The Wrong Girl (26 page)

And a red stretchy cat collar.

*

Where baby?
If little Phillip Lussier was actually remembering, those two words were about to explode this whole case. If there was a baby, where was it? Jake had worked his share of juvenile crimes. Knew, bottom line, if a third child had been in the Callaberry Street apartment, only a few possibilities existed for where that baby was right now.

Dead, for one. If so, there’d be another murder charge in Curtis Ricker’s rap sheet. And no jury would let the asshole off.

Jake opened the door of his cruiser, slid into the seat, adjusted the rearview mirror. Getting dark already. His shift ended at five, but there were no shifts in a murder case.

Thing was, there were other potential outcomes. The ones that also made his knuckles go white on the steering wheel and pushed his cop instincts into overdrive.

What if the baby were alive? Kidnapped? Sold? By who? And why?

Jake turned the key in the ignition, then paused, seeing his own frown in the rearview. “You watch too much TV,” he said aloud.

He shifted into reverse, checked for street traffic as he backed out of Ricker’s patched asphalt driveway, and considered his to-do list. Ricker was in custody. Check. Kat McMahan still hadn’t filed her autopsy reports for Brannigan or Lillian Finch. Check.

For now, only one question remained. The person with the answer might be playing with a Batmobile at Bethany Sibbach’s house.

Where baby?

*

“Not exactly what I expected.” Jane smiled at Bethany. The DFS counselor said it was easier in person than on the phone, and invited Jane over. She’d set out a couple of ground rules: One, park in the back to let the snowplows clear the street. Two, that her wards, Phillip and Phoebe, were off limits. As was their history, their birth parents, and their murdered foster mother. Other than that, she’d be happy to discuss the state’s foster care system to help Jane do a “compassionate and comprehensive” story.

Jane could handle ground rules. Ground rules always changed.

And now Phillip Lussier showed no inclination to leave Jane’s lap. The little boy’s Spider-Man sneakers were leaving damp footprints on her Levis. Kids liked her, she was used to that, but this show of affection was surprising. Phillip had dropped his chocolate chip cookie on the floor the moment he saw Jane. When she sat down on the couch, he climbed onto her lap without invitation.

Jane settled Phillip in, extricating one little foot from that tender place on top of her kneecap, seeing what looked like swipes of chocolate on his blue striped T-shirt and crumbs around his lips. Somehow Jane was his new best friend.

“First time he’s smiled in—well, I can’t remember a smile.” Bethany tied the ends of her dangling cardigan into a loopy knot, then untied them. “Phoebe’s napping, for now. These kids have been through a lot. I cannot predict how much the situation will affect—well, what can I do for you, Jane?”

Jane felt the tickle of Phillip’s curls. He’d wrapped one hand around the turtleneck of her sweater, yanking it away from her face.

“Hey, sweetie,” she said. “Should we…” She looked at Bethany, baffled, hoping for direction. “Read a book or something?”

“Book!” Phillip crowed. A smile wreathed his chocolaty face, and he bounced with excitement, a pudgy bobblehead. “Read book, Mama!”

*

“When will she be back?” Ella paced the length of her living room, clutching her cell phone to her ear as the receptionist at the
Register
made up a bunch of reasons why Jane Ryland wasn’t available. “Well, is there someone who
would
know? Yes, I’ll hold.”

She paced the other way, seeing the color of the evening change as the streetlights popped on along her street. Someone had looped a string of valentine hearts on the building’s front door, reminding Ella that the second worst holiday in the world—after New Year’s Eve—was around the corner. She was nobody’s valentine. As a kid, had she gotten valentines? Maybe in school. But Aunt Marion, as she’d been told to call the woman, hadn’t been much for “Hallmark holidays.” Or any holidays except the “real” ones, Christmas and Easter. Mother’s Day they ignored.

“Yes?” Ella heard the connection change, but it was only someone telling her to hold again. It really sounded like the
Register
’s people were making up excuses for why Jane wasn’t there. Or maybe today was simply a day off. But she had to talk to Jane.
Had to.

“Okay, fine, I’ll hold. She still works there, doesn’t she? Would there be a better time for me to call?”

Did she want to leave a message? the receptionist asked.

Did she? She’d already left one on Jane’s voice mail. Jane hadn’t called her back.

