The Wrong Girl (Jane Ryland)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “Dispatch?” Jake tried the radio again.

  “Stand by one, Detective,” the radio voice crackled. “Units are still en route.”

  The radio went silent. Jake focused his attention back to the ME, thinking out loud. “So that means the vic got into his car without using the keys. And clearly didn’t plan to drive anywhere. Because he didn’t bring the keys.”

  “He could have been visiting,” DeLuca said. “Left the car open, it’s a nice enough neighborhood. Forgot something, came back to get it, opened the already unlocked door, sat down, had a heart attack. Bingo. In the car, dead, no keys.”

  “In some reality, yeah, I suppose.” Jake played out D’s scenario. “But no one’s looking for him, you know?”

  Jake’s cell phone rang. He jumped. Jane? Maybe it was Jane, thank God, telling him she was okay. Man. She really got to him.

  But the display showed “caller blocked.” Still, it might be her. Who knows what phone she might be using.

  “Brogan.” He heard the hope in his own voice.

  “Detective?”

  Not Jane. Damn. Whoever it was, he didn’t have time.

  “Yes?” He tried to telegraph “leave me alone” into that one word.

  “It’s Bethany Sibbach,” the voice said. “Phillip and Phoebe’s—”

  “Yes, Bethany,” Jake said to the therapist. “Can you hold a second?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “D?” Jake turned to DeLuca. “I’m going to check on that thing, okay?”

  “Ten-four, Jake. I’ll follow up on the key situation. Keep me posted.”

  Jake trotted toward the cruiser, phone clamped to his ear.

  “Detective Brogan? Are you there?” Bethany Sibbach’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “Sorry, yeah,” he said. He’d head to Jane’s, see what was up. Try to call her. As soon as Bethany got off the line.

  “Thing is,” the caseworker continued. “Phillip has said something that—”

  Jake stopped, keys in hand.

  “I’m listening,” Jake said. “What did Phillip say?”

  “Well, Phillip is finally napping now, but we were all on my living room floor, Phillip and Phoebe and I, and we had Phoebe’s dolls out, and a little dollhouse my grandmother gave me as a child, lots of miniature doll furniture, a dresser, and a cradle, and, you know, I had them acting out a happy—”

  “Heya, Jake.” A voice beside him.

  Jake turned. A camera flashed in his face.

  Some photographer. Three cameras looped around his neck. A fourth pointed right at him. It flashed again.

  “Bethany? Hold on one more second.” He squinted at the man, put up a palm to protect his eyes from another flash. “Hey. Who the hell are you?”

  “Hec Underhill from the Register.” He held out the hand without the Nikon, keeping the camera in front of his face as he clicked the shutter. “Whatcha got? Our sources say there’s another body.”

  Jake pointed to his cell. “Look. I’m on the phone. As you can see. You’ve got a big media pass on that lanyard, right? You should know the drill. See those two officers, up by the crime scene van? Ask for Hennessey. He’s handling press.”

  “Gotcha.” The photographer took off his cap, tipped it, then replaced it with the bill in the back as he headed toward the van.

  “Go Celtics,” Jake muttered after him. He had to get to Jane. “Bethany? Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. But I think you should know. Phillip was putting one of the dolls into a little white wooden cradle, and burst into tears. He’s not sleeping well, and the poor thing has been removed from the environment he’s used to. Still, in my assessment, that reaction was not quite normal.”

  Jake aimed his keys at the cruiser door. Clicked. “But you told me ‘said’—”

  “Exactly, Jake. When I asked him, ‘What’s wrong, honey?’ Phillip said, clear as day, he said, ‘Baby. Where baby?’”

  Jake stopped, hand poised on the door handle. “Where baby? Are you sure?”

  “Where baby,” she said. “I’m sure.”

  39

  Kellianne’s dad called this the Afterwards “office,” even though it was only a corner of their old pine-paneled basement. Her mom had insisted on staying at the hospital with him, wouldn’t be home until whenever. Kev and Keefer were somewhere, who knew. Kellianne had privacy. Sitting at the battered desk, she stared at her reflection in the computer monitor.

