The Wrong Girl (12 page)

“Guys?” Jane said. “If you’re finished with your coffee break? Something’s going on, and you’re doing a pretty stinko job of covering it up. What does Brannigan have to do with Maggie Gunnison? What’s the deal with Bree? I’m a reporter, remember?”

“I sure do.” Jake jabbed the up button. The floor indicator blinked 4, and coming down fast. “But duty calls. So if you have questions, you’ll have to contact PR. That’s how we do it downtown. You want the number?”

“Gimme a break.” Jane grabbed his jacket, then took her hand away. The silver doors slid open. “Off the record. Tell me.”

DeLuca stepped into the elevator. “I’ll leave you two kids alone,” he said.

Jake stared at her, but she couldn’t read him. He seemed to think for a minute, his back to DeLuca. Jane could see D’s boot was keeping the elevator doors open.

“What?” Jane asked, wishing for telepathy. Jake wanted something from her, she knew him well enough to see that. And she sure did want something from him.

“Like I said. Call PR, Jane,” he said. But with his thumbs he was clearly sending her a different message.
Text me.

*

I have to get out of Mr. Brannigan’s office. I have to go home.
Ella tried to hold back her tears, tried to remember to breathe, knowing it was not proper to cry in front of the entire Brannigan staff, yet she couldn’t help it, not at all, no matter how hard she clenched her fists. She was upset about Ms. Finch. And she was upset about that bag of copied documents that festered, like the TellTale Heart, under her desk.

What should she do with those now?

“Then that concludes our meeting,” Mr. Brannigan was saying. “Again, I thank you all for your patience and compassion. I will have more information as it becomes available.”

The office door opened, and Grace gestured the downcast staffers into the hallway. Ella turned, following them out, head bowed. Her fingernails bit into her palms.
I have to go home. I’ll take the documents with me. I’ll burn them. Or something.

She stood a little straighter, reconsidering. Trying to regroup. Whatever someone did wrong, it really
wasn’t
her fault. She was the good guy. She was trying to help. She was—

“Miss Gavin?” Mr. Brannigan’s voice lassoed her from behind. “May I ask you to stay a moment?”

Ella’s stomach hit the floor.

“Close the door, please, will you?”

*

The girl was an idiot, no doubt about that. Crying? Well, of course she was upset that her supervisor was dead—he supposed. But Brannigan had long harbored the suspicion that Ella’s deer-in-the-headlights act was only that, an act, and that she actually had her eye on the big desk in Lillian’s office. Not that she’d have the temerity to say anything to him about it. He stopped, remembering the new reality. Now he’d never be able to ask Lillian.

Funny how things worked. Or didn’t.

“Miss Gavin?” Brannigan circled behind his desk, waving her to a visitor’s chair, careful to keep a sympathetic expression. Make sure she knew she wasn’t … in trouble. He had her, certainly for being late today. Also for her unauthorized visit to Lillian’s office last evening. Why was she there? What’s more, it would be helpful to know how much Lillian had told her, if anything. He’d had perfect confidence in Lillian, but then one never knew with women.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, for all of our loss. Ms. Finch was a particular fan of yours, always spoke highly of you, and…”

“Oh, Mr. Brannigan, what happened to her?” The girl had tears running down her cheeks, her nose going all red. She twisted her hands, worrying the edges of her cardigan sweater between her fingers.

“Well, we don’t know, Ella,” he said. “But I’m wondering if there’s any way you can help us help the authorities in this matter. Did she ever, say, divulge to you any reason why she was, perhaps, upset? Worried?”

Brannigan worked to keep his own face blank as he tried to read Ella’s expression. Fear, certainly. Knowledge, possibly.

“No, nothing,” Ella wiped her eyes with the back of one hand, then cleared her throat, as if the words didn’t want to come out. Gulped. “Nothing. I mean, what do you mean?”

“Was she—happy in her work? Did she have, shall we say, any stresses in her personal life?”

“Her—well, no, Mr. Brannigan—we never—I mean, she wouldn’t have—I mean, I never thought—”

Ella didn’t seem able to finish a sentence.

“You’re upset,” he said.
And doing an unsuccessful job of hiding something
. “But we must persevere. If you’d like to, perhaps, take the rest of the day off, go home?”

