The Wrong Girl (Jane Ryland) Read online

  “Caught by you and what army?” Keefer said. He jabbed his brother with an elbow. “Pretty funny, huh? And like we’re afraid of Dad.”

  “Shut up about Dad,” Kevin said. “We going for the frickin’ subs or what?”

  Leave leave leave. They have to leave. Or this will never work. The landlord was an out-of-state, according to the Afterwards paperwork, so that was good. The insurance company knew the drill, they were cool with whatever up to the policy limits. No annoying relatives had called or showed up demanding to take stuff, like sometimes happened. The cops had cleared the scene. So seemed like no one would be snooping in here.

  All good for Kellianne. All very, very good.

  24

  “I’ll tell if you will,” Jane whispered. They’d almost arrived at pizza guy’s floor, and Jane didn’t want to let go of Jake’s hand. But Jake had to be going somewhere. In about two seconds, he’d have to declare a floor. After that she’d know whether he was headed for Maggie Gunnison. Whether he knew about “Brie.”

  “Tell what?” Jake’s voice went into her hair.

  He smelled like citrus, and cinnamon, and coffee. “Why you’re here,” Jane said. “You first.”

  The elevator stopped at ten, the doors sliding open. The pizza guy got out, leaving them alone. Jane didn’t move.

  Jake didn’t, either.

  The door closed, and they were alone.

  “Wonder what’ll happen if no one presses a button?” Jane turned, slowly, looking up into Jake’s eyes and not letting go of his hand. She remembered his touch from that one night last summer. The night of Jake’s apartment and his hands on her skin and their clothes on the floor and—the night she said no. They’d done the math—reporter plus source equals disaster. They thought they’d nipped this in the bud. In reality, it was way past the bud.

  She dropped her tote bag to the floor, and stepped so close to him she could feel his chest rise, then fall. The elevator beeped, signaling its impatience. You’re in an elevator, Jane Elizabeth.

  “Is this your idea of sharing a room? Hmm?” Jake touched a gloved finger to her face, gave that smile she missed every day. “Want me to push the stop button? Or maybe … stopping isn’t what you had in mind.”

  She felt the sleek leather slide down the side of her cheek. Almost couldn’t breathe. And then she burst out laughing.

  “Jacob Dellacort Brogan.” She batted his hand away. The elevator’s beep grew more insistent. “I could have you arrested. For like, incorrigibleness or something.”

  “You started it,” he said.

  “Did not.” Although she had. And she deeply wished they could continue. “But listen, aren’t you on your way somewhere? Hadn’t you better push a button?”

  *

  Push a button, huh? She’d kill him if he’d said that.

  “You were already on the elevator, Ryland, in the lobby,” Jake said instead. “But you didn’t get off, so I know you’re trying your sneaky reporter tricks on me. Good luck with that, sister.”

  He stabbed the elevator button marked L. The beeping stopped. “You’re going down.” He saw her reaction, and nudged her with an elbow. “Shut up. You know what I mean. And I’m going back up. Alone. I’m working, and so are you. You’re the one who insisted we make work stuff off-limits, right? If you’d like to chat about anything on your list of acceptable topics, feel free. We have ten whole floors to do so. And then we say adiós. Your idea, remember.”

  She picked up her bag, slung it over her shoulder, made that pouty little face at him. “Jerk.”

  “As I often hear,” he said.

  The elevator shuddered, then began to move.

  “Okay, fine. Anyway, listen to this,” Jane said. “I did have kind of a weird morning. Tuck, you know?”

  “Yeah, sure. Have she and Laney—?”

  “I only have eight more floors,” Jane said. “You want to hear this?”

  He raised both palms, defeated. Tuck, huh? She’d driven him nuts when she was covering the police beat for the Register. She was hot, sure. But relentless. Manipulative. Also unreliable, unscrupulous, and a problem waiting to happen. What’s more, Jake had found, not always honest. After the Laney debacle, Jane admitted she felt sorry for Tuck. He’d never understand why. Women.

  “So Tuck’s adopted, it turns out.” Jane was saying. “Who knew? She showed up at my apartment, yesterday—yeah, bizarre, I know—and told me she’d gotten a call from this adoption place, the Brannigan. Ever heard of it?”

