Then she thought of something. Something not good at all. She had to tell Kevin. He was about to open the door, and she’d better stop him.
“Hey. Kev.”
Kevin had left everything unlocked. He was pulling open the white-trimmed storm door but turned to her, his stupid cap all sideways but his stupid sunglasses still in place.
“What, for godsake? We need to get inside.” He turned the brass knob of the front door, and pushed it open.
“I’m just saying.” Kellianne, the last one in, closed the storm door behind her. They stood in the entryway, looking into the living room. Only the puffy couch pillows that had fallen, haphazard, onto the dead woman’s expensive-looking rug betrayed anything unusual happening inside. “You’re so smart and all, but this guy had a key to the house, right? So it seems like he had to know the dead woman. So aren’t the police gonna connect—”
“If they do, Miss Buzzkill,” Kev interrupted her, she hated that, “they’re gonna think he was on his way to see her, right? Maybe he didn’t know she was dead. I mean, obviously he didn’t. Why would you come visit a dead person?”
Kevin was sneering again. She hated that, too. He kept talking, his eyes all sneery, like she was so dumb.
“Right, princess? But he never made it inside. Because the door was sealed with crime tape. And we’re gonna do that right now. Capisce?”
“Yeah, capisce?” Keefer echoed. He stabbed two forefingers at her, poking the air. “We got nothing to do with that guy. Okay? And we’re gonna seal the door when we leave.”
Keef turned and looked back through the storm door. Kev did, too. So did Kellianne. The three remained silent for a moment. Staring across the street.
In the glow of the streetlight, Kellianne could make out the man’s body, head down, sitting behind the steering wheel. Kind of, she guessed, like he’d just parked there. Maybe getting ready to open his door. Which, come to think of it, was exactly what he had done about twenty minutes earlier.
Maybe this would work.
“Okay,” Kellianne said.
34
“Why would you think she’d be home, Tuck? Shouldn’t you call?” Jane watched the numbers on the gas pump fly by as she filled her Audi with unleaded. Not exactly how she’d planned to spend her Tuesday morning, but then, nothing in her life was going as planned. Frankly, that was becoming a pattern.
Her hand nearly froze to the pump handle, but self-serve was cheaper. If it turned out her job was in the Register’s budgetary gun sights, she’d be wise to keep expenses down. And she should have worn a hat. She wrapped the end of her plaid muffler around her other hand. Freezing.
Freezing and banished.
Tuck had her passenger-side window open and was pecking at the keys on the car’s GPS. “She lives there, that’s why,” Tuck said. “It’s not where we met, remember, but I know … hang on a second, I can’t talk to you and enter the address at the same time.”
Banished from the Register. So ridiculous.
“I know, Mom, glass half full,” Jane muttered at the flashing numbers. Come to think of it, she should remember that. She wasn’t banished from journalism. She could work on a different story, and she didn’t need to go into some building to do it. Eventually, Alex would love it and Tay Reidy would unbanish her and all would be well.
It could happen. Might as well believe it.
But truth be told, she didn’t. As the gas pump numbers racked up more dollars, Jane’s worries spun even faster, imagining what would happen if she got fired again. Her father would—well, he’d probably pull out his favorite phrase, “I told you so.” Then remind her he’d have preferred her going to law school, and remind her that Lissa had followed his advice, then point out how happy her sister was now. How engaged Lissa was. All that Jane wasn’t. She’d have to sell her condo, move somewhere, find another new job. As what? And Jake—
The gas pump bell dinged. Jane jammed the hose back on the hook.
Jake was so angry last night. She had to admit she wasn’t thrilled with the nasty phone call, either, who would be? But it was the cost of doing reporter business, and she couldn’t live her life spooked every time some goon felt unhappy with her story. She promised Jake she’d be careful and made it home fine. No bad guys or boogey men. No repeat phone call. Fine, okay, she’d checked the street outside her front window a time or two. She hadn’t noticed any police cruisers—so much for “keeping an eye on her”—but who knew.
She swiped her credit card through the payment thing again with a little more drama than warranted.
