The Wrong Girl (Jane Ryland)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “Jake? You copy?” His radio was crackling again. “We need to—”

  “Stand by one, DeLuca.” Jake looked at Tuck, then at Jane, then back at Tuck. Then back at her.

  “Thing with the truck?” he asked. “Jane? What thing with what truck?”

  42

  Ella fumbled her phone closed. Stashed it. Collins Munson stood at her door. She felt a wave of rebellion. Or something. Maybe—the new Ella. Munson might be the head of History and Records, but he wasn’t her boss. Even now that Mr. Brannigan was dead, and Ms. Finch dead, too. She’d had two bosses, now she had none.

  Maybe she was tired, or maybe she was confused, or maybe she was just sick of it. Always Miss Deferential. Everything was different, now. She had information. Now she could be different, too. The new Ella.

  Nothing and no one could intimidate her. If they thought so, they had the wrong girl. She tossed her head to prove it.

  “Hello, Mr. Mun—Collins.” If they were going to fire her, it didn’t matter what she called him. If she was on the phone was none of his business. He wasn’t the cops.

  “I called a friend to cancel an engagement. What can I do for you?”

  Munson’s face changed, his furrowed forehead seemed to relax. He unbuttoned the gold embossed button on his navy blazer, shot his starched white cuffs. Ella saw a flash of cufflink. He’d been some sort of military person, Ella knew. Kept the haircut and the bearing.

  “Well, Miss Gavin.”

  He paused, and Ella watched as he seemed to take in the room and the curtains and the fading roses in Ms. Finch’s inner office. The documents were still under her desk, but Ella knew he couldn’t see them.

  “May I join you for a moment?”

  Munson’s voice was different, too. He seemed, well, nice. But Ella remained skeptical.

  “Of course.” She waved him to the damask chair and took the matching one beside him. If he was going to be cordial, she could be cordial. “How is Mrs. Brannigan?”

  “She’s fine. Thank you.” Munson crossed one lanky gray flannel leg over the other. “It’s difficult, for all of us. But there is a greater good in our work. Ms. Finch trusted you, and that trust is important to us. We’d like to make sure, in this time of transition, that you’re still interested.”

  “In what?” Wait. The new Ella should be nicer. She smiled, softened her voice. “I mean, interested in what?”

  Munson seemed to buy it. “In continuing to work here. I know Ms. Finch—God rest her soul, she’s in a better place now—”

  Ella nodded. That was true. She hoped.

  “—not only trusted you. She confided in you. Correct? I’m sure it’ll be a smooth transition if you agree.”

  “Agree?” The new Ella was confused.

  “We can talk about it later, Ella, this is an emotional time. But we’d be very happy if you’d agree to stay, and—in an “acting” capacity at first—take over Ms. Finch’s duties. Then, perhaps, we can discuss a new salary.”

  What? Ella leaned into the rounded back of the club chair, curled her fingers around the puffy armrests.

  “We all agree. You seem sincerely devoted to making the connections that have shaped the Brannigan’s stellar reputation for reuniting families. That’s the key to our current success, and our continuing success.”

  “It’s, of course, I—” Ella couldn’t compute this fast enough. Who’s “we,” she wondered. It didn’t seem like the right thing to ask.

  “It’s settled, then.” Munson stood. “We’ll be in to clear out Ms. Finch’s personal things. You should go home, take the rest of the day. Tomorrow we’ll begin anew. Unless Ardith Brannigan decides to hold her husband’s funeral tomorrow. Paying our respects comes first. Agreed?”

  “I should clean out Lillian’s desk.” She stood and shook the hand he offered, not really clear what she was agreeing to. “I mean, I know where everything is.”

  “Not necessary.” Munson buttoned his jacket, arranged his shoulders. “Very kind of you, good soldier, but unnecessary. My—Grace will handle it. Until tomorrow, then?”

  Ella watched his navy blue back as he walked to the door, gave her a final nod, and left. She was alone. In her office. Her very own office? Would she soon have an assistant and someone bringing her white roses? Did Lillian Finch’s tragic death mean her life would really change for the better?

  She sank into the comforting upholstery. Other people called their mothers at times like this. Times where you didn’t know exactly what to do, needed advice from someone you loved and trusted, someone you knew cared about you and loved you more than anyone or anything in the world. But Ella didn’t have that.

