The Wrong Girl (11 page)

Oh sweet mother of …
What could have happened? She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t. Maybe this was her payback. Maybe God telling her she should not have interfered in what was not her business. Ella felt the fear and the guilt creep up the back of her neck and tighten her throat.

Ms. Finch was dead? Ella felt the scream, threatening, but knew she had to stay silent, had to think.
Not now,
she thought.
Hail Mary, full of grace.…

“I don’t have many answers for you, my dear colleagues, but if you have any questions,” Brannigan finished, “I shall try to answer.”

Yes, I have questions,
Ella yearned to say. Why had Ms. Finch made the Call to the wrong woman? Did she know what she’d done? But now was not the time to ask. Maybe that time would never come.

Collins Munson cleared his throat. Ella looked up at him. So did everyone else. Munson, who “had the keys” as Lillian always put it, to the History and Records department, might be the only one who dared ask the first question. Or any question at all. He’d been around forever, since before Ella arrived three years ago. He had a parking space of his own. He’d placed hundreds of children, Ella knew. Reunited hundreds of families. Kind of a legend.

“Mr. Brannigan? Do the police know”—Munson cleared his throat again, his words catching in grief—“how she died?”

“Ah, Collins. This is difficult for all of us.” Brannigan shook his head. “The authorities may know. I asked, of course. But they did not choose to inform me, and insisted they had to end our conversation and continue their investigation. Please cooperate with them, all of you, as they do. And please keep me informed if they contact you.”

How she died?
How she died?
Ella’s mind raced, calculating. Of course, well, of course, that was the question. The police? Came
here
? If Ms. Finch had died of natural causes, that’s what they called it on her TV shows, it wouldn’t have been the police who came. Would it?

What if Ms. Finch knew she’d … made a terrible mistake? What if she couldn’t live with it? Would the police have come to tell them that? If she’d … killed herself? But that was a mortal sin. Lillian would never—

“In closing, let me acknowledge, we shall all miss her,” Brannigan was saying. “But we must continue our good work, and know she would have wanted it that way.”

Ella stared at the rug, its colors blurring with her tears of sorrow and confusion and panic and fear.

*

“Tacos,” Keefer said.

Her brothers hadn’t budged from the couch. Kellianne stood in the hallway, hands on hips. Beyond mad. Now the two were watching a music video, blasting the speakers, something with stuff blowing up. She’d like to blow
them
up, the morons. Her fingers were raw from the stupid duct tape, and she’d lugged about fifty plastic bags of carpeting squares—okay, maybe five—to the barrel at the front door. Why Kev insisted she yank up the carpet from the bedroom when the body was in the kitchen seemed ridiculous. But she was too—whatever—to argue.
Get it done,
right? Then it would be over.

Besides, now that she’d figured things out, now that she’d had her good idea, the more they left her alone the better.

“No way, asshole.” Kevin sprawled on the couch, his white-bootied feet still plonked on the dead woman’s coffee table. “I’m not eating one more frickin’ taco. I could go for a meatball sub, though. The ones from down the street. I’ll buy if you fly.”

“Let’s get the princess to fly,” Keefer said. “She’s always whining for food.”

She?

“I’m right here, assholes. And I’m not hungry.” Kellianne was dying in the Tyvek suit. But now it didn’t matter. She smoothed a sleeve, then the zippered front, making sure it looked flat enough. “You go. I’ve gotta finish in the back.”

“But you gotta bill for lunch,” Kevin said. “Or it makes us look bad.”

“Put down that I got a sub and a soda, big shot,” she said. “Dad’s gonna kill you if you get caught padding the bill, though, ya know.”

“Caught by you and what army?” Keefer said. He jabbed his brother with an elbow. “Pretty funny, huh? And like we’re afraid of Dad.”

“Shut up about Dad,” Kevin said. “We going for the frickin’ subs or what?”

Leave leave
leave. They have to leave. Or this will never work.
The landlord was an out-of-state, according to the Afterwards paperwork, so that was good. The insurance company knew the drill, they were cool with whatever up to the policy limits. No annoying relatives had called or showed up demanding to take stuff, like sometimes happened. The cops had cleared the scene. So seemed like no one would be snooping in here.

All good for Kellianne. All very, very good.

