The Wrong Girl (20 page)

Jane looked at Tuck, who’d stopped mid-bite.

“Hey, Jane.” Neena’s voice was subdued, softer than usual.

Jane leaned forward to hear, clutching the corrugated cardboard sleeve around her coffee cup.

“I called the police,” Neena went on, “because, listen, your apartment door is open. Wide open. I saw it when I went downstairs. The nine-one-one operator told me—”

“My apartment door was open?” Jane’s voice came out a screech. Tuck put a reassuring hand on her arm.

“—told me not to go in, so I didn’t, but the police are on the way now. I looked, though, honey, and it doesn’t seem like anything’s—”

“The police, mommy?” Jane could hear Eli’s voice in the background.

“Hush, kiddo.” Neena’s voice turned away for a second, then back to Jane. “They’re on the way, like I said, and from what I can see standing out here in the hall, there’s no—”

“Neen? Open, like,
open
? What do you mean, open?” It wouldn’t help to freak out. Maybe she’d spaced, and left her door open? Had Tuck forgotten to close it? Impossible. Tuck had gone out first, Jane locked the door behind them. They were an hour from Boston. She had to stay calm enough to drive back.

“Honey, yeah, it’s as if you left it that way. There’s no damage, it’s just, open, and looking at it, it doesn’t seem as if—”

“No. I mean,
no,
I closed my door, absolutely. Locked it.” She remembered the key turning, the mechanism clicking, the always-stubborn key snagging in the old brass lock. “Tuck was there. I fed Coda, and—”

She stopped. Imagined her kitchen and the little cat and the open front door and the stairway and the outside and the snow and the street.

“Neen?” Jane choked out the word. “Are the police there yet? And—do you see Coda?”

“Supe? It’s Brogan. We’re at the—Yes, sir, I’ll hold.” Jake watched Photo Joe clicking his exterior shots as Nguyen dusted the Lexus for fingerprints. Dolly Richards had apparently given up, gone inside. That interview was still on the to-do list.

They were holding off with the yellow tape on the car for the time being, hoping this side of Margolin Street wasn’t also actually a crime scene. The neighborhood was waking up, porch lights flicking off, doors opening. Curiosity would probably intensify once Dolly Richards hit the telephone.

Jake had to give the Supe an update. Problem was, he had zero, other than a lead on the ID of this victim. And that brought up more questions than it answered. Niall Brannigan, if that’s who it turned out to be—dead. Lillian Finch, his employee—dead. Why had Brannigan come to her house last night?

Jake blew out a breath, the puff of vapor vanishing in the morning sun. The lawns along the street were glazed with a sheen of ice on top of the snow, the sun glinting from the pristine surfaces. When he was a kid, he used to try to catch the sparkles.

“Jake?” Kat McMahan had opened the Lexus’s passenger door, and now touched a gloved finger to a spot below her own ear, shaking her head. “I checked for a neck pulse, got nothing. He’s been dead for hours. Doornail. DeLuca confirms visually this is Niall Brannigan, the man you met. RIP.”

“Cause?” Jake mentally crossed his fingers as he waited for the Supe. If Kat said, “Heart attack, no question about it,” they could all go home.

“Still in question.” Kat stuffed her hands into her parka pockets. “No obvious signs of trauma, no GSW, no blood, no weapon. No contusions to the head, as one would expect if this were a car accident. We’ll run the enzymes for heart attack or stroke. The victim is approximately seventy years old, so that’d make sense. Body is cold to the touch, and rigor is present, but I can’t get a more exact time of death until I check lividity. And I can’t do that out here in the cold. Or while he’s wearing clothes.”

“So—”

“So, I’ll take the final in situ photos. Arrange for transport. I’ll let you know as soon as my report is—”

“Yes, sir, no problem, sir,” Jake said into his cell. He gave the ME a thumbs-up.
Got it.
The Supe had someone with him, Jake could tell by the murmur of voices in the background. “Standing by.”

“’Preciate it, Detective. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate.” The Supe’s attitude always reminded him of some desperate CEO, trying to convince the rank and file that their budget-crisis work overload was actually an opportunity for “team playing.” “Lucky cops have big plates. I’ll be right with you.”

And the line went empty again.

Jake rolled his eyes, knowing the Supe couldn’t see him. Jake’s plate now served up Niall Brannigan, cause of death unknown. Lillian Finch, cause of death unknown. Brianna Tillson, murdered by person or persons unknown. Curtis Ricker, suspect, probably dumping bleach on every flat surface of that ratty apartment and starting a bonfire of documents in his fireplace. Not that he had a fireplace. Still no warrant from Judge Gallagher.