  She stared through the walnut paneling of her desk, imagining the stash of documents underneath it.

  Collins Munson was making her the new Lillian Finch.

  Why?

  Jane Ryland, she thought. Please please please call me back.

  *

  “No way. We can’t go to Connecticut now.” Jane shook her head, absolutely refusing. Tuck was crazy. Jake had rushed out after the call from DeLuca, telling her to file a police report about the truck, just in case. The cat had apparently decided to live under the couch and never come out. Jane peered into the darkness. Coda’s green eyes were barely visible, the furry body annoyingly just out of reach. “Come on, cat.”

  Jane, on her knees, looked up at Tuck. She, at least, might be reasonable. “It’s three in the afternoon, Tuck, it’ll be dark in an hour.”

  “So? We can take my car, if that’s what’s worrying you.” Tuck unlooped her orange scarf, then stretched her arms across the back of Jane’s striped armchair. “We can leave yours in the front so they’ll think you’re home. And the cat’ll come out when she’s hungry.”

  “So who’ll think I’m home? Who is ‘they’?”

  “Whoever. Whoever you’re scared of. Whoever you still think chased us on the Mass Pike.” She pointed at Jane. “Whoever you think broke into your apartment.”

  “Well, the cops seem to think there’s no ‘who.’ They think the door ‘came open’ because I forgot to lock it. Which I most assuredly did not.” Jane kept peering under the couch, the pooching belly of the upholstery blocking her view. “Still, I’m calling a locksmith. Changing the lock. Cat. Come out. I’m not kidding.”

  “Whatever,” Tuck said. “Tomorrow, then?”

  Jane couldn’t decide whether she wanted Tuck to hurry up and leave so she could be alone, or wanted Tuck to stay so she wouldn’t be alone. She almost laughed. Well, Mr. Surveillance across the street was on the job, of course. That made her feel so much better. She should text Jake and thank—

  Huh. He never answered her text from yesterday, after he’d pantomimed text me at Maggie Gunnison’s office. Maggie Gunnison’s office.

  That gave Jane an idea. But she couldn’t act on it with Tuck around. “Sure. Tomorrow. Call me. Did you tell Carlyn you weren’t coming?”

  “Yeah, I did.” Tuck used a forefinger to dab an invisible something from the glass coffee table. “Well, no answer, but I left a message. And I think tomorrow we should just go. Don’t call in advance. Then she won’t have time to, I don’t know. Concoct a story.”

  “Whatever.” Jane watched Tuck’s finger. Fingerprints. If Tuck was worried about her identity, there was an easy way to find out. “Tuck? Listen. You know your file, your baby file?”

  “My—?”

  “Yes. File. The one Ella showed you. Did it have your baby footprint in it?”

  “My—?”

  “Your baby footprint. You know. The ones they take at the hospital. Sometimes it’s on the birth certificate, sometimes it’s on a separate document. Mom used to show me and Lissa our little footprints, all the time. She said that’s how she’d prove we were hers, if anyone tried to take us away from her.”

  She saw Tuck’s look.

  “It was a game. A game. We loved it, and always told Mom we needed a copy of her footprint. In case they tried to take her awa
y from us.” Jane paused for a fleeting second, flickered a glance upward. Hi, Mom. Miss you. “You had to be there. Anyway, your footprint. Was it in your file?”

  Tuck considered, then shook her head. “No. No footprint.”

  “I wonder who has it, then,” Jane said. “If there is one.”

  Jane’s cell phone trilled. Coda streaked out from under the couch and hurtled down the hall.

  “She hates the phone,” Jane said. “I know the feeling.”

  She checked for caller ID. Up popped the photo she’d taken a couple of months ago in the newsroom, right after her election story hit the front page. Wire-rimmed glasses, pencil behind his ear, paper cup of celebratory champagne, big smile.

  “Shit. I forgot to call Alex back,” Jane said. “So, ah, are you—”

  “Outta here,” Tuck jammed on her knit cap. “Mañana, sister. Road trip. I’ll call you.”

  “Hi Alex,” Jane said, waggling her fingers at Tuck as she opened the apartment door.

  “Thank you,” she mouthed. They could talk more tomorrow. Then, into the phone. “What’s up?”

  Walking down the hall toward her study, she absently pushed books back into place on the floor-to-ceiling shelves, listening to Alex’s questions about her “breakin.”