Get out of town. Ridiculous. She should be basking in glory over the Brianna Tillson scoop and working on her take-out on foster care. She should be studying Hec Underhill’s photos to see if any of the Callaberry Street neighbors she’d interviewed looked like someone who would make a malevolent phone call. Or kill someone. Instead, she was embarking on a wild goose chase with Tuck. Still, if she hit pay dirt, she’d be back in control of her life.
“Got it,” Tuck said. “The GPS says it’ll take, like, two hours to get there. A straight shot west, then down eighty-four. Hang on, I’m hitting the bathroom.”
Tuck slammed the car door, heading toward a battered tin sign that said LADY’S. She glanced up at the whitening sky, then swirled an orange cashmere muffler around her neck.
Jane slid into the driver’s seat, yanking the seat belt across her parka. Jake was fuming because she hadn’t informed him instantly about the call. Alex was fuming because they had a perfectly good scoop about Brianna Tillson but couldn’t use it.
Everyone angry at Jane. Lovely.
Her story was killed, her exclusive out the window. All that cultivation of Maggie Gunnison and her serendipitous sighting of Finn Eberhardt—not to mention her frostbitten arm-twisting to weasel information from him—had resulted in absolute zero. Which is about as cold as it was at this Mobil station in the Framingham service plaza of the Mass Turnpike.
“Glass half full,” Jane muttered.
Tuck was back in her seat. “Glass of what? Full of what?”
“It’s an expression. Listen, where were you anyway, yesterday? I texted you a couple times.”
Jane turned the ignition, pulled forward, and waited for a break in the highway traffic. Cars hissed by, tires spitting sleet, some tailgating the municipal salt-spreader trucks working to keep ahead of the always-icy turnpike. Lopsided mountains of graying snow, piled shoulder-high by the public works plows, lined the access ramp. This stuff wouldn’t melt until March, maybe April. It would only get dirtier. At least there was no snow in the forecast. Around here, anyway.
“I was—” Tuck leaned forward, peering through the windshield. “Okay, you can go.”
Jane ignored her, flipped on her turn signal. It didn’t matter why Tuck hadn’t called her, she guessed. What did matter—
“Did Ella tell you she was keeping those copies of the documents?” Jane inched forward, eyes on the traffic, ready to bang the gas when there was an opening. “Sure would be good to have them, you know?”
“Nope,” Tuck said. “She told me at Dunkin’ she had to get rid of them, in case—well, I guess she wasn’t supposed to copy them. So she certainly doesn’t have them anymore. We’re screwed on that end. Go. There’s plenty of space.”
There wasn’t. Good thing Tuck wasn’t driving. “Well, wait. The Brannigan people, Ms. Finch, contacted you. Didn’t they give you copies?”
“‘The child’—that’s what they call me—‘the child’ doesn’t have access. It’s all sealed.” Tuck waved a hand at the cars whizzing by. “Sheesh. We’re never gonna—”
Jane hit the accelerator, sneaking her Audi in behind a salt-spattered red SUV filled with kids. An Irish Setter barked at her, silently, through the rear window, as the SUV pulled away. The traffic had thinned out, as always happened on the Pike. Crowded as hell for a mile, then next to nothing for reasons known only to highway engineers.
The green mile-marker signs flashed
by, the concrete barriers along the side of the highway a blur of jagged cracks and mismatched plaster patches. They were on their way to find out what Carlyn Beerman could tell them. Tuck insisted the woman-who-was-not-her-mother must be key to the whole thing.
The “thing”: that Carlyn’s biological daughter was out there somewhere. As was Tuck’s real birth mother. Waiting for their long-lost family to find them.
Maybe Jane could make things right. After all, that was her job, as a reporter, to make the system work. To hold the bad guys accountable. To make happy endings.
When she was growing up, Jane’s mother had eventually gotten used to her rescuing baby birds, adopting stray animals, and marching for better food in the school cafeteria. Even back then, preteen Jane needed to find out who caused the problems and figure out how to fix them. Not your responsibility, her father would instruct her. Jane could never understand that. Then whose? she would ask. Now, being a reporter meant fixing things was her job. That he couldn’t criticize.
