The Wrong Girl (43 page)

“I said, not another word, Ardith.” Munson kept one arm around her, his hand clamped to her shoulder. With the other he reached into the pocket of his tweed jacket. Took out a gun. And rested it on Ardith’s right temple.

Jake and DeLuca went for their weapons at exactly the same time.
Shit.

“Gentlemen, I wouldn’t do that,” Munson said. “You’re going to let us go. If you touch your weapons, I’ll shoot her. If you interfere, I’ll shoot her. If you follow us, I’ll shoot her. I’m sure you can tell I’m dead serious.”

*

Great.
There were people in that office. Jane could tell as she walked closer to it. The wooden door had a four-part glass insert, and though the glass was frosted and faceted, it showed signs of people inside. Even down the hall, she could see colors moving, and indistinct shapes. Three people, maybe. Four.

Someone in there would know something. All she had to do was knock.

*

“Collins.” Ardith Brannigan’s voice was a whisper. She was looking at something over Jake’s shoulder, it seemed, but Jake couldn’t risk turning around.

He’d mentally raced through all the possibilities and the result was zero. Munson had Ardith at gunpoint, both standing behind a huge glass desk. No way for him or D to get close. In time, at least.

“How do you plan to—” The guy was nuts. Jake could almost smell the crazy.

“Shut up.” Munson moved his gun. Jake saw the woman wince as he pushed it against her forehead. “You two. On the couch.”

“Mrs. Brannigan, we can help you,” Jake said. Calm. Compassionate.
Rule one
.
Keep the victim on your side.
“You can see this is a doomed proposition. You can see how much Mr. Munson cares about you. He’s decided to use you as a hostage.”

“True love,” DeLuca said.

“DO it!” Munson yelled.

Jake perched on the edge of the black leather and aluminum couch. D beside him. Ready to move the instant there was a chance.

“Lillian was going to ruin the Brannigan,” the woman said. She was still looking over Jake’s shoulder, not at him. Not at Munson. “Collins told me she’d—”

“Shut. Up.” Munson pointed at DeLuca. “You. Put the cuffs on your friend. Cuff him to the armrest. Both hands.
Do
it.”

Shit. “Munson. Look. There’s no way—”

“DO it!” Munson yelled.

He didn’t want to break concentration on Munson to look at DeLuca, but he knew his partner was making the same calculations.

Munson, Ardith, desk, gun.

*

Whoa.
It sounded like they were having some hell of a meeting. Fine, she’d knock, they’d stop yelling. Jane couldn’t really hear all they were saying, but if they were in a meeting, they were in a meeting. People yelled in meetings, no biggie. It wasn’t like it was life or death.

She rapped the wooden door, once. No answer.

Again.

“We’re busy!” someone yelled.

Well, that was pleasant. Must be some meeting.

*

“We’re busy!” Munson yelled again, without taking his eyes off the officers.

D unsnapped his cuffs. Flipped one over Jake’s wrist, then the other, then around the metal armrest. There was no way to communicate, but Jake knew he was assessing how to fake it. Fool the moron into thinking he was cuffed. Whoever was outside the door—he hoped they left. Fast. If they didn’t, they were certain to be in the line of fire.
Do not endanger additional victims.

“Stand back.” Munson pointed DeLuca away, then walked Ardith, gun to head, closer to them. One step at a time. Jake calculated as the man approached. Not close enough.
Assess risk-benefit. Do not take unnecessary chances.

“Show me. Show me the cuffs.”

Jake did.
Damn it.

“Now. Take his gun and radio.” He pointed to a file cabinet across the room. “Put them in that drawer.”

“Screw you,” DeLuca muttered. “You’re only making this wor—”

“No, sir,” Jake said.
Never give up your weapon.
“That’s not how this is gonna work.”

*

Okey dokey, then,
Jane thought. Guess they don’t want to be interrupted. She moved away from the door and took a few steps down the hall, zipping up her jacket and fingering her cell phone. She should call Tuck. And Alex again. Unlikely anyone would bother her in the hall. Plus, she needed to get answers. These people had them. Maybe she could sit in one of those chairs in the hallway, stall until the meeting was over. They’d never know she was the one who’d knocked.

*

“You want to
see
how this is going to work?” Munson clasped Ardith closer. His voice was a hiss, a whisper. “I don’t want to shoot her. Or you. But you know I will.”

Jake and DeLuca exchanged glances.
Protect the hostage.
D took Jake’s gun, then his radio, and put them into the drawer.

Ardith was crying now, silently, shaking.

“Now you, Detective,” Munson said. “Your equipment, too. Into the drawer.”

“You can’t shoot both of us,” Jake said.

“Watch me,” Munson said.

“Hang on, D. Wait. Don’t do it.” Jake knew D couldn’t draw fast enough to shoot Munson before the prick killed Ardith. In any event, D couldn’t risk the shot. But some innocent person was outside the door. Cuffed to the couch, Jake’s only play was to try to reason with the guy.

