The Wrong Girl (39 page)

“Yes, exactly, Detective Brogan.” Dolly poked his arm with a finger. “I told you something was going on here, didn’t I?
Now
don’t you agree? Don’t you suspect it might be those people in the van?”

“People in the van?” Jake’s peripheral memory dragged up the image of a gray van driving away from the fire when he’d been focused on yanking Jane out of the burning house. He turned to Mrs. Richards with narrowed eyes. “What van, ma’am?”

*

“Ella?” Jane’s whisper was almost more to herself than to the blanketed form on the gurney. Ella’s face was covered with a plastic oxygen mask, her body silvered with a space-blanket throw. Her eyes were closed.
Was she—?

“Ma’am?” The EMT beside the gurney, brush-cut and zipped into a parka yellow-stenciled
DONALD CANNON
, stepped between them. “We’re transporting her now. Please contact Mass General for more information. She’s on oh-two, she cannot take off that mask to talk to you.”

On oxygen. Ella was breathing. Jane looked at Monahan, pleading for intervention. “Will she be okay?”
Tell me she’ll be okay.

“Don, this is Jane Ryland.” Monahan stepped up, showed the EMT the handwritten paper. “The person your patient was asking for.”

Cannon frowned, shook his head. “Negative. She cannot talk. Let her see you’re here, Miss Ryland. Then we’re going.”

Jane took one step toward the gurney, fearing what was under that blanket, fearing the future, knowing she might have made a difference, and didn’t.
Didn’t.

A movement under the blanket, and Ella’s right hand came out, gestured Jane toward her.

“Go ahead,” Cannon said. “Thirty seconds.”

Ella made a motion like
writing.

Cannon handed Ella a mechanical pencil, then pulled a tiny pad from a pocket in his coveralls and held it in front of her, not touching the blanket. The three of them watched, Jane holding her breath, as Ella scrawled something, then something else.

“Pocket?” Jane leaned in to the paper. “Cat?”

The pencil moved again. “Feed?” Jane read.

“There’s something in your pocket, and you want me to feed your cat?” Jane struggled to keep herself from crying and laughing at the same time. “Are your keys in your pocket? Blink twice for yes.”

Ella did. Then pantomimed
write
again.

“I’m sorry,” the EMT said. “No more. The sooner we get her out of here, the sooner she’ll recover. Say your good-byes.”

The EMT had said “recover.” That was a good sign.

“Cannon, let’s do this,” Monahan said. “Get her keys. And whatever. Quickly.”

“Yessir.” Using two fingers, the EMT lifted the silver blanket, inch by inch. Then turned to Jane, holding a keychain in one hand. A folded piece of paper in the other.

“Is this what you want me to have?” Jane leaned in, close as she could.

Ella’s eyes widened, blinked twice, then closed.

*

“What
van
?” The woman shot Jake a withering look, right out of grade-school detention. “The van I told you about before. They’ve been here a couple times now. Looked to me like some kind of cleanup crew, you know? Carrying in buckets and mops, carrying out big green trash bags of—whatever. It reminded me of that movie, where the girls come and clean up after murders and things? I thought that’s who these people were. That’s why they had those rolls of yellow tape. But they wouldn’t come after dark, would they, Detective?”

Afterwards? Was here?
He’d keyed in on them outside the funeral, but had been crazed with the Ricker thing since then. Afterwards was the crime scene cleanup crew who’d interrupted Kat McMahon’s examination of Brianna Tillson.

They’d been called to Callaberry Street. That must have been okayed by landlord Leonard Perl. And they’d been here.
Who okayed that?
This was Finch’s house. She owned it, not Perl. Jake had checked with Alvarez in Records. Finch lived alone.

So. Brianna Tillson—murdered. Lillian Finch’s death—ruled a homicide. Niall Brannigan’s death outside Finch’s house—suspicious. The glue that held all three together was Afterwards. And, possibly, the elusive Leonard Perl.

“Did you see any of the people from the van, Mrs. Richards?”

“Dolly, I told you. There were two at least, maybe three. I can’t be sure.” She gestured toward the house with her mitten. “You think the fire is out? Who was the body that firefighter was carrying? How do you think the fire started? The van people could have done it.”

Mrs. Richards paused her monologue and nodded, apparently approving of her own detective skills. “They sure could’ve.”

Jake had to agree. They sure could’ve.

