The Wrong Girl (Jane Ryland)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “Jake? Hang on, okay?”

  Jake finished his beer, listening to the fuzzy silence on the phone. Diva looked up, one ear flopped, inquiring. He gave her a reassuring pat and a half-shrug, as if she’d understand. “Women,” he said.

  “I tried to text you, Jake.” Jane’s voice had lowered to a whisper. “Is that what you were signaling by the elevator this afternoon? Were you going to tell me the name? But I really need to ask you. Did you tell anyone that I—”

  The call-waiting chirp on Jake’s phone interrupted, silencing whatever Jane was saying. The ID came up. RIVERA.

  Why was the Supe calling him? Maybe Judge Gallagher had agreed to the warrant.

  “Hang on, Jane. One second.” He clicked the button. “Brogan.”

  “Brogan? What the hell is she doing?” The Supe’s hollow voice meant he had Jake on speakerphone. Was someone else in the office? And she? How’d the Supe know Jane was on the phone?

  Or Rivera could be talking about Judge Gallagher. “Sir, we applied for a search warrant for the—”

  “Search warrant? What search warrant?” Rivera cut him off. “Hell, no. I’ve got some newspaper guy on the other line who’s telling me—”

  Jake heard a murmur in the background, someone else talking.

  “Alex Wyatt,” the Supe said. “From the Register? On the other speaker. Says some asshole called one of his reporters, Jane Ryland? And semi-threatened her if she pursued the Brianna Tillson case. How the hell does she know the name of—”

  “Sir?” Jake interrupted. Threatened Jane? “I hear you. Let me check. I’ll let you know.”

  He clicked the button on his phone, hoping the Supe didn’t notice he’d about cut him off, and stood so quickly two documents slid from the pile, landing on Diva’s back. Spooked, she nipped at them, then leaped up and scurried away.

  “Jane?” Something was wrong with his voice. He cleared his throat, then tried again. “Jane? Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

  32

  Lots of things, Jane thought. But nothing she could tell Jake if there was a chance anyone would hear. She swiveled in her office chair, staring at the fraying fabric of her cubicle walls, hearing the muffled clicking of computer keyboards, a few phones ringing. Judging by the acrid odor of burning dark roast, someone had again left the communal coffee pot on too long.

  “Tell you about what?” she asked. Jake’s voice sounded funny. Seemed like he was talking about something specific. Now what?

  Already this evening hadn’t gone the way she’d hoped. When she and Alex arrived at the Register’s basement photo archives, Hec Underhill had already gone. Archive Gus pinged him on the Nextel, but the photographer didn’t answer. Alex, impatient to begin with, went back to the newsroom to oversee the early edition. Jane hung around the photo lab, crossing her fingers Hec would return.

  As she waited at Hec’s desk, she’d jiggled one foot. Picked the hem of her jeans. Pulled a speck of lint from her black turtleneck. Looked at her watch. Maybe he’d tried to contact her? She dug in her bag, found her cell phone on the first try. But nothing from Hec. No text from Jake, either. Not even Tuck had called.

  “Damn.” She’d said it out loud.

  “Huh?” Gus looked up from his computer.

  “Nothing. Sorry.”

  One good thing, at least—no more anonymous calls.

  She’d puffed out a breath. Impatient. “Gus? Can you try Hec again?”

  Gus, perched on a high stool in front of a multiscreened monitor, was mousing through an array of photos from the snowstorm.

  “Sure.” He clicked the Nextel. “Hec? This is base. Do you copy?”

  He paused, and they both listened to silence.

  “Sorry, Jane.” Gus had shrugged, then parked the Nextel into the charger. “He’s out-a-pocket. You know Hec. Freelancers. Always somewhere. Feel free to hang out, ya know? Have one of those cookies. I have to make this deadline.”

  “Thanks, Gus.” It should have been her deadline, too. Maybe she could still get the Brianna scoop in the last edition? All she had to do was call Jake. She’d broken off one little morsel of a chocolate chip, nibbled at it as she worked on convincing herself.

  It would be perfectly okay to call him, even expected. No matter what was up, or not, in their personal life, she was a reporter working a story. It was her job to call a police source if the goal was to get to the truth. And to a balanced story. Alex would agree.

