The Wrong Girl (Jane Ryland)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “Who?” It was Jake. Of course it was Jake, since he’d probably arrested this Ricker person.

  “Ahhh … a rookie? The caption says. No name. Seems like it’s a woman.”

  Jane steadied herself on the kitchen counter. Thank you.

  “And apparently—hang on. Another police officer offered to take her place, and then—oh.”

  Jane sat down. She couldn’t feel her feet. She couldn’t feel her hands. This was unbearable. “Oh, what?”

  “He was shot. And killed.”

  “Who?”

  “That Curtis Ricker. The suspect. A cop shot Curtis Ricker to death, and now the incident is being investigated.”

  “Anything about Jake? Do you see Jake at the news conference?”

  “Nope.”

  “Nope what?”

  “He’s not in the background, I don’t see him. And they’re not—hang on, stop talking, let me listen.”

  Tuck, with Carlyn behind her, appeared at the kitchen door.

  “Jane, what’s up with you?” Tuck held out a hand, reached out to her. “What on earth—are you crying?”

  Jane touched her own cheek. She was.

  *

  Jake stood in the twilight of the entryway of 343A Edgeworth Street, listening. Beside him, DeLuca, weapon pointed dead ahead, took a step into the apartment. Stillness surrounded them, so intense Jake thought he could hear the buzz of electrical current. Huh. That electric bill. Addressed to Leonard Perl. The landlord who’d never returned their calls. The one who lived in Florida.

  D raised a questioning eyebrow, gestured with the Sig. Upstairs?

  Jake frowned, held up a hand at D, hang on. There was no more crying. But he had not been wrong. He hadn’t. His brain clicked into fast-forward, considering all the possibilities. Was someone with the baby? Quieting it? How? No one would leave an infant alone. Right? Who was in this house? Whoever it was certainly heard them break in, but hadn’t run away. How would that person figure this was going to play out? Maybe time for backup.

  Inventory. A lamp on each of the entryway side tables, both off. Jake touched one tabletop with a finger. No dust. Living room—dark couch, two chairs, curtains drawn. No photos, no stuff. No magazines or mail. The layout of the place was the mirror image of Ricker’s next door, so Jake knew the kitchen was ahead, the bathroom around the corner. Hall closet, just like Ricker’s. The stairway up. Two bedrooms upstairs.

  Jake pointed to the kitchen, pointed up the staircase. Waggled a hand back and forth. Which?

  D touched a forefinger to his radio. Backup?

  58

  Like it was her fault no one had died?

  Absurd. Kellianne’s favorite new word. Kev and Keefer were all bummed, they’d been hoping for some new job, but their guy hadn’t called. Didn’t mean they had to be so crappy to her. They were home in their living room, watching TV, of course, holding their cell phones like some kind of life preservers.

  Kellianne tilted back in the red plastic kitchen chair, took a sip of Diet Dr. Pepper. Afterwards hadn’t gotten a job for the last twenty-four hours, and the boys were, like, oh my God, we’ll never make quota. They didn’t want to tell her dad.

  She was worried about her dad, too, of course. But she didn’t give a care about their absurd quotas. She’d be gone, soon enough.

  Plus, it was good they didn’t have a job today. She needed to hit the post office, check her box. Maybe she’d have actual money. She couldn’t believe how awesome much RedSky had agreed to pay for the compact and nightgown. She needed to check her secret e-mail for offers on her other items.

  So what if they didn’t have a job this second? People would keep dying. You could count on it. And that meant she would never run out of opportunities. People might not be dying fast enough for her creepo brothers, but they were dying fast enough for her. Supply and demand.

  She tossed the soda can into the trash, tucked her T-shirt into her jeans. It was four-ish, according to the sometimes-right clock on the stove, so the P.O. would still be open.

  She grabbed her parka and headed for the living room. The TV was blaring, as usual. The news.

  “Guys?” She called to their backs. “I’m going to the drugstore. Gotta get some—” She pretended to blush, even though they weren’t looking at her. “You know. Stuff.”

  “Holy freaking asshole shit.” Kev leaped to his feet, his back now blocking the TV screen. “You have got to be kidding me. You hear that?”