  *

  The Brannigan? What did Jane know about the Brannigan? Did Tuck have a connection with Lillian Finch? Jake checked the flashing lights across the top of the elevator. Almost at two. In ten seconds, the doors would open, and he’d have no way to find out what Jane was talking about without letting her know why he cared. The Brannigan? Was that where this Tuck story was leading?

  “It’s like a, a child placement agency, right?” He’d answer what she’d asked, then take it one step at a time. “They do private—”

  “Yeah, adoptions,” Jane interrupted. “Let me get through this, okay? Because we’re almost to the lobby. So Tuck says they called her, and—”

  “Who? When?”

  “When what?”

  The bell pinged, and the elevator doors rumbled, ready to slide open.

  “Oh, never mind,” Jane said. “I know you’re working. It’s probably nothing. You know how Tuck is. See you soon, okay?”

  She stepped out of the elevator, fluttering a wave over her shoulder. “Later, gator. Stay warm.”

  Was she teasing him? Knowing she had information he’d want to hear? Jake held back the door with one hand. He had only seconds to make a decision.

  Margaret Gunnison had told him she had to catch a plane at Logan, and she’d be in her office only another hour. She wasn’t a suspect, not a flight risk, so he couldn’t justify making her cancel her trip to the Caribbean. Which meant he had to get upstairs. Still, Gunnison couldn’t be the only DFS staffer who had access to the Brianna Tillson files. And those files—including whatever there was about whoever was supposed to sleep in that empty cradle—were not headed to Anguilla. They’d be available whenever he got there.

  On the other hand, Lillian Finch. Clearly she had not suffocated herself, unless she’d taken a bunch of sleeping pills and taped a pillow over her own face to make it look like murder. Possible, he supposed. But pretty damn unlikely. Kat McMahan would soon have the final say. But way more likely someone killed her.

  Now it seemed possible Jane knew something about Lillian Finch’s death—or, at least, something unusual about the Brannigan. Had the dead woman called Tuck? Why?

  Tuck as suspect? He dismissed that thought as quickly as it arrived. No. Not Tuck. But what does she know? The moment I ask Jane about it, she’ll smell a story. And that’ll be another mess.

  Tuck, Jane, Brannigan, murder. All too close for coincidence.

  In a murder investigation there were no coincidences. There was only luck and timing. Time to talk to Jane.

  He stepped out of the elevator. The doors swished behind him. “Hey, hang on, I at least have time to hear the rest of—”

  “Well, well, looks like I shoulda brought coffee for three.” DeLuca sauntered toward them, carrying a four-pocketed cardboard tray with two Mickey D extra-larges. His black knit cap was dotted with snow. “Hey, Jane. What brings you here?”

  “Hey, yourself, Detective,” Jane said. “Might ask you the same thing.”

  Four women bundled in mufflers and heavy coats strolled in, all talking at once. One punched the up button, and the elevator doors opened. They piled in, leaving wet boot prints on the now-damp floor, then one held the door with a mittened hand.

  “Going up?” she asked.

  “Nope,” Jake said. “Thanks.”

  The elevator doors closed again. Leaving the three of them.

  “Jane was asking me about the Brannigan.” Jake had to warn D that she was on to something. He nee
ded to hear the rest of the story.

  “You get the bad guy?” DeLuca said. “That’d sure make our lives easier.”

  “What bad guy?” Jane looked at D, planting her hands on her hips. Looked at Jake. Decided on D. “For what?”

  “Callaberry Street,” Jake answered.

  “Right. Didn’t we see you there yesterday?” D added.

  “Well, Callaberry Street is why you guys are here, correct?” Jane said. “To see Margaret Gunnison?”

  “Detective Brogan, this is dispatch,” Jake’s radio crackled, the dispatcher’s voice bouncing off the marble walls and plate glass windows. “You copy?”

  He tried not to roll his eyes. “Brogan. I copy.”

  “We have a call from a Margaret Gunnison? She’s the assistant commissioner of the Division of Family Services?”

  “Copy.”