Had she trusted the wrong person? She usually had good instincts about people. But reality—and relationships—weren’t reliable. Ella prided herself on how she could predict which matches were going to thrive, and which ones might better have been forgotten. Maybe because of all that’d just happened, she was losing it.

“No, thanks,” she replied. “I’ll try later.”

The receptionist was saying something more, but Ella hung up. Her kitchen table now held two stacks of pilfered folders. Tucker Cameron’s. And some new ones.

Ella had come home early, as Collins Munson suggested. But she wasn’t about to abandon Ms. Finch’s office or all her personal stuff for that Grace to paw through. Not to mention the files.

Once they got hold of them, Ella realized, every bit of evidence of—whatever it was—could be gone. It was up to her to protect the history. Protect the sanctity of the Brannigan families. That’s when she realized what had been nagging her, almost tormenting her, ever since she’d begun to believe Carlyn Parker Beerman had been sent the wrong girl.

What if there were others?

Before she could change her mind, Ella had snatched the files for the last five Calls Ms. Finch had made. With the snap of rubber bands and the flap of manila folders, she’d stuffed them in her backpack and whisked them out of the building, right past Collins Munson’s closed office door.

Tonight, right after her chicken potpie and Diet Pepsi, she would make a few … what would she call them? Follow-up calls. Just to see how things were going with the five new families.

After all, she was now the “acting” Lillian Finch. And she didn’t need some reporter to help the new Ella find out what—she smiled—the
hell
was going on.

“Book, Mama! Phillip get!” Phillip leaped from Jane’s lap and plowed himself into a pile of shiny picture books stacked on the floor by the end table. He grabbed a glossy turquoise-and-red cover and held it up, triumphant. “Dis one, Mama!”

Jane recognized
The Cat in the Hat.

“Did he say…?” Jane looked at Bethany, wondering if she’d heard properly. “
… Mama?
Did he mean me? Or does he call everyone—oof.”

Phillip clambered back onto her lap and plastered his spine against Jane’s chest, awkwardly propping the too-big book on his outstretched legs. His feet barely reached beyond Jane’s knees, and the plaid laces of one of his rubber-soled shoes had come untied.

Bethany crossed her arms in front of her, watching the two of them on the couch. “I’m sorry, Jane. Yes, he did say ‘Mama.’ And no, I must tell you he’s never said that word, not in the three days he’s been with me. He has said—well, some other things. But I’m trying to assess what, if anything, he means. Possibly you look like his birth mother? Or wear her perfume? You don’t look like Brianna Tillson. We may never know.”

“Hey, Phillip.” Jane cuddled him closer.
Poor thing.
“Sure, we can read this. Okay?” She looked up as the boy pawed through the pages. “Bethany? You were saying?”

“Yes. Well. There is some discussion in the literature,” Bethany, drawing out her words, seemed to be remembering, “that children who are too young to properly imprint, or who have been removed from their biological mother and put into other arrangements for care at what might be a vulnerable time in their emotional development, might possibly fail to adapt, and subsequently create the belief system that whatever woman is presented as a caregiver is, therefore, ‘mother.’ That the word represents more of a role, you see, rather than terminology signifying a specific, singular person. We call it role conflation.”

“Mama, read book. Mama! Read book!” Phillip made himself heavy in her lap. Wiggling his insistence.

It was kind of adorable, really. Reassuring. That this tiny boy would see Jane as a mother. Oh, she’d felt the stirrings. Of course. Of the possibility that someday, with someone, there’d be a little person who was half her and half—whoever. Her own mother had always told her nothing was comparable to motherhood. But that was for someday. Here, Jane understood the sad reality. Probably the reason Phillip called her “mama” was that his own mother was dead.

Well, his foster mother, at least. Brianna Tillson. “Is Phillip’s real mother alive?”

“Can’t discuss that.” Bethany stopped her, palms up. “Jane, he’s had a tough time. I’ve been hoping upon hope—not very professionally said, I know—that he won’t remember anything about what happened to him.”

“Has he shown any signs of remembering?” She turned to the next page, saw a fishbowl balanced on a broomstick and a grinning cat. “It was too cold to go out, it was too wet to play,” she read, pointing to each word as she spoke it.

Then she had another thought. “Did the police come to interview Phillip? Did he tell them anything?”