  “Huh?” Keefer took a tug from his Michelob. “What the hell’s up with you?”

  “Holy crap. You hear that?” Kev aimed the remote at the cable box, clicking the volume button with his thumb. The woman’s voice, that news reporter from Channel 11, blared through the room.

  Kellianne took a couple steps back, clamping her hands over her ears. “You want me to hear something?” she yelled. “Turn down the damn TV.”

  “Shut up,” Kev shouted. Eyes still glued to the screen, he waved her away. “I gotta listen to this.”

  Kellianne, hands to her ears, came around the couch, stood next to her brother. She could almost feel the fear coming from him. The blonde was talking about a shooting? At Boston Police headquarters. Why would he care about that?

  The picture changed to a car crash somewhere. Kev popped the audio to mute.

  “We’re screwed,” Kevin said. He plopped down on the couch, planting both feet on the coffee table, knocking over his beer. The empty bottle rolled to the rug, then under the table. No one moved to pick it up.

  “How come?” Kellianne was seriously baffled.

  “Yeah.” Keefer poked his brother in the thigh. “How come?”

  “Because, you incredible morons, does the name Richard Hennessey sound familiar?”

  It did, in fact. Kellianne totally knew him. “He’s the cop who—”

  “Exactamundo,” Kevin said. He threw the remote across the room. It landed with a thud on Dad’s empty recliner, and then slid to the floor. “Like I said. Ska-rooed.”

  *

  Jake pointed to his own chest, then up the stairs at 343A Edgeworth Street. I’ll go first.

  D nodded.

  One step. The riser under the thin pile of the once-blue runner creaked under his weight. Jake help up a hand. Wait. Another step. Wait.

  Nothing. Not a sound. Jake cocked his head toward the top of the stairs. Let’s go.

  They took the stairs, Jake two at a time, reached the top landing. Without hesitation, Jake planted himself in the open doorway of the room he’d mentally labeled bedroom one, the one on the left. Surveyed the place. Two windows facing front, bed with pillows and bedspread, dresser, nothing on top, closet open, empty.

  If anyone’s up here, they’re either hiding or in the other room. And the baby is silent. I hope that doesn’t mean someone silenced it.

  “Clear,” Jake mouthed the word as he turned to DeLuca. But D was already in stance in the other bedroom doorway.

  “Clear,” DeLuca turned. A strange look on his face. “But check this out, Brogan.”

  Jake trotted across the hall, shouldered in front of his partner. In bedroom two—a white wooden crib. Complete with a bouncy mobile, a polka-dot mattress cover, a pink rabbit in the corner. Beside the crib, a rocking chair. On the floor, face up and eyes wide-open in surprise, a plush teddy bear in a yellow-striped T-shirt.

  The bear. The bear. Just like the bears he’d seen in the Callaberry apartment. They had the crime scene photos to prove it.

  He gave DeLuca a look. What the? He examined the seat cushion on the rocking chair. Dented. Put his hand on the backrest. Warm. Pointed his weapon at the bedroom closet. Gestured to D. I’ll do it.

  In one motion he yanked open the closet door, pointed his weapon dead ahead. Inside the closet—nothing.

  “Shit,” Jake whispered. He lowered his weapon, trying to figure out where the sound had come from. “You heard it, didn’t you? The baby? And that’s like the bears from Callaberry Street, remember?”
/>   D nodded, his head on a swivel, looking to see what they’d missed. But there was nothing to miss.

  “Someone’s been here,” Jake whispered. “Now they’re gone. We know this place. It’s the mirror image of Ricker’s. So where the hell did they—?”

  Jake stopped, mid-sentence, replaying his search of Ricker’s apartment. Living room. Dining room. Kitchen. Hallway. Stairs. He put a finger to his lips, took a step toward the door.

  “D,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Downstairs. Follow me.”

  59

  Jake still hadn’t returned her call. But it was okay. It was the bad guy who’d gotten shot, Neena said. A woman cop, safe now, taken hostage. Jane flipped the station on her car radio. That’s what the news reported, too. Not Jake. Not her Jake.

  Now she had to see him. Meet him wherever he said, even for a moment. She had to touch his face. Make sure he was not hurt. Make sure he understood. Life was short. This proved it.