And a missing baby.

Maybe.

Jake kicked a chunk of frozen slush, watched it melt into gray.

He’d stayed up way too late, combing through the few documents he’d gotten from Margaret Gunnison, looking for clues to Brianna Tillson’s history, her foster children, and any indication of one more child living on Callaberry Street. But nothing. The documents verged on boilerplate.

“The missing baby,” Jake muttered. As if there were such a creature. DeLuca sure didn’t think so. But Jake couldn’t shake the image of the empty white cradle stashed in a corner of that tiny bedroom. The little mattress even had sheets. Pale blue sheets with little pink—well, some kind of animals on them. They’d show up fine in the crime scene photos. Why would someone have a cradle, with sheets, if there was no baby? Also missing—all of Brianna Tillson’s personal stuff. Purse, wallet, files. Did whoever killed her take it? If so, maybe they took the baby, too.

Or not. Lucky cops have big plates.

Jake looked at the still-silent cell phone, wondered if he should remind the Supe he was waiting. Listening hard, he could barely make out voices in the background. He’d been ordered to stand by. He was standing.

A siren screamed down the street, a gray-and-blue BPD Crown Vic screeching to a stop outside Lillian Finch’s house, exhaust pluming from the rear.

“Who’s—?”

“Holy crap. Frick and Frack.” D was snapping his own photos of the Lexus.

Both front doors of the cruiser opened simultaneously.

“Gimme a break. Why do we always get the short straw?” D, clicking, kept his camera in front of his face.

“Straw?” Jake watched the cruiser, phone still to his ear. The car doors slammed. Two uniformed—
oh.
“Shit.”

“Like I said.” DeLuca cocked his head at the two officers. “Now we’re in for some big fun.”

Kurtz. She probably looked okay in a dress, but what Jane always said was true, no way a female cop could look good in BPD-issue navy pants, awkward oxford shoes, and boxy nylon jacket. Newbie Officer Kurtz had tucked her blond hair under her billed cap, per regulation. Weighed down by her chunky black utility belt, she waddled up the walkway to Lillian Finch’s house. Her partner, Hennessey, who Jake had met on Callaberry Street, was twice her size, twice her age, and apparently half her IQ.

“Brogan?” Jake heard the Superintendent come back on the line.

“Yessir.” About time.

“Officers Kurtz and Hennessey will secure the scene until the ME is finished with the victim. We’ll hold off calling this a homicide for now. Even so, I expect the reporters will show up. I’ve got no PR guy, some schedule snafu. So you can make that work, correct? Whatever media tries to get out of you, you say—”

“Nothing. I copy, sir.” Jake watched Kurtz and Hennessey step over the crime scene tape, tramp up the walkway, check Lillian Finch’s mailbox and the crime scene tape sealing the front door, then march in unison back toward their car.
Quite the team.
“When will we—?”

But the Supe had hung up.

“All quiet at the Finch house, Detectives,” Hennessey’s basso boomed across the street. “Sealed up tight as a—” The officer leaned down to Kurtz, whispered something Jake couldn’t hear.

Kurtz elbowed her partner in the ribs, and seemed to be giggling. Her hat tipped and rolled into the slush. Now they were both laughing.

Jake looked at DeLuca, shaking his head. “What a circ—”

“Like I said.” DeLuca raised an eyebrow.

“Gag me.” The ME appeared at DeLuca’s side. She’d unzipped her parka, revealing a black Megadeth T-shirt.

DeLuca eyed her, approving. “Happily,” he said.

*

Jane slammed the TT into third, hit the accelerator, and hoped no staties were staking out the eastbound Mass Pike with radar guns. “I’m so sorry, Tuck, but I can’t—I have to go home. The police—”

It took all the willpower she had to focus on the road. The police. Were coming to her apartment.
Because her door was open.
She took a deep breath, almost forgot to let it out. “I have to. The police are … are going to want to … and the cat might be…”

It was no use trying to finish a sentence.

The signs on the highway pointed them back to Boston. Twenty-four miles, the green marker said. Jane was doing eighty. More.
Her door was open.
Who had done such a thing? If nothing was taken, then why?

