The Wrong Girl (40 page)

Jane was already chatting with Underhill. They were colleagues, of course. Jake checked his phone, where the faxed, then e-mailed, photo from DeLuca was slowly downloading.

Keeping half an eye on Jane, he looked at the emerging photo of Leonard Perl.

Then at Hec Underhill.

Then at the photo.

Same person.

*

Why was Jake staring at his cell phone? Jane had to keep up the chit-chat with Hec until Jake joined her. Hec was blathering about some news story he’d been shooting, complaining again about his imminent retirement and his crap assignments.

Jane nodded, pretending to be fascinated. If Hec was the surveillance guy, he could have broken into her apartment, somehow. He wouldn’t tape
himself
! He could have even watched, among the bystanders, as she raced into her building the morning of the breakin.

A breakin that
had
happened.

Hec was even wearing a Celtics hat. But he couldn’t have been the guy in the black pickup, because he’d talked to her on the phone from the
Register. Damn.
What was taking Jake so long?

“Yeah, but you know, the news must go on.” Jane decided to risk it. “In fact, did you hear there was a breakin at my apartment?”

“Yeah. I live right there.” Hec pointed to the brownstone. “Police have any idea who did it?”

Gotcha,
Jane thought. She was tempted to say yes, just to see what he’d do, but gestured toward his apartment instead. “Oh, interesting. Did you see the cops from your apartment that morning?”

“Hey, Jane.” Jake stepped up to them, close, almost putting himself between her and Hec. He was holding his cell phone with one hand, with the other adjusting something under his jacket.

“Hey, Jake,” she said, moving aside. “Hec Underhill, do you know Detective Jake Brogan? Jake, this is—”

“We met at Margolin Street, if I’m not mistaken. Hold this for a second, Jane, okay?” Jake gave her his cell and stuck out a hand to shake Hec’s.

Why would he give her his phone? She glanced at the screen. It had gone to black.

“Hec Underhill?”

Jake had not let go of Hec’s hand. And with the other he was bringing out—what?

*

Underhill tried to pull his hand away. That wasn’t gonna happen.

“Hec Underhill?” Jake said again. He flipped open his handcuffs, snapped the first side over Underhill’s left wrist, then with one motion turned him and clicked the other so Underhill’s hands were cuffed behind his back. His cameras still hung over his chest. “Or should I say—Leonard Perl? You’re under arrest for the murder of Brianna Tillson. We know about Maggie Gunnison. We know about the baby. We know about Finn. And Ricker.”

Which wasn’t exactly 100 percent true, but there was time to find out.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say—”

“I demand a lawyer,” Perl interrupted.

“Brilliant,” Jake said. This explained why Perl had never answered their calls to Florida when they’d tried to contact him. He’d been here in Boston. Killing Brianna Tillson. “And if your lawyer forgets to tell you, I’m pretty sure kidnapping and murder are both life-sentence felonies. After I finish informing you of your rights, feel free to use the phone downtown. Your taxpayer dollars at work.”

*

Leonard Perl? The landlord? Hec? As Jane worked to put the puzzle pieces together, Jake was finishing his recitation of the Miranda rights. But Perl lived in Florida, didn’t he? Absentee landlord. This was Hec Underhill.
The phone?
She punched the button. Up popped what looked like a driver’s license photo. Florida DMV. Leonard Perl’s name.

But it was a picture of Hec Underhill.

Holy sh
—And what did Jake mean by kidnapping? And Jake said Finn. Did he mean Finn Eberhardt? Before Jake took the guy away—whoever he was—she had a few questions of her own.

“Jake, I bet Hec’s the surveillance guy. Perl, I mean. Right? He didn’t report
himself
to the police, see? When he got into my apartment? Probably simply turned off the camera or something. He knew I was looking into Callaberry, and Brianna Tillson’s death. He’s the one who called me, Jake! The nasty calls.
Hey.
Were you in my building last night, too?”

“Lawyer,” Underhill-Perl said. “And just so you know, Miss Hotshot, the
Register’s
about to lay off a bunch of people. You heard it here first.”

What a skeeve.
She handed Jake his phone. Then understood the final puzzle piece. Underhill—or, Perl—knew what kind of car she drove.

“Hec? You took my
CAT?
Are you kidding me? You’re the guy who handed her to Tuck. And then put her collar in my car.”
Total skeeve.
“Tuck had left the car open, right?”