  The traffic on Route 84 North plowed through the rush-hour slush, Jane watching aggressively impatient drivers weave lane to lane, honking, only to wind up trapped in another slow-moving line of traffic.

  Carlyn had invited Tuck to stay for a day or two, saying she’d drive her back to Boston. When Jane left, the two women sat side by side on the couch, shoulders touching, poring over the Brannigan paperwork. Even if they weren’t mother and daughter, they’d certainly each found a new friend.

  Jane took a sip of her drive-through latte, even though she’d regret the caffeine later, and felt for one of the wax-paper-wrapped tuna sandwiches Carlyn insisted on sending with her. One thing kept pushing to the top of her mind. Timing.

  The first time she’d gotten a phone call, she was on a sidewalk in downtown Boston. She’d already talked with Maggie Gunnison at DFS, then weaseled the “Brianna Tillson” name from Finn. She took a bite of tuna. After that, the black pickup followed her on the highway. The open door. The cat. The collar. All those times, she wasn’t home.

  Then this last call. She was in Connecticut. Again, not home.

  How would someone know that?

  The streetlights lining 84 North blurred the highway in front of her. Jane blinked, quickly, refocusing her eyes on the road and pleading with her brain to recapture a wisp of a thought. She punched off the radio. She needed quiet.

  The mile markers ticked by slowly, headlights glaring from the oncoming cars, the daylight-bright spots of a highway crew blocking one whole lane. Jane sat in the stalled traffic, uncaring, needing the time. Rewinding the last couple of days, frame by frame.

  Someone was watching her?

  Yes.

  Of course they were.

  But it had been presented to her as a good thing. The brother-or-whatever of the cop. The “camera buff.” The surveillance guy. He knew where she lived, and when she came and went. It was how the cops proved nothing happened. That there’d been no breakin. That she had it all wrong. That the unlocked door was her fault.

  But now she saw it from the other point of view.

  Only one person knew exactly when she was home and when she wasn’t. The surveillance guy.

  “Ha!” Jane punched a fist in the air. She put her hand back on the wheel, gripping it tight as she tried to figure out the rest of the story. Exactly who was the watcher in the window? Why was he doing this? Who else was involved?

  She had to get home.

  But wait. If the surveillance guy was more threat than protector—was home where she should go?

  *

  Ella Gavin sat in the driver’s seat of her car. The evening darkness surrounded her, the streetlights pooling amber puddles along Margolin Street. What if she was parked right where Mr. Brannigan had been Monday night? She couldn’t bear to think about it.

  She shivered, even though she’d raised the heat to high. Would some neighborhood-watch type be suspicious of her car? Indoor lights edged front windows, up one side of the street, down the other, but otherwise no signs of life. Was this a bad idea?

  It was her only idea.

  She’d considered it all through Mr. Brannigan’s funeral service, which seemed to go on forever. Music and hymns, a too-long homily, an endless procession of relatives and acquaintances stepping to the podium, saying how wonderful Mr. Brannigan had been.

  She’d also thought about Lillian Finch, still in the morgue as police continued their investigation. Either way, murder or suicide, soon she’d have to go to Lillian’s funeral, and that would be even sadder. She’d never forget the anguished look on Ardith Brannigan’s face as the widow left All Saints, leaning on Collins Munson as he escorted her up the chrysanthemum-draped aisle and past the solemn faces of the mourners.

  Ella had planned to go home after the command-performance reception in the church fellowship room. Mrs. Brannigan had been red-eyed, stoic, as the receiving line filed past, Ella desperate to think what to say to her, coming up with only a weak “I’m so sorry.” Would Ardith be taking over for her—dead—husband? If so, the whole Carlyn Beerman problem was about to get bigger. Would Ella have to tell Mrs. Brannigan?

  She’d kept thinking about it, worrying as she sipped a glass of rosé wine and ate a napkin-full of round lemon cookies. No one came to talk to her. Just as well. She had to think.

  If the Brannigan agency got in trouble, Ella would lose her job. That wasn’t fair. But if something was going on, it had to stop. She took another bite of cookie. Maybe she was the only one who could stop it.

  If she had to, she had to.

