The Wrong Girl (16 page)

Ella ran a finger down the paper again. Addresses, phone numbers, a social. Date of birth. She skipped to the important part, rereading the typed answers.

Line 17. Identifying marks.
None.

Line 18. Identifying indicators.
None.

Line 19. Identifying clothing, tags, or jewelry.
None.

None.
No glittering charm bracelet. She could almost feel the weight of Tuck’s evidence in her hand, see it sparkle in the harsh light of the coffee shop. Tucker Cameron’s birth mother had left her with a bracelet. A bracelet that proved her name and proved her identity and proved, yes it did, that she was not Audrey Rose Beerman.

Identifying jewelry.
None.
And nothing about a note.

Ella leaned her head against the back of the couch, staring, unseeing, at the flickering screen of her television. Stretched out behind her, Whiskers lowered a comforting paw onto Ella’s shoulder.

“I know, Whisk,” Ella said. “Seems like Lillian Finch really did send Carlyn Beerman the wrong girl. Now what do I do?”

Her mind spun with possibilities. Lillian had either known, or she hadn’t known. If she
had
known—was that why she was dead? Or was it a mistake? If so, was it her only mistake? Had she taken her own life in anguish and guilt?

Or maybe Lillian was dead because she
didn’t
know—and someone else did. Someone who wanted to make sure Lillian never found out. Or maybe because she
did
find out, maybe
that’s
why Lillian was dead. Someone killed her to keep her quiet.

And now, she, Ella Gavin, single, alone, and only trying to help, had discovered the same thing. What would happen to her when whoever killed Lillian discovered what Ella knew?

*

Jake twisted open his second IPA, tossing the cap into the white plastic wastebasket by his kitchen door. The files about Phoebe and Phillip’s past he’d gotten from Margaret Gunnison—such as they were—lay open on the round table by the kitchen’s tiny window. She’d told him she’d assigned the staffer who copied them to also “dig up” Brianna’s records from the archives. Those he’d have in a day. “Or two.” Gunnison obviously wanted to get to the airport. Skittering branches on the old silver maple outside his condo battled with the new Paul Simon CD he’d finally downloaded. Diva, as usual, curled into a golden retriever ball at his feet. She’d eaten dinner. Jake hadn’t. The beer would hold him until he got through the files.

He turned the last pages of the caseworker’s sketchy and unrevealing notes, then started over.
There must be something here about what happened. Or about a baby. Sure haven’t seen it yet
.

DeLuca had bailed the second their shift ended, elaborately insisting that medical examiner Kat McMahan was not on his social calendar. D was a shitty liar, but Jake didn’t push his partner on it. Could be it was better if Jake didn’t know the full score. DeLuca certainly suspected his relationship with Jane, but didn’t bug Jake about it. Least he could do was give his partner the same respect.

Jake’s cell phone vibrated on the table. The number came up: blocked. Time: 8:15
P.M
. Maybe it was Judge Gallagher? She’d be “out,” her clerk had said, until eight, unavailable to hear their pitch for the warrant on the Ricker residence. They’d e-mailed her their warrant application, but could be he was screwed on that, anyway. Ricker could have dumped everything incriminating by now. The “money for you” ruse had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Still, he reassured himself, the ruse had elicited valuable info from the guy. If they’d arrived
chez
Ricker as cops, the guy would have clammed up instantly. Roll of the dice.

The phone vibrated again.

“Brogan.” He took a fast swig of his beer.

“Brianna Tillson, right?”

It was Jane.

“No, this is Jake Brogan.”
Situation.
If she was calling about the Tillson name—who the hell had leaked
that?
—it was a potential mess. That didn’t mean he wasn’t pleased to hear her voice. He only wished she was saying something else. Something soft. And promising. “You must have the wrong number.”

“Jerk.” Jane’s voice had that smile in it.

“So you always say.” He knew he was smiling, too.

“Anyway, this is a professional call,
Detective
Brogan,” Jane told him. “I’m calling from the
Register
to confirm the identity of the victim of the Callaberry Street murder. Brianna Tillson. Correct? And to confirm the identities of her foster children, Phillip and Phoebe Lussier. Correct?”