“Good luck finding a new job,” Perl said. “And don’t get old. No one hires you if you’re old.”

“Nice guy.” Jake guided Perl toward his cruiser, talking over his shoulder at her. “Call me, Jane. Sorry we had to cut this short.”

“Hey. Wait.” Jane trotted after him, already composing the story in her head. The arrest of Tillson’s killer? A
Register
freelancer? The paper’s lawyers were going to explode. But she had the headline.

No longer tired, she pulled out her phone, ready to speed-dial Alex and fill him in. So much for her terror of layoffs. This was a big fat story. Who cared how late it was.

“Jake? I need a statement. Did you say ‘kidnapping’? And Maggie Gunnison? From DFS? What’s this all about? Sounds like a huge story.”

“Ah, maybe so. But not written by you, Janey girl.” Jake stuffed Perl into the backseat of his cruiser, slammed the door. Touched her on the nose with one finger. “Because unless he decides to confess, you’ll have to testify at this asshole’s trial.”

*

“Dispatch, this is Brogan.”

Jake shifted into drive as the radio crackled to life. Perl slouched in the backseat, in the same spot where baby Diane Marie had slept only a few hours before. Perl was more the type. “I am en route with a suspect in custody, per the BOLO on Leonard Perl. You can cancel that BOLO, dispatch, as of…” Jake checked the dashboard readout. “Two-oh-five
A.M
.”

He needed to call DeLuca. Imagined where he might be. Poor guy wasn’t getting much Kat McMahan time. But he’d want to hear about this. He punched in the speed dial as dispatch responded.

“Copy that, Detective. We’ll make HQ aware.”

“Jake?” DeLuca’s phone voice sounded groggy. “Where are you, for crap’s sake?”

“With Leonard Perl, on the way to HQ,” Jake said. “I’m about to tell him what we know about Maggie Gunnison and baby Diane Marie. Maybe he’ll give up Finn. Before Finn gives
him
up.”

Jake checked his rearview, gave Perl a cheery wave, hoping he was taking it all in.
Whoever Finn was,
Jake didn’t say.

“So. D. If you’re not—otherwise occupied—thought you might like to join us downtown.”

Jane stared out her living room window, looking through the gray morning light toward the building where she’d been told the surveillance guy lived. The police department’s “camera buff.”
Right.
Hec Underhill. Leonard Perl. Now—as she’d heard during the arrest—in custody for the murder of Brianna Tillson. A murder he hadn’t wanted Jane to care so much about.
Why had he killed her? Jake said—kidnapping?

She’d barely been able to sleep, her brain too full of Perl and Ella and the smell of fire. She’d e-mailed Alex to pitch the story, whatever they could confirm via police protocol, but he hadn’t responded yet. There was plenty of time, especially since her byline couldn’t be on the story. Jake was right about that. The conflict of interest was enormous. Which totally sucked.

Especially if the
Register
was laying off people. Like Hec—or actually, Perl—had said.

Coda jumped onto the windowsill, getting between her and the view. She scooped her up and carried her down the hall to the study.

Hec—well, Perl—had taken the cat. So disgusting. So brazen. So nice that he was in custody. And so satisfying that she hadn’t been wrong. Jake had texted that Hec—she still thought of him that way—had admitted picking her lock and later rattling her door, just to scare her. The cops owed her big.
Girl who cried wolf, my ass.
“I don’t think so, cat.”

Coda writhed to the floor, scampered away.

It was easier to think about how right she’d been than about Ella Gavin, now in Mass General’s ICU. Jake would probably inform the Brannigan people about her, but Jane would have to tell Tuck. And Carlyn. Before they heard about it on the news. What would she to say to them, anyway?

She plopped, exhausted, into her swivel chair, then looked for the millionth time at the tattered piece of paper she’d left on her desk, smoothing out the crumples yet again, smelling the remnants of the smoke that clung to it.

A footprint. A baby’s footprint.

Certified by the hospital as an official copy and marked
BABY GIRL BEERMAN
, this one piece of paper Ella saved from the fire provided the incontrovertible evidence that could reveal Tuck’s identity.

The person whose foot matched this decades-old print was unquestionably Audrey Rose Beerman. Was that Tuck?

The moment Jane told someone about it, the moment Jane set the wheels in motion, two lives—at least—would be forever changed. And there’d be no way to stop it.

But this is what Tuck asked her to do. A young woman had almost died to help Tuck find the answer.

Jane reached for the phone. Then stopped, hand in mid-air.