He reached for his cell, ready to alert DeLuca to accompany him on a come-to-Jesus visit to the now-unsuspecting folks at Afterwards. Folks who would not be so happy when he interrogated them about their role in the death of Niall Brannigan. And their certain knowledge of the whereabouts of Leonard Perl.

He hit DeLuca on speed dial. Then Jake hit “end call.” Shit. How many gray vans were there in Boston? No way to prove whose van had been on Margolin Street. Any evidence of their “cleanup” was a smoking mass of embers and debris. Some defense attorney would rip them to shreds.

“Ma’am?” Maybe she could ID one of them. Something. Anything.

“Look at that Jane Ryland,” Mrs. Richards was saying. “So pretty. I’d recognize her anywhere. What’s she doing here, a story for TV? That’s her little black car, must be.”

“Yes it’s…” Jake watched Mrs. Richards take out a little pink spiral notebook, a ballpoint pen dangling from the spiral.

She clicked open the pen and began to write. “Is that a three or an eight, Detective? My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

“A three or an—on Jane’s license plate?” Jake was confused. “Why would you be writing that down?”

“Like I told you the other day.” Mrs. Richard puffed out an exasperated breath. “I always take license plates. Always. Even yours. It started when some neighbors were bringing in all kinds of unsavory types. Then it got to be kind of a habit. Tell you a secret, I use the numbers to play the lottery.” She smiled up at him. “Silly, I know. But very lucky.”

Jake was almost afraid to ask. Might
he
get lucky? “Mrs. Richards?”

“Dolly,” she said.

“Dolly. Let me ask you.” He eyed her notebook. “Do you keep track of the dates? Did you write down the license number of the gray van?”

“I
hate
search warrants.”

Jake had to smile as DeLuca’s voice came over the cruiser’s speaker.

“No reason to wait to get those assholes. Crime scene cleanup, my ass. They’re the freaking criminals.”

“Yup, D. They’re in on something. And they sure as hell know where Leonard Perl is. But Supe insists we get a warrant before we hit them up. Judge Gallagher’s been sent the request affidavit. Hey. It’s law and order, right? We’re the law. We need her order.”

Jake checked his rearview, made sure Jane was following him. It was after midnight. She’d looked zonked and scared and exhausted, but she’d insisted on driving home herself. He shook his head, keeping an eye on her headlights. They’d compromised that she’d follow him, he’d see her safely inside. He held up a hand. Jane waved back. She was so …

“Talk about law and order.”

Even over the speaker, D’s voice oozed disdain.

“What about it?” Jake turned onto Beacon Street, Janey right behind him. The snow was over, but the streets were still slick.

“Well, the bad news is our Maggie Gunnison lawyered up. Guess she realized she was in deep shit. Kidnapping and murder being your basic life-in-prison deal,” DeLuca said. “So we’re hearing zip from her. She’s currently residing in the luxurious confines of the Suffolk lockup, probably calculating her options.”

“Which may include offering up the whereabouts of Leonard Perl,” Jake said. “Speaking of which, you ever get that Florida DMV photo?”

“You’re livin’ right,” DeLuca said. “It’s a fax, if you can believe it. Stone age. The quality’s not that great. But I’ll e-mail it to your cell. You never know.”

*

Jane pulled into a place in front of her building, behind the spot where Jake had just turned off the engine of his cruiser. She saw his interior lights blink on, saw his door open. So he was getting out, not just waiting for her to come to his window to say good-bye. Would he want to stay over? Would she want him to?

She clicked open her car door and got out, grateful to be home, grateful to be safe, grateful that Ella would live, would even be okay. She wished she could be mad at her.

Ella’s keys weighed heavy in her pocket. Tomorrow morning, she’d go feed the cat. Tomorrow morning, she’d try to figure out what to do with the piece of paper Ella had given her. The sky was brightening, the moon a fading memory in the dark blue sky. It was already morning.

Headlights glared around the corner, then stopped at the stop sign up the block.

“Hey, Officer.” Jane met Jake halfway on the sidewalk. Then took a step closer. “I’m good. I’m fine. Thanks for, ah, babysitting me. Always good to have a cop around.”

“Your tax dollars at work.” Jake glanced at her front door. Took a step closer to her. “Your tax dollars also allow me to see you inside. If you so desire. It’s our after-hours special.”