  She could see her hair, still all sucky, her skin, still sucky, her T-shirt with the same logo and title as the one on the computer screen. She’d sent for the “Ladies’ large short-sleeved black” a few weeks ago to see if the company she was interested in was a real place or a rip-off. She could risk ten bucks to find out.

  A few days later, the T-shirt arrived. She’d been wearing it under her regular clothes so no one could see. She knew what it meant. It meant she could win.

  Kellianne rested her cheeks on her fists and sounded out, silently, the name of the company she was about to e-mail. Mur-der-a-bi-li-a.

  It was a funny name, but she’d typed souveneers from murders into her search thing, panicking she’d be stuck with a bunch of stuff she couldn’t get rid of. It turned out to be “souvenirs,” so she’d spelled it wrong, but the Internet found it. As she scrolled through page after online page, she realized she not only wouldn’t be stuck, but that she was sitting on a gold mine.

  Murderabilia. She whispered it, trying the word out loud. It seemed like there was a market for what she had. People were buying, like, the weirdest stuff. She leaned into the screen, clicking on the photos. That Unabomber guy’s letters. A lock of Charles Manson’s hair. Gross.

  She looked at the teddy bears in the cardboard box at her feet. Next to them, the little rabbit bowl. Thing was, those didn’t belong to the “murderers.” What she had belonged to the victims. Would people buy those things?

  She clicked through more photos. A drawing by the Son of Sam. A clown outfit worn by some guy in …

  Shit, if people wanted stuff from murder cases, if they were that crazy sick, wouldn’t they just as likely—Souvenirs from murder victims, she typed it right this time. “Victims” was the important part. She clicked. She was right.

  “From the New York Post,” said the first article on the list. The headline was, Murder Victim Relics Suddenly Hot.

  Then in little letters, “Survivors powerless to stop commerce in notorious…”

  She clicked through, trying to get the gist of the article, skipping some of the long words and what looked like boring parts. “The more personal the better,” someone said. “Despicable,” someone else said. Her eyes skidded to a stop at the word: legal.

  One forefinger hovering over the screen, she read hard to make sure she didn’t miss anything. In only eight states is the sale of murderabilia prohibited. And those are—She kept reading the list of states, hoping. She could do it whichever way, but sure would be better if it were legal.

  Massachusetts was not on the list.

  The muscles in her back relaxed, and she looked down at the logo on her T-shirt again. Murderabilia. Freakin’ a.

  Besides the bears and the rabbit bowl, she’d taken a candlestick from the Callaberry Street apartment. Silver, probably, which might bring a lot of cash. From the Margolin Street house—which her brothers said the cops were calling a homicide—she’d selected a pale pink silk nightgown and a shiny golden compact with raised flowers on the outside. She’d also snatched a tiny silver-framed photo of what looked like the dead woman and some man. That “personal” gem had been in the bedroom drawer under the nightgown.

  Kellianne pulled the framed photo out of the cardboard box, rubbing one finger across the bumpy dots on the silver frame. The guy with her must be the woman’s father. He looked kinda familiar, but shit. He was old. All old people looked alike.

  Putting the photo back in the box, she picked up another item she’d gotten last night. Keys with a fancy golden cross on the ke
y chain. She’d taken off the keys, stuffed them under a couch cushion. But the golden cross was so pretty. She held it up to the dim glow of the ceiling light. Her good luck charm.

  She saw a little smile reflected in the computer monitor. Well, why not smile? They’d heard nothing on the news about a dead guy in a car. They’d gone back in, gotten their stuff, and sealed some crime scene tape on the door like they’d been instructed.

  She clicked to the Web site where she’d ordered the T-shirt.

  NO questions asked, the red and black letters promised. She sure as hell hoped not. She reread the instructions on the company’s home page. Do you have items to sell? Click here to register!

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Kelliane told the screen. And she clicked.

  *

  “Go,” Tuck said, unlatching her seat belt. “I’ll lock up and bring you the—”

  Jane was already out of her car. She’d used frantic seconds finding a parking place on Corey Road, even jumped the curb as she wedged her Audi into a too-small spot as close as she could get to her apartment. Half a block away. Damn.

  “Thanks,” Jane called over her shoulder. “I’ve got to—” She cut herself off, mid-sentence. It didn’t matter. She had to get inside.

