“What?” Jane said. “Has on a what?”
“A green Celtics cap. Like that narrows it d—”
“Hang on,” Jane said. She twisted the wheel, banged the accelerator, then swerved across two lanes, all the way to the left, into the fast lane, leaning on the horn. A couple of cars in front of her sped away, probably wondering what the hell she was doing.
“Holy shit, Jane, what the hell are you—?”
“I said, hang on. Get ready. I’m not kidding.” Jane flicked a look into the rearview. The truck was behind her. She couldn’t make out the driver’s face. All she could think about was Finn Eberhardt, that’s how she’d recognized him at City Hall Plaza in the snow. His backwards Celtics hat. Could he have followed her? What if he’d put two and two together about—Hey. Had she given Maggie Gunnison her cell phone number? She had. She had.
She’d thought she was conning Finn into giving her information, but what if she’d actually been revealing her motives to exactly the wrong person? He might have figured she’d find out Brianna Tillson’s name eventually, and played along to see what she’d spill. And now Eberhardt knew she was interested in the case.
Was something going on at DFS? And how was he involved? What if Finn Eberhardt had gotten her phone number from Maggie’s files, and called her, threatening. Maybe he’d followed her all the way from home. Had the truck been at the gas station? She squinted her eyes, struggling to remember. The Dodge behind them was either driven by a random jerk with a twisted idea of fun, or a mid-level caseworker involved in some sort of scheme. A scheme she couldn’t begin to imagine.
NEXT EXIT, 8 MILES, the sign said.
“The truck’s getting closer,” Tuck began. “And—”
“I know.” Now or never. With one motion, she banged the gas, yanked the wheel, and crossed four lanes of snow-slick highway, leaning into the turn as if her weight could keep the car on an even keel. They rumbled over the slush-covered chevrons of yellow paint at the edge of the exit, rear tires jouncing over the raised pavement, and veered into the exit lane, landing almost on the opposite side of the pavement, flirting dangerously with the corrugated aluminum barriers.
“You’re crazy!” Tuck was bracing one hand on the dashboard, the other flat on the side window.
“Maybe. Possibly.” Jane’s voice wasn’t quite right. She realized she didn’t need to keep such a death grip on the steering wheel.
She took her foot off the gas, resisting the urge to hit the brakes, and downshifted, shaping her body along with the turn, letting the car settle into the elongated curve of the exit. No one appeared behind them. No way for the truck to exit for the next eight miles.
Easing the car into the left lane, she saw the highway markers pointing one way to a Taco Bell and a Mobil, the other to a Holiday Inn. Food, gas, lodging. Civilization. A few hundred yards away. She’d have a moment to think. Then make a phone call or two.
“Well? Tuck? Anything?”
Tuck twisted around again, scouting behind them. “Nope. Nothing. No one.” She poked one finger into the upholstery of Jane’s seat back. “So hey, Speed Racer. Care to tell me what that was all about?”
36
“Jake?” DeLuca approached the green Lexus, his black watch cap pulled over his hair, black turtleneck under his battered leather jacket, his Sorels salt-stained and edged with damp. ME Kat McMahan, in a bright blue parka, white moon boots and black briefcase, tramped in the freezing slush beside him. Jake noticed they carried matching Store 24 paper cups, hot coffee steaming from the flipped-open plastic lids.
“Detective DeLuca, this is Mrs. Richards, who called nine-one-one,” Jake said. DeLuca wasn’t going to believe this. “She’s the house on the corner, and she was telling me—”
“Yes, I was saying—,” Mrs. Richards piped up.
“Thank you,” DeLuca said. “But, ma’am, can you give me and Detective Brogan a few minutes? Go inside and get warm, maybe, then we’ll both come follow up.”
“But—” Mrs. Richards, almost pouting, turned to Jake for support. “You should let him know what I told you.”
“Ma’am? Detective?” Jake figured D was going to tell him about Lillian Finch’s house. He’d probably checked the address when he got the radio call. Jake held up a hand, trying to put Mrs. Richards on hold, and also signal DeLuca he had things under control. Which was somewhat true.
“What we need to do first is—,” Jake began.
The black van marked CRIME SCENE pulled up in the center of Margolin Street and the driver’s side window rolled down.