“Professional, huh? Professional reporters understand protocol, which is that only public relations spokespeople can comment on ongoing investigations. Correct,
Ms. Ryland
?” If Jane ran with those names, he was screwed. The Supe demanded they inform the victim’s next of kin before the names were released. So far, they hadn’t informed next of kin, because so far no one knew if there
were
any. For now, the identities were not public.

Still, somehow, Jane had discovered them. That left Jake holding the bag not only on a potentially botched Ricker arrest but also on a potentially blown identity. Not the best way to impress the brass.

“I left a message in the cop shop PR office, I really did,” she said, “but my deadline is like,
now.
I know I’m pushing, Jake, but—”

“Ms. Ryland?” He hardened his voice, letting her off the hook in case her city editor or some bigwig was in earshot. Anyone else, he’d hang up the phone. Reporters were used to it. But Jane had confided she was spooked about layoffs. Maybe Alex was giving her a hard time.

This exact situation was what they’d always struggled with. It put him in an impossible position. He couldn’t give her special treatment. But he couldn’t
not.
She
was
special. To him. That’s why the whole thing was impossible. “I’m sure you understand that I cannot confirm or deny identities of homicide victims until the next of kin have been properly notified. Tell your city editor—”

“Jake? Hang on, okay?”

Jake finished his beer, listening to the fuzzy silence on the phone. Diva looked up, one ear flopped, inquiring. He gave her a reassuring pat and a half-shrug, as if she’d understand. “Women,” he said.

“I tried to text you, Jake.” Jane’s voice had lowered to a whisper. “Is that what you were signaling by the elevator this afternoon? Were you going to tell me the name? But I really need to ask you. Did you tell anyone that
I
—”

The call-waiting chirp on Jake’s phone interrupted, silencing whatever Jane was saying. The ID came up.
RIVERA
.

Why was the Supe calling him? Maybe Judge Gallagher had agreed to the warrant.

“Hang on, Jane. One second.” He clicked the button. “Brogan.”

“Brogan? What the hell is she doing?” The Supe’s hollow voice meant he had Jake on speakerphone. Was someone else in the office? And
she
? How’d the Supe know Jane was on the phone?

Or Rivera could be talking about Judge Gallagher. “Sir, we applied for a search warrant for the—”

“Search warrant? What search warrant?” Rivera cut him off. “Hell, no. I’ve got some newspaper guy on the other line who’s telling me—”

Jake heard a murmur in the background, someone else talking.

“Alex Wyatt,” the Supe said. “From the
Register
? On the other speaker. Says some asshole called one of his reporters, Jane Ryland? And semi-threatened her if she pursued the Brianna Tillson case. How the hell does she know the name of—”

“Sir?” Jake interrupted.
Threatened Jane?
“I hear you. Let me check. I’ll let you know.”

He clicked the button on his phone, hoping the Supe didn’t notice he’d about cut him off, and stood so quickly two documents slid from the pile, landing on Diva’s back. Spooked, she nipped at them, then leaped up and scurried away.

“Jane?” Something was wrong with his voice. He cleared his throat, then tried again. “Jane? Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

Lots of things,
Jane thought. But nothing she could tell Jake if there was a chance anyone would hear. She swiveled in her office chair, staring at the fraying fabric of her cubicle walls, hearing the muffled clicking of computer keyboards, a few phones ringing. Judging by the acrid odor of burning dark roast, someone had again left the communal coffee pot on too long.

“Tell you about what?” she asked. Jake’s voice sounded funny. Seemed like he was talking about something specific.
Now what?

Already this evening hadn’t gone the way she’d hoped. When she and Alex arrived at the
Register
’s basement photo archives, Hec Underhill had already gone. Archive Gus pinged him on the Nextel, but the photographer didn’t answer. Alex, impatient to begin with, went back to the newsroom to oversee the early edition. Jane hung around the photo lab, crossing her fingers Hec would return.

As she waited at Hec’s desk, she’d jiggled one foot. Picked the hem of her jeans. Pulled a speck of lint from her black turtleneck. Looked at her watch. Maybe he’d tried to contact her? She dug in her bag, found her cell phone on the first try. But nothing from Hec. No text from Jake, either. Not even Tuck had called.

“Damn.” She’d said it out loud.

“Huh?” Gus looked up from his computer.

“Nothing. Sorry.”

One good thing, at least—no more anonymous calls.

She’d puffed out a breath. Impatient. “Gus? Can you try Hec again?”