“I’ll tell if you will,” Jane whispered. They’d almost arrived at pizza guy’s floor, and Jane didn’t want to let go of Jake’s hand. But Jake had to be going
somewhere.
In about two seconds, he’d have to declare a floor. After that she’d know whether he was headed for Maggie Gunnison. Whether he knew about “Brie.”

“Tell what?” Jake’s voice went into her hair.

He smelled like citrus, and cinnamon, and coffee. “Why you’re here,” Jane said. “You first.”

The elevator stopped at ten, the doors sliding open. The pizza guy got out, leaving them alone. Jane didn’t move.

Jake didn’t, either.

The door closed, and they were alone.

“Wonder what’ll happen if no one presses a button?” Jane turned, slowly, looking up into Jake’s eyes and not letting go of his hand. She remembered his touch from that one night last summer. The night of Jake’s apartment and his hands on her skin and their clothes on the floor and—the night she said no. They’d done the math—reporter plus source equals disaster. They thought they’d nipped this in the bud. In reality, it was way past the bud.

She dropped her tote bag to the floor, and stepped so close to him she could feel his chest rise, then fall. The elevator beeped, signaling its impatience.
You’re in an elevator, Jane Elizabeth.

“Is this your idea of sharing a room? Hmm?” Jake touched a gloved finger to her face, gave that smile she missed every day. “Want me to push the stop button? Or maybe … stopping isn’t what you had in mind.”

She felt the sleek leather slide down the side of her cheek. Almost couldn’t breathe. And then she burst out laughing.

“Jacob Dellacort Brogan.” She batted his hand away. The elevator’s beep grew more insistent. “I could have you arrested. For like, incorrigibleness or something.”

“You started it,” he said.

“Did not.” Although she had. And she deeply wished they could continue. “But listen, aren’t you on your way somewhere? Hadn’t you better push a button?”

*

Push a button, huh?
She’d kill him if
he’d
said that.

“You were already on the elevator, Ryland, in the lobby,” Jake said instead. “But you didn’t get off, so I know you’re trying your sneaky reporter tricks on me. Good luck with that, sister.”

He stabbed the elevator button marked L. The beeping stopped. “You’re going down.” He saw her reaction, and nudged her with an elbow. “Shut up. You know what I mean. And I’m going back up. Alone. I’m working, and so are you. You’re the one who insisted we make work stuff off-limits, right? If you’d like to chat about anything on your list of acceptable topics, feel free. We have ten whole floors to do so. And then we say
adiós
.
Your
idea, remember.”

She picked up her bag, slung it over her shoulder, made that pouty little face at him. “Jerk.”

“As I often hear,” he said.

The elevator shuddered, then began to move.

“Okay, fine. Anyway, listen to this,” Jane said. “I did have kind of a weird morning. Tuck, you know?”

“Yeah, sure. Have she and Laney—?”

“I only have eight more floors,” Jane said. “You want to hear this?”

He raised both palms, defeated.
Tuck, huh?
She’d driven him nuts when she was covering the police beat for the
Register
. She was hot, sure. But relentless. Manipulative. Also unreliable, unscrupulous, and a problem waiting to happen. What’s more, Jake had found, not always honest. After the Laney debacle, Jane admitted she felt sorry for Tuck. He’d never understand why.
Women.

“So Tuck’s adopted, it turns out.” Jane was saying. “Who knew? She showed up at my apartment, yesterday—yeah, bizarre, I know—and told me she’d gotten a call from this adoption place, the Brannigan. Ever heard of it?”

*

The Brannigan? What did Jane know about the Brannigan? Did Tuck have a connection with Lillian Finch?
Jake checked the flashing lights across the top of the elevator. Almost at two. In ten seconds, the doors would open, and he’d have no way to find out what Jane was talking about without letting her know why he cared. The Brannigan? Was that where this Tuck story was leading?

“It’s like a, a child placement agency, right?” He’d answer what she’d asked, then take it one step at a time. “They do private—”

“Yeah, adoptions,” Jane interrupted. “Let me get through this, okay? Because we’re almost to the lobby. So Tuck says they called her, and—”

“Who? When?”

“When what?”

The bell pinged, and the elevator doors rumbled, ready to slide open.

“Oh, never mind,” Jane said. “I know you’re working. It’s probably nothing. You know how Tuck is. See you soon, okay?”

