The Wrong Girl (Jane Ryland)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Carlyn reached over, touched Tuck’s knee, then took her hand away. “Why do people do what they do? I was in love with a professor who never cared about me. I was eighteen. Eighteen! I had to give up my own child. I never wanted to. Now I’m almost fifty. For years, I battled regret. And anger. But you know? That’s destructive. It steals your soul, honey. Incredibly disappointed? Yes. Disheartened? Yes. But enraged? After all this time? I’ll have to—”

  “Listen, Carlyn.” Tuck kept talking. “Jane’s a reporter for the Boston Register newspaper. I don’t work there anymore, remember?”

  “Of course, honey, but—”

  “And I think if something went wrong with us—if the agency sent me to you incorrectly…”

  Tuck paused, and an ember popped, filling the silence.

  “I see. That it could have happened to other people, too.” Carlyn finished Tuck’s sentence, then turned to Jane, frowning. “Is that what you’re suggesting? Jane? Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

  Jane took a sip of tea, then set her mug on a raffia coaster. Shook her head. “I haven’t,” she said. “And it would be very difficult to find out. Some adoptions are ‘open,’ those wouldn’t be the problem. It’s the sealed ones, like yours and Tuck’s, that’d be in question. But those closed adoptions are confidential, and private, and protected. We could never have access to those cases, unless someone complained. And even then it would have to be a public complaint, since if they simply contacted the Brannigan, no one but those involved would ever know. It would be in the agency’s best interest to keep it quiet.”

  “Lawsuits, maybe?” Carlyn asked.

  Jane held out both palms, agreeing. “Possibly. We can check. If you like. Of course, I’d predict if there were lawsuits, they’d be gagged by confidentiality agreements, maybe even completely sealed.”

  “But what they did is unacceptable.” Tuck crossed her arms over her chest, matched Carlyn’s frown. “We have to pursue it.”

  “Or not.” Jane knew Tuck was hurting, but it should also be Carlyn’s decision.

  “Action is always more effective than anger.” Carlyn stood, brushing down her skirt with the palms of both hands. “And I think … we’re required to look into it. Not simply for our sake. For everyone’s. Let me show you something.”

  Reaching under the coffee table, Carlyn pulled out a black portfolio, unzipped three sides. When she placed the folder flat on the table, Jane saw it was filled with papers, what looked like documents, and clippings. Carlyn selected a newspaper clipping attached to a pink piece of typing paper.

  Jane recognized the typeface of the Register. And the tiny font size of the death notices.

  Carlyn pointed one finger at a clipping. “The death notice of Lillian Finch. She’s the one who called me about Audrey. Last Sunday, she died.”

  Jane nodded along with Tuck. “Yes, we know of her. I guess the police must still be investigating the cause of—or, wait. Is there something else about it?”

  Carlyn didn’t answer, but selected another clipping. “This is the death notice of Niall Brannigan. He was there when I dropped you—I mean, Audrey Rose—off that morning. He died on Monday night, apparently. His funeral is today, according to the—Honey, are you okay?”

  Tuck was lowering herself to the couch, clutching the flowery armrest for balance. Jane sank back into the armchair, wondering if her face had turned as ashen as Tuck’s.

  “Niall—,” Tuck whispered.

  “Brannigan?” Jane heard the hollow sound of her own voice. Two people from the same agency, dead, in a matter of days? The two people connected to Tuck’s case. “Died? Of what? Tuck, did Ella Gavin tell you that?”

  “Ella Gavin?” Carlyn looked up from her documents.

  Jane could not read her expression.

  “Ella? Gavin?” Carlyn closed the folder. “You know who Ella Gavin is?”

  54

  “You don’t want to do this, Ricker.” Jake kept his weapon trained at Curtis Ricker’s head. He had to be ready to take the kill shot.

  It had been three minutes since Jake arrived in the basement parking garage of Police HQ. The garage was a bitch of a place for this to happen. The dank shadows. The dripping pipes. The crammed-in cruisers and oil-slick floors. The suffocating smell of exhaust. The concrete walls that could ricochet a good shot into a catastrophe.

  Not that this wasn’t already a catastrophe.