Bethany burst out laughing, then put a palm over her mouth. “This has quickly deteriorated, Jane, into a conversation far beyond the boundaries of—”

“Mama? Where baby?” The tiny voice came from Jane’s lap. Phillip had pushed the book onto the floor and wrenched his body around to face her. Wide-eyed and entreating, the little boy was clearly waiting for an answer.

Jane frowned at Bethany, confused. “What baby? Does he mean Phoebe?”

“Phoebe sleep. Where
baby
?” Phillip’s voice had the edge of a whine.

“That’s right, she’s taking a nap, honey,” Jane said, smoothing his hair. “It’s okay. Here, we can read again until she wakes up. Bethany? You were saying about the police?”

Bethany leaned down, handed her the book. “You know I can’t—Oh. Now who is that?”

The doorbell rang, again, a cheery bing-bong.

“Excuse me.” Bethany went to the front door, peered through the peephole. Then turned to Jane, one hand to her mouth. “I don’t know quite how to handle this. It’s the police. That detective, Jake Brogan. And you—well, you shouldn’t be here.”

The last time Jake looked at his alarm clock, the glowing green numbers said 2:47
A.M
. He refused to look again. He stared at the ceiling, stretched out in bed, spy thriller on his chest, no idea what he’d read. He was doomed, as Jane always said. He’d longed to call her, but held off. Surveillance reported her situation as normal. She’d better have changed those locks.

It didn’t make sense. The Jane he knew would not have left her door unlocked. He plopped the book onto the floor, turned over on his side, then tried the other side. He slept, right, every night? So why not tonight?

Nothing else made sense, either. The whole Bethany thing. When he’d arrived at her house, the social worker had been on the couch with Phillip, reading Dr. Seuss. No matter how they tried, cajoled, enticed, the boy would not say anything but “Batcar.”

“Yes, Batcar,” Jake had said, half-amused. At least the boy remembered him.
Poor kid.
But they got no further. He’d left Bethany—who seemed more flustered than usual, but maybe she was wiped out from dealing with two troubled children—with instructions to try to tape Phillip’s words. He could put
her
on the stand, or before a judge, to report she’d heard the little boy refer to a baby. It’d be hearsay, of course. In court, some defense attorney would object the hell out of it.

And what if he’d been talking about his little sister, Phoebe? Jake had stayed for an hour, hung out watching Phillip and Phoebe power through Bethany’s mac and cheese, but nothing. The boy said zippo. Which meant Jake was either nuts, or unlucky.

“Damn.”

Diva, curled up on her special rug, opened her inquiring eyes to check on him, then closed them, keeping one paw on her stuffed frog.

Phillip Lussier wasn’t the only thing keeping Jake awake. What if he’d arrested the wrong guy?

Jake went over it, yet again. Something snagged his brain, every time. For one, what motive would Curtis Ricker have for killing his ex-wife? Yes, he was a slug and a lowlife, but that didn’t make him a murderer. What if Jake’s drive to close the case had turned him into a narrow-minded hack?

Ricker’s alibi was thin. He’d told Jake he was at Doyle’s Bar. Impossible to confirm. But even more problematic, the kids, Phillip and Phoebe, weren’t his. Maggie Gunnison’s records substantiated that. So the whole “calling 911 to protect the children he cared about” theory made zero sense.

He’d had Officer Kurtz show Ricker’s photo door-to-door on Callaberry, but she reported she’d come up dry. No one knew him, no one had ever seen him.

But. The keys. No reason for Ricker to have keys to Brianna’s apartment unless he’d used them. The jerk had denied knowing anything about them. Not possible. Jake punched his pillow, tried to get comfortable.

Ricker was in the Suffolk County House of Correction, awaiting Wednesday’s arraignment. Had Jake arrested an innocent man? Charged him with murder?

No. The keys were—the key. Jake sighed, turning over again. He had no one to talk to about this. DeLuca was probably off with Kat, enjoying double entendre pillow talk about blunt instruments.

“Shit.” He said it out loud. This time Diva raised her head, floppy golden ears perked. Gave a questioning woof, and sat up. “No, not sit.”

He sighed, staring at the green-lighted numerals on his alarm clock: 4:00
A.M
.
Time to sleep.
But his brain would not shut off.

No one else lived at Ricker’s apartment. So the keys could not belong to someone else. Unless someone else had access?