“Jane, listen, let me drive. You’re obviously—”

“No, Tuck, really.” Jane waved off her suggestion. “Driving gives me something else to think about. The police are coming, they’ll be there in a second. And it’ll be fine. I mean, whatever happened, it’s over? Right? And Neena will call me if they—I’m fine.
Ish.
Fine-
ish
. As fine as anyone could be.”

“Which is not that fine.”

Tuck had a point.

“No. Not that fine.”

The bare trees and spindled light posts flashed by, a surprising glint of sunlight melting the thin layer of snow into a damp sheen on the pavement. Jane tried the radio, briefly, news, jazz, oldies. It all seemed like noise. Her thoughts were jumbled enough. There was no appropriate sound track for fear.

Tuck propped both feet against the dashboard, wrapped her arms around her knees. “Listen, Jane?”

“Yeah?”

“I know you said back there you were only trying to get away from the truck. Not that you thought anyone was trying to scare you. Personally. But here’s the thing. First, the guy tailgates us within an inch of our lives. Yeah, okay, I could maybe buy that he’s a jerk and you blew him off with your fancy driving. But now there’s a breakin at your apartment? Again, sister. Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

Jane swallowed, and tried to look like she wasn’t hiding something. She punched the radio again, stalling. There was nothing to hide, really. Or anything to tell. She’d gotten a threatening phone call. Tuck had probably gotten her share of calls like that, too. Jane had weaseled some probably confidential info about a murder victim from a DFS caseworker in a Celtics cap. Then someone in a Celtics cap had—

Was that something to tell?

Truth be told, she wasn’t entirely sure about Tuck. Yes, she was curious about the Brannigan’s mistake. If it
was
a mistake. Why would they send Tuck to the wrong mother? Jane could not resist a puzzle like that. And it wasn’t as if she could go to her regular job today, anyway.

But being in the car together didn’t mean she was required to tell Tuck everything. Or anything.

“Listen, Tuck. I’m as confused as you are. But now, I need to see my apartment. I need to know everything’s okay. Then I’ll be able to think.”

A perky voice on the radio was apologizing. “Sorry about that, folks, turns out the snow wasn’t as bad as we’d predicted. The winds over the ocean changed to the…”

Another mile marker. Twenty miles to Boston.

“See? Almost there,” Jane said. Maybe they should talk about something else. “You better call Carlyn Beerman.”

“You think your breakin’s a random thing?” Tuck slurped the last of her coffee, and shoved her jumbo cup into the holder beside her. “You hear about all these kids, breaking into homes for fun, or whatever. It’s February break. Maybe it’s some stupid prank.”

Tears welled in Jane’s eyes, briefly blurring the road ahead. Would she never get home? “Maybe. Neena said it didn’t look like anything was disturbed, or taken. But the cat. If she got out, poor thing, she has no idea where to go.”

“Don’t think about it.” Tuck patted Jane’s arm, reassuring. “Neena knows, they’ll probably call any minute, say they found her. We have to get you home.”

“Shit,” Jane said.

A black truck was behind them. No question. Right there, in the rearview. Jane’s stomach twisted, and sweat prickled the back of her neck.

“Shit, shit, shit. Is that—Look behind us, Tuck. A black truck.”

“Whoa.” Tuck clicked off her seat belt and twisted in the seat to look, knocking her empty paper cup onto Jane’s lap.

“Oh, sorry. Damn it.” Tuck fussed with a paper napkin.

“Just. Look. At the
truck.
” Jane’s shoulders clenched, her eyes narrowing in anger. This was too much. She was calling the police. She was calling
everyone.
And she was not letting this story go. If someone cared this much, she was on to something. Whoever it was. Whatever it was. She had to get home, and then she had to get to Alex. And then she had to talk to Jake. Life was too short.

“What?” Jane said. Tuck had made a funny sound, a gasp or something. “
What?
”

“We’re both losing it,” Tuck said. “There are two girls in the truck, a license plate on the front, it’s a Ford, it’s totally different. Let’s get you home, sister.”

Sixteen miles to Boston. The rolling hills of suburban Newton were in front of them. Soon they’d see the architecturally preposterous hotel built on the highway overpass, then the snaking off-ramps to Newton Corner and Cambridge and the Charles River parks. Almost home.

With a whoosh of speed, the black truck passed them, rattling the Audi’s windows. Just another random Boston driver, ignoring the speed limit. Unlike the truck that targeted them this morning. That one—Jane was no longer even trying to talk herself out of it—was not random. That guy was trying to scare her.