The Wrong Girl (6 page)

She’d probably wind up with some disease from all the junk they had to use to clean up after somebody who died. Whatever got rid of the stench and the crud, had to, like, eat away at your lungs and blood when you breathed it in. Sometimes the death smell stuck in her nose no matter what she did. She knew people looked at her funny. The smell was always part of her.

“What’s the prob, Kel?” Kevin slammed the driver’s side door. “You got a big date or something? He can wait. Then you can tell him all about your latest cleanup job. Bet the guys go nuts over that. You’re the queen-a-death.”

Jerk.
She kicked the front seat with her boot for punctuation.

“Huh?” Keefer turned around, eyes wide, yanking out one earbud.

“Ignore her,” Kevin told him. “Here’s the drill. We’ll wait till the cops leave, then go in and scope out the place. The landlord’s guy got a key for us. We gotta see what there is, what we need to bring. We gotta call the landlord and give him the estimate—he’s got insurance, so we’re golden.”

“Oh, right.” Kellianne rolled her eyes. The estimate. Like that was reality.

“Then we’ll book. And you can head off to meet Prince Charming.”

Kellianne ignored him, counting the minutes. All the reporters were leaving, the news trucks pulling out of their parking spaces and heading off to their cool jobs at the TV stations. Funny, though, they had to show up for death, too. The cops, the really cute one in the leather jacket and the geeky tall one, were going back inside. Weird, now that she thought about it. Cops also had to show up for dead people.

She pulled out her phone, punched up her favorite game app, Killerwatt. Fun with death, right? That was her whole life.

*

Ella Gavin stared at the phone she’d dropped beside her on her living room couch. She had to think. She’d already called Miss Cameron, no taking that back. They’d arranged a meeting for tomorrow morning, Monday, before work. What could she do now? Probably stay up the whole night worrying. But it would be okay. Whatever was true was good.

She’d moved her knitting bag off the coffee table to make room for the stack of paperwork. It made her stomach twist to look at the sort-of-stolen documents. Was there a way the Brannigan people could discover who’d made copies?

Whiskers chose that moment to jump onto her lap, purring and nudging.

“I know, kitty. Maybe I shouldn’t have done it. But it’s my responsibility to help make sure things are all in order. These are people’s lives, after all. And if Miss Finch made a mistake, somehow, and sent … poof.”

The cat had brushed her tail across Ella’s mouth. She plucked the cat hair from her lips, then cuddled her pet closer, comforted by the rumbling purr. “We’re happy, right, Whiskey-roo? Everyone should be happy, and with those they love. That’s what we do. And … and…”

A peculiar beep from the phone beside her startled them both. The cat jumped off Ella’s lap onto the twisty brown throw rug.

“It’s only out of batteries,” Ella reassured herself as much as the cat. Why did this whole Brannigan thing make her such a scaredy? She was barely thirty years old, good at her job. She paid her rent, paid her bills, went to church, and someday would find the One.

“I’m not a wimp, kitty.” She picked up the first page of her copied files. Easy to tell she’d been in a hurry—each page was skewed and off center. But the facts were clear. An infant called Audrey Rose Beerman had been left in Brannigan custody, then adopted by Brian and Deirdre Cameron. More than twenty years later, a grown-up Tucker Cameron had been informed that “Audrey Rose Beerman” was her first identity and Carlyn Parker Beerman her biological mother.

The paperwork looked perfectly in order. Lillian Finch did not make mistakes. But Tucker Cameron insisted it was wrong. Why?

Maybe she didn’t get along with Carlyn Beerman? Maybe her adoptive mother was pressuring her? Ella had seen
that
often enough. Adoptive mothers got possessive, demanding, jealous. Wanted to keep up the illusion. Being someone’s “mother” could be defined in a lot of different ways.

“You can’t choose your family, Whiskers. We are who we are.”

Had she missed something? Should she look at the records again? She was tired. Confused. And she had to admit—frightened a little bit. She wasn’t used to taking matters into her own hands. Too late now.

Beyond her living room curtains a frosty twinkle of stars emerged behind wisps of gathering clouds. Was Tucker Cameron the same person as Audrey Rose Beerman? If not—well, if not, what?

Tomorrow morning, she’d find out. Whatever was true was good.

“See?” Kat McMahan pointed to the kitchen floor. A once-shiny web of red had dried to crusting brown lines outlining each square tile.

