There. She said it.
“And since it is, what has me concerned is…”
What if the tape runs out?
She left her phone number quickly, then went on. “Sorry, anyway, now that Mr. Brannigan is dead, you probably know that, and Ms. Finch, too, and if they did make a mistake with Miss Cameron, I’m worried that’s why. That’s why they’re dead, I mean. Maybe. And now I’m involved, because Miss Cameron talked to me, and Miss Cameron is involved, because what if someone else knows there was a mistake, and—”
Oh. But Jane knew about it now, too. What if this message had put Jane in jeopardy? She gulped. She was trapped. Even if she hung up, the message would still be there. She paused, hearing her own indecision, wondering if there was some way to undo the message.
“Miss Gavin?” Munson. From the hallway. “You were instructed not to call anyone.”
End of message, the recorded voice on the phone told her. She heard the click as the connection ended.
*
“Officer Guerriero? I’m Detective Jake Brogan.” Jake tramped up the stairs to Jane’s apartment, headed toward this obviously new-kid cop, holding his gold badge visible in his flip wallet like a shield. “I heard over the two-way you were in the neighborhood, thought I’d stop by to confirm everything was in order. SOP.”
It wasn’t standard operating procedure, of course, but he had rank, and this Guerriero newbie would have no idea. Maybe she’d be intimidated by his detective stature. Didn’t matter. He just had to get past her and upstairs to Jane. And then back to Bethany and little Phillip.
Guerriero looked uncertain. So much for “intimidated.”
“Ah, sir? I’d better…” She fingered the button on her shoulder radio, clearly weighing her duty with her knowledge of chain of command.
“Go ahead,” Jake said. “Sure. By the way, has Miss Ryland returned?” He had to get upstairs. Make sure she was okay. And what he’d learned in the car on the way over was disturbing. One way or the other.
“Yessir, about twenty minutes ago,” Guerriero told him. “Officer Wayland? I have a Detective—”
“Brogan.” Jake finished her sentence, loud enough so Wayland could hear. Thank goodness, a familiar name. A cop with a brain. “Chris? It’s me. Brogan.”
“He’s clear,” came the voice over the radio.
By that time, Jake was already on the landing.
*
“Brogan.” Jane heard his voice over Officer Wayland’s radio. Jake. Here. How’d he know? Now she really would cry.
Footsteps on the stairs. Of course she couldn’t let Wayland know there was anything between them. Even though there wasn’t.
Luckily, Neena had taken Sam and Eli outside to look for Coda. They’d met Jake, just that once, but once was enough to end the charade.
Jane had flown through the apartment, Officer Wayland behind her, checking every place she could think of. Mom’s jewelry was in the second dresser drawer as always, two emergency hundred-dollar bills still safely under the scarves, Gramma’s silver trays and candlestick shiny in the dining room breakfront. No cat.
“Did you see a cat? A kitten?” she’d asked.
“Like I said, ma’am. No. Sorry about that.”
She’d gone into the study, Officer Wayland at her side, still half-expecting to see her computer ripped from the wall and everything in chaos. But no, there was her desk, and the computer monitor with all her yellow stickies on the edge of the screen, her lucky rocks and her ceramic jar of pencils and her photos of her parents, of Murrow, and giving her first Emmy acceptance speech. Her stack of notes and file folders on the Tillson case and research on the foster care system seemed untouched.
“Kitty, kitty?” she’d called. But no cat.
Now Jane sat on her leather couch, elbows on her knees, chin in her hands, staring. At the crystal vase on the coffee table, filled with her favorite red tulips. At the latest New Yorker she’d left open on the floor. At the black tips of her leather boots. The navy and crimson flowers of her rug.
Nothing was changed. But everything was changed. And nothing, as the officer kept asking, had been added. Nothing but her stuff, just as it always was. “No sign of forced entry,” the cop kept saying.
“So, Miss Ryland.”
She looked up. “Oh, sorry. I was trying to figure out—”
“I understand,” the cop said. “But I’ve been in touch with headquarters, and they tell me…”
“Miss Ryland? Hey, Chris. We set here?”
