The Wrong Girl (27 page)

“Shit,” Jake said again. This time, Diva bounced to her feet, picked up Frog, and deposited it on the edge of Jake’s bed. “Good girl,” he said. Poor dog was totally confused. She was probably as exhausted as he was, too.

He gave her a pat, then reached to his nightstand and clicked on his iPad. This was the stupidest idea ever. He could do this in the morning.
What the hell.
It was already morning.

He found the city of Boston Web site. Clicked on “Assessor’s office.” Then “property owner.”

Typed in Ricker’s address.
343 Edgeworth Street, Allston.

Waited.

The screen dipped to black, then flashed into life.

Error 404, Server is unable to process your request.

Jake clicked off the tablet, resting it on his chest as he stared, once again, at the murky ceiling.
Of course.
Why did he think anything would work? Shadows slashed across the walls, headlights from an occasional car.

Grandpa Brogan always told him to trust his instincts. Did Jake even have the cop instinct? Sometimes it seemed he did, and was gratified by that. Even proud. Times like this, though, he wasn’t so sure.

*

Jane stared at the ceiling, her downy white comforter pulled up to her chin. No way could she sleep. Had she ever lived through a weirder day? Tuck and the stupid truck, then her open apartment door. Jake’s arrival. Phillip calling her Mama.

She closed her eyes, but that didn’t work, and she stared at the white-painted ceiling again.

Why had Jake gone to see Bethany Sibbach? Bethany had been so nervous, upset that she’d been speaking to Jane without permission. There wasn’t time for Jane to explain she and Jake were—whatever they were.

Jane punched her pillow, trying to get comfortable.

Bethany had grabbed Jane’s parka and purse and shooed her into an upstairs study, with stern warnings to keep perfectly silent until Bethany came to get her. She’d tried like crazy to hear what the two were talking about in the living room, actually put her ear to the floor—you never know—but couldn’t hear a thing. Trapped, she’d paged though about four
New Yorker
s and used up the battery on her iPhone catching up on e-mails. She couldn’t risk the sound of voice mail. Her sister Lissa’s wedding was looming, if you could call June “looming” in February. Liss was being relentless about making sure Jane would be there in time for the rehearsal, and get her dress altered, and find shoes, and was she bringing a date? Jane finished quietly tapping out her reassuring answer—except for the date part, for which there was nothing reassuring—just as the battery warning flashed.

Bethany had finally given the all-clear. Luckily, Jane had parked in the back, so Jake didn’t see her car. But no matter how Jane pressed, Bethany had decided their “interview” was over. Spooked by Jake’s arrival, she’d decided one close call was enough. She was done talking to Jane. About anything.

Jane punched the eiderdown again, stuck her bare feet out one side. Too hot. So much for her interview idea.

What was that?

She lay still, listening. Flat on her back. Was someone trying her front door?

She swung her feet to the floor, slid into her slippers, grabbed her cotton robe from the hook, and tiptoed down the hallway, yanking the terry belt closed and trying to decide whether to be angry or terrified. She paused, listening. Nothing.

Should she call 911?

Hawkeye, or whatever the cop’s brother’s name really was, was still supposedly monitoring her building from across the street. Or had the cops concluded she was a ditz who imagined catastrophes? And told him to forget about her?

Her front door. She listened. Nothing.

She checked in the peephole. Nothing. Left the chain on, clicked open the door. Peered through. Nothing. Opened the door. Nothing.

The hallway’s wallpaper, tones of taupe stripes, glowed in the light of the fluted milk-glass sconces. Jane heard silence, only silence, not even a murmur from some insomniac’s TV, or a gurgling dishwasher, or a midnight shower.

Flecks of sawdust from the locksmith’s work sprinkled the hall’s hardwood floor. Her new lock, shiny brass and solid, announced to all comers that changes had been made. Neena had left her three new keys with a note saying she’d kept the fourth for herself. So even if someone, whoever it might be, had made a copy of her other key—ridiculous, and unlikely, but still—they couldn’t use it anymore.

Puffing out an annoyed breath, she closed the door, locked it, chained it. She held up three fingers, Girl Scout’s promise: No more fear.

She was going. To. Sleep. No more fear.

Jane climbed back under the rumpled comforter, nestled into her pillow, closed her eyes.