  Right. Great idea.

  But she couldn’t call Jake in front of Gus.

  “Ask Hec to come find me, ASAP, okay?” Ignoring the elevator, she ran up the three flights to the newsroom and around the corner to her cubicle. Punched in Jake’s number. But now that she was actually talking to him on the phone—well, if she interpreted the disapproval in his voice correctly, her “great idea” was more of a disaster.

  “Earth to Jane?” Jake was saying. “About a threatening phone call. Might you have thought that could be a bit of information I’d be interested in?”

  “How did you know I got a phone call?” She frowned, propping her elbows on her desk, holding the receiver against her cheek. It could only be Alex who told the police. Would he do that?

  “‘How’? ‘How’ is not the point,” Jake said. “The point is, someone—”

  “Jane?” Alex stood in the opening of her cubicle, cell phone in hand. “I’m on the phone with the—”

  Her brain was going to explode. No room for one more thing to fit inside. But she couldn’t let Alex know she was talking to Jake.

  “Who’s there?” Jake said. “Is someone in your office?”

  “—the police.” Alex finished his sentence. “And the publisher.”

  “Call ya back.” Jane looked up at Alex, still holding the phone to his ear. Smiled her best innocent smile. “What’s up?”

  “Yes, I’ll tell her,” Alex said into the cell. He clicked off and leaned against the side of her cubicle. A picture of a beach in Nantucket, souvenir of the last big story she’d push-pinned to the wall, floated to the floor. Alex picked up the green plastic pin, then the photograph.

  “Sorry.” He stabbed the photo back onto the fabric divider.

  “Oh, no problem,” Jane said.

  “Not about the photo, Jane.”

  Not a good sign.

  “That was Tay Reidy on the phone. I told him about the call you got, and he and I called the cops. Superintendent Rivera. He is not happy. No one is happy.”

  “Alex, it’s—Listen, all we have to do is look at the glass as half full.” She could tell from Alex’s frown he wasn’t buying her pitch. But she had to try. “Tomorrow, I’ll go downstairs again and find Hec, and we can—”

  “Yeah. About tomorrow. Mr. Reidy is of the mind that your situation has potentially put you, and all of us, in danger. I disagree, I admit, but nevertheless. If you come into the building tomorrow, he fears, the caller may, well, who knows. So Mr. Reidy has ‘suggested’—you’re not going to like this, Jane, but remember I’m only the messenger—that you stay away from the Register for a few days. Get out of town, even. Back off. Until the police can investigate.”

  “Get out of town?” She stood up, then sat down again. “Back off?”

  “Tonight the cops are going to keep an eye on your apartment. Anyone suspicious shows up, anything looks off, call nine-one-one. No sleuthy stuff.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Maybe he was kidding. He didn’t look like it, but she’d give it one more try. “We’re about to break some pretty big news, and he says back off?”

  “Jane.” Alex raked a hand though his hair. “What the publisher says is what we do. End of story.”

  Got that right, Jane didn’t say.

  *

  Niall Brannigan leaned against Lillian’s front door, half-hearing it click shut behind him. Warm in here. What was wrong with his shirt? Tight. Take off the tie, loosen it. He clutched his set of keys. His nerves were getting to him. Take a deep breath, he instruct
ed himself. He tried, then had to try again. Why is it so difficult? He wanted to smile, but that wasn’t working, either.

  He put a hand to his chest, feeling … tight, like a wrenching, as if an elephant were sitting on his chest. If he could only make it to the couch. A few steps across the room.

  “Who the hell are you? Keefer! Get in here! Lookit this!”

  Who was shouting? Was someone in the room? Brannigan narrowed his eyes, trying to make them work. Someone in a white coat and a mask. A doctor? But not a doctor. Only one step to Lillian’s soft couch. He needed to get—in the other room—the photo of—

  “Holy shit, Kev, who the hell is this?”

  Now someone else was talking, another man in white.

  “Hey. Buster. Who the freaking hell are you?”

  “He’s like a million years old. How’d he get in here? Hey, Grampa. What the hell are you doing here? Who the frick are you?”