  Mom’s jewelry. Her silver. Her photos. Her computer. Her TV. What did people steal? Or were they searching for something else? Or hoping to encounter Jane herself?

  Where was Coda?

  A black-and-white Brookline Police cruiser, blue light whirling on the roof, seemed quickly abandoned, skewed half on the street, half on the sidewalk. A clump of people hovered on the sidewalk, watching, pointing, speculating. It all barely registered as Jane ran toward her front door. Eli, silhouetted in the open foyer entryway, waved at her, both spindly arms flailing in a too-big orange parka vest.

  “They had guns out, Jane!” he called as she got closer. Eli’s puppy-brown eyes were wider than she’d ever seen them, and he grabbed her hand, dragging her inside. “The police had guns and everything, and they told Mom and baby Sam and me to stay out here, and they went upstairs really, really fast, and I heard them yelling really loud, and then they let Mom and baby Sam go back inside, but not me, because they told me to—”

  “They had guns?” It mustn’t be anything too awful, Jane reassured herself, if Eli was still here.

  “Jane, what on earth?” Mona Washburn came out of her first-floor doorway, a smudge of white flour on her face, wiping her hands on her striped chef’s apron.

  “Sorry, Mo, I have no idea, I just got here.” Already halfway up the first flight, Jane clutched the banister, hauling herself up, two steps at a time. Mona was obviously fine, too, cooking as usual, so it seemed like everything was—

  “Guns?” she repeated.

  Eli, two steps ahead of her, jabbed one forefinger upstairs. “Come on.”

  When she arrived at the first landing, a uniformed police officer blocked her way, all elbows and nose, one hand worrying the nightstick looped at her side, the other poised over her holstered gun.

  “Ma’am? Are you Jane Ryland, the occupant of unit three?” The officer cocked her head toward the third floor, kept her hands at the ready. Not letting Jane pass. “May I see some identification, please?”

  “This is Jane,” Eli stomped one supersized running shoe on the carpeted step, and pointed at the cop. “Like I told you!”

  “Yes, ah, officer, ah, thanks, Eli.” Jane patted him on the shoulder, every fraying nerve in her body straining to get past this uniformed obstacle. Fine time to think about security. She scanned the officer’s plastic name badge. “Officer Guerriero. Listen. I’m Jane Ryland, I have my ID right here, I’m trying to dig it out of my bag now, as you see. Can you at least tell me what’s going on?”

  “Ma’am?” Patricia Guerriero raised her chin. “We are still securing the scene, so if you would be so kind as to—”

  “Jane!” Neena’s head appeared over the wooden railing of the next floor up. Baby Sam’s bright blue cap peeked out of the Snugli slung over his mother’s shoulders. “Officer Guerriero, that’s Jane, I can vouch, and your partner up here says it’s all good, send her up. You recognize her from TV. Right? Jane. Ryland. You know. The reporter.”

  Officer Guerriero narrowed her eyes, wary, as if she thought Jane and Neena, and perhaps their nine-year-old accomplice, were trying to pull something sneaky on her.

  “Here. See?” Jane waved her driver’s license at the cop, hoping it would allow her to get by this gorgon and into her own damn apartment.

  Guerriero studied her license as if there was going to be a test.

  Maybe she would panic.

  “Officer? Can you tell me? Did someone break into my apartment?”

  “She’s showing an ID, sir.” Guerriero ignored Jane, talked into the cigarette-pack radio velcroed to her uniformed shoulder. “Appears in order.”

  Jane heard the crackling transmission from upstairs. In about ten seconds she was going to—

  “Okay, ma’am. You’re clear.” Guerriero handed back her license and Jane grabbed it, already at full speed. Up the stairs, around the landing, past Neena, and up to the third floor.

  Her door was wide open. Wide. Open.

  She stood, paralyzed.

  Eli grabbed her hand again, and Neena’s arm went across her shoulders.

  “You okay, honey?” Neena smelled of baby powder. Sam gurgled, kicked his tiny foot into her side.

  “Not so much,” Jane said.

  Who’d been in her apartment? Why? Maybe was still inside, hiding. What if Jane had been home, instead of on that excursion with Tuck? Would the person have still come in?

