The Wrong Girl (Jane Ryland)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “Has he shown any signs of remembering?” She turned to the next page, saw a fishbowl balanced on a broomstick and a grinning cat. “It was too cold to go out, it was too wet to play,” she read, pointing to each word as she spoke it.

  Then she had another thought. “Did the police come to interview Phillip? Did he tell them anything?”

  Bethany burst out laughing, then put a palm over her mouth. “This has quickly deteriorated, Jane, into a conversation far beyond the boundaries of—”

  “Mama? Where baby?” The tiny voice came from Jane’s lap. Phillip had pushed the book onto the floor and wrenched his body around to face her. Wide-eyed and entreating, the little boy was clearly waiting for an answer.

  Jane frowned at Bethany, confused. “What baby? Does he mean Phoebe?”

  “Phoebe sleep. Where baby?” Phillip’s voice had the edge of a whine.

  “That’s right, she’s taking a nap, honey,” Jane said, smoothing his hair. “It’s okay. Here, we can read again until she wakes up. Bethany? You were saying about the police?”

  Bethany leaned down, handed her the book. “You know I can’t—Oh. Now who is that?”

  The doorbell rang, again, a cheery bing-bong.

  “Excuse me.” Bethany went to the front door, peered through the peephole. Then turned to Jane, one hand to her mouth. “I don’t know quite how to handle this. It’s the police. That detective, Jake Brogan. And you—well, you shouldn’t be here.”

  46

  The last time Jake looked at his alarm clock, the glowing green numbers said 2:47 A.M. He refused to look again. He stared at the ceiling, stretched out in bed, spy thriller on his chest, no idea what he’d read. He was doomed, as Jane always said. He’d longed to call her, but held off. Surveillance reported her situation as normal. She’d better have changed those locks.

  It didn’t make sense. The Jane he knew would not have left her door unlocked. He plopped the book onto the floor, turned over on his side, then tried the other side. He slept, right, every night? So why not tonight?

  Nothing else made sense, either. The whole Bethany thing. When he’d arrived at her house, the social worker had been on the couch with Phillip, reading Dr. Seuss. No matter how they tried, cajoled, enticed, the boy would not say anything but “Batcar.”

  “Yes, Batcar,” Jake had said, half-amused. At least the boy remembered him. Poor kid. But they got no further. He’d left Bethany—who seemed more flustered than usual, but maybe she was wiped out from dealing with two troubled children—with instructions to try to tape Phillip’s words. He could put her on the stand, or before a judge, to report she’d heard the little boy refer to a baby. It’d be hearsay, of course. In court, some defense attorney would object the hell out of it.

  And what if he’d been talking about his little sister, Phoebe? Jake had stayed for an hour, hung out watching Phillip and Phoebe power through Bethany’s mac and cheese, but nothing. The boy said zippo. Which meant Jake was either nuts, or unlucky.

  “Damn.”

  Diva, curled up on her special rug, opened her inquiring eyes to check on him, then closed them, keeping one paw on her stuffed frog.

  Phillip Lussier wasn’t the only thing keeping Jake awake. What if he’d arrested the wrong guy?

  Jake went over it, yet again. Something snagged his brain, every time. For one, what motive would Curtis Ricker have for killing his ex-wife? Yes, he was a slug and a lowlife, but that didn’t make him a murderer. What if Jake’s drive to close the case had turned him into a narrow-minded hack?

  Ricker’s alibi was thin. He’d told Jake he was at Doyle’s Bar. Impossible to confirm. But even more problematic, the kids, Phillip and Phoebe, weren’t his. Maggie Gunnison’s records substantiated that. So the whole “calling 911 to protect the children he cared about” theory made zero sense.

  He’d had Officer Kurtz show Ricker’s photo door-to-door on Callaberry, but she reported she’d come up dry. No one knew him, no one had ever seen him.

  But. The keys. No reason for Ricker to have keys to Brianna’s apartment unless he’d used them. The jerk had denied knowing anything about them. Not possible. Jake punched his pillow, tried to get comfortable.

  Ricker was in the Suffolk County House of Correction, awaiting Wednesday’s arraignment. Had Jake arrested an innocent man? Charged him with murder?