  He knew this. He knew his name. He just couldn’t think of it at the moment. “It’s—I’m—”

  “Call the cops,” one man said. “Call nine-one-one.”

  “Yes, call—” Brannigan tried to make the words come out, but he knew somehow, it didn’t sound like yes. The room grew darker, then lighter, and the elephant still sat there, and he needed—

  “No. No freaking way. We’re not supposed to be in here till like tomorrow, you know that. How would we explain—”

  The white suits kept talking, arguing, ignoring him. He needed to interrupt.

  “In the bedroom drawer, there’s a—,” he said. Ah. Better. Better. He dropped onto the soft welcoming cushions of Lillian’s couch, her faint scent of muguet and roses lingering on one silky pillow. The lights were bright now, exactly as they should be, and the elephant was gone. His fear was gone. The ceiling was white, so white, so fascinatingly white, why hadn’t he noticed that before? He needed a moment to—But now the voices were yelling at each other, arguing, incessant but somehow hazy around the edges.

  “I said, get him outta here!”

  “But how are we supposed to do that? He’s a—”

  Someone—screamed? But not one of the white suits, it sounded like a girl, someone who worked for him at the Brannigan? But why was she screaming? So silly. It would all be fine.

  33

  She was going to die.

  Right here, right now, and it wouldn’t matter because her stupid brothers would be arrested for her murder, and she wouldn’t care. It might even be worth it to be dead to have those two idiots in handcuffs and behind bars.

  How can someone this old weigh this much? A million pounds, Kellianne calculated, seething. He weighs a million freaking pounds.

  Kevin had draped one of the old man’s arms over her shoulders and the other over Keefer’s. Kev walked in front of them, ‘scouting,’ he said, as the two stumbled along the front walkway toward the street, holding the guy up between them.

  After the man collapsed inside, Kev had made her take off her white suit, right when she had everything in place. Demanding privacy, she’d stashed her loot in the dead woman’s bathroom. They’d never come in the bathroom when she was in there. So that was okay.

  But now, if any of the neighbors looked out their windows, wouldn’t they see them? Her and Keefer lugging some sick old man down the front walkway of the dead woman’s house? I mean, how is that gonna work?

  She took a deep breath, her nose wrinkling at the scent of mothballs and old man smell. Her white nylon parka was gonna smell like—Shit. Now she had to grab one of his hands and give it a yank to keep him from slipping off her shoulder. She hoisted the stupid guy and took another step or two, then stumbled, barely catching herself.

  “Shit.” She should drop the guy, right on the wet brown grass. The brother brain trust could just deal with it. Without her.

  She wasn’t going another step.

  “Pssst, Kevin,” she whispered, needing to get his attention without making noise. No lights were on in the nearby houses, but someone could be calling the cops right now. “This is the dumbest, beyond dumb-ass thing you’ve ever—”

  “Move it, princess,” Keefer hissed at her. He was holding up the guy’s other side. But Keefer was so much taller than her, the guy was all tilty. Which made him even heavier. He was still breathing. She knew that, at least.

  “But—”

  “It is what it is, right? Keep walking.”

  No way. “Kevin!” she whispered, loud as she could, the sound tensing in her throat. “Stop, you asshole!”

  Kevin stopped, pivoted, and strode two steps toward them, glaring at her, his face all lines and shadows. His silver down vest was hanging open, unsnapped, and he wore his stupid baseball cap, strap in the front, and precious sunglasses balanced on top.

  “Listen to me, sister. You don’t have any say in this, right?”

  She didn’t like the sound of his voice.

  “You keep walking,” he said. “That’s gotta be his car across the street, the Lexus. Where’d he come from, otherwise, right? You keep your freaking arm around him, like I told you. And this will all be copacetic.”

  “But what if—”

  “There is no ‘what if.’” Kevin leaned forward, his eyes drilling into hers.

  She hated that. What an idiot.

  “Besides, he looks like some kind of drunk, ya know? If anyone’s looking?” Kevin waved a hand at the neighborhood. “So let’s all look sad for the neighbors, oh, no, Grampa had a little too much booze, must have been so upset over poor what’s her name. We’re helping him to his car. O-frigging-kay? Keep. Going.”