She leaned forward, eyes widening, like a child longing for a sweet. “Yes, I—”

“But first,” Brannigan said, “could you bring me Ms. Finch’s current files? I’d like the dossiers on the next clients designated to get the Call, as well as those from the last month or so.”

Ella stood, as if straining toward the door. “Okay—I mean, yes, I’ll find them.”

Seemed as if her voice still wasn’t working properly. Interesting.

“Ella? Is there something—”

The girl blinked at him. “No, I was only thinking … it’s actually Mr. Munson in History and Records who’d have the archived files. Should I ask his office for them?”

“Don’t bother them now,” Brannigan said. “We’ll talk about Ms. Finch’s clients tomorrow.”

Now.
That
expression was worrisome. How much did this girl know?

Jane watched the elevator doors close, wiping away the last glimpse of Jake—he might have winked, but she couldn’t be sure. He’d acted out
text me,
though. Of that she was certain.

Still.

“Grrr.” She said it aloud. Jake was upstairs getting all those confidential files from Maggie, exactly the ones Jane needed, exactly the ones Jane would never have access to. Even if she made a formal public records request, Family Services legally had ten days to answer her. Even then, they’d deny the request. Kids were kids, foster care was confidential, and the privacy exemption to the Public Records Law ensured the records were beyond sealed. To her. Not to the cops. Not to Jake.
Grr.

She should call Alex. Give him an update. Jane scrabbled in her tote bag for her phone, resolving, again, to return it to the special phone pocket so it didn’t
always
get swallowed in the black hole.

One message, the green indicator said: 1:04
P.M
. No wonder she was starving again. No wonder the lobby was full.
Lunch hour must be over.
A clump of slush-covered workers waited in the ragged security line, peeling off dripping parkas and snow-flecked mufflers, stuffing them into beige bins on a puddled conveyor belt.

She pressed play, held the phone to her ear, clamping it between her cheek and shoulder while she tied her belted coat. The ceiling-high plate glass windows in the front lobby of the DFS building misted with damp, and in the swirl of snowflakes outside on the concrete plaza, a bronze statue of Alexander Graham Bell wore a blanket of Boston white. Grim, gray, and brutally cold.
Gloves.
She yanked one from each coat pocket.

The message clicked on.

“Jane? It’s me, Tuck. Call me. Right now. I’m serious.”

Tuck. She felt guilty, sort of, about running out on their meeting. Holding one glove, she pulled on the other with her teeth so she could still hold her cell and hit “call back” with her bare thumb. Tuck answered before the phone even finished ringing.

“Listen, Jane. I got a call from Ella Gavin. She’s completely freaking out. She says the police were at the Brannigan today, because—”

Jane stopped in her tracks, the other glove dropping to the floor. A businessman in a soggy trench coat almost ran into her, banging his heavy black briefcase against her leg.

“Oh, sorry,” she said.
Ow.
She picked up the now water-stained glove from the damp stone.
The police? Were at the Brannigan?
“But what do—?”

Tuck interrupted. “Listen, okay? Ella says the police were at the Brannigan because someone there died.”

“Died?” Was this why Jake looked so dumbfounded when she mentioned the Brannigan? Only one thing “died” meant in Jake’s world. “What do you mean, died?”

“Ella Gavin says her boss, Lillian Fitch, I think, turned up dead. And here’s the thing. She’s the one who told Ella I was Audrey Rose Beerman. She’s the one who told Ella to send me to Carlyn Beerman. She’s the one who wrecked my life.”

Jane stared at the floor. Trying to process. Tuck only cared about Tuck,
what else is new.
But
Jake
cared about …

“So now we’re never gonna know what happened,” Tuck was saying. “Ella was going to help me try to figure it all out, but this Fitch person is the only one who—”

“Tuck, what do you mean, died? Did she have a heart attack? A car accident?”

Tuck was silent for a beat. “Well, shit. I don’t know,” she said. “Ella didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. Some reporter I am. Was.”

“Was Detective Brogan one of the cops who came to the Brannigan?”

“Why would Jake go to the—?” Tuck stopped, mid-question. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Jane said.

A murder at the Brannigan.
At
the Brannigan? Well, at least of a Brannigan employee. The one who’d possibly made a potentially embarrassing and reputation-ruining mistake. Still, who would commit murder over that?

“Tuck? Does Carlyn Beerman know they sent her the wrong girl?”