  “Apparently you’re supposed to be in her office now? The Supe is wondering—”

  DeLuca punched the up button, and the light went on. The car was at fifteen. So much for talking to Jane. But Jane wasn’t going to Anguilla. She was on to something. And he needed to find out what.

  25

  No way was she letting them go upstairs. Jake seemed way more interested in the Brannigan thing—or maybe in Tuck?—than Jane had expected. He’d gotten off the elevator. And clearly been annoyed with D for mentioning “the bad guy.” These two stories were connected, somehow, whatever happened at the Brannigan and the Callaberry death, and they were going to ensure her continued employment at the Register. Thank you, journalism gods.

  “Does Margaret Gunnison have something to do with the Brannigan?” she asked. Might as well try to get the rest of the story. The elevator pinged. On its way down.

  She watched the two cops exchange glances.

  No answer, huh? Okay, then.

  “Is it”—she was taking a chance here, but why not?—“something about Bree?”

  Jake took a coffee from D’s tray, flipped the lid, took a sip. Not answering. D grabbed his own cup, then pushed the tray into a metal waste bin. Not answering.

  Jane almost burst out laughing at their studied evasion. She must be on the trail of something, because they were not-answering like mad. Often a very good sign that the question was worth asking.

  “Guys?” Jane said. “If you’re finished with your coffee break? Something’s going on, and you’re doing a pretty stinko job of covering it up. What does Brannigan have to do with Maggie Gunnison? What’s the deal with Bree? I’m a reporter, remember?”

  “I sure do.” Jake jabbed the up button. The floor indicator blinked 4, and coming down fast. “But duty calls. So if you have questions, you’ll have to contact PR. That’s how we do it downtown. You want the number?”

  “Gimme a break.” Jane grabbed his jacket, then took her hand away. The silver doors slid open. “Off the record. Tell me.”

  DeLuca stepped into the elevator. “I’ll leave you two kids alone,” he said.

  Jake stared at her, but she couldn’t read him. He seemed to think for a minute, his back to DeLuca. Jane could see D’s boot was keeping the elevator doors open.

  “What?” Jane asked, wishing for telepathy. Jake wanted something from her, she knew him well enough to see that. And she sure did want something from him.

  “Like I said. Call PR, Jane,” he said. But with his thumbs he was clearly sending her a different message. Text me.

  *

  I have to get out of Mr. Brannigan’s office. I have to go home. Ella tried to hold back her tears, tried to remember to breathe, knowing it was not proper to cry in front of the entire Brannigan staff, yet she couldn’t help it, not at all, no matter how hard she clenched her fists. She was upset about Ms. Finch. And she was upset about that bag of copied documents that festered, like the TellTale Heart, under her desk.

  What should she do with those now?

  “Then that concludes our meeting,” Mr. Brannigan was saying. “Again, I thank you all for your patience and compassion. I will have more information as it becomes available.”

  The office door opened, and Grace gestured the downcast staffers into the hallway. Ella turned, following them out, head bowed. Her fingernails bit into her palms. I have to go home. I’ll take the documents with me. I’ll burn them. Or something.

  She stood a little straighter, reconsidering. Trying to regroup. Whatever someone did wrong, it really wasn’t her fault. She was the good guy. She was trying to help. She was—

  “Miss Gavin?” Mr. Brannigan’s voice lassoed her from behind. “May I ask you to stay a moment?”

  Ella’s stomach hit the floor.

  “Close the door, please, will you?”

  *

  The girl was an idiot, no doubt about that. Crying? Well, of course she was upset that her supervisor was dead—he supposed. But Brannigan had long harbored the suspicion that Ella’s deer-in-the-headlights act was only that, an act, and that she actually had her eye on the big desk in Lillian’s office. Not that she’d have the temerity to say anything to him about it. He stopped, remembering the new reality. Now he’d never be able to ask Lillian.

  Funny how things worked. Or didn’t.

  “Miss Gavin?” Brannigan circled behind his desk, waving her to a visitor’s chair, careful to keep a sympathetic expression. Make sure she knew she wasn’t … in trouble. He had her, certainly for being late today. Also for her unauthorized visit to Lillian’s office last evening. Why was she there? What’s more, it would be helpful to know how much Lillian had told her, if anything. He’d had perfect confidence in Lillian, but then one never knew with women.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, for all of our loss. Ms. Finch was a particular fan of yours, always spoke highly of you, and…”

  “Oh, Mr. Brannigan, what happened to her?” The girl had tears running down her cheeks, her nose going all red. She twisted her hands, worrying the edges of her cardigan sweater between her fingers.

