The Wrong Girl (Jane Ryland)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “So—”

  “So, I’ll take the final in situ photos. Arrange for transport. I’ll let you know as soon as my report is—”

  “Yes, sir, no problem, sir,” Jake said into his cell. He gave the ME a thumbs-up. Got it. The Supe had someone with him, Jake could tell by the murmur of voices in the background. “Standing by.”

  “’Preciate it, Detective. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate.” The Supe’s attitude always reminded him of some desperate CEO, trying to convince the rank and file that their budget-crisis work overload was actually an opportunity for “team playing.” “Lucky cops have big plates. I’ll be right with you.”

  And the line went empty again.

  Jake rolled his eyes, knowing the Supe couldn’t see him. Jake’s plate now served up Niall Brannigan, cause of death unknown. Lillian Finch, cause of death unknown. Brianna Tillson, murdered by person or persons unknown. Curtis Ricker, suspect, probably dumping bleach on every flat surface of that ratty apartment and starting a bonfire of documents in his fireplace. Not that he had a fireplace. Still no warrant from Judge Gallagher.

  And a missing baby.

  Maybe.

  Jake kicked a chunk of frozen slush, watched it melt into gray.

  He’d stayed up way too late, combing through the few documents he’d gotten from Margaret Gunnison, looking for clues to Brianna Tillson’s history, her foster children, and any indication of one more child living on Callaberry Street. But nothing. The documents verged on boilerplate.

  “The missing baby,” Jake muttered. As if there were such a creature. DeLuca sure didn’t think so. But Jake couldn’t shake the image of the empty white cradle stashed in a corner of that tiny bedroom. The little mattress even had sheets. Pale blue sheets with little pink—well, some kind of animals on them. They’d show up fine in the crime scene photos. Why would someone have a cradle, with sheets, if there was no baby? Also missing—all of Brianna Tillson’s personal stuff. Purse, wallet, files. Did whoever killed her take it? If so, maybe they took the baby, too.

  Or not. Lucky cops have big plates.

  Jake looked at the still-silent cell phone, wondered if he should remind the Supe he was waiting. Listening hard, he could barely make out voices in the background. He’d been ordered to stand by. He was standing.

  A siren screamed down the street, a gray-and-blue BPD Crown Vic screeching to a stop outside Lillian Finch’s house, exhaust pluming from the rear.

  “Who’s—?”

  “Holy crap. Frick and Frack.” D was snapping his own photos of the Lexus.

  Both front doors of the cruiser opened simultaneously.

  “Gimme a break. Why do we always get the short straw?” D, clicking, kept his camera in front of his face.

  “Straw?” Jake watched the cruiser, phone still to his ear. The car doors slammed. Two uniformed—oh. “Shit.”

  “Like I said.” DeLuca cocked his head at the two officers. “Now we’re in for some big fun.”

  Kurtz. She probably looked okay in a dress, but what Jane always said was true, no way a female cop could look good in BPD-issue navy pants, awkward oxford shoes, and boxy nylon jacket. Newbie Officer Kurtz had tucked her blond hair under her billed cap, per regulation. Weighed down by her chunky black utility belt, she waddled up the walkway to Lillian Finch’s house. Her partner, Hennessey, who Jake had met on Callaberry Street, was twice her size, twice her age, and apparently half her IQ.

  “Brogan?” Jake heard the Superintendent come back on the line.

  “Yessir.” About time.

  “Officers Kurtz and Hennessey will secure the scene until the ME is finished with the victim. We’ll hold off calling this a homicide for now. Even so, I expect the reporters will show up. I’ve got no PR guy, some schedule snafu. So you can make that work, correct? Whatever media tries to get out of you, you say—”

  “Nothing. I copy, sir.” Jake watched Kurtz and Hennessey step over the crime scene tape, tramp up the walkway, check Lillian Finch’s mailbox and the crime scene tape sealing the front door, then march in unison back toward their car. Quite the team. “When will we—?”

  But the Supe had hung up.

  “All quiet at the Finch house, Detectives,” Hennessey’s basso boomed across the street. “Sealed up tight as a—” The officer leaned down to Kurtz, whispered something Jake couldn’t hear.

  Kurtz elbowed her partner in the ribs, and seemed to be giggling. Her hat tipped and rolled into the slush. Now they were both laughing.