  “Yes, I’m okay, thanks. The police didn’t take fingerprints. Yes, I’m having the lock changed.” She pulled out her desk chair and signed in to her computer with her free hand. The stack of notes from Maggie Gunnison lay right there on the desk. So did that Inspector General report Alex had given her from his couch filing system.

  Alex was still talking, seemed to know the whole damned story about the open door. Not about the truck thing, though. Should she tell him? Maybe there was nothing to tell. “Yes, that’s what the police think. But I always lock…”

  She paused, listening, as Alex’s concerned voice interrupted her.

  “Sure. Yes, I understand. I’ll lie low another day or two. If that’s what you think is best.”

  Glass half full. Maybe being banished was a good thing. She could work on the Tillson story without having to actually produce any copy. She could still check her e-mail. and see if anyone called. And she needed to find Hec Underhill. He just might have a photo of Brianna Tillson’s murderer.

  A ball of fluff landed on her lap. “Where’s your collar, cat?” Jane said. “Oh, nothing, Alex. Yeah. I’m fine. Does anyone else have my Tillson story? TV? Are the police naming her?”

  She opened the IG report on her desk, turned the spiral-bound pages as Alex told her how the cops had slammed the lid on the Callaberry Street thing. Nothing coming out of HQ.

  “Alex?” She stared at page 37, his voice blurring as she realized what she was reading. It might be nothing, but—“Oh, someone’s at the door,” she lied. “Might be the locksmith. Talk later, okay?”

  She almost missed the off button as she tried to hang up without taking her eyes off the page. “Special Circumstances,” the bolded chapter heading said.

  The inspector general analyzed the fifteen so-called “special criminal circumstance” cases handled by DFS in the previous three fiscal years. Research reveals the DFS has no established systems for custody or inquiry for the children who may have witnessed criminal activity. The inspector general recommends there be designated a qualified individual who …

  Jane skipped the rest of the sentence, lured to the end by a footnote. The numbered footnote indicated, she knew, that the DFS had responded to the IG’s recs and taken corrective action.

  She flipped to page 71, and slid a finger to response #7:

  The DFS agrees with the IG’s assessment, and as a result has appointed an on-call therapist-counselor, Bethany Sibbach, MSW/PhD. Dr. Sibbach is designated as “point of contact” for all children considered witnesses or persons of interest in a criminal investigation connected with a fostering situation. Dr. Sibbach is a registered and licensed …

  “Bingo,” Jane said. The cat looked up at her, blinked. “That’s what I said, cat. Bingo. Paging Doctor Sibbach, right? Because she might not be happy about it, but the good doctor could have the scoop about Phillip and Phoebe. Then I will have the scoop, and we’ll all live happily ever after.”

  The cat did not seem to care.

  “Hel-lo, Google.” Jane typed in Bethany Sibbach’s name. “Show me the money.”

  43

  “Welcome. Look all you want, Officers.” Curtis Ricker’s insolent stance and leering sarcasm hardly conveyed welcome, but Jake knew it didn’t matter how Ricker felt. They had a warrant allowing them to search every damn inch of this Allston duplex, Ricker’s half of it at least, and they could also confiscate Ricker’s drowned cell phone. If they could find it. After they’d finished griping about their backlog, barebones staff, and impossible workload, the geniuses in IT had admitted they could probably retrieve something.

  “Thank you, Mr. Ricker.” Jake matched his sarcasm and raised him one. “We appreciate your hospitality. But we have a warrant, and that means we don’t need your permission. Usually we’d ask you to wait outside, but it’s somewhat cold for that. So if you would just wait here in the living room with Officer Hennessey—Hennessey, you set?”

  Hennessey managed to drag his attention from the screen of his cell phone and gestured toward the grubby couch, the Bluetooth in his ear hanging precariously. “Mr., ah, Ricker? Care to take a seat?”

  “First, we’ll need that cell phone,” Jake said. Big smile. “The wet one. Please.”

  Ricker did not smile back.

  “Not a frickin’ chance.” He leaned against the front door jamb, arms clamped in front of his chest. One leg of his jeans was tucked into his boot, the other wasn’t. His plaid shirt flapped open, unbuttoned, over a once-white T-shirt, and a ring of keys dangled on a chain from a front belt loop. “I’m calling my lawyer. Right, fricking, now.”