  No. The keys were—the key. Jake sighed, turning over again. He had no one to talk to about this. DeLuca was probably off with Kat, enjoying double entendre pillow talk about blunt instruments.

  “Shit.” He said it out loud. This time Diva raised her head, floppy golden ears perked. Gave a questioning woof, and sat up. “No, not sit.”

  He sighed, staring at the green-lighted numerals on his alarm clock: 4:00 A.M. Time to sleep. But his brain would not shut off.

  No one else lived at Ricker’s apartment. So the keys could not belong to someone else. Unless someone else had access?

  “Shit,” Jake said again. This time, Diva bounced to her feet, picked up Frog, and deposited it on the edge of Jake’s bed. “Good girl,” he said. Poor dog was totally confused. She was probably as exhausted as he was, too.

  He gave her a pat, then reached to his nightstand and clicked on his iPad. This was the stupidest idea ever. He could do this in the morning. What the hell. It was already morning.

  He found the city of Boston Web site. Clicked on “Assessor’s office.” Then “property owner.”

  Typed in Ricker’s address. 343 Edgeworth Street, Allston.

  Waited.

  The screen dipped to black, then flashed into life.

  Error 404, Server is unable to process your request.

  Jake clicked off the tablet, resting it on his chest as he stared, once again, at the murky ceiling. Of course. Why did he think anything would work? Shadows slashed across the walls, headlights from an occasional car.

  Grandpa Brogan always told him to trust his instincts. Did Jake even have the cop instinct? Sometimes it seemed he did, and was gratified by that. Even proud. Times like this, though, he wasn’t so sure.

  *

  Jane stared at the ceiling, her downy white comforter pulled up to her chin. No way could she sleep. Had she ever lived through a weirder day? Tuck and the stupid truck, then her open apartment door. Jake’s arrival. Phillip calling her Mama.

  She closed her eyes, but that didn’t work, and she stared at the white-painted ceiling again.

  Why had Jake gone to see Bethany Sibbach? Bethany had been so nervous, upset that she’d been speaking to Jane without permission. There wasn’t time for Jane to explain she and Jake were—whatever they were.

  Jane punched her pillow, trying to get comfortable.

  Bethany had grabbed Jane’s parka and purse and shooed her into an upstairs study, with stern warnings to keep perfectly silent until Bethany came to get her. She’d tried like crazy to hear what the two were talking about in the living room, actually put her ear to the floor—you never know—but couldn’t hear a thing. Trapped, she’d paged though about four New Yorkers and used up the battery on her iPhone catching up on e-mails. She couldn’t risk the sound of voice mail. Her sister Lissa’s wedding was looming, if you could call June “looming” in February. Liss was being relentless about making sure Jane would be there in time for the rehearsal, and get her dress altered, and find shoes, and was she bringing a date? Jane finished quietly tapping out her reassuring answer—except for the date part, for which there was nothing reassuring—just as the battery warning flashed.

  Bethany had finally given the all-clear. Luckily, Jane had parked in the back, so Jake didn’t see her car. But no matter how Jane pressed, Bethany had decided their “interview” was over. Spooked by Jake’s arrival, she’d decided one close call was enough. She was done talking to Jane. About anything.

  Jane punched the eiderdown again, stuck her bare feet out one side. Too hot. So much for her interview idea.

  What was that?

  She lay still, listening. F
lat on her back. Was someone trying her front door?

  She swung her feet to the floor, slid into her slippers, grabbed her cotton robe from the hook, and tiptoed down the hallway, yanking the terry belt closed and trying to decide whether to be angry or terrified. She paused, listening. Nothing.

  Should she call 911?

  Hawkeye, or whatever the cop’s brother’s name really was, was still supposedly monitoring her building from across the street. Or had the cops concluded she was a ditz who imagined catastrophes? And told him to forget about her?

  Her front door. She listened. Nothing.

  She checked in the peephole. Nothing. Left the chain on, clicked open the door. Peered through. Nothing. Opened the door. Nothing.

  The hallway’s wallpaper, tones of taupe stripes, glowed in the light of the fluted milk-glass sconces. Jane heard silence, only silence, not even a murmur from some insomniac’s TV, or a gurgling dishwasher, or a midnight shower.