Jake. Jake. Standing in her entryway. How did he know? All she wanted was to fall into his arms, and just, just stand there and let him hold her and smooth her hair and tell her everything was going to be okay because he would never leave. And tell her it was silly they’d even decided to be apart and to hell with his job, or with hers, or whoever’s.
“Yes.” She stood, pressed her lips together for a moment.
“Detective Brogan is here as backup, Miss Ryland,” Wayland interrupted her. “He may ask you some questions. I assume you’re willing to cooperate in case he feels this warrants further investigation. You up to speed, Detective? About the—”
“Yup. Got it,” Jake said. He unzipped his leather jacket, then zipped it again.
What was he nervous about? Jane always teased him about his zipper habit. Maybe he was nervous about her. Or was something wrong?
“Bottom line, I think we’re done here, Miss Ryland.” Wayland was still talking. “If you feel comfortable with us heading out.”
“I guess I do,” Jane said. She looked at Jake, who had a funny look on his face. Well, so did she, probably. “Thank you.”
“Here’s my contact numbers,” Wayland handed her a business card. “Call if you need anything.”
He turned, took one step toward the door.
Jane could feel herself drawn toward Jake. They’d be alone in ten seconds. Alone. Together. She sighed. Except for Tuck, who was somewhere, and Neena, who would certainly come back to get the scoop, and Mona, who’d probably come up with food, as she always did.
Wayland pivoted, stood in front of the still-open door. Jane saw Jake take a step away from her.
“Ma’am?” Wayland took his hat off, looked at it, then put it back on. “I know we all have busy lives. But next time? Make sure you lock the door.”
“But I—” She had locked the door. She had.
“I’ll handle it from here, Officer. Thanks.” Jake nodded at his colleague. “You’re clear.”
Jane heard the door close. But all she saw was Jake.
41
“Are you sure you locked the door?” The cop question came out before he actually thought about it.
Jake saw her eyes well with tears. There was a look victims got—haunted and questioning, knowing they’d never feel completely safe again. He could try to protect her, physically, but the parasite fear was tougher to eradicate.
“Janey?” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
Jane had taken a step toward him, but after his first question she plopped back onto the leather couch, pushed all the way into the far corner, arms wrapped around her knees, booted feet on the cushions.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
Not true, Jake knew. Not true and not okay.
He sat next to her, eased her linked fingers apart. Pulled her close. Hell with it all.
“Jane, honey, I’m so sorry. I came as soon as I found out.”
“How did you…?”
“DeLuca heard a transmission on the radio. We were at the scene of a—” Of a what, Jake wasn’t even sure yet. It didn’t matter, anyway. Niall Brannigan’s death was police business, not connected to Jane.
“What the hell, Jane?”
“The cat.”
Her voice muffled into his shoulder, and he lifted her chin with one finger. Her eyelashes were wet, little dribbles of black stuff underneath, and there were lines around her eyes he’d never seen before. She was—wounded, and frightened.
/>
“Cat?”
“I got a kitten. At least, a kitten got me. She arrived a couple days ago, a stray. Guess you didn’t know.” She shrugged. “I mean, how would you know?”
“You’re such a softie,” he said. “Always trying to make everyone’s lives work. Even a stray.”
“Yeah.” She pursed her lips. Dismissive. “So much for that idea. Now she’s gone. I have to find her. What if—”
He could tell she was trying to pull herself together. And he’d help her look for this cat. It was probably easier for her to focus on the missing pet than on what really happened.
“Jane? They’ll find the cat, or the cat will come back. And I’ll stay as long as I can. But I need to—”
“Jake. Listen. I need to find out who it was that got into my apartment. Aren’t you going to take fingerprints or something? I mean there was obviously—and that Officer, Way-whatever his name is.” She pulled a business card from the rear pocket of her jeans. “Wayland. Didn’t seem he was terribly concerned. He was nice enough, and I know he didn’t find any ‘signs of forced entry,’ as he said about a million times, but aren’t there investigations that you guys are supposed to do to figure out if—and who—and what if they’re—?”