“Blood on the floor? Yeah, I see it,” Jake said.

“Well, I think—”

“They’re gone downstairs.” DeLuca appeared in the doorway. He held a stack of numbered orange plastic tents to mark the crime scene.

Jake took yet another look around.
Not much to mark.
No bullet casings or bloody gloves. He had to get on this. Look around the apartment for himself.
There had to be something.

“Hennessey’s holding down the fort,” D was saying. “And I told Afterwards to hit the road. Call in tomorrow. Bloodsuckers.” He shrugged off his bad joke, placed the markers in a stack on the floor, and pulled a digital camera from an inside jacket pocket. “Kat? Okay if I get some extra photos in here? Crime Scene’s doing the back rooms, prints and evidence collection, but I want my own stuff.”

Jake cocked his head toward the ME. “Dr. McMahan was telling me about the—”

“Blood on the floor,” Kat interrupted. “And yes, Paul, please get a shot of that. From this angle.” She pointed. “And this one. In gauging the potential blood flow of the victim’s head wound, two things. First, it shows this is the primary scene of the murder. This is where she was killed. She wasn’t moved. But the amount of blood, the volume, is more than one would expect from a wound of this type. In other words…” She paused, one eyebrow raised.

“It’s someone else’s blood,” Jake finished.

“Could be,” Kat said.

“The bad guy,” DeLuca added.

“Could be,” Kat said. “So before this gets cleaned up, we’ll need to have photos taken in situ, then—”

Since when was an ME telling him how to do his job?

“Gotcha, Doc,” Jake said. “DeLuca will get our shots,
as usual,
then we’ll have Crime Scene pull up the tiles, send them to the lab. See if the blood matches the victim, or if we have ourselves a giant lead.”

He had to give her credit, though. He might not have figured that out. “Thanks,” he added. “DNA could take weeks. But could be big.”

“So who was the hot babe at the news conference?” Kat asked. “The pushy one in the tight jeans and Burberry muffler? The one who asked why I was here.”

Jake shot her a look.
Hot babe
? “Ah—she’s…”

“Jane Ryland from the
Register
newspaper,” DeLuca finished Jake’s sentence.

“You know her? Tell her she should stick to questions about the crime,” Kat said. “I’m here because I’m a hands-on kinda gal. But our in-house practices and procedures should stay in-house.”

Tell Jane what to ask?
Like that was gonna happen.
“Well, I don’t—”

“Now. If you two have no objections,” Kat went on, ignoring him, snapping the wrist of one lavender latex glove, “as soon as you’re finished with your photographs, I’m gonna alert my guys to come take this poor woman to the morgue. Back in my examination room, we’ll see what else we can find.”

So this newbie ME wanted to make it clear she was in charge. Not his problem. What
was
his problem—identifying this woman on the floor.

There’d be a purse, somewhere, with ID. Insurance files. Rent stuff. Financial records and checkbooks and all the other items that defined each person’s history. In some drawer? A box in a closet? They’d find it. Now that the news conference was over, and this ME was finally wrapping up, they could start looking.

But where were the worried relatives? Calls from frantic neighbors and friends? Two beat cops were out canvassing, Hennessey reported, so he’d see what they dug up. But not one person had knocked on this apartment door—according to Hennessey—to see what happened to the victim and her kids.

Her kids
.
Two kids.

“Gonna take a look around the place while you shoot, D,” Jake said.

No answer. DeLuca focused on his photography, Kat directing each shot. Jake shook his head. D was a big boy.

The rest of the apartment lay only a few steps down the dingy hallway, no pictures on any walls. To his left, a tiny bathroom, pink plastic shower curtain, three wet washcloths dangling over a metal rack. Three toothbrushes, two short, one taller, in a clear plastic Mickey Mouse cup. Wastebasket with crumpled tissues, empty toothpaste tube, dental floss. Jake took a pen from his pocket, lifted the lid of a white plastic clothes hamper. Sniffed.

And winced. It reeked. But no smears of red, no signs of a murderer’s hurried cleanup, no stash of bloody towels. On top, at least. Someone’d have to bag what was inside, then go through it. He hoped not him.

“Hey, Brogan. Hello and good-bye. We got what we need, photo-wise.” Photo Joe wore his equipment like a SWAT guy, cameras on bandolier straps across his chunky shoulders. Other crime scene techs used tiny digitals. Not Photo Joe Marcella. “Domestic, I’d say. We’re outta here.”