“Yo, Jake? Yo, D. Hey, Doc.” Photo Joe gestured at them with a paper cup, sloshing coffee on the pavement. The milky sun that had worked its way through the clouds briefly glared on the side mirror, sending a burst of light onto Joe’s doughy face. He shaded his eyes with the coffee cup hand, sloshing more liquid onto the street. “It’s me and Nguyen. Where do you want us?”
“May we use your driveway, Mrs. Richards?” That’d solve two problems—parking Joe’s van and dismissing the hovering neighbor. “For Officer Marcella? He’s here to get photographs. Then we’ll be right over to see you.”
“Well, certainly. Follow me, officers.” The woman padded off, focused on her new assignment.
Jake turned to DeLuca and McMahan. The two were standing side by side, coats touching, the medical examiner closer to D than Jake himself would have stood.
“Can you freaking believe it?” Jake said. “Quite the coincidence, huh?”
“Hell no, it’s not a coincidence.” DeLuca swiped off his wool cap, wiped his forehead with it, stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Took a slug of coffee. “We see this guy yesterday morning in connection with a mysteriously dead employee, and now, here he is? On her street? Dead as hell and probably frozen stiff? You think that’s coincidence. Are you shitting me? Sorry, Kat.”
“I’ve heard worse, Detective DeLuca.” Kat McMahan nudged D with an elbow. “Excuse me, Detectives. Might I have access to the—”
“What are you talking about, D?” Jake interrupted the ME, frowning. “What guy?”
“The guy in the front seat,” DeLuca said. “According to the license plate? This fine set of wheels belongs to one Niall Brannigan. Late of the Brannigan Agency. Boss to the late Lillian Finch. And from the looks of it—”
“Late himself,” Jake added. Niall Brannigan? What the hell was going on at that agency? And on Margolin Street? Two dead coworkers, zero explanations. “Not only late, but I’d say, very unlucky. Or very much in trouble.”
“Yeah. In trouble, dude.” DeLuca nodded. “Exactly like—”
“—we are,” Jake finished his sentence. “Exactly like we are.”
*
Ella had never seen Grace cry before. Crying was a daily occurrence at the Brannigan, for sure. In a wrenching moment of decision. When papers were signed. When people said good-bye. Sometimes, there were tears of joy. Finding the family they’d dreamed of. Tears of realization that life’s puzzle, missing a piece for so long, might finally be whole.
But sitting at her desk in front of Mr. Brannigan’s closed door, Grace could not be sharing tears of joy with a reunited family. Ella paused outside the open doorway. Mr. Brannigan’s secretary sat, head in hands, at her desk. Her sleek dark hair had come loose from its stylish little bun, random strands of escaped curls touching one shoulder of her tight black sweater. Touching her other shoulder, Ella was perplexed to see, was the hand of Collins Munson. He leaned close to her, speaking words Ella couldn’t make out.
Ella’s determination began to evaporate. She’d planned to tell—she’d decided to tell—Mr. Brannigan everything. It was the right thing to do. She’d even called him this morning on his private line, but no answer. Ella took two steps back into the empty hallway, reconsidering. Her parka was suffocating, her muffler was scratchy, and her one-strap backpack, documents burning a hole inside, was way, way too heavy.
She should go to her office, take all this off, and think
things through again. Where was everyone, anyway? It was Tuesday, a workday. Usually, phones were ringing, copy machines whirring, and computers clattering. People waiting in the lobby. Not today. The hallway was deserted. Office doors closed. She looked at her watch. Nine thirty. It was probably everyone sad over Lillian. She’d go to her office, and then … oh. Lillian was gone.
Her shoulders sagged and the backpack fell to the carpeting. In an instant, Grace and Mr. Munson looked up. Saw her. Munson leaped away from Grace, his tortoiseshell glasses twisting on his nose, his tie catching on the back of her chair.
“Miss Gavin?” Munson adjusted his glasses.
Grace pulled a tissue from a flowered box on her desk and dabbed her eyes. She fussed with her hair, blinking at Ella as if trying to remember who she was.
Ella had to say something. “I’d like to make an appointment with Mr. Brannigan,” she began. “At his convenience, of course, but—”
“Miss Gavin?” Munson interrupted her. “Step in, please. Did you talk to Mr. Brannigan last night?”