She took a deep shuddering breath, closing her eyes and sitting up straight, untangling herself from him. “I mean, someone broke into—”
“Honey?” It slipped out again, and he didn’t correct himself. He took his arm from around her shoulders, and turned to face her. This was gonna be tough.
If the “honey” registered, Jane’s face didn’t show it. “What?”
“That threatening phone call you got? Involving Brianna Tillson. The one I was asking you about yesterday when you so conveniently had to get off the phone.”
Jane’s eyes widened. She looked at him from under those wet lashes, wary. “Why do you—”
He held up both palms. “You want to be coy? Or talk about it?”
She nodded, acquiescing. “Yeah. Fine. You heard from the Register. Alex Wyatt called Superintendent Rivera.”
“Okay,” Jake agreed. “And I cannot believe you didn’t tell me. Anyway. So. Remember you were told there’d be someone watching your apartment? Doing surveillance?”
“That’s what they said, but I never saw anyone.”
Jake had to smile. “Well, that’s why they call it surveillance. But in this case, there’s a Boston cop who’s got a brother or pal or something, a camera buff, apparently, who lives across the street from you. In that brownstone. I talked to them from the car, on the way over here. They told me after that threatening phone call you got, they’d set up a surveillance cam on the third floor, recording everything. You follow?”
Jane blinked, tilting her head, as if picturing it. “I was on camera?”
“Well, when you came and went, you were. So was anyone else who came and went.”
Jake saw the light dawn.
“Oh, now I get it. Whoa. You don’t need to investigate.”
This was the first smile he’d seen since he arrived.
Jane clasped her hands under her chin as if she was praying for an answer. “So? Who was it? Who came in? Are they in custody?”
And here we go.
“Well, Janey, that’s the thing,” Jake said.
*
“The thing?” This was the first good news Jane’d heard in a long time. Jake had gone all cop on her, which, she supposed, was his job. Officer Wayland was solicitous enough, but he’d seemed distracted, not really focused on—well, her home invasion.
This must be why. They had a suspect. It would be pretty damn interesting to find out who. Couldn’t be Finn Eberhardt, because he’d answered the phone when Tuck called DFS. Which meant she was wrong about that whole thing, but soon there’d be answers. Big answers. And she could go back to work and her life would be normal again.
“Jake? Thing about what?” He hadn’t answered her, and he had that funny look on his face again.
*
He couldn’t avoid it any longer. She would be so pissed. Or confused. And she’d never accept it. That’s what Jake was worried about the most. He stood, adjusting his jacket, feeling the weight of the weapon under his shoulder. He’d kept his jacket on so his gun wasn’t so obvious. But part of his job here was to be a cop. The Sig reminded him.
“Yeah, well. The surveillance guy has the video, and we could get it, if need be. We’ve been given parallel jurisdiction for your case, Superintendent Rivera talked to the Brookline brass after the Register’s call. Anyway. Bottom line, the camera has night vision, and they’ve gotten ID on everyone who came into the building.”
“And?”
“And. They just talked to the surveillance guy, and he reports he saw you come home last night. Saw a thirty-ish woman, identified as Neena Fichera, the one I met the day—remember?”
Jane made the hurry-up sign with one hand. “Geez.”
“Her son Eli, and the baby. He reports seeing the mail carrier, and a couple of tenants—they check out, including the guys from the back apartment one floor below you. Saw Tuck come in this morning. Saw your car leave.”
“Yup yup, fine.” Jane waved off his words. “Get to the good stuff.”
“There is no … good stuff.” Jake needed to handle this as if Jane were any other “victim.” That’s what he was trained for, and that’s what he’d rely on. “Jane, according to the surveillance person, no stranger came into this building. No one. You, the Ficheras, the tenants, Tuck. That’s all. You must have left your door unlocked. And it came open.”
Jane stared at him. She looked at the ceiling, as if searching for answers. Stood, and took two steps to her bay window, pulling back the gauzy curtains and peering out to the street, curving her hands around her eyes to block the glare. Then, with both hands, she waved.