Lee Nguyen followed him, as usual, toting a bulky black suitcase marked PRINTS. She wore purple gloves and her BPD-issued navy nylon jacket over a white turtleneck.

“Domestic, yeah, mos’ def,” she said. “We’re done. Later, Jake.”

“Later?” he said.
Done?
Not on his watch. “Joe and Co.,” some cops called the two of them. Their evidence collection sometimes left much to be desired. “Hold it. You guys wanna take the bathroom now?”

“Not particularly,” Nguyen said.

“It’s why you two get the big bucks.” He hated when the old-timers, hell, when anyone, tried to cut corners. No way was he going to let Joe and Co. do a half-assed job. “I’ll head for the bedrooms if you’re done back there.”

“Ten-four,” Joe said. “Will do.”

“Good,” Jake said. Now he could scope out the rest of the place. Find those personal belongings. Across the hall, an open door to a bedroom. One window, lace curtains, view curtailed by a too-close brick wall.

Four-drawer veneer dresser with mirror, no photos tucked into the corners. He’d check the drawers. It smelled of—Jake sniffed again. That pink baby stuff. Lotion.

One twin-sized bed, pristinely made, Jake catalogued. Bedspread white. Two pillows. A stack of diapers. Cookie cutter stuff. Nothing. Beside it, two little—well, not cots, but almost mini-beds with white Pooh comforters and a stuffed bear in a yellow-striped T-shirt perched on each little pillow.

He stood in the doorway to the bedroom, staring. Assessing.

“There we go,” Jake whispered. Then pulled out his BlackBerry.

Where’s the baby?
he typed. Because next to the twin bed, next to the two toddler beds, sat a delicately white-slatted wooden cradle.

“Alex, no one said they knew her. At all. It was almost bizarre.” Jane stuffed her hands into her jeans pockets, leaned against the doorjamb to Alex’s office. She’d raced to her cubicle in the
Register
newsroom and banged out her story in plenty of time, copying it from her still-soggy notebook. Tuck had texted, but no time to text back. Alex ought to be psyched she’d gotten anything at all, not criticizing her for her lack of pithy and meaningful quotes.

“We went door to door, knocked on all we could. I gave everyone my card. No one had anything majorly interesting to say, only the usual ‘who’d-a thought’ and ‘didn’t know her’ type of thing,” Jane said. “I got all their names. But people don’t always talk in sound bites.”

She’d gotten all there was to get in the time she had. No question.

“I couldn’t miss the deadline. Hec shot exteriors and the news conference. Sometimes it happens that way, right? At least I got the info on the two kids. Phoebe and Phillip, the cop told me. Their last name is Lussier, I eaves-read that on his notes. So, Phillip and Phoebe Lussier. I bet they’re at Youth Services. You know, maybe I should…”

Alex wasn’t listening anymore. He’d plopped his elbows on his desk, propped his face in his hands, and stared at his desktop computer monitor. Jane’s draft of the story showed on the screen.

“Police sources reveal the unknown woman was killed at her home in…” He was proofreading her copy, out loud.

She fidgeted with her black turtleneck as he read.

“Wait a second,” Jane said. “
Is
it her home? The cops didn’t actually confirm that. Jake—I mean, Detective Brogan—said in the news conference she was found in the kitchen. So let’s change that.”

“Good catch.” Alex wiped the lenses of his wire-rims on his plaid shirt, then typed a few words. Then a few more. “Let’s also change ‘snow-dappled front lawn’ to ‘snow-covered front lawn,’ and move Jake’s plea for assistance to the top.”

Jane made a face, knowing Alex wasn’t looking at her. Anyone who
could
change something you wrote
would
change it. Rule one of editing.
Fine,
snow-covered, if that really made the story better. He knew they were pushing the deadline.

“Because that’s what this is really about, right?” Alex nodded, agreeing with himself as he typed. “Cops don’t know who the victim is, neither do we.
There.
Done. Sent. Front page of the Metro section. And you’re outta here.”

He spun his chair to face her, gave her a thumbs-up. “Nice job, Ryland. And thanks for being available. I had others who bagged, let my call go to voice mail, you know? Because they didn’t want to do snow. You stepped up. I appreciate it.”

Okay.
Even if he always changed her copy, he was a cool guy. And he’d hired her at the
Register,
trusted her, saved her, when she was sure her career was imploding. She’d never stop owing him.