  Jake looked at DeLuca, shaking his head. “What a circ—”

  “Like I said.” DeLuca raised an eyebrow.

  “Gag me.” The ME appeared at DeLuca’s side. She’d unzipped her parka, revealing a black Megadeth T-shirt.

  DeLuca eyed her, approving. “Happily,” he said.

  *

  Jane slammed the TT into third, hit the accelerator, and hoped no staties were staking out the eastbound Mass Pike with radar guns. “I’m so sorry, Tuck, but I can’t—I have to go home. The police—”

  It took all the willpower she had to focus on the road. The police. Were coming to her apartment. Because her door was open. She took a deep breath, almost forgot to let it out. “I have to. The police are … are going to want to … and the cat might be…”

  It was no use trying to finish a sentence.

  The signs on the highway pointed them back to Boston. Twenty-four miles, the green marker said. Jane was doing eighty. More. Her door was open. Who had done such a thing? If nothing was taken, then why?

  “Jane, listen, let me drive. You’re obviously—”

  “No, Tuck, really.” Jane waved off her suggestion. “Driving gives me something else to think about. The police are coming, they’ll be there in a second. And it’ll be fine. I mean, whatever happened, it’s over? Right? And Neena will call me if they—I’m fine. Ish. Fine-ish. As fine as anyone could be.”

  “Which is not that fine.”

  Tuck had a point.

  “No. Not that fine.”

  The bare trees and spindled light posts flashed by, a surprising glint of sunlight melting the thin layer of snow into a damp sheen on the pavement. Jane tried the radio, briefly, news, jazz, oldies. It all seemed like noise. Her thoughts were jumbled enough. There was no appropriate sound track for fear.

  Tuck propped both feet against the dashboard, wrapped her arms around her knees. “Listen, Jane?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I know you said back there you were only trying to get away from the truck. Not that you thought anyone was trying to scare you. Personally. But here’s the thing. First, the guy tailgates us within an inch of our lives. Yeah, okay, I could maybe buy that he’s a jerk and you blew him off with your fancy driving. But now there’s a breakin at your apartment? Again, sister. Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

  Jane swallowed, and tried to look like she wasn’t hiding something. She punched the radio again, stalling. There was nothing to hide, really. Or anything to tell. She’d gotten a threatening phone call. Tuck had probably gotten her share of calls like that, too. Jane had weaseled some probably confidential info about a murder victim from a DFS caseworker in a Celtics cap. Then someone in a Celtics cap had—

  Was that something to tell?

  Truth be told, she wasn’t entirely sure about Tuck. Yes, she was curious about the Brannigan’s mistake. If it was a mistake. Why would they send Tuck to the wrong mother? Jane could not resist a puzzle like that. And it wasn’t as if she could go to her regular job today, anyway.

  But being in the car together didn’t mean she was required to tell Tuck everything. Or anything.

  “Listen, Tuck. I’m as confused as you are. But now, I need to see my apartment. I need to know everything’s okay. Then I’ll be able to think.”

  A perky voice on the radio was apologizing. “Sorry about that, folks, turns out the snow wasn’t as bad as we’d predicted. The winds over the ocean changed to the…”

  Another mi
le marker. Twenty miles to Boston.

  “See? Almost there,” Jane said. Maybe they should talk about something else. “You better call Carlyn Beerman.”

  “You think your breakin’s a random thing?” Tuck slurped the last of her coffee, and shoved her jumbo cup into the holder beside her. “You hear about all these kids, breaking into homes for fun, or whatever. It’s February break. Maybe it’s some stupid prank.”

  Tears welled in Jane’s eyes, briefly blurring the road ahead. Would she never get home? “Maybe. Neena said it didn’t look like anything was disturbed, or taken. But the cat. If she got out, poor thing, she has no idea where to go.”

  “Don’t think about it.” Tuck patted Jane’s arm, reassuring. “Neena knows, they’ll probably call any minute, say they found her. We have to get you home.”

  “Shit,” Jane said.

  A black truck was behind them. No question. Right there, in the rearview. Jane’s stomach twisted, and sweat prickled the back of her neck.

  “Shit, shit, shit. Is that—Look behind us, Tuck. A black truck.”