“We can’t get the info from the Brannigan now, that’s for sure.” Jane adjusted her rearview mirror and gooshed wiper fluid across her windshield. “I can see us, sashaying in there, asking about your birth-mother concerns in the middle of a potential murder investigation. Speaking of which. Did Ella call you with any update on Lillian Finch? Did the cops visit Ella’s?”
“Nope, she didn’t call.” Tuck rummaged in her purse. “Gum?”
“Don’t you think that’s strange?” Jane shook her head at the gum offer, eased into the fast lane, and passed the SUV. Now that the road opened up, everyone pushed the speed limit. Massachusetts drivers. But seventy seemed safe enough. No staties with radar guns lurked by the side of the highway, ready to nab her for speeding. “Ella was freaking, remember, when she left us? And now Ms. Finch, the woman who she says made the big mistake, is—”
“Dead,” Tuck said. “Yeah.”
“Remain on the current road for one hundred five miles,” the plummy GPS voice instructed.
“Yeah,” Jane said. “Not that her death has anything to do with…”
She paused, staring as the highway unspooled ahead. What if it did? What if Lillian Finch’s death was connected to Tuck?
“Hey. Tuck?” A black pickup seemed to be closing in on them. Was it? Jane watched it in the rearview. It was. Getting closer by the second, verging on tailgating, flashing its double-tall headlights at them. “I’ve got to watch the road, but check behind us, okay?”
Jane risked another look in her rearview as Tuck twisted around to peer through the back window. The truck was definitely closer. Definitely picking up speed.
“See that truck?” Jane said. “The black one? Isn’t he getting kind of close?”
35
“Did you touch anything, Mrs. Richards?” Jake knew he sounded like a TV detective, but at least those crime dramas got people to understand what was important. Law & Order as a vehicle for citizen education was pushing it, maybe, but if Dolly Richards had been savvy enough to keep her mitts off the Lexis, he and DeLuca might catch a break. This guy was dead, that was for sure. Question was, who was it? And why?
“Did you open the car door? Recognize who was inside?”
Jake had peered through the ice-covered passenger-side car window when he and DeLuca arrived at Margolin Street, happy to see no smudges or swipes from curious fingers, knowing he had to keep the crime scene pristine until the techs arrived. Jake could see the man’s face was turned toward the passenger side, his plaid muffler obscuring his features. Gray hair, navy overcoat, no gloves. Not breathing, motionless, skin on his hands blanched. The dead man’s hands were in his lap, not on the steering wheel. The windows were not fogged. No one was breathing inside.
No bullet holes in the car, no blood that Jake could see, no signs of a struggle or violence. But it was still early, and he was still collecting puzzle pieces. Guessing was a waste of time.
Crime Scene would be here momentarily, and DeLuca was running the license plate. This poor guy clearly wasn’t going anywhere.
“Touch anything? Of course not, Detective.” Mrs. Richards shook one finger at him, exactly like his Grandmother Brogan used to do. “I see all the shows. I know what to do. I called nine-one-one. I saw the car out my front window when I went for the morning paper, on the porch. Then I started thinking, had I seen the car last night? There was another car parked out there, a grayish van, but it went away. With all that’s been going on around here, I knew I should, well, call the ‘cops,’ as they say. But I couldn’t really remember about the car, so I thought, well, I—”
Jake hid a smile. Dolly Richards was clearly relishing her moment as potential witness to real-life human drama. Her gray curls peeked out from under a crocheted white hat that sported a crocheted flower over one ear. She’d gone a little overboard with the rouge. If he didn’t interrupt, she’d just keep talking.
“Ma’am?” Jake narrowed his eyes at the obviously lifeless man behind the wheel of the Lexus, searching for something he might have missed.
“I get up early these days. Don’t want to waste any of the time I have left! The paper boy hadn’t arrived when I first looked, but I did notice this car. Not so much the car, but a person inside. Now, makes sense there’d be a person if they were driving, and I didn’t think a thing of it, maybe he was leaving. But when I went back for the paper, it seemed to me that he hadn’t moved. That’s when I started to smell trouble. So I wrote down the license number, like I always do, I write them all down. I called nine-one-one, and said, I’d like to report—”
“Ma’am?” Jake tried again. “So this green car had been parked here all night?”