  The Supe had met Jake at HQ’s front door when he and DeLuca arrived, ran them down the back stairs. “He’s been holding her for ten minutes,” the Supe said over his shoulder as they bounded down the concrete steps, all taking two at a time. “Desk guy didn’t see them, you know how the cams are down there. This the collar you’re having second thoughts about, Brogan? Seems guilty as hell to me. She was putting him into the transport van. Apparently the slimeball convinced her to loosen the damn handcuffs, and she—whatever.”

  “So what’s the plan?” They’d clanged open the metal door to the parking garage.

  “Plan? Hostage unit’s en route. I’ll bring ’em down. But the slime’s asking for you, Brogan. Says he wants you to see this. What a complete asshole. Get over there and make this go away.”

  Ricker stared daggers at Jake. He still wore the grimy jeans and faded plaid shirt he had had on when Jake arrested him. One aluminum handcuff dangled from his left wrist as his arm clenched Officer Jan Kurtz in a headlock. His right hand—the one with no handcuff—held her police-issue Glock against her temple. Though he was a full head taller, they stood ear to ear. His head almost touched hers.

  Jake had no shot. Impossible.

  Kurtz, tears streaming, was not doing well. Eyes red and swollen, nose running, black mascara dripping down her face. One boot was gone, and the tails of her blue uniform shirt pulled askew from her navy pants. At least she wasn’t screaming.

  “You’re okay, Kurtz. You’re doing fine.” Jake needed to reassure her. Make her a real person to Ricker. He had to understand Kurtz was a human being, not a pawn. He had to let her go. Or he’d be dead.

  D was backing him up, now behind him somewhere with the other cops ducked between cars. Waiting. But it was all Jake’s show. And he knew it. If he hadn’t arrested Ricker, none of this would have happened. What if Ricker wasn’t guilty, and now this was—

  Later. That was for later. Now, Jake needed to keep calm. Lower the energy. That was his only hope.

  And Ricker’s. And Jan Kurtz’s.

  “Screw you.” Ricker half-dragged Kurtz toward the van, walking backward as the woman stumbled along with him. Her billed hat had landed in a puddle by a concrete post, and one lock of curly blond fell into her face.

  Another step closer to the van. Another.

  “She’s got the keys, she’s gonna drive me the hell outta here,” Ricker said. “You back the hell off. I didn’t do anything. This is bogus.”

  In about four more steps, Jake figured, Kurtz would be at the van’s open driver’s side door. The multihinged mechanical garage door, Jake could see from a patch of daylight glistening on the damp concrete floor, was also open. What if—

  “Don’t even think about closing that frigging garage door.” Ricker spit out the words.

  “Ricker.” Jake kept the weapon pointed at him. Kept his voice as calm as he could. Focused. “Where do you think this is gonna go, right? You’ve made a decision, now unmake it. Let her go, we can talk.”

  “Talk about what?” Ricker said. Two more steps.

  Kurtz had pressed her lips together, the tears still coming. Jake saw her eyes close, then open, looking at Ricker in panic.

  “Jan, stay strong. You’re doing great.” Jake nodded at her, as if he believed it. Actually she was, given the situation. She certainly realized she was a split second from … “Curtis, listen to me. Look at me. We can talk about it.”

  Jake knew Ricker could almost touch the van door. He made his arm into steel, his weapon an extension of his hand. The rest of the garage disappeared as Jake
focused on one man. One moment. Waiting for his one chance.

  “Last time we ‘talked,’ you arrested me for—who cares. We’re done.” Ricker yanked Kurtz another step toward the open van door. “We’re outta here.”

  He’ll have to put Kurtz inside. There’ll be a moment when Ricker’s alone. His plan isn’t going to work. He’ll see that. And that’s when I’ll take the shot.

  “Let her go, and I’ll drive you,” Jake said. “This is between you and me, Ricker. She’s a girl. You gonna take a girl? You don’t need this. Let her go. I’ll drive. I’ll drive you right out of here. Then we can talk.”

  Ricker blinked. Jake saw the gun hand waver, just a fraction.

  Almost enough.

  “Ricker. This ain’t gonna work. You can’t get her into the car. You see that, right? You’re done.” Jake kept his weapon pointed at Ricker’s center mass. Steady. If Ricker freaked, didn’t mean Jake had to kill him. One more try. “Give her up. I’ll protect you.”

  “Shit,” Ricker said.

