The Wrong Girl (Jane Ryland)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “Yes,” Maggie whispered. “Finn’s uncle. Well, foster uncle. So then we—”

  “Called nine-one-one,” Jake said. Finn? Who was that?

  Maggie nodded. “Yes. We had to get out, of course. But we knew police would come, and they’d make sure Phillip and Phoebe were taken care of. Len’s lawyer told their new parents some story, the kids’ birth mother reneged, claimed parental rights or something. It happens. We knew they’d be returned to the system, poor things. All I had to do was quickly restore their records, you know? Those were the files I gave you. But at least we saved the baby. I gave up my vacation to stay with her. Her adoption arrangement is almost final.”

  “Brianna’s purse.” Jake understood now. Why there’d been no stuff. Brianna Tillson didn’t live there. Neither did Maggie. “You took that, too.”

  Maggie nodded.

  “Yes?” Jake remembered the recording. “I need you to say it.”

  “The purse. Yes.” A tear trickled down Maggie’s face. She made no gesture to wipe it away, and it landed on the baby’s fuzzy blanket. “She lived alone. Wasn’t fostering a child. There was no one to miss her.”

  Jake paused, watching this poor misguided woman. Seeing how she cradled that little girl. The baby she had stolen from the system—and how many others?—convinced she was doing a good deed. Convinced she was saving lives.

  Not what the law would call it. The law would call it falsifying official records and abducting children from the legal protection of state custody.

  “Margaret Gunnison, it is now seven thirty-two P.M. on Wednesday. You’re under arrest for the kidnapping of Diane Marie Weaver, for the attempted kidnapping of Phillip and Phoebe Lussier, and for being accessory to the murder of Brianna Tillson. You have the right to remain—”

  “Will you take care of Diane?” Maggie said. She stood, touching the baby’s wisp of colorless hair with a finger, then leaned down and kissed Diane on the forehead. She handed Jake the pink bundle, not trying to hide the quiet tears now coursing down her cheeks. “Will you? Nothing that’s happened is her fault. There’s a loving family still waiting for her. You can’t keep her from that. You can’t.”

  63

  Ella clicked off her phone, regretting, instantly, her promise to Jane Ryland. She felt the muscles in her back go stiff, the ones in her neck, too. Her car was impossible. With the heat on it was too hot. With the heat off it was too cold. She’d finally decided to take steps. Important steps, on her own, but then she’d blown it by calling Jane.

  She banged her hands against the steering wheel. The horn gave a little beep. She jumped, stomach clenching, and waited in the heart-pounding silence to see if any lights went on in the homes nearby.

  Nothing.

  Snowflakes sparkled through the streetlights, blowing almost sideways at times, hypnotic and relentless. The weather was about to get hideous, dark and hideous, but maybe that would make her plan easier. Because she was going in.

  She was.

  She felt the hard edges of Lillian’s keys in her hand. If she didn’t do this now, she’d lose her nerve. She’d get in, look quickly, get out. How would she know where to look? Lillian’s office, certainly. She’d been there before. Not like she was invading anyone’s privacy. Not like Lillian was going to catch her. She laughed out loud, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

  Calm down. Okay. It would be okay.

  If all went well, by the time Jane arrived, she’d be out and back in her car. It would all be over and all would be fine and she could show Jane what she’d found. If she found anything.

  She was going in.

  She was.

  Maybe.

  *

  “I already said, I’ll tell you when we get there.” Kev was being horrible. Bossy. Kept refusing to tell her what he was going to do. Kellianne, relegated to the backseat of the Afterwards van a-gain, yanked her seat belt over the front of her puffer jacket. Hate this. But know-it-all Kev ordered her to stay home, and she had to prove he wasn’t the boss of her. So here she was.

  Only fifteen minutes to Margolin Street, usually. When the weather wasn’t this crappy. Hmm. Maybe she should snake a couple more items. Since the TV said their cop guy was, like, out of commission, who knew when her next opportunity would be?