  “Whoa.” Tuck clicked off her seat belt and twisted in the seat to look, knocking her empty paper cup onto Jane’s lap.

  “Oh, sorry. Damn it.” Tuck fussed with a paper napkin.

  “Just. Look. At the truck.” Jane’s shoulders clenched, her eyes narrowing in anger. This was too much. She was calling the police. She was calling everyone. And she was not letting this story go. If someone cared this much, she was on to something. Whoever it was. Whatever it was. She had to get home, and then she had to get to Alex. And then she had to talk to Jake. Life was too short.

  “What?” Jane said. Tuck had made a funny sound, a gasp or something. “What?”

  “We’re both losing it,” Tuck said. “There are two girls in the truck, a license plate on the front, it’s a Ford, it’s totally different. Let’s get you home, sister.”

  Sixteen miles to Boston. The rolling hills of suburban Newton were in front of them. Soon they’d see the architecturally preposterous hotel built on the highway overpass, then the snaking off-ramps to Newton Corner and Cambridge and the Charles River parks. Almost home.

  With a whoosh of speed, the black truck passed them, rattling the Audi’s windows. Just another random Boston driver, ignoring the speed limit. Unlike the truck that targeted them this morning. That one—Jane was no longer even trying to talk herself out of it—was not random. That guy was trying to scare her.

  Why? That she did not know. But she was sure of who was driving. That was a slam dunk. Now she would prove it. Time to take control.

  “Listen, Tuck,” Jane said. “Remember, before, I wanted you to do me a favor?”

  “Oh, right. What?”

  Jane grabbed her cell phone, handed it across the seat.

  “Punch in ‘recent contacts.’ See it says DFS?”

  “Yeah. Who’s DFS? You want me to call him?”

  “Nope. Don’t call from my phone. I really want to leave it open in case Neena calls. Just get the number.”

  Tuck thumbed in, following Jane’s instructions, then scrolled through the contacts. “Okay, got it.”

  “Now, call from your phone. Okay? If they have caller ID it won’t matter. It’s a state office.”

  Tuck was already tapping in numbers. “What state office? It’s ringing. Now what?’

  “Ask for Finn Eberhardt,” Jane said. “I want to find out if he’s there. See what they say when you ask for him.”

  “Finn Eberhardt? Who’s he?” Tuck had the cell phone pressed to her ear. “Oh, I get it. DFS. Family Services. Is it good if he’s there, or good if he’s not there? It’s still ringing.”

  Jane imagined the voluptuous Vee, remembering her laissez-faire attitude toward her receptionist duties. “Yeah. I’m not surprised. Ask for him. If he answers, say oh, sorry, wrong number. I’ll tell you about it after.”

  “Very myster—Oh, hello, may I speak to—”

  She looked at Jane, grimacing, wriggled her fingers in a “give it to me again” gesture.

  “Finn Eberhardt,” Jane mouthed the name.

  “Finn Eberhardt?” Tuck said to the operator.

  Twelve miles to Boston. The signs pointed them to Fenway Park, then the new tunnel to the lofty Prudential Center and Boston Public Library. An electronic billboard flashed lighted block letters: SNOW EMERGENCY CANCELED.

  Tuck punched her phone onto speaker. Jane heard the crackly buzz, then a voice.

  “This is Finn Eberhardt.”

  Jane felt the warmth drain from her face. What? He was there? If Finn Eberhardt was at the Department of Family Services, in his office in Boston, he could not possibly have been in that Dodge truck on the Mass Pike. And could not have just been at her apartment. Could he? Had she been completely wrong? If so, who was in the truck?

  Hang up! She pantomimed the action, as if Tuck held an old-fashioned receiver. Then she whispered, making sure Tuck would understand, “Hang up!”

  Tuck clicked the button and stuffed her phone back into a pocket.

  “What was that?” she said. “Finn-whoever answered. Is that good? Or bad?”

  “I have to get home,” Jane said. That was first on the agenda.

  Then she would start demanding answers.

  38

  “Jake?”

  “Yeah, D?” Jake looked up from his phone filing system, then went back to it. Photo Joe and Nguyen still puttered around the Lexus, measuring and marking tread marks. Kat had packed up and called for transport. Not a reporter in sight. Maybe, finally, things were going their way. Unless Jane showed up to cover the story again. That might be complicated. But not such a bad thing. Life was short. Maybe they should—He yanked himself back to the present.

