was he had the victim’s name. Brianna Tillson. According to DeLuca, Kat McMahan ran the fingerprints, standard operating procedure. Not much hope the prints would be on file, unless the victim had been in the armed forces, or arrested, or had some kind of high-level security clearance, so Jake had put no eggs in that basket. But there they were. Because—

  Jake checked the elevator lights again. Sixteen. The lone elevator was moving, but seemed to stop at every floor. Probably picking up all the state employees heading for lunch.

  Because Brianna Tillson was a foster parent. She’d been printed, per Massachusetts regulations, when she appli
ed for the state-supported program. And that, he and D agreed, was a huge break. Huge.

  D had called the DFS before he’d even told Jake. So DFS now knew they had a foster parent as victim. And Jake knew he had a hell of a lead.

  Not only did they have a name, but soon a whole history would unfold. Upstairs in the files there’d be a dossier on those two kids. Who, it now seemed, were not Brianna Tillson’s, but biologically someone else’s. Question was, whose.

  That person was suspect number one.

  Maybe the files would reveal Brianna Tillson also had a baby.

  D insisted he needed coffee and would meet Jake in Maggie Gunnison’s office. Then they’d get some answers.

  The clunk of the elevator’s mechanism announced its arrival. It rumbled to a stop, and as the brushed silver doors slid open, Jake had to step back to avoid being trampled by the lunch crowd. Mufflers, hats, parkas, talking, everyone with earbuds or a cell phone clamped to their face. Everyone striving to be first, they jostled through the opening, gloved hands banging the black rubber strip to keep the doors open. And then in the back—Jane.

  *

  Jake. Jane saw him, visible in flash-frame glimpses through the hats and scarves and shoulder bags of the ten million people who crammed themselves into the stifling elevator, floor after floor, after she got on. He hadn’t noticed her yet. Savoring a moment of secret surveillance, she watched him in that leather jacket she loved, his hair all mussed the way she loved. She wanted to smooth it, touch him, unzip that jacket and tell him that she’d decided they should—Wait a minute.

  He was on his way to see Maggie Gunnison. Had to be. Why?

  *

  What was she doing here? If it wasn’t to see Maggie Gunnison, that was too much of a coincidence. If it was to see Maggie, it was a bad coincidence. What’s more, Jane had gotten here before him. That meant his life was about to become even more of a mess. Exactly why they’d decided to remain uninvolved. Even though—

  “Hey, Jane,” he said. The elevator was empty now, except for her. The lunch crowd had scattered. They were alone.

  “Hey, Jake.” She had crossed her arms, and was leaning back against the chrome railing, that Jane-smile on her face. “We have to stop meeting like this.”

  She looked terrific.

  “Going up?” she asked. “What floor?”

  The doors began to slide closed. Jane didn’t budge. Jake jumped forward, almost not thinking about it, slamming one hand on the door, forcing it to stay open. The closing mechanism battled back, rumbling its impatience, as he stood on the threshold.

  “What’re you doing here?” he said. “You came down. Aren’t you getting off?”

  The elevator door seemed frantic to close, shoving against his hand. He leaned into it, waiting, still not stepping inside the car.

  “Oh, I want a lawyer,” Jane said. “Because I don’t have to answer that. Unless you want to come in here and try to convince me.”

  “Going up?” A guy in a puffy green jacket covered with snowflakes and lugging a unwieldy pizza box also covered with snowflakes strode past Jake and parked himself in front of Jane. “Could you push ten for me?” He turned to Jake with the beginnings of a frown. “Snowing like a son-of-a. And I got hot pizza. You going up?”

  “Smells fabulous,” Jane said. “Pizza’s my favorite. Especially hot. You coming, Detective Brogan?”

  Jake took a step into the car, the doors swishing closed behind him. He pushed the button for ten. But not for twenty-three.

  “You’ll pay for this, Ryland,” he muttered. Somehow, his hand twined into hers. And hers curled back into his. He felt her lean in closer to him, pressing her arm against his jacket, her head briefly touching his shoulder. He could smell the perfume in her hair. Even over the cheese and tomatoes.

  “That might be fun,” she whispered. “But do you think these things have surveillance cameras?”

  23

  “It is with deep regret that I call you all together.”

  Regret? Regret about what, Ella wondered. Could Mr. Brannigan know what happened to Miss Cameron? Or what Ella had told her in the coffee shop?

  Ella tried to shrink behind the other employees, edging into a corner of Mr. Brannigan’s outer office, gauging whether he was looking at her. Was he? Why had he called everyone here?

  The others murmured, filling the silence with soft speculation as Mr. Brannigan surveyed the room.

  He narrowed his eyes at her. He did.