Was it too early? She checked her computer monitor—still before eight in the morning. Too early. She wasn’t stalling. But no need to terrify anyone with an early morning call. She took her hand away, rested her chin on her fists, stared at the inky footprint.

Thinking of her drive with Tuck to see Carlyn. And that person in the black truck who’d terrified them on the highway.

Jake had mentioned “Finn.” There could be another Finn, of course, but Jake’s Finn was involved with Perl. Maybe she should give Mr. F. Eberhardt a call at DFS.

Hmm.

Were the DFS people—Maggie Gunnison—aware of Perl’s arrest yet? Even if Jane couldn’t write the story, she could help out the reporter who did by digging up a reaction quote. Any brownie points she could get with Alex were a good thing.

It took only a second to get connected. Eight o’clock. She imagined Vee enthroned at the reception desk. “Maggie Gunnison, please.”

“She’s not … available,” Vee said.

Probably too early. Or—of course, she was still on vacation, in Anguilla. She’d missed everything. “Okay, then, may I speak to Finn Eberhardt?”

“He’s in today, but out of the office, on the road, ma’am,” Vee said. “He’s probably driving right now. I can patch you through to his cell phone.”

Before Jane could reply, she heard a click and a buzz—exactly like she had in the car when she’d asked Tuck to check that Finn couldn’t be tailgating them. The same noises she’d heard when Tuck placed their test call to DFS.

“Finn Eberhardt,” the voice came back.

*

“Curtis Ricker. What an asshole.” DeLuca, in the passenger seat of Jake’s cruiser, was already on his third cup of coffee. From the looks of him, he’d had about as rough a night as Jake. Turned out DeLuca hadn’t been with Kat McMahan, but hearing a crack-of-dawn confession from a terrified, hysterical Maggie Gunnison. “They’re all assholes.”

“So you told her Ricker was dead? Why?” Jake stopped at the light, a search warrant safely in his pocket. He and DeLuca were about to kick some bad guy ass, if he did say so himself. About time. According to Maggie Gunnison, Ricker had been in on the kidnapping scheme. Though it didn’t excuse Hennessey’s disastrous action, at least Jake’s arrest of the creep was righteous.

More good news—since Perl was now in custody, it didn’t matter whether little Phillip identified baby Diane. He’d be safe with Bethany till this all played out. Things were looking up.

“Why
not
tell her?” DeLuca shrugged. “Filled her in on the Perl arrest, too. I went to her cell, told her—‘You don’t have to say a thing, just thought you’d like to know.’ Yadda yadda. She flipped out. Couldn’t spill the beans fast enough. Said she didn’t need a lawyer.”

“You got her on tape? Saying that?”

“Oh, duh, no, shoulda thought of that. Mercy me, if only you’d been there.”

“Screw you.” Everybody was a comedian.

“No, thanks,” D said. He took a slug of coffee, put it back in the cup holder. “So. That guy Finn that Perl was talking about? Works at DFS with Maggie. He’s Perl’s nephew. He’s in the dark about the arrest, of course, so we’ll pay Mr. Eberhardt a nice visit. If we can get him to talk voluntarily, we won’t have to read him his rights.”

“You’re a credit to the force, D,” Jake said. “Did Gunnison explain the Ricker connection?”

“Yup. Ricker was Perl’s—like, apartment manager. Watched over the places where they did the ‘kid exchanges,’ that’s what they called it. Knew all about it. Maggie’d yank the children from the system, always on a weekend. She’d babysit until Perl picked them up.”

Jake thought back. “Remember when we asked if he had ‘dependents’? On Prize Patrol day? He kinda hesitated, remember? Man. It was because there
were
kids depending on him. Just not his own.”

“Asshole. Like I said. Anyway, this Maggie Gunnison. Turns out she had no idea Perl was cashing in. That he was getting money for arranging the adoptions. I informed our clueless Maggie that he was not Lord Bountiful. That Crime Scene had easily found the bank records in Perl’s apartment, the kickbacks from the adoption lawyer. We’re talking like, megabucks. That’s what really did it. She’s gonna testify. Slam dunk. Yay for the good guys.”

Jake considered this as he checked the house numbers on the cookie-cutter Cape Cods lining the neighborhood. Lots of “for sale” signs. Sagging shutters and rusting cars. Grim. Even the melting layer of snow was grubby. “She was doing it out of some misguided good intentions? Thought she was helping kids go to better homes?”