  She braced herself against the headrest as Kev ignored a stop sign and barely missed a guy in a Jeep. The radio was blaring. The boys whispered as they smoked a blunt in the front seat, but she wasn’t about to ask for a hit. Not while she needed her brain to figure this out. She hadn’t put two and two together before, but now she could do the math. The cop plus the shooting equaled shit for Kellianne. Would her supply and demand dry up?

  So, okay. She’d held off on the valuable stuff before, but this time she wouldn’t hesitate. Who cared about a dead person?

  She smiled, thinking of something funny. She was always cleaning up after dead people, right? Now she would just clean up.

  They were passing downtown, the familiar jaggedy skyline almost blotted out by the snow. The row of weather lights on the top of the Hancock Building flashed blue, which meant snow. Duh. The van turned toward Margolin Street.

  What were Kev and Keefer gonna do? Probably make sure all their equipment was out of there. She knew they’d left disinfectant and alcohol and cleaning supplies. While they did whatever, she’d find what she was looking for, and get out. They never made her a part of anything, and this time she was happy about that. Morons. When it was over, she’d be another step closer to getting out for good.

  Life was short.

  *

  Was that Jane? Already? A block away, headlights flashed in Ella’s rearview mirror. She’d never asked her what kind of car Jane drove, so silly of her. Already three had whooshed by, and each time Ella almost jumped out of her skin. If Jane arrived too soon, she’d never make it inside and out in time.

  But she wasn’t quite ready.

  “It’s okay,” she reassured herself out loud. “This is a public street. You’re allowed here.”

  She turned off the engine, just in case. Stayed in the dark.

  The headlights came closer. Closer. They lit up her car interior with their cold blue beams. She flopped onto the passenger seat, staying out of view. It’s weirder if someone sees you lying on the seat. Sit up!

  When she did, she saw the car—a van, really, a grayish van, drive slowly past Lillian’s house.

  Relief. See? It’s not even—

  But the van backed up. Parked. Almost in front of Lillian’s. Was it Jane? Now everything was ruined, because if Jane didn’t want her to go in, well, how would she convince her she had to? She was doing her job, she really was. If Jane didn’t like it she could just leave.

  It wasn’t Jane.

  The doors of the van had opened, and two men got out, smoking, wearing baseball caps. Then another door slid open and another person got out. Ella squinted through the murky night. A woman? A woman.

  Ella sat back, flipped down her sun visor to block their view of her, just in case. Lillian’s porch light had clicked on. Ella narrowed her eyes, used a finger to make a slice of clear on the foggy side window to watch.

  This was confusing. If people knew Lillian was dead, maybe they were trying to break into her house? But not in the middle of the—well, it was eight o’clock. What kind of stupid burglar, three burglars, would walk right up a front path?

  She watched, transfixed, as they approached the house. Should she call the police? Holy God. Then how would she explain why she was there? Maybe not say who she was? Well, that might work. She reached for her cell phone. Then stopped.

  They might have a perfect right to be there. Then where would she be? It would be so embarrassing. But not if her call were anonymous. She put her hand on the phone again. Took it off. Why could she never decide what to do?

  Now they were—

  She risked buzzing down her window, a tiny bit. They were across the street, couldn’t possibly see her. Plus, they were busy a
t the door. Now, with the porch light on, she could see there was crime tape.

  They were—How could they do that?

  *

  “Just cut through it. Don’t you have your knife?” Kev sucked down the last of the joint, tossed the roach aside, and waved to Keefer.

  Keefer pulled out his Swiss Army, flipped it open, and poked the point into where the space should be between the door and the jamb thing. The blade snagged on the triple thickness of the sealing tape and almost flipped closed on his gloved finger.

  “Gimme that, you moron.” Kev shouldered in front of him, picked at one edge of the tape with the knifepoint. He found a loose strip and gave it a yank. It ripped down in one motion, pulling the other layers with it. “Wah-LA. As they say in France.”

  In a few seconds, Kev had crunched up the yellow tape and tossed the sticky ball behind a snow-blanketed shrub. “So much for that,” he said.

  “But Kev, now the police are gonna—” Kellianne didn’t get this. Not at all. “Wouldn’t it be better to have it look like no one’d been here? I mean, leave it on?”