  Lucky it was dark. Lucky the neighborhood streetlights were kinda dim. Dim. Like Kev, who kept acting like he was the boss of her.

  Headlights.

  Coming around the corner.

  Kellianne felt her heart totally hammering in her chest. She tried to imagine what they would say if—

  Kev stopped, backed up close until he was right in front of them, as if to hide the unlikely trio from the road.

  The guy got even heavier. His head lolled to one side, his bristly white hair grazing her mouth. She. Was going. To die.

  The car was headed right toward them.

  No one said a word.

  The car whooshed past. Its piercing blue headlights grazed the surface of the walk, but no light touched them. The driver didn’t even slow down. Kellianne held her breath as it pulled away, leaving them in the dark.

  It wasn’t dark enough to keep her from seeing the guy’s mouth hanging open, eyeglasses about to fall off. She looked down at the flagstone path, trying to keep his image out of her brain. Her boots were muddy, glistening with slush. His feet were twisted, shoes coming unlaced, now his feet were facing in, no one’s feet could ever naturally do that. She remembered to breathe, then looked up, at the road, at the disappearing taillights, at Kev. Anywhere but at him.

  “Toldja.” Kevin was waving them forward with a “hurry-up” spiral of one gloved hand. “Make it look like you’ve got to get him to the car. He’s not dead, you know? He just had a stroke or something.”

  “And then what?” Keefer, lugging his half of the load, turned to her in the murky pool of the streetlight, muttering, as they crossed the road, step by ridiculous step. “We’re gonna put him—”

  Kevin got to the curb, then faced them, hands on hips. “Look. If we call the cops, and they find him in her house, they’re gonna know we were inside early. If they know we were inside early, we are ska-rooed. You know the deal.”

  “Yeah, but—” Keefer was frowning.

  “Yeah, but nothing. Who’s to know where he had his heart attack or whatever? Right?” Kevin kept talking, his voice low and persuasive. “Right? So, listen. It’s all good. He had keys, remember? We’ve gotta find them to get him back into the car.”

  “I’m not looking in his freakin’—”

  “Shut up, princess. I’ll hold him up while you—”

  Kevin took the last three steps to the car, and trie
d the driver’s side door. “Hey, no way. The door’s already open. How great is that?”

  He still wore his gloves, Kellianne saw.

  She frowned the whole time as she helped Keefer slide the guy behind the wheel. Keef had picked him up like a baby, plopped him in the front seat. She’d stuffed his legs into place, wincing as she saw his head bonk against the steering wheel.

  She stood up, took one step away from the car, keeping her hand on the door handle.

  “He’s in. We done? I’m closing this door.”

  “Shit.” Keefer was pushing her aside, leaning in over the guy. “Holy…”

  “What?” Kev whispered.

  “What?” Kellianne whispered.

  “He’s not breathing anymore.” Keef’s voice was weird, all freaked out. “Look. See that?”

  “You sure?” This sucked, Kellianne thought. Sucked bad.

  “You wanna check up close, little sis?” Keefer twisted around, cocking his head toward the body.

  “Close the door,” Kev ordered. He pointed at Keef. “Now. If he’s dead, he’s dead.”

  Keef reached for the door handle.

  “Softly!” Kevin hissed.

  The door clicked shut with a muffled thud. Kellianne looked around, eyes darting from house to house. Nothing. No lights flipped on. No sirens screamed down the street, not even a dog barked. Only the wind twisting through the bare rustling branches of the trees, and the three Sessions, standing by a dead guy.

  “Don’t you morons see? This is better.” Kevin widened his eyes and held out both hands, like he was trying to convince a little kid. “Now he can’t talk about seeing us. Right? Or tell what happened. He can’t—jeez. Come on, we need to get back inside.”

  Kellianne trotted after her brothers, across the street and back up the flagstone walk, considering. Better? It could work either way, she supposed.

  If they got into trouble, like the cops started asking questions, well, none of it was her idea and nobody could say it was. And if it actually worked, if, like, the cops thought this guy had his heart attack behind the wheel, maybe, felt bad, pulled over, then died, well, that wasn’t her fault, either. Shit happens.