*

DeLuca, on maybe the day’s fifth cup of coffee, leaned against the pitted concrete wall of the courthouse lobby while Jake punched in numbers on his cell phone. The closed double doors to Courtroom 1 towered on one side of them, on the other were doors marked Courtroom 2, propped open with a phone book. A couple of guys, witnesses awaiting call probably, fidgeted in their new-looking suits on a pockmarked wooden bench. The rent-a-cop manning the metal detector leaned against a stack of black plastic bins, reading a magazine.

“Curtis James Ricker?” Jake said into the phone. He’d gotten Brianna Tillson’s sleazeball ex-husband’s address easily enough from his probation officer here at Dorchester District Court, a dismal scumbag magnet known as the Dot. The Dot’s offices were closing early on account of snow. But Jake and D still had time to make the call before the place went dark.

“This is the state unemployment office, sir,” Jake lied. It was poetic justice to be conning a con artist. “We’re calling about your unclaimed benefits?”

Guys like Ricker were always on the take. The kind who’d buy lottery tickets, convinced each time it was their turn to win. Convinced the world
owed
them. Jake hoped Ricker’s greed would trump any potential suspicion about this call.

“We have to confirm your status, sir, from your file. You are no longer married to a Bry-anna,” Jake intentionally mispronounced the name, “Tillson? Divorced, let’s see, nine years ago? Okay, correct, that’s what our records show. And—what?”

Jake smiled as Ricker fished for details about his “benefits.” This guy was hook and line already. According to Maggie at DFS, Tillson had dumped her no-account husband years ago. The state had cleared Brianna to be a foster parent, Maggie explained, as long as he was out of the picture. Sadly—for Brianna and her foster kids—it seemed Ricker hadn’t been clear on the rules.

“Sir, your benefits are retroactive according to the regulations recently promulgated by the state legislature, as I am sure you are aware.” He read aloud Ricker’s Social Security number. “If that is your correct social, you are potentially due a considerable reimbursement resulting from the state’s miscalculations about your history. Can you describe your current employment situation?”

Ricker was buying the phony benefits story even more easily than Jake had hoped. He began a whining recitation of his “situation,” with himself as the put-upon victim of bureaucracy and mismanagement. By this time tomorrow, if he had half a brain, Ricker would be talking only to his lawyer.

It was gonna be a domestic, after all. After they collared this guy, they could refocus on Lillian Finch, whose body was now in Kat McMahan’s custody.

Officers Hennessey and Kurtz had reported no valuables had been stolen from Tillson’s or Finch’s house. They agreed no crazed killer or burglary thing was going on. Each case was individual. That meant in each case it was all about motive.

What a bitch being assigned two murders at the same time.
Budget cuts, the Supe had explained. As if that made it doable.

Luckily, it was looking like Tillson would be easy.

Finch was tougher. Jake needed to get to her files, check out her house. Who’d hate a middle-aged middle-income adoption agency employee enough to kill her like that? A financial advisor, playing fast and lose with her investments? Maybe Ms. Finch had discovered it? But then Jake and D would, too. A relative disappointed with a change in the victim’s will? In that case, all the suspects’ names would be conveniently listed in probate court. Maybe it was someone unhappy about an adoption.

Tuck?

Sleeping pills pointed to a female killer. Smothering, not so much.

Not Tuck.

Shit. If the Supe wanted quicker answers, he’d have to hire more cops.

Ricker’s whine seemed to be winding down.

Jake interrupted, impatient to reel this guy in.

“Now, finally, sir? For security purposes, to prevent the possible exposure of your Social Security number and potential theft from your mailbox, we cannot use the U.S. Mail to deliver your reimbursement. You must be at home to receive it in person. You understand it’s for your security and your protection.”

Ricker knew about theft from mailboxes, since that’s what he’d been nailed for ten years ago.
Gotta love it.
Mr. Ricker was about to enter the criminal justice system once again. He wouldn’t get out so fast this time. First degree premeditated murder carried life without parole.

“Well, as it happens, sir, yes, we do have a courier.” Jake gave D a thumbs-up. “If you’re home, we can have the money delivered to you today. Yes? Let me double-check your address? Excellent. Mr. Emerson and Mr. Hawthorne will be at your home shortly. You’ll need to show them a photo ID. Happy to be of service.”