“Jane?”
“I’m just waving at the stupid asshole who thinks he can do surveillance by looking at the front of the apartment.” She talked into the window, then whirled to him, hands on hips. “Brilliant. Even I, dumb girl who supposedly can’t remember to lock her door, know it’s pretty stupid to watch one fricking—to watch one side of a building. Cheap, yeah, oh-so high tech. Convenient. Fabulous. But there’s a back door, right? Did your cut-rate police brain trust think of that?”
She put her hands over her face, so all he could see was the wave of her hair and tiny gold earrings, and the slim gold band she wore on her right hand, her mother’s wedding ring, she’d told him. Her good luck talisman.
“I’m so sorry, Jake.” She took her hands down from her eyes. “I don’t mean to yell. But that’s so dumb, and someone got in the back door, duh, and I just don’t see how you can blame it on me. I mean, you saw Mona Washburn, right? She’s home. How’d she get in? She’s not on the big-time night-vision hotshot video.”
“Yeah, I know. But the back has a keypad that opens with a number pad code, correct?” He’d expected an explosion, and got one. Now the fireworks would dissipate, and Jane would see what had to be reality.
She was frowning, stretching the black wool of her sweater sleeve down over one hand. Not looking at him. Then she did. “Yeah. So?”
“Well. It activates every time the door is opened, and keeps a record of who entered. Don’t need a surveillance cam for that. And it shows tenants only. Mona Washburn was the last to use it, around three A.M. She told Officer Wayland she’d stayed late to close her restaurant and didn’t see anyone or anything unusual.”
Jake’s radio crackled. “Jake? DeLuca. You copy?”
“Copy.” Jake talked into his shoulder radio, raising a hand to put Jane on hold.
“Got that warrant,” DeLuca said. “For the Ricker house? Time to make his day, Jake. You clear to move?”
*
Nobody had broken into her apartment? Maybe nobody had really been following her in the truck?
Jane lowered herself to the couch, her mind racing, balancing, trying to juggle a coupl
e of realities while Jake talked to his partner on his two-way. He’d looked so upset. No wonder. He had to tell her all this chaos, the cops and the “investigation” and the fear and the worry, was her fault.
A knock on her front door.
“See?” Jane pointed to the door, accusing. “How’d that person get in?”
She knew there was something else. Had to be. She had not left the door unlocked. Impossible. One hundred per cent impossible.
“Stand by, D,” Jake said. Then, to her, “Maybe it’s—”
By that time, Jane was at the door, checking the peephole.
“Who is it?” Jake said.
Jane fumbled with the lock, yanked open the door. Couldn’t open it fast enough.
Tuck. Holding Coda.
Tuck handed her a squirming ball of fur and a jangling ring of keys. “Heard you’re looking for a cat, ma’am.” Tuck was doing her cop imitation. “And here’s your keys.”
Oh. She’d left her keys with Tuck when she parked. That’s how Tuck had gotten in the front door. And she’d found—
Coda. Mewing and burrowing into her neck, the bottoms of her little paws damp and cold, her tail whipping back and forth. Jane stroked the trembling little body, now rattling with a fervent purr.
“Where was she?”
Tuck waved a vague hand. “You know. Cats. Some nice guy on the street was holding her, said he found her in the—she seems okay, you think?”
“Yes, oh, Tuck, thank you so much. Hey, you stupid cat. Where were you? I was so—oh, she’s lost her collar, somehow. A red stretchy one. Come on in, Tuck.”
Jane closed the door with one hip, still cuddling Coda, waved Tuck toward the living room. Oh. Jake. Tuck. Too late now.
Tuck shrugged. “Got caught on something, maybe.”
“That’s good news.” Jake stood, gestured at the cat.
“Hey, Detective Brogan,” Tuck said. “My, my. Fancy seeing you here.” She paused, then picked up a photo of Jane’s mother from the end table, examined it, put it back. “Did you guys not dust for fingerprints? Jane, are you cool with that? Even after the thing with the truck?”
The Wrong Girl (Jane Ryland) Page 18