They stood, less than arm’s length away. Jane felt his force field, drawing her, in the murky light from the streetlights, and the thin whisper of the wind, and the gray clouds separating to show a glimmer of the winter stars.
Jake.
She remembered his touch, the urgency in his voice as he’d grabbed her from the fire. Why couldn’t she fall into his arms, grateful, needing him, giving in, forgetting all the rules of the world and caring about only their own rules? “Jake, I—”

Did they have to be careful, even
here
? Was the watcher in the brownstone seeing the two of them? What if he was the one who—She was too exhausted to think about it. About anything but Jake.

“You—we—” Jane took another step closer, reached out her hand, dared to brush an imaginary snowflake from Jake’s jacket. Maybe now they could—His phone beeped, and she warmed with reassurance when he ignored it. “It’s been quite a day.”

She heard a car’s engine shift, and looked up to see the headlights at the stop sign move closer.

*

“Yeah, it has. Quite a day. And now we both smell like fire.”

Jake had to leave, needed to leave, couldn’t possibly leave. He should be at Bethany Sibbach’s house at the crack of dawn, before Phillip got a look at baby Diane, and there was no way he could make it though another day on no sleep. Today’d been tough enough.
Putting it mildly.
Dolly Richards’ license plate list—including the gray van’s—were safely in his notes. But Jane. She’d been through so much. He didn’t even know why Ella had called her. “You were nuts to go into a burning building, hon—Jane.”

“You went in, too, you know.” Jane’s voice was a whisper. Her touch lingered on his jacket. “To get
me.
So you’re just as nuts. But I keep thinking what might have happened if you hadn’t.”

Headlights pulled into a parking space in front of the brownstone across the street. Jane pointed to the car.

“Your hotshot surveillance guy’s probably seeing him, you know,” she whispered. “And, more importantly, he’s seeing us. Don’t want him to report you, right? You here with me in the middle of the night. Standing like this. How’d you explain that?”

“Police business, ma’am.” Jake looped her arm through his, pulling her even closer. “All on the up and up. In fact, I won’t have done my duty until I go upstairs, check your whole apartment. Maybe—stay awhile. Make sure nothing untoward happens. Make sure you’re safe. Doing my sworn duty.”

Jane smiled that smile up at him. He could feel the weight of her body against his. He was exhausted, she was, too. If he went inside, they’d probably fall asleep instantly. Very romantic.

“Hec.” She was looking over his shoulder now, and her face had changed.

“Heck what?”
Heck?

“No. H-e-c. Underhill. The
Register
freelancer. Getting out of that car across the street. In front of surveillance-guy’s building,” Jane said, her voice low. She shrugged. “Alex told me he lived in my neigh—”

“What?” Jake turned, following her gaze as she paused, mid-sentence. She was staring at the man across the street.

He felt her hand clutch his arm.

“Jake?” she whispered. “If you want to do your sworn duty, come with me.”

She was right.

Had to be. Where had Hec Underhill been all those times she tried to find him? “He’s always out,” the guy in the photo lab kept telling her. Hec obviously knew she was working on the Callaberry Street story. He’d known exactly which house Brianna Tillson’s body was in. Knew she was looking for pictures of the bad guy. Knew she’d been banished from the paper. He had her cell phone number and could easily have made the threatening calls. And she herself had told him she was going to Connecticut with Tuck. But
why
would—

“Hec!” Jane kept her voice cheery, waving, as she and Jake approached. He had those cameras strung around his neck. Keys in his hand. She needed to see where he lived. See if he had a camera pointed at her windows. Problem was, Jake still thought Hec was a good guy, working with the cops, and there was no time now to explain her theory. She’d play it by ear.

Hec turned, standing by his car, out of the glow of streetlight. A dark shadow. But Jane recognized him easily enough. She heard Jake’s phone beep again, and this time he took it out of his pocket.

“Hey, Hec,” Jane began. “What brings you here this time of night? Big story?”

*

Message from DeLuca. “Photo,” the subject line said. Photo? Must be the picture of Leonard Perl, finally, from the Florida Department of Motor Vehicles. Jake opened it with one thumb. Hec Underhill was a new freelance
Register
photog, he remembered. And hadn’t he just seen him at—where was it?

Those cameras around his neck. Right. The pushy guy who’d shown up at Lillian Finch’s right after they’d found Brannigan. Jake had been on his way to Jane’s supposed breakin. He’d directed the guy to Hennessey. Forgotten about him.
What’s to remember?