  “Miz Ryland?” The upstairs cop stood, arms crossed, in the center of the round oriental rug in her entryway. The top of his billed police hat almost grazed the dangling crystals of her mini-chandelier, and his size alone made Jane feel safer. He could crush the bad guy with one hammy fist.

  If there was a bad guy.

  “There’s no intruder in your apartment, Miz Ryland. We’ve checked thoroughly, and nothing appears disturbed. Now. We’d like you to take a look around and see whether anything seems out of place, even whether there’s something that’s here now that wasn’t when you—”

  The cop’s voice was velvet, soothing, as he went on to describe how he’d checked every closet, every room, every possible hiding place. But now, for some reason Jane’s eyes smarted with tears. She was about to cry? Now? When this hunk of a cop was telling her it was okay?

  “But, ma’am?” The officer adjusted the patent leather brim of his hat. “I need to ask you. When you left this morning? Are you certain you locked the door? If so, does anyone else have a key?”

  40

  At least no one would disturb her. Not with everything going on at the Brannigan this morning. Sitting at her desk, Ella thought yet again about what she planned to say, hoping-hoping-hoping that Jane Ryland would answer her phone at the Register. Of course it had been Jane at the Dunkin’ Donuts. It seemed like she didn’t want to be recognized, so Ella had played along. But it would be such a relief to tell. If Jane didn’t answer, Ella would leave a message.

  She felt the cell phone, cool against her cheek, and heard her own shallow breathing, her palm already damp with uncertainty.

  The phone rang. And again. If Jane was there, if Jane wasn’t there, either way would be fine. Listening to the silence, Ella let her gaze stray through the open inner office door, to what was, until yesterday, Lillian Finch’s private office. Was it just yesterday? Ella herself had been in there Sunday, looking through those documents. And now …

  Pull yourself together, Ella. You’ve done nothing wrong. You’re doing your job. You’re helping.

  “Good afternoon, the Register,” a voice said.

  Afternoon already? How long had she been sitting here? She asked for Jane, and heard a click and a buzz, like she was being transferred.

  Maybe Ella should have said something at the Dunkin’ Donuts, inste
ad of pretending. Because who didn’t know Jane Ryland? Ella knew the whole scoop. She’d been fired from Channel 11 for protecting a source and losing her TV station a million dollars. Something like that. Then it turned out Jane was in the right. Something like that. Then she’d read Jane’s stories in the Register about that mess in the last election. And about the Bridge Killer.

  First ring.

  Anyone who’d gotten fired for protecting a source, well, that meant she was trustworthy. That’s probably why Tucker Cameron trusted her. Now Ella would trust her. What other option did she have?

  It felt like Lillian Finch was in the room. That faint fragrance of lilies of the valley she always wore, seemed like she could still smell it, just a whisper, just a hint. She could see the white roses on Lillian’s desk browning around the edges, the rest were full and white and plump, just as if nothing had happened. But they’d die soon. Too.

  Second ring. Jane must not be in her office. Darn. She swiveled in her desk chair, putting her back to the door, watching the tatted curtains puff gently in the heat coming through the latticed radiator cover. She had her thumb up to her mouth, realized she was chewing the edge of it. She took it out, surprised.

  Third ring. She was doing the right thing, no question.

  Mr. Brannigan was dead. Ms. Finch was dead. Lillian had made a bad mistake, an incomprehensible mistake, and now she was dead.

  “This is Jane Ryland,” the familiar voice said. Ella smiled, hearing it. Jane Ryland helped people. “Thank you for calling us with a news tip, and we’re eager to hear your story. I’m away from my desk or on the other line right now so—”

  Ella marshaled her thoughts, waiting for the beep.

  “Um. Miss Ryland? Jane? This is Ella Gavin, I met you at the coffee shop with T—um, Miss Cameron? Of course I recognized you, but it seemed like you didn’t want me to. Anyway…”

  This was getting off on the wrong foot. She was babbling, but she had to keep going.

  “Um, the reason I’m calling is because I’m concerned that, well, you know, what Miss Cameron was worried about, being the wrong girl, and yes, I guess I agree that seems like it’s true.”