  “Well, we don’t know, Ella,” he said. “But I’m wondering if there’s any way you can help us help the authorities in this matter. Did she ever, say, divulge to you any reason why she was, perhaps, upset? Worried?”

  Brannigan worked to keep his own face blank as he tried to read Ella’s expression. Fear, certainly. Knowledge, possibly.

  “No, nothing,” Ella wiped her eyes with the back of one hand, then cleared her throat, as if the words didn’t want to come out. Gulped. “Nothing. I mean, what do you mean?”

  “Was she—happy in her work? Did she have, shall we say, any stresses in her personal life?”

  “Her—well, no, Mr. Brannigan—we never—I mean, she wouldn’t have—I mean, I never thought—”

  Ella didn’t seem able to finish a sentence.

  “You’re upset,” he said. And doing an unsuccessful job of hiding something. “But we must persevere. If you’d like to, perhaps, take the rest of the day off, go home?”

  She leaned forward, eyes widening, like a child longing for a sweet. “Yes, I—”

  “But first,” Brannigan said, “could you bring me Ms. Finch’s current files? I’d like the dossiers on the next clients designated to get the Call, as well as those from the last month or so.”

  Ella stood, as if straining toward the door. “Okay—I mean, yes, I’ll find them.”

  Seemed as if her voice still wasn’t working properly. Interesting.

  “Ella? Is there something—”

  The girl blinked at him. “No, I was only thinking … it’s actually Mr. Munson in History and Records who’d have the archived files. Should I ask his office for them?”

  “Don’t bother them now,” Brannigan said. “We’ll talk about Ms. Finch’s clients tomorrow.”

  Now. That expression was worrisome. How much did this girl know?

  26

  Jane watched the elevator doors close, wiping away the last glimpse of Jake—he might have winked, but she couldn’t be sure. He’d acted out text me, though. Of that she was certain.
r />   Still.

  “Grrr.” She said it aloud. Jake was upstairs getting all those confidential files from Maggie, exactly the ones Jane needed, exactly the ones Jane would never have access to. Even if she made a formal public records request, Family Services legally had ten days to answer her. Even then, they’d deny the request. Kids were kids, foster care was confidential, and the privacy exemption to the Public Records Law ensured the records were beyond sealed. To her. Not to the cops. Not to Jake. Grr.

  She should call Alex. Give him an update. Jane scrabbled in her tote bag for her phone, resolving, again, to return it to the special phone pocket so it didn’t always get swallowed in the black hole.

  One message, the green indicator said: 1:04 P.M. No wonder she was starving again. No wonder the lobby was full. Lunch hour must be over. A clump of slush-covered workers waited in the ragged security line, peeling off dripping parkas and snow-flecked mufflers, stuffing them into beige bins on a puddled conveyor belt.

  She pressed play, held the phone to her ear, clamping it between her cheek and shoulder while she tied her belted coat. The ceiling-high plate glass windows in the front lobby of the DFS building misted with damp, and in the swirl of snowflakes outside on the concrete plaza, a bronze statue of Alexander Graham Bell wore a blanket of Boston white. Grim, gray, and brutally cold. Gloves. She yanked one from each coat pocket.

  The message clicked on.

  “Jane? It’s me, Tuck. Call me. Right now. I’m serious.”

  Tuck. She felt guilty, sort of, about running out on their meeting. Holding one glove, she pulled on the other with her teeth so she could still hold her cell and hit “call back” with her bare thumb. Tuck answered before the phone even finished ringing.

  “Listen, Jane. I got a call from Ella Gavin. She’s completely freaking out. She says the police were at the Brannigan today, because—”

  Jane stopped in her tracks, the other glove dropping to the floor. A businessman in a soggy trench coat almost ran into her, banging his heavy black briefcase against her leg.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said. Ow. She picked up the now water-stained glove from the damp stone. The police? Were at the Brannigan? “But what do—?”