  “Do that. But on what phone?” DeLuca was already pulling out a thin drawer in one of the end tables. He gave the knob a yank and the drawer slid all the way off the runners, spilling a clutter of pencil stubs and scraps of paper and match flaps onto the floor.

  “Mr. Ricker?” Jake held out a hand, waiting.

  “Oh, gee.” DeLuca shook his head, full of the deepest woe. “Drawer’s broken, I guess.”

  “I frickin’ mean it.” Ricker extended a middle finger for the briefest of seconds.

  Jake decided to let that go. Sticks and stones.

  “I’m calling my lawyer, now, so you have to—”

  Jake interrupted him. “Like my partner said. Be our guest. But we are here pursuant to that warrant we showed you. Plain English? That trumps your lawyer. There’s no more magic ‘lawyer’ word. We’re legally sanctioned to search these premises, lawyer or no, and to confiscate—well, I’m sure you plan to read the document in question yourself.”

  “I can help you with the big words, if you want,” DeLuca said.

  “You’re both complete a—”

  “So we’ve often been told,” Jake said, so agreeable. “However, the longer we stand here and chit-chat, the longer it’s gonna take.”

  Ricker drew out a pack of Marlboro Reds, snapped one out with the side of his hand. Looked around, then picked up a matchbook from the floor, waved it at them. “You gonna ‘confiscate’ this? Is it legal if I smoke?”

  “Knock yourself out.” DeLuca was pawing through the scraps of paper now scattered on the rug. “Nothing here.”

  He reached for the drawer on the other side. “This one broken, too?”

  Ricker’s stream of smoke headed for the ceiling as Jake ran a flattened hand under the scarred dining room table. Lots of times people taped stuff there, thinking no one would ever check. He patted, feeling only splintery wood. Not this time.

  One after the other, he turned over the dining room chairs, rickety, mismatched, wood, each with fabric stapled over its seat cushion. One after the other, a cushion fell out of place and tumbled to the floor, leaving an empty rectangle where
the seat had been.

  Would someone think to hide whatever it was that would connect him with Brianna Tillson—birth certificates? money? the cell phone?—in a seat cushion? Jake refused to focus on what haunted him. That his own shitty police work and that “prize patrol” visit had given Ricker enough time and warning to dump or stash anything he didn’t want Jake and the cops to see. But maybe Ricker was arrogant enough to think he could get away with it.

  They’d gotten the warrant, so might as well search. He’d skip the cushions for now. Come back if the rest of the house turned up nothing.

  Closet. Jake turned the white plastic knob, pulled open the door. Two coats. Pockets? Nothing. Empty black metal hangers rattled against each other as Jake leaned in, aiming his flashlight at the wooden floor. Cleaner than he would have predicted, and deeper, but whatever. Ratty running shoes, an umbrella leaning in the corner. A lot of nothing.

  Kitchen next. Jake opened a series of greasy-knobbed drawers, each haphazardly lined with tattered paper. It might have been bright green, say, ten years ago. Knives, forks, nothing under the liner. Next, junk drawer. Matches, corks, keys.

  Keys.

  Jake hooked a set of keys with one finger. It wasn’t like there were gonna be fingerprints. Six keys, maybe seven. A silvery ring, no dangling tag to designate what any key opened. He’d wondered how the killer had gotten into Brianna Tillson’s apartment. There had been no sign of forced entry. So whatever asshole killed Brianna might have used a key. And the same key to lock the door behind him.

  Jake could see Ricker through the archway from the kitchen. He had that bunch of keys on his belt loop. These were other keys.

  Seven keys. Looped through a steel ring attached to a thin square of aluminum. No logo, no decoration, no designation. Clearly not car keys, and not the flat ones, not for a drawer or jewelry box. Door keys, plain and simple.

  Jake didn’t need easy, of course. Problem was, “keys” weren’t listed on Judge Gallagher’s warrant. “Evidence in the killing of Brianna Tillson” was. He could argue they were a plain-sight exception to the search warrant—the perpetrator potentially used keys, here were keys. They hadn’t, however, exactly been in plain sight. Jake marshaled his arguments. He’d opened the drawer pursuant to the warrant, which clearly allowed him to look for the cell phone. As a result, the keys were in plain sight. As long as the drawer was legally opened.