  “Won’t matter, Miss Princess,” Kev said. “Now if you’ll do me the supreme favor of shutting up, we’ll be in, be out, be gone. Our problems will be over.”

  They were morons. But who cared about their plans? She had her own.

  Kev unlocked the door, and Kellianne was the last one in. The foyer light was still on, the rest of the house in gloomy darkness. It still smelled like their cleaning stuff, no question, and she didn’t know what Kev planned to do about that. She clicked the door closed, then called after her dumb brothers heading toward the kitchen.

  “I have to use the bathroom,” she said.

  “Knock yourself out,” Kev called over his shoulder. “But don’t take too long.”

  What was so funny about that? Kellianne heard their laughter as she made her way to her treasure.

  *

  Oh, she was so dumb. Of course. She should have thought of this. Ella watched the three police officers on the porch, since that’s who they must be, plainclothes officers, with that gray van their unmarked car. Because who else would take down the crime scene tape?

  Ella nodded, agreeing with herself, and counting her blessings. This was a sign it would all work. The more she thought about it, the more wonderful it was. The police had taken down the tape, meaning the house wasn’t a sealed crime scene anymore. Meaning she could easily and legally go inside.

  Ella smiled for the first time in a long while. She settled back into the driver’s seat, drawing her coat around her in the chill.

  The police had closed the door behind them. They were probably checking that everything was okay, which it certainly was, then they would leave.

  Then she was absolutely definitely going in.

  She would only have to be out before Jane arrived. Things were going nicely. All would be fine.

  64

  This had to be a first. It was for him, at least. Jake had gathered up a squirming baby Diane, strapped her into her car seat, and fastened the whole thing into the back of his cruiser. There she sat, eyes closed, tiny fingers curled into fists, looking like the smallest suspect ever in Boston Police custody. She’d zonked out the minute the engine started. It broke his heart to see her sleep this profoundly, unaware of the furor around her and no idea how her little life had changed so many others.

  You’ll take care of her, Maggie Gunnison had pleaded with him as DeLuca led her away in the arriving BPD van. Jake assured her he would. But what could he do? Baby Diane would go back into foster care. There was no other way. Soon, DeLuca would get the scoop about the lawyer and the whole scheme, whatever it was. They’d find Leonard Perl.

  Jake stopped at the light on Wiscasset Street, checked the backseat, carefully hit the gas again. How long had it been going on? How many children had Maggie erased from the system? They’d investigate, see how many families were involved. Discover how many parents would get a life-changing phone call.

  Diane made a whimpery noise as the cruiser took the turn onto Hinshaw Street. Jake caught her pink reflection in his rearview. Asleep again. A bad dream? You have no idea, baby girl.

  What bugged the hell out of him? Maggie was right, in an impossible way. Diane would probably be better off with the family who’d arranged for the illegal adoption. Problem was, they’d arranged to adopt a kidnapped child.

  He punched up his cell. Bethany Sibbach answered before the end of the first ring.

  “I see you,” she said.

  Jake saw a curtain in her front bay window pull aside, a warm glow from the living room lights behind Bethany’s silhouette. From inside, she raised a hand in salute. “I’ll be right out to help,” she said into the phone.

  “She’s asleep,” Jake said. He parked, then twisted around to look through the meshed metal barrier. Diane’s head lolled to one side, her fists open. The floppy ears of her pink stuffed rabbit peeked out from under the blanket.

  “No problem,” Bethany said.

  A porch light flipped on, and Jake saw Bethany’s front door open.

  “Dispatch to Detective Brogan,” the voice cracked over his radio.

  Damn. He checked to see if the staticky communication had awakened the baby. As a babysitter he stunk, but Diane Marie would be in Bethany’s hands in a minute. Margaret Gunnison—who, if all went as hoped, was currently at HQ spilling the whole deal to DeLuca and a stenographer—had insisted she’d never heard of Bethany Sibbach. So Jake decided there was no risk in turning the baby over to her. He had to identify Diane and confirm she’d been in the Callaberry apartment, the infant Gunnison and Perl kidnapped from state custody. Would little Phillip recognize her? Would the word of a toddler be ruled credible? He did not want to put Phillip on the stand.