  She was late, that had been bad enough. She’d arrived at the Brannigan just before ten, counting her blessings that Ms. Finch was out, reassured she’d never know how late Ella arrived. She stashed her bag of copies under her desk, having decided, in a flash of defiance on the subway, not to shred them, but to take them home. They were evidence, of something, and who knew what might happen to the real paperwork?

  But then on her desk, a scrawled note from someone, almost illegible, the words tumbling to the edge of the page.

  Meeting. Mr. B’s office. NOW. Hurry.

  Now Ella stood behind Collins Munson, trying to make herself invisible. A dozen staffers were crowded into the ornate room, maybe more, so maybe no one noticed when she came in. She pressed her back against a lofty bookshelf, feeling the spines of the leather volumes against hers.

  “As you might be aware, the police visited us at the Brannigan this morning,” Brannigan continued.

  Ella felt the blood drain from her face, she really did, and her knees went so jelly she almost fell against a big upholstered chair. Catching herself, she knocked into Collins Munson’s navy blazer and pointy elbows.

  “Sorry,” she whispered. Mr. Munson glared down at her, frowning even more than usual behind his horned-rims before turning his attention back to the front of the room.

  “It is with much sadness that I tell you…” Brannigan paused, looked at the floor, then looked up at them. “… the police informed me that sometime last night, our dear Lillian Finch passed away.”

  Oh sweet mother of … What could have happened? She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t. Maybe this was her payback. Maybe God telling her she should not have interfered in what was not her business. Ella felt the fear and the guilt creep up the back of her neck and tighten her throat.

  Ms. Finch was dead? Ella felt the scream, threatening, but knew she had to stay silent, had to think. Not now, she thought. Hail Mary, full of grace.…

  “I don’t have many answers for you, my dear colleagues, but if you have any questions,” Brannigan finished, “I shall try to answer.”

  Yes, I have questions, Ella yearned to say. Why had Ms. Finch made the Call to the wrong woman? Did she know what she’d done? But now was not the time to ask. Maybe that time would never come.

  Collins Munson cleared his throat. Ella looked up at him. So did everyone else. Munson, who “had the keys” as Lillian always put it, to the History and Records department, might be the only one who dared ask the first question. Or any question at all. He’d been around forever, since before Ella arrived three years ago. He had a parking space of his own. He’d placed hundreds of children, Ella knew. Reunited hundreds of families. Kind of a legend.

  “Mr. Brannigan? Do the police know”—Munson cleared his throat again, his words catching in grief—“how she died?”

  “Ah, Collins. This is difficult for all of us.” Brannigan shook his head. “The authorities may know. I asked, of course. But they did not choose to inform me, and insisted they had to end our conversation and continue their investigation. Please cooperate with them, all of you, as they do. And please keep me informed if they contact you.”

  How she died? How she died? Ella’s mind raced, calculating. Of course, well, of course, that was the question. The police? Came here? If Ms. Finch had died of natural causes, that’s what they called it on her TV shows, it wouldn’t have been the police who came. Would it?

  What if Ms. Finch knew she’d … made a terrible mistake? What if she couldn’t live with it? W
ould the police have come to tell them that? If she’d … killed herself? But that was a mortal sin. Lillian would never—

  “In closing, let me acknowledge, we shall all miss her,” Brannigan was saying. “But we must continue our good work, and know she would have wanted it that way.”

  Ella stared at the rug, its colors blurring with her tears of sorrow and confusion and panic and fear.

  *

  “Tacos,” Keefer said.

  Her brothers hadn’t budged from the couch. Kellianne stood in the hallway, hands on hips. Beyond mad. Now the two were watching a music video, blasting the speakers, something with stuff blowing up. She’d like to blow them up, the morons. Her fingers were raw from the stupid duct tape, and she’d lugged about fifty plastic bags of carpeting squares—okay, maybe five—to the barrel at the front door. Why Kev insisted she yank up the carpet from the bedroom when the body was in the kitchen seemed ridiculous. But she was too—whatever—to argue. Get it done, right? Then it would be over.

  Besides, now that she’d figured things out, now that she’d had her good idea, the more they left her alone the better.

  “No way, asshole.” Kevin sprawled on the couch, his white-bootied feet still plonked on the dead woman’s coffee table. “I’m not eating one more frickin’ taco. I could go for a meatball sub, though. The ones from down the street. I’ll buy if you fly.”

  “Let’s get the princess to fly,” Keefer said. “She’s always whining for food.”

  She?

  “I’m right here, assholes. And I’m not hungry.” Kellianne was dying in the Tyvek suit. But now it didn’t matter. She smoothed a sleeve, then the zippered front, making sure it looked flat enough. “You go. I’ve gotta finish in the back.”

  “But you gotta bill for lunch,” Kevin said. “Or it makes us look bad.”

  “Put down that I got a sub and a soda, big shot,” she said. “Dad’s gonna kill you if you get caught padding the bill, though, ya know.”