Tomorrow, she and Tuck would go to Connecticut and see if they could figure out the connection between Carlyn Beerman and Tucker Cameron. If there was one.

Was Tuck her real daughter? Or the wrong girl?

Ella crunched the aluminum potpie pan into a shiny ball, tossed it into the wastebasket. It was late, now, really late. She’d been so eager to get some answers, she’d made all the phone calls first, then finally had dinner, poring over the family files and her notes again. She checked the clock above her toaster oven.

Almost three in the morning.

No wonder her brain was so fuzzy. She hadn’t stayed up this late for—well, ever. But somewhere in her notes, somewhere in those talks with the newly minted families, there had to be the answer. She plopped into the one chair at the kitchen table. Maybe if she looked at the notes one more time. Tomorrow she’d be tired. It was already tomorrow.

Ella flipped to the next page of the yellow legal pad she’d brought home from the office.

First page were the notes on birth mother Margaret DaCosto. The DaCosto family was happy, content, even thrilled. Their “long-lost” daughter Leah—families always referred to them as lost, though “lost” was hardly what they were, since they’d been intentionally given up for adoption at birth—had become part of their lives. She’d moved into the DaCostos’ home, and they were spending their days making up for lost time. Making amends.

Next page, Sarah Hoffner. She reluctantly described a more difficult transition. Krystyn Hoffner—who grew up as Helena—had arrived, and was a lovely young woman, but “never quite felt at home,” Sarah said. They were in counseling. “Working it out.”

Both families, though, were effusive about the Brannigan’s supportive staff, especially mentioning Lillian Finch’s tireless efforts to bring them together.

Ella had completely forgotten the families might bring up Lillian Finch. Or Mr. Brannigan. Should
she
be the one to tell them they were dead?

She’d fumbled for words when the question first came, finally deciding not to tell. If she
had
told, they might have called the Brannigan and mentioned that Ella had called.
That
would be difficult to explain.

Two families had not been home. The last call, though, was pretty interesting. Curious, even. The Lamonica family, in Brattleboro, Vermont. “We were just this week thinking of calling the Brannigan,” Mrs. Lamonica told her.

Mrs. Lamonica explained her “long-lost” daughter Francesca, who grew up as Carol White, had gone to the family doctor after stepping on a nail and running a high fever. They’d done blood tests, checking for tetanus and other problems, and the lab results showed Carol had some blood work issues that perplexed the physician. Mrs. Lamonica herself didn’t have those issues, so it was surprising her daughter would. Not impossible. Unlikely.

“So what did the doctor say about that?” Ella asked.

Mrs. Lamonica was silent for a moment, and Ella could hear muffled talking in the background.

“Sorry,” the woman said, coming back on the line. “It’s nothing, I’m sure. We’re so happy, and Francesca—Carol—is perfect, she was only a newborn when I last saw her, and we’re happy to be together. As a family. The doctor said she could be wrong, that the tests are—iffy.” A deep sigh. “But we wanted to check with Ms. Finch or her colleagues to see if there’s anything we should know.”

Ella had wrapped up the conversation with “it’s late” and “of course” she’d have “someone from the Brannigan” call as soon as possible. She’d offered her private phone extension, reassuring Mrs. Lamonica that Ella would be her point person.

Whiskers jumped into her lap, jolting Ella back to the present.

“Was Carol White’s birth name Francesca?” Ella asked her out loud. “Or who do you think she
really
is?”

*

Yes, this is Seller Heavy Metal,
Kellianne answered, typing in the user name she’d chosen. Who’d be messaging on the Murderabilia system so late at night?

Buyer RedSky42 is typing
popped onto her computer screen.

A customer. It
was. Already!
You were supposed to monitor your inbox for “transaction requests.” Good thing she did.

The glow from Kellianne’s monitor and the pinspot desk lamp gave her just enough light. Kev and Keefer were asleep, passed out, more likely, and her mom was staying over at the hospital again. No one would know what Kellianne was doing.

She’d posted her first “offerings,” that’s what the Web site called them, on the “to sell” page a few hours earlier. The teddy bears, the compact, the rabbit bowl, the nightgown. She’d had to fill out a bunch of personal stuff, too, and she made up most of it, hoping there’d be no way anyone would know, and when she clicked on “enter,” it was all fine.