  So now what? If proof existed that Lillian sent families the wrong children, it sure wasn’t in Lillian’s office anymore. Before Munson’s crew came sweeping through, she’d confirmed nothing there proved anything. Had Lillian taken the incriminating papers to her house?

  That’s why Ella was here tonight. That’s why she hadn’t gone home.

  She flipped on her windshield wipers. Turned up the defroster as the windows fogged and the outside world disappeared. They were predicting snow. She hated to drive in snow. Maybe she should come tomorrow instead.

  Yes. She shifted into drive. No. She shifted back into park. The most important thing was to protect the Brannigan—no, the most important thing was to protect the families. She couldn’t imagine how Ms. Cameron felt, thinking she was meeting her birth mother, only to find … well, Ella would not have been able to bear the disappointment. And what if the same thing happened with other Brannigan cases? Her entire adult life had been spent bringing families together. She couldn’t have it tainted with something as terrible as this.

  She’d been planning to call Carlyn Beerman about the paperwork proving her daughter had not been dropped off with a bracelet and a note. Paperwork that Carlyn, as birth mother, would have. Then, phone in hand, Ella had panicked. What if Carlyn sued the Brannigan? Made huge trouble? Ella needed advice.

  But first she needed information.

  And she had a key, so it wasn’t trespassing. Besides, how could you trespass on a dead person?

  Ella pulled a pink leather pouch from her tote bag. Unzipped it. Inside, a white enamel lily topped the keys on a gold-linked chain. Lillian had laughed when she entrusted them to Ella. “In case I get locked out,” she’d said. “Then I won’t have to call an expensive locksmith to let me in.”

  A few fat snowflakes plunked onto her windshield. The metronome beat of the wipers slashed them away.

  Ella stared at Lillian’s keys, wondering if she was up to this.

  60

  This was such a long shot. Jake led DeLuca back down the stairway of 343A Edgeworth. Weapons stowed but available, the two moved quickly and silently. This long shot seemed like the only answer, and if he was wrong, he was wrong.

  Mirror image.

  Jake pointed to the first-floor closet under the stairwell, then pointed to himself. I’ll go.

  DeLuca gave him a questioning look. Huh?

  Jake took the last three steps toward the wooden closet door, turned the knob, pulled it open.
Stepped inside. Dark. Smelled wood, and dust, and musty disuse. Empty. No fuzzy woolen silhouettes of coats, no clacking metal hangers, nothing. He could touch each side of the closet if he stretched out his arms. He took a step inside. Another. Like Ricker’s closet on the other side, it was deeper than he’d imagined. And dark.

  Too risky to click on the overheard light.

  He held out an arm until his fingertips touched the back wall.

  He sensed DeLuca close behind. Heard him breathing. With the palm of his left hand, Jake felt along the left edge of the closet’s back wall, barely touching it, almost closing his eyes with the effort to find something that seemed out of place, different. But there was nothing. Maybe he was wrong.

  Wishing for the light, he turned slightly, felt along the right edge of the wall. There it was. A hinge. A foot or two beneath that, another hinge.

  “This opens.” Jake barely whispered the words, demonstrating with one hand. “Into Ricker’s side of the house.”

  DeLuca nodded, touched a hand to his weapon.

  Jake patted again along the left side, feeling for a knob, a hook, a gizmo of some kind that would allow him to open the back of the closet—and enter the other side of the duplex.

  Nothing. Nothing.

  There had been someone upstairs. Unless Jake was massively, impossibly mistaken, there had been a baby. Now, no one. And no one had left the house.

  Only one other possibility.

  Jake’s eyes had adjusted enough in the closet gloom to see the almost-amused look on his partner’s face. Jake pointed to his weapon, drew it, motioned to D to do the same.

  He reached out his left hand, flat, and pushed as hard as he could.

  The back of the closet swung open.

  *

  “Did either of you morons leave anything at Callaberry Street? Are we clean out of there? What about Margolin Street? Are we clear?” Kev paced back and forth in front of the TV, raking his hands through his hair and looking totally freaked out. The news was now showing some huge fire in a forest somewhere, Utah or Arizona. “We have signed contracts, right, Keef? Both places? I told you to get them.”