  “This is Brogan, I copy,” Jake said. Bethany was hurrying down her front walk, wrapped in a fluttering plaid shawl, carrying a white blanket.

  “We have your BOLO on Leonard Perl, Detective,” dispatch said. Jake had called in the lookout so cops could start tracking down the asshole. If he was still in Boston. “Airlines report no one using that name through Logan. Planes are delayed anyway, Detective, no one coming or going. No one at the bus or train station has a record of the name. We’re efforting a photo from the Florida registry.”

  “I copy.” There was no reason for Perl to run, since he’d have no idea they had Gunnison. Or baby Diane. No idea they’d be on his trail. Unless he’d heard about Ricker’s death and feared the cops would make the landlord-tenant connection.

  Bethany arrived at the cruiser as Jake climbed out and opened the back door.

  “Thanks, Dr. Sibbach. Like I told you, this is a new one. But this little girl…” He unclicked the pink webbing and scooped the blanketed infant into his arms. Diane squirmed, then settled, screwing up her eyes as if to cry, then deciding against it. “… might be the answer to Phillip’s question.”

  Bethany accepted the blanketed bundle, draping her shawl around both of them, tucking it across the child. It had started to snow, a few gentle flakes. “Where baby, you mean,” she whispered.

  Jake nodded. “Is he awake?”

  “He might be. Poor thing. It’d be better if he slept through the night, though.”

  Jake grabbed the car seat, closed the cruiser door, as softly as he could. He caught up with Bethany as she neared the front door. His cell phone rang.

  Damn. “I’ll be right there,” he stage-whispered at Bethany, and put the car seat on the steps in the shelter of the front porch. “Don’t let Phillip see the baby until I get there.” That was a moment he had to witness firsthand.

  “Brogan,” he answered.

  “News,” DeLuca said.

  “You find Perl? Maggie Gunnison give you the scoop on his whereabouts?” Nine o’clock. Jake was starving, freezing, and about to conduct a witness identification session with a toddler. It was time for some good news.

  “Nope. But this just in. Kat McMahon is calling a cause
on Lillian Finch. She’s about to submit, but she told me—”

  “Did she now?”

  “Homicide.” D ignored Jake’s sarcasm. “By person or persons unknown. Somebody killed Lillian Finch. Jake?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You think it was Perl? For some reason?”

  Jake needed to get inside. See if Phillip would react to the baby in some way, a way credible enough for Perl to fold when confronted with it. And with Maggie’s confession.

  But why would Perl have killed Lillian Finch? He should check Finch’s house. He could let little Phillip sleep now, and come back first thing in the morning.

  “You’re thinking the adoption thing connects them?” Jake said. “Well, Perl had to be in Boston on Sunday to kill Brianna Tillson. Lillian Finch was probably killed that same day, so he’d have been available. He can’t know we’ve got Maggie Gunnison, so maybe he’s still in town. That’s the problem. We have no idea of his agenda.”

  “Brilliant, Watson,” DeLuca said. “But where the hell is he?”

  “I’ll just take a fast look at Finch’s house.” Jake hoped it was the right decision. “Maybe there’s something Hennessey and Kurtz missed.”

  “Listen, Harvard? Go home. Maggie Gunnison’s contemplating her future in a cozy jail cell. We’ll start on her again tomorrow. Finch’s house ain’t gonna vanish overnight. It’s after nine o’clock. You’ve been on more than twelve hours. Go home.”

  Jake looked at Bethany’s front door. Phillip and Phoebe were asleep inside. Bethany could call him before they woke up so he’d be there for Phillip’s first moment with the baby. Maybe now he could call Jane. Make sure she was safe. Even get a large pepperoni and some wine and see if she’d like to—

  “In my dreams.” Jake clicked open his car door. “Assuming Hennessey left the access keys in the usual spot, it won’t take long. I’ll let you know what I find.”