  Flecks of sawdust from the locksmith’s work sprinkled the hall’s hardwood floor. Her new lock, shiny brass and solid, announced to all comers that changes had been made. Neena had left her three new keys with a note saying she’d kept the fourth for herself. So even if someone, whoever it might be, had made a copy of her other key—ridiculous, and unlikely, but still—they couldn’t use it anymore.

  Puffing out an annoyed breath, she closed the door, locked it, chained it. She held up three fingers, Girl Scout’s promise: No more fear.

  She was going. To. Sleep. No more fear.

  Jane climbed back under the rumpled comforter, nestled into her pillow, closed her eyes.

  Tomorrow, she and Tuck would go to Connecticut and see if they could figure out the connection between Carlyn Beerman and Tucker Cameron. If there was one.

  Was Tuck her real daughter? Or the wrong girl?

  47

  Ella crunched the aluminum potpie pan into a shiny ball, tossed it into the wastebasket. It was late, now, really late. She’d been so eager to get some answers, she’d made all the phone calls first, then finally had dinner, poring over the family files and her notes again. She checked the clock above her toaster oven.

  Almost three in the morning.

  No wonder her brain was so fuzzy. She hadn’t stayed up this late for—well, ever. But somewhere in her notes, somewhere in those talks with the newly minted families, there had to be the answer. She plopped into the one chair at the kitchen table. Maybe if she looked at the notes one more time. Tomorrow she’d be tired. It was already tomorrow.

  Ella flipped to the next page of the yellow legal pad she’d brought home from the office.

  First page were the notes on birth mother Margaret DaCosto. The DaCosto family was happy, content, even thrilled. Their “long-lost” daughter Leah—families always referred to them as lost, though “lost” was hardly what they were, since they’d been intentionally given up for adoption at birth—had become part of their lives. She’d moved into the DaCostos’ home, and they were spending their days making up for lost time. Making amends.

  Next page, Sarah Hoffner. She reluctantly described a more difficult transition. Krystyn Hoffner—who grew up as Helena—had arrived, and was a lovely young woman, but “never quite felt at home,” Sarah said. They were in counseling. “Working it out.”

  Both families, though, were effusive about the Brannigan’s supportive staff, especially mentioning Lillian Finch’s tireless efforts to bring them together.

  Ella had completely forgotten the families might bring up Lillian Finch. Or Mr. Brannigan. Should she be the one to tell them they were dead?

  She’d fumbled for words when the question first came, finally deciding not to tell. If she had told, they might have called the Brannigan and mentioned that Ella had called. That would be difficult to explain.

  Two families had not been home. The last call, though, was pretty interesting. Curious, even. The Lamonica family, in Brattleboro, Vermont. “We were just this week thinking of calling the Brannigan,” Mrs. Lamonica told her.

  Mrs. Lamonica explained her “long-lost” daughter Francesca, who grew up as Carol White, had gone to the family doctor after stepping on a nail and running a high fever. They’d done blood tests, checking for tetanus and other problems, and the lab results showed Carol had some blood work issues that perplexed the physician. Mrs. Lamonica herself didn’t have those issues, so it was surprising her daughter would. Not impossible. Unlikely.

  “So what did the doctor say about that?” Ella asked.

  Mrs. Lamonica was silent for a moment, and Ella could hear muffled talking in the background.

  “Sorry,” the woman said, coming back on the line. “It’s nothing, I’m sure. We’re so happy, and Francesca—Carol—is perfect, she was only a newborn when I last saw her, and we’re happy to be together. As a family. The doctor said she could be wrong, that the tests are—iffy.” A deep sigh. “But we wanted to check with Ms. Finch or her colleagues to see if there’s anything we should know.”

  Ella had wrapped up the conversation with “it’s late” and “of course” she’d have “someone from the Brannigan” call as soon as possible. She’d offered her private phone extension, reassuring Mrs. Lamonica that Ella would be her point person.

  Whiskers jumped into her lap, jolting Ella back to the present.

  “Was Carol White’s birth name Francesca?” Ella asked her out loud. “Or who do you think she really is?”

  *

  Yes, this is Seller Heavy Metal, Kellianne answered, typing in the user name she’d chosen. Who’d be messaging on the Murderabilia system so late at night?