“Well, that’s what I told the girl on the phone, the nine-one-one girl. Like I said, I’m not sure.” Three frown lines appeared across her forehead. “Of course, the police were here the other day, so I figured they’d be—well, I think I’d recognize all the usual cars, and there are always cabs, of course, there was one earlier that night. I don’t want to make a mistake, you know? But I think…”
Jake let her talk as he pieced the story together. He pulled out his cell phone, opened a new file for Margolin Street. Does that sound familiar? If the green Lexus had been here all night, the already-iced morning dew would be a problem enough for the print guys. Another homicide. Christ. That was going to push their unit to the max. Still, any luck, this was a heart attack. They wouldn’t know until the ME got hold of the case. DeLuca had magnanimously volunteered to watch for Kat McMahan’s van.
Wait. What had Mrs. Richards said? “Police were here the other day? For what?”
Mrs. Richards looked up at him, both hands landed on her hips. “Well, for heaven’s sake, Detective, that’s Lillian Finch’s house. Right there. Across the street. See the yellow tape across the front door?”
Holy shit. Margolin Street. He clicked open his notes from the meeting at the Brannigan. Did he even have Lillian Finch’s address? He scrolled through his typed-in bullet points. No. It was certainly in the master case files, but not in his cell phone notes. He wasn’t the initial primary on Finch. Damn.
Mrs. Richards leaned toward him, conspiratorial. One white-gloved hand clutched his jacket sleeve. “Detective, do you think you have two murders to solve? Now I’m really going to keep my doors locked. We all think someone killed poor Lillian, of course—do you think whoever that was also killed this poor man?”
*
Tuck turned in her seat again, looking out the back window at the Mass Pike behind them. “Idiot,” she said. “Move over, Jane. Let the frat boy pass you.”
Jane flipped her blinker, checked for traffic, eased her Audi into the middle lane. She could hear the hiss of salt and slush under her wheels, the lane markings barely visible through the road’s thin veneer of almost-snow. She clicked on her windshield wipers, clearing a half-moon slash of glass framed with spackled gray.
“Pass me, you jerk,” she said. Instead, the black truck swerved in behind her, seeming
like inches from her rear bumper.
“‘Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear,’” Jane read on her side mirror. Not good.
“Come on,” Jane said. Call nine-one-one if there’s anything strange, Alex had told her. He’d also told her to get out of town. Was someone following her? Seemed unlikely. What would be the point?
All the cars on the Mass Pike were following someone, if you looked at it that way. Plus, Massachusetts drivers were notoriously aggressive. Maybe this one was giving two women a hard time for the absurd “fun” of it. Probably had a case of beer in the front seat.
“Can you see him now? What’s he doing?”
“Driving.” Tuck snaked around, her arm braced over the black leather seat back, looking out the rear window. “Has a hat, so I can’t see his face. Maybe you should—”
Jane put on her blinker again, moved into the slow lane. If they want to pass, now’s the time. The truck stayed on her tail. Matching her slower speed.
Should she turn off? Take the next exit?
The exit was half a mile ahead, according to the green sign on the metal stanchion above them. What if the truck was actually following her, not randomly tormenting them? The exit might lead to civilization, fast food places and shopping centers, the protection of other people and other cars. If they weren’t so lucky it would lead to twisty back roads and deserted stretches of nowhere. The truck could pull right up to her and if he had a gun—oh, ridiculous. Ridiculous. She was getting herself spooked.
She’d get mad instead. This jerk was a menace to everyone on the highway. And Jane could make it right.
“Can you get the license plate? Can you describe the guy?” Jane’s leather gloves clenched around the little steering wheel, and she trained her focus on the road stretching ahead. “We’ll call the cops and report it.”
“There’s no license plate on the front,” Tuck said. “Weird. It’s a Dodge RAM, some kind of decal on the windshield, but I can’t read it. Wait, now I see the guy has on a—Well, never mind, that’s not gonna help us.”
The Wrong Girl (Jane Ryland) Page 14