  “Yeah,” Jake said. Okay. This was going to be okay. Ricker was in deep trouble. But he wouldn’t be dead. And they could go from there. “Good call, Curtis. Now let her go.”

  Jake saw Ricker’s arm drop—and in that fraction of a second, Kurtz leaped away, rolled across the grimy concrete floor, and disappeared under a parked crime scene van.

  At the same instant, a blast of light and sound. Ricker buckled to the floor, a burst of bright red blooming in his chest. Jake heard the clunk of skull on concrete. Saw the red spill onto the gray.

  “What the hell?” Jake whirled, lowering his weapon. “Who the…”

  Behind him, Hennessey, red-faced and breathing like he’d just had a heart attack, still clenched his gun, now pointed at nothing. Behind him, a dozen cops rose to watch, like startled prairie dogs popping from their holes.

  “Son of a bitch had it coming.” Hennessey’s chest rose and fell. “He can’t do that to my partner.”

  *

  “Did you get the feeling Ella was going rogue? By calling you and arranging the meeting?” Carlyn Beerman stabbed the dwindling fire with a metal poker, then added another split log. She’d listened as Tuck and Jane described their coffee shop discussion with Ella Gavin. An ember cracked, then popped in a flash of orange. Carlyn jumped back, then poked again. “Did you get the impression the Brannigan people knew about it? Maybe they sent her. To assess your reaction. See if you’d be angry.”

  Jane shook her head, no, looked at Tuck for confirmation.

  “Not at all,” Tuck said. She pushed the sleeves of her turtleneck up to her elbows, then pulled them down again. “That’s what was so … I don’t know. She’s a mouse of a girl, and seemed devoted to the Brannigan. But this was unauthorized. I thought, at least. She was nervous. She flipped out over the bracelet. Right, Jane?”

  “Well, yeah. I didn’t stay the whole time, but when Tuck showed the bracelet, she freaked. All I can say. She had a whole pile of—Hey. Carlyn? Do you have a set of documents from the Brannigan? Wait, though.” Jane interrupted her own question. “Why’d you ask about Ella Gavin in the first place?”

  “She called me. Today. This morning.” Carlyn looked at a shiny brass clock on the end table. “Gosh, a couple hours ago. She left a message.”

  “Really?” Had Ella discovered something on her own? “So you know her? Did you keep the message?”

  “Yes, but it won’t matter.” Carlyn set the metal fire screen back into place. “And no, I don’t know her. She didn’t say where she’s calling from. Or anything about the Brannigan. That’s why I was so surprised when you said her name.”

  “Can you play the message for us?” Jane had to interrupt. Lillian Finch was dead. Niall Brannigan was dead. And clearly she and Tuck were right in the middle of whatever it was. Carlyn, too.

  Had Ella been calling to warn Carlyn? Or to threaten her?

  “On speaker? So we can all hear?” Tuck said.

  “If you think it’ll help. I suppose. Phone’s in the kitchen.” Carlyn pointed. “That way.”

  She led them through a chintz-draped dining room, billowing curtains, circular table covered in a muted scarlet cloth, a pot of spidery white chrysanthemums in the center. Into the kitchen, rubbed copper pans on cast-iron hooks, glass-fronted cabinets, seafoam green walls. In one corner, a bookshelf haphazardly stuffed with cookbooks, a to-do list tacked to a mini-bulletin board, and a tiny desk with a silver wall phone.

  “Sit.” Carlyn gestured Jane and Tuck toward wicker stools beside the counter. She punched some buttons on the phone. “I’d been getting strange hang-ups today. Annoying. Probably telemarketers.”

  Jane fired a look at Tuck behind Carlyn’s back, told you so.

  Tuck shrugged, waved her off.

  “But this one, it didn’t sound like a telemarketer call. Frankly, I didn’t know what to make of it. And hadn’t deleted it yet.”

  There was an amplified beep, then a whisper, and then a woman’s voice.

  “Mrs., um. Miss, Beerman? I’m so sorry to bother you, I, this is Ella Gavin? I’m at the, well, um. I wonder if we might—If you have a chance, could you—”

  Jane strained toward the phone, struggling not only to hear, but to understand what Ella was trying to say. Jane’s own phone rang, from somewhere deep in her tote bag, but she ignored it. Ella, her voice muffled and hesitant, seemed unable to finish a sentence. Jane thought she heard—music? And someone else’s voice?

