The Wrong Girl (28 page)

“Possibly,” Kat said.

Jake looked up from his BlackBerry screen. “Huh? What do you mean, possibly?”

Two uniforms brushed by them, cursing the Celtics’ latest defeat.

“They suck,” one said.

“Give ’em a chance,” the other said, disappearing through the revolving door.

“Then they’ll suck worse,” the first cop said to the glass as he pushed it.

“Two days ago,” Kat shook her head, watching them. “That game was two days ago.”

“Boston.” Jake waved her off. “But Brannigan. You said it was a confirmed heart attack. Myocardial infarction. Natural causes.”

Today Kat wore her white lab coat under a neon orange parka. Her black baseball cap asked
DR. WHO?

She flapped her arms against her sides, puffed out a breath, and watched the vapor evaporate. “I love that. We don’t have that in L.A. And yes, Detective, as I informed your friend DeLuca, Niall Brannigan died of a heart attack.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Well.” The medical examiner cleared her throat, and raised a finger. “One thing.”

*

“I’m not kidding, it was on the floor, where your feet are now.” Jane had argued over the cat collar, with Tuck, once again in the passenger seat, all the way to the Mass Pike entrance. “I suppose I could have dropped it when I took her to the vet the other day. Maybe Coda wasn’t even wearing it when she got out. But I gotta tell you, Tuck.”

She accelerated past the green light at the tolls, and yes, damn it, checked her rearview for the black truck. Which of course was not there.

“There’s no way I can talk myself into that. The silly cat was wearing her collar when I left home yesterday morning. And I
locked
the stupid door. When I got back, the door was open and the cat was gone. And then, boom, I find the collar in the car. That—is freaky.”

The light poles flashed by, just like yesterday. Today’s adventure better have a more satisfactory ending.

“Yeah, got to admit.” Tuck pulled down the sun visor. Jane looked over, saw her smoothing one eyebrow, frowning at her reflection.

“Tuck. Listen. The nasty phone call. The open door. The cat collar. I think I’d better call—” Jane paused.
Jake,
she had been about to say, tell him the whole thing and hope he didn’t think she was a nut. But Tuck couldn’t know that was an option. Come to think of it, it wasn’t.

“Alex,” Jane said out loud.

Damn.
That reminded her she still hadn’t gotten in touch with Hec. She really wanted to see his photos of the Callaberry Street neighbors. What if he’d deleted them? She’d pull into the first rest stop they saw. Call him.

“But you said Alex ordered you to stay away from the
Register,
kiddo. Now you’re ‘away.’” Tuck took her paper cup of coffee from the console, toasted Jane. “And like you said, your place has a new lock. Only you have a key. I found the cat. That cop or whoever is watching your building. We’re going to find the truth about Carlyn Beerman. So it all works out. Right?”

Tuck took a sip of coffee, leaned back in her seat, and propped her boots on the dashboard. “Right?”

Jane picked up her own coffee, watching the road in front of them. She wasn’t quite sure of the answer.

“What do you mean, one thing?” Jake looked at his watch, impatient. He had seven minutes until his meeting with the Supe. Even if the elevator cooperated he’d need four minutes to get upstairs and another thirty seconds to walk the carpeted eighth-floor corridor to the corner office. That gave him two and a half minutes to hear what Kat had to say. So it better be good. And fast. “One thing about what?”

Kat took off a leather glove, clicked open her ME briefcase, took out a manila file.

“I read that,” Jake said.

“Not this one.” Kat opened the file.

Two minutes left. “So?”

“So,” Kat said. “Yes, Mr. Brannigan had a heart attack. But—not in his car.”

Jake blinked, mentally reviewing the scene. The man in the driver’s seat he later learned was Brannigan, hands at his sides, head plonked on the steering wheel, seat belt on.

“Why do you think that?”

“I was there when Crime Scene opened the car door. You were off with—wherever you went.”

“Yeah, and?” He’d gone to check on Jane. But that couldn’t matter.

“When Crime Scene tried to open the car door, it opened.”

“So?”
Ticktock.
Get to the point.

“So nothing. We figured maybe he hadn’t locked it yet. But Jake, there were no keys. Not in the car, not anywhere.”

“Yeah yeah, I know that. D and I discussed it on scene. Maybe he went to the car to get something. Maybe he left it unlocked.”

Kat shrugged. “Could be. But Jake. Where are the keys now? Where was he going? Went to the car to get something to take
where
?”