She stepped out of the elevator, fluttering a wave over her shoulder. “Later, gator. Stay warm.”

Was she teasing him? Knowing she had information he’d want to hear? Jake held back the door with one hand. He had only seconds to make a decision.

Margaret Gunnison had told him she had to catch a plane at Logan, and she’d be in her office only another hour. She wasn’t a suspect, not a flight risk, so he couldn’t justify making her cancel her trip to the Caribbean. Which meant he had to get upstairs. Still, Gunnison couldn’t be the only DFS staffer who had access to the Brianna Tillson files. And those files—including whatever there was about whoever was supposed to sleep in that empty cradle—were not headed to Anguilla. They’d be available whenever he got there.

On the other hand, Lillian Finch. Clearly she had not suffocated
herself,
unless she’d taken a bunch of sleeping pills and taped a pillow over her own face to make it look like murder. Possible, he supposed. But pretty damn unlikely. Kat McMahan would soon have the final say. But way more likely someone killed her.

Now it seemed possible Jane knew something about Lillian Finch’s death—or, at least, something unusual about the Brannigan. Had the dead woman called Tuck? Why?

Tuck as suspect?
He dismissed that thought as quickly as it arrived.
No. Not Tuck. But what does she know? The moment I ask Jane about it, she’ll smell a story. And that’ll be another mess.

Tuck, Jane, Brannigan, murder. All too close for coincidence.

In a murder investigation there were no coincidences. There was only luck and timing. Time to talk to Jane.

He stepped out of the elevator. The doors swished behind him. “Hey, hang on, I at least have time to hear the rest of—”

“Well, well, looks like I shoulda brought coffee for three.” DeLuca sauntered toward them, carrying a four-pocketed cardboard tray with two Mickey D extra-larges. His black knit cap was dotted with snow. “Hey, Jane. What brings you here?”

“Hey, yourself, Detective,” Jane said. “Might ask you the same thing.”

Four women bundled in mufflers and heavy coats strolled in, all talking at once. One punched the up button, and the elevator doors opened. They piled in, leaving wet boot prints on the now-damp floor, then one held the door with a mittened hand.

“Going up?” she asked.

“Nope,” Jake said. “Thanks.”

The elevator doors closed again. Leaving the three of them.

“Jane was asking me about the Brannigan.” Jake had to warn D that she was on to something. He needed to hear the rest of the story.

“You get the bad guy?” DeLuca said. “That’d sure make our lives easier.”

“What bad guy?” Jane looked at D, planting her hands on her hips. Looked at Jake. Decided on D. “For what?”

“Callaberry Street,” Jake answered.

“Right. Didn’t we see you there yesterday?” D added.

“Well, Callaberry Street is why you guys are here, correct?” Jane said. “To see Margaret Gunnison?”

“Detective Brogan, this is dispatch,” Jake’s radio crackled, the dispatcher’s voice bouncing off the marble walls and plate glass windows. “You copy?”

He tried not to roll his eyes. “Brogan. I copy.”

“We have a call from a Margaret Gunnison? She’s the assistant commissioner of the Division of Family Services?”

“Copy.”

“Apparently you’re supposed to be in her office now? The Supe is wondering—”

DeLuca punched the up button, and the light went on. The car was at fifteen. So much for talking to Jane. But Jane wasn’t going to Anguilla. She was on to something. And he needed to find out what.

No way was she letting them go upstairs. Jake seemed way more interested in the Brannigan thing—or maybe in Tuck?—than Jane had expected. He’d gotten
off
the elevator. And clearly been annoyed with D for mentioning “the bad guy.” These two stories were connected, somehow, whatever happened at the Brannigan and the Callaberry death, and they were going to ensure her continued employment at the Register.
Thank you, journalism gods.

“Does Margaret Gunnison have something to do with the Brannigan?” she asked. Might as well try to get the rest of the story. The elevator pinged. On its way down.

She watched the two cops exchange glances.

No answer, huh? Okay, then.

“Is it”—she was taking a chance here, but why not?—“something about Bree?”

Jake took a coffee from D’s tray, flipped the lid, took a sip. Not answering. D grabbed his own cup, then pushed the tray into a metal waste bin. Not answering.

Jane almost burst out laughing at their studied evasion. She must be on the trail of something, because they were not-answering like mad. Often a very good sign that the question was worth asking.