What was this all about?
“No. Does he need something?” Ella decided not to say she’d tried to call him this morning. She entered the office, assessing the closed inner office door, the distraught secretary, the hovering executive. A coffee pot hissed from a shelf in the corner. Grace had a cup of steaming tea on her desk, the tea bag’s string dangling down one side of the flowered china.
“Ah. No. Miss Gavin? The police. Found a car.” Munson adjusted his glasses, which were not out of place. “Mr. Brannigan’s car. And it appears something must have happened to Mr. Brannigan.”
“A car accident?” Ella could not believe it. “Is he all right?”
“No.” Munson adjusted his glasses again, eyeing Brannigan’s closed office door. “We—Miss O’Connor, actually—was contacted by the police a few moments ago. And I fear the police think—”
“Now I have to call his wife,” Grace said. “And tell her Mr. Brannigan is dead.”
“What?” Ella heard her own voice crack. The floor seemed not quite steady. She put a hand to her throat, as if she could feel the scream. He was dead?
“No, Grace,” Munson said. “It’s not necessary that you call Mrs. Brannigan. The police do that. And Miss Gavin?”
“Yes?” Her voice had come out a croaking whisper, her heart clenched. Ella dug her fingernails into her palms. If the police checked Mr. Brannigan’s private line, would they discover she’d called him?
Her fingers tightened around her backpack’s webbed strap. She had to hang on to these documents. No. She had to get rid of these documents. No. How would she decide? She cleared her throat, tried again. “Yes?”
“The police say no one is to leave,” Munson instructed her. “Go to your office, Miss Gavin. Talk to no one. And wait.”
Oh, dear God, Ella thought. No one can protect me now.
*
Jane stirred three packs of sugar into her extra-large coffee with skim milk, balancing the paper coffee cup on the edge of the steering wheel. As soon as she and Tuck caught their breath a little, they’d pull out of the Taco Bell parking lot, head back to the Mass Pike, and continue their journey. No way could whoever drove the black truck find them again. Not this morning, at least. And really, looking at it in the cold (and safe) light of this suburban parking lot, the black truck probably had nothing to do with the DFS case, nothing to do with the threatening call about Brianna Tillson. How would whoever it was even know where she was? If he really was following her, no way he could know where she and Tuck were headed.
In the passenger seat, Tuck was texting someone, her husband, Laney, probably, who Tuck reported was job hunting in Philadelphia.
Jane took a deep breath, smelling the dark roast of her coffee and a faint fragrance of fried something from Tuck’s side of the car. She felt a little shaky, no denying that. Was Alex right to get her out of town? Or was that the worst possible thing?
She pulled her cell phone from her jacket pocket, propped it on the dashboard. She should call him. Tell him. Then see if anything was developing with Tillson. Maybe Hec could bring his photos somewhere, away from the Register. She could work on the Tillson story and still obey the publisher’s orders.
A sip of coffee. That truck.
“Tuck? Can you do me a favor?” she said.
“Sure. All done.” Tuck stashed her phone, and started peeling the flimsy waxed paper from her breakfast-a-rito. Shards of orange cheese dripped onto her parka. She picked them up, one by one, and popped them into her mouth. “Five second rule, right? What favor?”
Jane’s phone trilled, interrupting, and a photo popped onto the screen of a young woman in a Springsteen T-shirt, baby propped on one hip and holding hands with little boy dressed as Spider-Man.
“Ah, yeah, wait a sec, this is my building super.” Jane grabbed her cell phone from the dashboard. “Hey, Neena. What’s up? Oh, hi Eli.”
Her building super’s nine-year-old son loved to use the phone. And especially loved to call Jane. Eli had a crush on her, as only a star-struck nine-year-old boy could have on a thirty-three-year-old woman. He insisted he wanted to be on TV, and unlike the rest of the universe, little Eli Fichera hadn’t seemed to grasp the concept that Jane’s TV career was over. “Yes, I know it’s February break. Very cool. Is that why you’re calling me? Are you having fun?”
She paused, listening to a rush of almost-understandable chatter about Transformers and Xbox and police officers and guns and something important his mother had told him to tell her. “So, sweetheart? Is your mom around? Can you go get her for me?”