  The Brannigan scene was almost clear. Until there were cause-of-death updates on Lillian Finch and her boss, he could focus on the already-confirmed murder of Brianna Tillson. That case was bugging the hell out of him.

  “Jake?” DeLuca said again. “We’ve got a situation.”

  “Yo, Jake?” Officer Hennessey came around from behind the Lexus, flipping through a grimy spiral notebook. “Supe’s orders. He says Kurtz and I are supposed to—”

  DeLuca interrupted. “Need a word in private, Jake.”

  Hennessey put up both hands in mock surrender, backing away. “Don’t mind me,” he said. “I’m sure you two detectives have big secret detective stuff to discuss.”

  “Stuff it, Hennessey,” DeLuca said. “Jake?”

  DeLuca’s voice had an edge to it. Maybe he’d picked up some intel. They could use it.

  “Just heard a call on the radio,” DeLuca continued. “On the third channel. Response to a nine-one-one. They’re sending two units to Corey Road. Three-forty-seven Corey Road.”

  Jake’s blood froze. Three-forty-seven? “Jane’s apartment? Nine-one-one? What the hell for?”

  “Detectives?” Kat McMahan trotted toward them, picking her way through the freezing slush, her boots crunching on the pavement. She paused, looked at DeLuca, then at Jake, then back at DeLuca. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “Ah, Kat?” DeLuca wiped an invisible smudge from one sleeve. “Give us a sec.”

  “Will do. But I wanted to ask you, Jake.” The ME smiled at D, but otherwise ignored him. “When you first saw Mr. Brannigan—”

  “When I first saw Brannigan?” He could focus only half his brain on the body in the Lexus. The other half was on Corey Road. Jane’s apartment? Nine-one-one? “I didn’t know it was Brannigan.”

  The ME waved him off. “Right. Not the point. When you arrived, did you open the car door?”

  “What? No. No one did. That I know of. Seems pretty obvious. Why?”

  What was she getting at? He hadn’t touched the car. Neither had Mrs. Richards. Any fingerprints would show instantly in the icy frost of the car’s exterior. There were none. Jane. He had to find out—

  “That’s the dilemma.” Kat McMahan tilted her head, staring at the Lex
us. “Our victim was in his car. You say it’s registered to Niall Brannigan, and we did find that name on the driver’s license in his pocket. Prelim, my take on it, at least, seems to be a heart attack. So there’s your ID, gentlemen. And a likely cause.”

  Jane. What was going on at her apartment? Jake drew the two-way from his back pocket, clicked on “send.” “Brogan to Dispatch. Do you copy?”

  “Jake?” The ME turned to him, frowning. “Are you with me here?”

  “Copy, Detective,” the radio crackled back.

  “The Corey Road call. Can you give me a status?”

  “Thanks, Kat,” DeLuca stepped in front of Jake. “If it’s natural causes, score one for the team. We’re outta here. Hennessey and Kurtz can do the next-of-kin thing, Jake and I have some other fish to—”

  She held up a hand, stopping D mid-sentence. “Thing is. There’s an issue.”

  Jake clutched his two-way, straining to hear an answer in the staticky silence.

  “Stand by one, Detective Brogan,” dispatch said.

  Jake had to leave. Check on Jane. Now. Niall Brannigan was dead, Kat McMahan’s medical inquiry was under way, Kurtz and Hennessey would babysit. Some things were bigger than his police responsibility. His grandfather always told him, Family first. You’ll never regret the family time. Now the advice from the past moved front and center. How could he have let her go?

  “The issue being,” the ME was saying, “our victim has no car keys.”

  “No keys?” Jake thought back. He hadn’t tried the car door. “Not in the ignition?”

  “Negative. We tried the glove compartment, see if there was a registration, some identification info. That was locked. So we went to the ignition to get the keys. But nothing. No keys in the ignition.”

  “In his pocket, then,” DeLuca said. “Or the floor. You look there?”

  The ME shot herself in the head with a forefinger. “Oh, no. We forgot.” She paused. “Of course, we did, Detective. Hennessey and Kurtz checked the entire car.”