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. Yes, I know it’s starting. Mrs. Beerman, I guess this is not the time to—”

  And then Ella hung up.

  Carlyn punched a button on the phone console, and it went silent. “So you see. Or—hear. That’s why I probably looked like I’d seen a ghost when you mentioned the name,” she said. “So she’s from the Brannigan.”

  “Sounds like she wanted to tell you something,” Jane said.

  “Then didn’t,” Tuck said.

  “It sounds as if she were interrupted.” Carlyn leaned against the kitchen counter, eyelet lace curtains covering the window behind her. The window framed lofty pine trees piercing a cloudless blue sky. “She calls, then you two show up. Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “Well, no. I mean, yes,” Tuck said. “But it was just the—you know. Bracelet. So maybe that’s what Ella Gavin was calling about, too. To tell you they sent the wrong girl.”

  “Or not.” Carlyn unlooped her filmy scarf, draped it around her shoulders. “I still have difficulty believing that. Even though I know the truth.”

  “Question is, what did she know?” Tuck said. “Ella. And if it was all a mistake—which is really the only explanation, isn’t it?—did she know why it happened?”

  “And now,” Jane said, “both people who brought you two together are dead.” Jane had driven here with Tuck only to support her in this uncomfortable situation. Now, “uncomfortable” seemed an understatement. “I mean, were Brannigan and Finch allies? Or antagonists? Or is it all simply coincidence?”

  Carlyn fussed with the scarf again, this time winding it around her neck, then tying the fringed ends. “Tuck? Should we join forces? See if we can get to the bottom of this? Your real birth mother is out there, somewhere.”

  Tuck nodded. “Yes, and I—”

  “And my daughter, too.” Carlyn went on. “Somewhere. Maybe waiting for me.”

  A flock of sparrows wheeled outside the kitchen window, fluttering the snow from the pine branches. In the silence, Jane couldn’t think of what to say. Both women had such a loose end in their lives. A missing connection. Mom, she thought. Now that you’re gone, there’s a hole in the fabric of the universe. But at least we had our lives together.

  “I may not be your mother, Tuck, but I can still be your friend,” Carlyn was saying. “How about a little surprise visit to the Brannigan? Together? And let’s just see who sent me the wrong girl.”

  “And why.” Tuck nodded, almost smiling. “And yes. Together.”


  Another riff of marimbas came from Jane’s tote bag. “Oh, sorry. I should probably take this call.”

  Maybe it was Alex. She’d been feeling guilty, away from the office. Even though Alex had sent her away, she didn’t want him to think she was neglecting her job. Maybe he had a story assignment. Something she could be doing from home. Ugh. She should have thought of that.

  But it wasn’t his photo on the screen. “Blocked,” it said.

  “This is Jane.” She smiled, held up a palm at Carlyn and Tuck. Silly to answer the phone, but there it was. She could feel her smile fade as she listened.

  “What?” Tuck leaned toward her, frowning as she watched. “You look like you’ve seen a—”

  “Kind of dumb for you to leave home again,” the voice was saying. The same disturbing voice she’d heard two days ago on Cambridge Street after she’d left the Kinsale. Ominous. Hard. “Thought I made it clear you were to keep back from the Callaberry Street thing. Thought I told you I needed quiet. Okay, then, Miss Ryland. Are you all having fun out there in Connecticut? This is call number two.”

  Jane stared at the now-silent phone.

  “Who was that?” Tuck asked.

  “Jane, are you all right?” Carlyn crossed to her, put a hand on her arm.

  “I don’t know.” Jane answered both questions at once. She clenched the phone, white-knuckled, staring at the blank screen. The cat collar in her car. Her open door. The noise in the night. The phone calls. Jake. She had to call Jake.

  55

  “Is this day almost over?”

  Jake needed another coffee, a couple thousand aspirin, a beer. And a vacation. Instead, he and DeLuca once again trudged up the front path of 343B Edgeworth Street, where Curtis Ricker used to live, trying to clean up someone else’s mess. Or maybe it was Jake’s own mess. Jake arrested Ricker for murder, and less than twenty-four hours later, Ricker was dead. Jake couldn’t shake the guilt.