Jake stared at her. He’d been so focused on Jane that he’d—

“What’s more, I found mud and slush on the inside surfaces of his shoes. I mean…” Kat lifted one booted foot. Pointed to her instep with a pale manicured fingernail. “Right along here, and on both feet. And up the insides of his pants legs. The inside only. If you’re walking, any wetness is going to accumulate on your whole foot, evenly distributed. So now, imagine how Brannigan’s condition, the pattern of moisture on his pants and shoes, could have happened. See what I mean?”

She paused, waiting for him to answer.

Jake was going to be late to the meeting, but it wouldn’t matter, because Kat’s findings meant he’d screwed this one up. Royally. And it would only get worse from here on. The Jane thing. Exactly what they’d feared—the distraction—looked like it finally made him blow a case. If he’d stayed at the scene on Margolin Street, like he should have, he’d have focused on this. Figured it out. Instead he’d blown it.

“Jake?”

“Yeah. Kat. I hear you.” He tilted one foot sideways, touching his instep to the ground. He tried doing it with his other foot at the same time. Couldn’t. His knees knocked together, and he wouldn’t have been able to stay upright to walk. He’d need—
Shit.
“The only way that could happen is if someone was holding Brannigan up. Supporting him. “Maybe he wasn’t even dead.”

“Yeah. It’s possible he wasn’t. Look.”

Kat grabbed one of Jake’s arms, draped it over her shoulder. They stood face to face. He, a good five inches taller, smelled vanilla and a whiff of roses in her faint perfume. “Now imagine someone else on your other side. Supporting you. Half-dragging you. Down a path or some such, to your car. To an observer, it might present as if you’re drunk. But you’re—woozy. Dying. What would happen to your feet?”

“This looks cozy.” DeLuca’s voice preceded him, coming through the revolving door before he did. “Should I give you two some privacy?”

“Damn, you caught us,” Kat said. She stuck out her tongue at D. “But perfect timing, actually. Let Jake put his other arm around your shoulders. Then you can help me drag Jake to his car.”

“Huh?” DeLuca took a step back. “What the hell?”

“Let’s just say we’re screwed.” Jake looked at his watch. “And we’re late for our meeting with the Supe.
Shit.
I should have gone to law school.”

“Hector Underhill, please. Skim milk, please.” Jane held her cell phone tight to her ear, talking to the
Register
’s receptionist and the barista behind the Lavazza counter at the same time. The turnpike rest stop smelled like fried everything with bleach on top. Glaring fluorescents colored it floor to ceiling in unnatural blue-white. Tuck headed for the twenty-four-hour mini-mart, insisting she needed to stock up on Swedish fish and corn nuts.
Disgusting.
Jane was sticking with lattes. Especially this morning, running on empty. Three hours of sleep. Four, max. “Yes, please, extra-large. Yes, I’ll hold.”

The
Register
’
s
annoying hold “entertainment” played a recording of the morning’s headlines. “MBTA officials fear rate hikes as deficits mount” and “City Hall bigwigs charged with computer fraud in growing scandal.” Wonder who’d scored the City Hall story? Some lucky duck certain to stay employed. Someone who wasn’t banished.

“Also this morning, the
Register
reports police have made an arrest in the Sunday afternoon murder of a still-unidentified Callaberry Street resident. The woman was found dead in her kitchen on…”

“Ma’am?” The barista held out a steaming paper cup. Her fingernails were polished purple, and her black T-shirt was XS when it should have been M. “Ma’am?”

“One second,” Jane mouthed. She held up a finger, pointed to her phone, wincing. She hated to be rude, but she needed to hear. “So sorry.”

“Boston Police confirm the arrest of one Cur—,” the recording continued.

“Ma’am? You’ll need to take your drink, ma’am.” The barista’s voice grew louder, more insistent. Jane heard an elaborately weary sigh from the woman behind her in line.

“In other news,” the recorded voice went on, “the Boston Celtics…”

A human voice interrupted. “Hector Underhill is on another call right now, would you like to leave a message? Or hold?”

“Thanks. I’ll hold.” Jamming the cell phone between her cheek and shoulder, Jane accepted the almost too-hot-to-hold latte, defeated. She grabbed two napkins, wrapping the brown paper layers around the steaming cup. Maybe the newsstand past the McDonald’s still had this morning’s paper? Still, reading it would only increase her depression.
The police made an arrest in Callaberry. She’d missed the whole thing.