  Buyer RedSky42 is typing popped onto her computer screen.

  A customer. It was. Already! You were supposed to monitor your inbox for “transaction requests.” Good thing she did.

  The glow from Kellianne’s monitor and the pinspot desk lamp gave her just enough light. Kev and Keefer were asleep, passed out, more likely, and her mom was staying over at the hospital again. No one would know what Kellianne was doing.

  She’d posted her first “offerings,” that’s what the Web site called them, on the “to sell” page a few hours earlier. The teddy bears, the compact, the rabbit bowl, the nightgown. She’d had to fill out a bunch of personal stuff, too, and she made up most of it, hoping there’d be no way anyone would know, and when she clicked on “enter,” it was all fine.

  She’d chosen “Heavy Metal” when instructed to create a seller name. Made sense to use them, since you had to think people messing with this kind of stuff probably didn’t want their personal info and the things they sold plastered all over who-knows-where. Payment and shipping were through a P.O. box in Idaho.

  She’d clicked through a couple of other “to sell” items. A blouse with blood on it. A pillow with “peace” stitched into black velvet. What looked like a wedding ring.

  Gross, gross, gross. People were totally sick. She pictured “RedSky42”—greasy hair, some skeevy guy, in a crappy apartment in some crappy city, getting his kicks touching stuff that once belonged to people who were dead. Murdered.

  But who was she to judge? It was—what did they call it? Supply and demand. She had the supply. And the demand would bring her some bucks, and then her freedom.

  Now, someone was contacting her. It was all going to work.

  The message appeared: Do you have the teddy bears? Then it disappeared.

  “Huh?” Kellianne whispered. What was this guy trying to pull?

  Buyer RedSky42 is typing popped up again.

  Kellianne waited. Then read the new message.

  Not teddy bears. Compact. And the nightgown. How much will you take for them?

  48

  “You ready? I brought lattes. I must say, Jane, looks like you could use this.” Tuck handed her a Starbucks venti, then gestured to the apartment stairs. “We taking your car or mine? I’m all gassed up, but fine with me if you want to drive.”

  Jane gestured her inside, taking a grateful sip. “Yeah, I’
d rather drive. Thanks for this.”

  “You have a rough night?” Tuck, in black jeans, black parka vest, and buckled boots, looked her up and down. “How come you’re not dressed yet? I thought we decided on eight. Unless you’re planning to win over Carlyn Beerman with the terry cloth robe look. You’re gonna be cold, though.”

  Jane backed into her entryway, almost tripping over Coda, who’d placed herself exactly where Jane’s bare feet would step. “Come in, have a seat, watch out for the silly cat. Yeah, didn’t get much sleep. I’ll be ready in a sec. Just have to throw on my jeans. Did you call Carlyn?”

  Tuck had plopped onto the couch, flapped open a New Yorker. Coda jumped up beside her, batting the edges of the cover. “Nope. Like I said yesterday. If I do, I’m gonna have to explain, and I don’t want to explain on the phone. And if I say, ‘I want to talk to you about something,’ it’ll freak her out.”

  “Maybe,” Jane said. The whole thing reeked of wild geese, but it was better than staying home and watching out the window for imaginary intruders. Probably imaginary.

  Tuck had been supportive yesterday when all hell broke loose, and even, somehow, retrieved Coda. Humoring her was the least she could do.

  Jane took another sip of latte, heading down the hallway, then turned back. “Hey, Tuck?”

  “Mmm?” Tuck, lounged against the couch cushions, didn’t look up from the magazine.

  “When you were in the car yesterday, did you see a red cat collar on the floor?”

  *

  “So that’s that, at least. Case closed. Thanks, Kat.” Jake handed the ME back her manila file folder and clicked open his BlackBerry, checking for messages. Coming to work on three—maybe two—hours of sleep was going to be a challenge. At least City Hall’s property ownership Web site should be back up and running this morning. If not, he’d just use the phone, now that the rest of the city was also awake.

  Jake was not looking forward to the Ricker murder arraignment, set for this afternoon’s court session, provided some poor public defender had the bad luck to be appointed for him. But the news Kat McMahan just revealed to him about the Brannigan case could make his life one level less nuts.