Gus, perched on a high stool in front of a multiscreened monitor, was mousing through an array of photos from the snowstorm.

“Sure.” He clicked the Nextel. “Hec? This is base. Do you copy?”

He paused, and they both listened to silence.

“Sorry, Jane.” Gus had shrugged, then parked the Nextel into the charger. “He’s out-a-pocket. You know Hec. Freelancers. Always somewhere. Feel free to hang out, ya know? Have one of those cookies. I have to make this deadline.”

“Thanks, Gus.” It should have been
her
deadline, too. Maybe she could still get the Brianna scoop in the last edition? All she had to do was call Jake. She’d broken off one little morsel of a chocolate chip, nibbled at it as she worked on convincing herself.

It would be perfectly okay to call him, even expected. No matter what was up, or not, in their personal life, she was a reporter working a story. It was her job to call a police source if the goal was to get to the truth. And to a balanced story. Alex would agree.

Right.
Great idea.

But she couldn’t call Jake in front of Gus.

“Ask Hec to come find me, ASAP, okay?” Ignoring the elevator, she ran up the three flights to the newsroom and around the corner to her cubicle. Punched in Jake’s number. But now that she was actually talking to him on the phone—well, if she interpreted the disapproval in his voice correctly, her “great idea” was more of a disaster.

“Earth to Jane?” Jake was saying. “About a threatening phone call. Might you have thought that could be a bit of information I’d be interested in?”

“How did you know I got a phone call?” She frowned, propping her elbows on her desk, holding the receiver against her cheek. It could only be Alex who told the police. Would he do that?

“‘How’? ‘How’ is not the point,” Jake said. “The point is, someone—”

“Jane?” Alex stood in the opening of her cubicle, cell phone in hand. “I’m on the phone with the—”

Her brain was going to explode. No room for one more thing to fit inside. But she couldn’t let Alex know she was talking to Jake.

“Who’s there?” Jake said. “Is someone in your office?”

“—the police.” Alex finished his sentence. “And the publisher.”

“Call ya back.” Jane looked up at Alex, still holding the phone to his ear. Smiled her best innocent smile. “What’s up?”

“Yes, I’ll tell her,” Alex said into the cell. He clicked off and leaned against the side of her cubicle. A picture of a beach in Nantucket, souvenir of the last big story she’d push-pinned to the wall, floated to the floor. Alex picked up the green plastic pin, then the photograph.

“Sorry.” He stabbed the photo back onto the fabric divider.

“Oh, no problem,” Jane said.

“Not about the photo, Jane.”

Not a good sign.

“That was Tay Reidy on the phone. I told him about the call you got, and he and I called the cops. Superintendent Rivera. He is not happy. No one is happy.”

“Alex, it’s—Listen, all we have to do is look at the glass as half full.” She could tell from Alex’s frown he wasn’t buying her pitch. But she had to try. “Tomorrow, I’ll go downstairs again and find Hec, and we can—”

“Yeah. About tomorrow. Mr. Reidy is of the mind that your situation has potentially put you, and all of us, in danger. I disagree, I admit, but nevertheless. If you come into the building tomorrow, he fears, the caller may, well, who knows. So Mr. Reidy has ‘suggested’—you’re not going to like this, Jane, but remember I’m only the messenger—that you stay away from the
Register
for a few days. Get out of town, even. Back off. Until the police can investigate.”

“Get out of
town
?” She stood up, then sat down again. “Back
off
?”

“Tonight the cops are going to keep an eye on your apartment. Anyone suspicious shows up, anything looks off, call nine-one-one. No sleuthy stuff.”

“Are you kidding me?” Maybe he
was
kidding. He didn’t look like it, but she’d give it one more try. “We’re about to break some pretty big news, and he says back off?”

“Jane.” Alex raked a hand though his hair. “What the publisher says is what we do. End of story.”

Got that right,
Jane didn’t say.

*

Niall Brannigan leaned against Lillian’s front door, half-hearing it click shut behind him.
Warm in here.
What was wrong with his shirt? Tight.
Take off the tie, loosen it.
He clutched his set of keys. His nerves were getting to him.
Take a deep breath,
he instructed himself. He tried, then had to try again.
Why is it so difficult?
He wanted to smile, but that wasn’t working, either.