Jane heard the empty hiss of the open connection.
“Hey, Tuck?” Jane had thought of something else. “Did you tell Carlyn Beerman we were coming? When I was pumping gas?”
“Uh, yeah, I did,” Tuck said around a bite of burrito. She chewed, then swallowed. “I said I was coming up from Boston and—”
“Did you tell her I was—Oh, hi, Eli.” Jane needed a sip of coffee, and needed another hand to do it. She poked the cell onto speaker, and set it on the dashboard. Took a grateful gulp. “Is your mom coming to the phone?”
“Yes, but she says, did you leave your door open?” Eli’s little voice piped through the speaker.
Jane looked at Tuck, who’d stopped mid-bite.
“Hey, Jane.” Neena’s voice was subdued, softer than usual.
Jane leaned forward to hear, clutching the corrugated cardboard sleeve around her coffee cup.
“I called the police,” Neena went on, “because, listen, your apartment door is open. Wide open. I saw it when I went downstairs. The nine-one-one operator told me—”
“My apartment door was open?” Jane’s voice came out a screech. Tuck put a reassuring hand on her arm.
“—told me not to go in, so I didn’t, but the police are on the way now. I looked, though, honey, and it doesn’t seem like anything’s—”
“The police, mommy?” Jane could hear Eli’s voice in the background.
“Hush, kiddo.” Neena’s voice turned away for a second, then back to Jane. “They’re on the way, like I said, and from what I can see standing out here in the hall, there’s no—”
“Neen? Open, like, open? What do you mean, open?” It wouldn’t help to freak out. Maybe she’d spaced, and left her door open? Had Tuck forgotten to close it? Impossible. Tuck had gone out first, Jane locked the door behind them. They were an hour from Boston. She had to stay calm enough to drive back.
“Honey, yeah, it’s as if you left it that way. There’s no damage, it’s just, open, and looking at it, it doesn’t seem as if—”
“No. I mean, no, I closed my door, absolutely. Locked it.” She remembered the key turning, the mechanism clicking, the always-stubborn key snagging in the old brass lock. “Tuck was there. I fed Coda, and—”
She stopped. Imagined her kitchen and the little cat and the open front door and the stairway and the outside and the snow and the street.
“Neen?” Jane choked out the word. “Are the police there yet? And—do you see Coda?”
37
“Supe? It’s Brogan. We’re at the—Yes, sir, I’ll hold.” Jake watched Photo Joe clicking his exterior shots as Nguyen dusted the Lexus for fingerprints. Dolly Richards had apparently given up, gone inside. That interview was still on the to-do list.
They were holding off with the yellow tape on the car for the time being, hoping this side of Margolin Street wasn’t also actually a crime scene. The neighborhood was waking up, porch lights flicking off, doors opening. Curiosity would probably intensify once Dolly Richards hit the telephone.
Jake had to give the Supe an update. Problem was, he had zero, other than a lead on the ID of this victim. And that brought up more questions than it answered. Niall Brannigan, if that’s who it turned out to be—dead. Lillian Finch, his employee—dead. Why had Brannigan come to her house last night?
Jake blew out a breath, the puff of vapor vanishing in the morning sun. The lawns along the street were glazed with a sheen of ice on top of the snow, the sun glinting from the pristine surfaces. When he was a kid, he used to try to catch the sparkles.
“Jake?” Kat McMahan had opened the Lexus’s passenger door, and now touched a gloved finger to a spot below her own ear, shaking her head. “I checked for a neck pulse, got nothing. He’s been dead for hours. Doornail. DeLuca confirms visually this is Niall Brannigan, the man you met. RIP.”
“Cause?” Jake mentally crossed his fingers as he waited for the Supe. If Kat said, “Heart attack, no question about it,” they could all go home.
“Still in question.” Kat stuffed her hands into her parka pockets. “No obvious signs of trauma, no GSW, no blood, no weapon. No contusions to the head, as one would expect if this were a car accident. We’ll run the enzymes for heart attack or stroke. The victim is approximately seventy years old, so that’d make sense. Body is cold to the touch, and rigor is present, but I can’t get a more exact time of death until I check lividity. And I can’t do that out here in the cold. Or while he’s wearing clothes.”
The Wrong Girl (Jane Ryland) Page 15