Shit.

She headed for the newsstand, phone clamped to her ear, waiting for Hec, stewing. This sucked. It blew her scoop on the Brianna Tillson reveal, since the moment they got to court the cops would provide the name of the victim. All would be public.

So much for that.

But.
On the other hand.

Jane stopped. Stood up straight, realizing her new reality. A good reality. A flame-haired woman toting a matching puppy and trailing two flame-haired kids bumped her, jostling her latte.

“Sorry, honey.” The woman gestured at her entourage in explanation. “Kids, you know?”

“Soda!” one child whined.

“Bafroom!” said the other.

Jane moved out of their way, slurping up the foam that had sloshed through the opening in the plastic lid. The hold recording began the news cycle again. Maybe this time she’d at least get the name of the suspect. See if it was someone she’d interviewed that day.
Where the heck was Hec?
She smiled. She must be even more tired than she thought.

Thing was. She took another sip. If they’d arrested the bad guy, then whoever was warning her to stay away from the story—that was over now. Wasn’t it? The bad guy—whoever they’d arrested and she could find out by reading the paper—was surely the one who’d threatened her.

She nodded, agreeing with herself. That meant the murder suspect wouldn’t be phoning her again, or tailgating her in a black pickup truck this morning, or breaking into her apartment. Yay, Jake.

But wait.
Why hadn’t Jake told her about the arrest? Okay, easy one. Maybe, when he was reassuring her that she was under surveillance, the arrest hadn’t happened yet. She reached the newsstand. Wonder who’d written the story? If Hec
ever
came to the phone, he could give her the scoop.

“Hey, kiddo. Want a fish?” Tuck had her own cell phone in one hand. With the other she held out a cellophane bag of red gummies.

“Oh, hey, Tuck, no thanks, I—Oh. Hello? Hec? Yeah. It’s Jane Ryland. I’m calling about the photos. The ones we took on Callaberry Street? I was thinking—”

And like that, poof, her great idea went down the drain. Even if Hec had the digital card with the photos taken during their door-to-door, it didn’t matter. The police made an arrest. Every reporter on the planet would get shots of the suspect in a perp walk or the courtroom.

Tuck bit off a red tail, waved the rest of the gummy fish at her. “What’s wrong, Jane?”

Jane held up a hand. Hec’s voice in one ear, Tuck’s in the other, and it all ran together in a big tangle of failure. The Tillson story was over. There wouldn’t be any flashy Jane Ryland bylines. She might be safe at home, so that was a relief, but at the
Register
she was back to square one. That was not a good thing.

“Hec, never mind,” Jane said. “Keep the pictures, though, okay? You never know when—”

She paused as Hec interrupted her. “Well, I’m actually in the fabulous Natick rest stop, on the Mass Pike. With—did you ever meet Tucker Cameron? We’re driving out to Connecticut to—well, anyway. But about the Tillson case. Who’d the police arrest?”

“Jane?” Tuck was holding up her cell phone, shaking it back and forth. “Carlyn Beerman’s at
home.
We should
go.
Jane? I don’t like to interrupt, but—”

The flame-haired family exploded out of the bathroom door, the little girl wailing as her brother ran after the mop-tailed puppy that was now on the loose, snaking a pink leash across the rest stop’s dingy floor, yapping.

“Grab her, Allan! Grab her!” the mother shrieked.

“Sorry, Hec, I didn’t hear you.” Jane gestured to Tuck with her latte, trying to telegraph
I can’t hear both of you at the same time.

“
Jane.
” Tuck held up her phone again, waving it at her.

Tuck’s phone was turned off, the screen obviously black, so what was Jane supposed to see? Hec was saying he had no idea about the arrest, but Tuck was so insistent she could barely understand him.

“We have to go, Jane.” Tuck stuffed the Swedish fish into her tote bag, then the phone. “Now.”

“Hec? I have to call you back. If you get the scoop, call me. Thanks, dude.” Jane clicked off, then trotted after Tuck, already headed for the door.

“What the hey, Tuck? I was on the phone.”

“I’m really sorry.” Tuck pushed through the glass door. “But I thought about what you said, about not knowing if she was home? Carlyn? So I called, and she answered.”

“What’d you say?” Jane, pushing through behind Tuck, raised her voice to be heard. They headed to Jane’s car.