She’d chosen “Heavy Metal” when instructed to create a seller name. Made sense to use them, since you had to think people messing with this kind of stuff probably didn’t want their personal info and the things they sold plastered all over who-knows-where. Payment and shipping were through a P.O. box in Idaho.

She’d clicked through a couple of other “to sell” items. A blouse with blood on it. A pillow with “peace” stitched into black velvet. What looked like a wedding ring.

Gross, gross, gross. People were totally sick. She pictured “RedSky42”—greasy hair, some skeevy guy, in a crappy apartment in some crappy city, getting his kicks touching stuff that once belonged to people who were dead. Murdered.

But who was she to judge? It was—what did they call it? Supply and demand. She had the supply. And the demand would bring her some bucks, and then her freedom.

Now, someone was contacting her. It was all going to work.

The message appeared:
Do you have the teddy bears?
Then it disappeared.

“Huh?” Kellianne whispered. What was this guy trying to pull?

Buyer RedSky42 is typing
popped up again.

Kellianne waited. Then read the new message.

Not teddy bears. Compact. And the nightgown. How much will you take for them?

“You ready? I brought lattes. I must say, Jane, looks like you could use this.” Tuck handed her a Starbucks venti, then gestured to the apartment stairs. “We taking your car or mine? I’m all gassed up, but fine with me if you want to drive.”

Jane gestured her inside, taking a grateful sip. “Yeah, I’d rather drive. Thanks for this.”

“You have a rough night?” Tuck, in black jeans, black parka vest, and buckled boots, looked her up and down. “How come you’re not dressed yet? I thought we decided on eight. Unless you’re planning to win over Carlyn Beerman with the terry cloth robe look. You’re gonna be cold, though.”

Jane backed into her entryway, almost tripping over Coda, who’d placed herself exactly where Jane’s bare feet would step. “Come in, have a seat, watch out for the silly cat. Yeah, didn’t get much sleep. I’ll be ready in a sec. Just have to throw on my jeans. Did you call Carlyn?”

Tuck had plopped onto the couch, flapped open a
New Yorker.
Coda jumped up beside her, batting the edges of the cover. “Nope. Like I said yesterday. If I do, I’m gonna have to explain, and I don’t want to explain on the phone. And if I say, ‘I want to talk to you about something,’ it’ll freak her out.”

“Maybe,” Jane said. The whole thing reeked of wild geese, but it was better than staying home and watching out the window for imaginary intruders. Probably imaginary.

Tuck had been supportive yesterday when all hell broke loose, and even, somehow, retrieved Coda. Humoring her was the least she could do.

Jane took another sip of latte, heading down the hallway, then turned back. “Hey, Tuck?”

“Mmm?” Tuck, lounged against the couch cushions, didn’t look up from the magazine.

“When you were in the car yesterday, did you see a red cat collar on the floor?”

*

“So that’s that, at least. Case closed. Thanks, Kat.” Jake handed the ME back her manila file folder and clicked open his BlackBerry, checking for messages. Coming to work on three—maybe two—hours of sleep was going to be a challenge. At least City Hall’s property ownership Web site should be back up and running this morning. If not, he’d just use the phone, now that the rest of the city was also awake.

Jake was not looking forward to the Ricker murder arraignment, set for this afternoon’s court session, provided some poor public defender had the bad luck to be appointed for him. But the news Kat McMahan just revealed to him about the Brannigan case could make his life one level less nuts.

The two stood outside the revolving glass door of Boston Police Headquarters, corner of Ruggles and Tremont Streets, under the ornate silver seal that reminded all visitors that Boston cops had been on the job since 1635. Kat’s ME van idled in the no-parking zone by the curb. Jake had parked his cruiser down in the motor pool, hoping someone would gas it up and maybe wash off some of the gritty road salt.

The Supe was expecting Jake at 8:35, no earlier, no later, according to the confirmation text that just arrived. Jake didn’t look forward to reporting the Tillson arrest, which still twisted his gut when he thought about it. At least now he could mitigate with the good news—the cause of Niall Brannigan’s death.

“You put it in writing yet?” Jake continued. “I didn’t see the three-oh-three in the file. But great. Natural causes. Like I said. Case closed.”