He kept his voice low. “Munson. What if my partner refuses? You think you can shoot all of us?”

Silence.

Maybe this would work.
“You shoot Mrs. Brannigan, we’ll witness a cold-blooded murder. Detective DeLuca will blast out your knee. And you’ll be in Cedar Junction till the next millennium. Is that your final decision?”

*

Jane looked at the door again. Listened. Didn’t seem like anyone was yelling anymore, right? Good. Maybe she should try one more time.

A good reporter never gives up.

If they yelled at her this time, she’d leave. They’d never know who it was, so what did it matter? And if they let her in, she could apologize. Everyone hates reporters anyway.

She knocked again.

*

“
Go away,
” Jake yelled. Damn it. If he warned whoever it was to call the police, Munson would shoot. If he said
come in,
he was inviting another potential victim. “This is the police! Go away!”

Ardith jumped at his voice, clamped her lips together, her mouth a white line.

Munson smiled. “Excellent choice, Detective,” he whispered.

Munson, Ardith, desk, DeLuca’s gun. And no more time.

*

Whoa.
That was
Jake.
Jake’s voice. What the hell was he doing in there?

Jane stepped back from the door, edging up the hall. He didn’t know it was
her,
that was certain. She paused halfway down the hall. Took out her phone. Should she call the police? Jake
was
the police.

She stood in the empty hallway. In. Or out? Out. Took two steps away, headed for her car. Stopped. Was Jake in trouble? What the holy hell was going on?

Should she call 911? Jane ran a few steps, on tiptoe, then opened an office door. And say what? The police needed help?

Damn it.
Sometimes they do.

*

Munson dragged Ardith to the door, peered though the frosted window. “Okay, they’re gone. Hallway’s empty. Didn’t we tell everyone to stay home today, dear Ardith? They should have followed instructions.” He yanked the woman close to him again. “We’ll give them a moment to drive away.”

“You’re hurting me,” she said.

“Shut up,” Munson said. “My final decision? Into that drawer, Detective. Your gun and radio. Over to the couch.”

Jake watched D calculate. There was one possibility. D had to draw his weapon to put it into the drawer. But with Munson’s .38 plastered to Ardith’s head, there was simply no option. D, shaking his head, apparently coming to the same conclusion, put his weapon and radio in the drawer.

Jake flashed on Hennessey. Almost wished the guy were here to blast this asshole to hell. But no one was around to save his butt this time. And Ardith Brannigan—was she in on Lillian Finch’s murder?—was good as dead.

“Mrs. Brannigan, you don’t think this man is going to let you live, do you?” Jake began.

“If you know something he wants kept secret?” DeLuca said. “Tell us. Then we’ll all know. Then you won’t be the only one.”

Munson slammed the file drawer shut with an elbow. Ardith Brannigan winced, stumbled, regained her balance.

“Now, Detective DeLuca? You are going to escort us out of here. Walk us to the parking lot. And wave good-bye.”

“Not a—”

“Or wave good-bye to this fine lady right now, if that’s your decision,” Munson said, returning to the door. “Sorry, dear.”

He clicked open the knob.

*

Jane closed door of the empty office behind her, gritting her teeth at the squeak of a hinge, the scrape of the door over the carpeting. The room was dark, no windows. An outer office, judging by the club chairs and couch. Trying not to breathe, she pressed her face close to the mottled glass, tried to see into the corridor.

Yes. Someone might be coming out of that room across the hall. She could make out shapes close to the window, moving.

Would it be Jake? What was he doing in there?

The yelling she’d heard.
Do it. Shut up. Do it.
Hadn’t been Jake’s voice. Something was very wrong.

Brannigan was dead, Lillian Finch was dead. There’d been a horrible fire at Lillian’s house. Ella had been inside. Was Jake here about that? Why?

She grabbed her cell to call 911
. No.
If she talked, even a whisper, she might be heard. She stabbed the off button. And the dispatcher couldn’t trace a cell call. She squinted, surveying the murky room. No phone.
Damn it.
Jane couldn’t call for help without being discovered.

She’d have to hide. She had to wait.

She also had to see.

Jane clicked the door open. The tiniest bit. And plastered herself to the wall.

*

DeLuca didn’t have a chance. He must know it. Jake watched Munson open the office door, wave DeLuca toward it. As soon as they arrived in the parking lot, Munson would shoot him. Or maybe he’d drive him somewhere, shoot him there. Away from the Brannigan, away from his marked territory and away from any connections. There was no way he could leave DeLuca alive.

Munson had made a smart move, taking their weapons. Splitting them up. Now Jake was powerless. Both wrists were cuffed to a fricking couch, his weapon stashed in a drawer across the room. He couldn’t reach the phone on the desk. Sure, someone would find him here. Eventually. He’d be able to testify about what he’d seen. But Munson—about to walk out the door—would be long gone.

And D would be dead.

“DeLuca,” Jake said.

“I know,” D said.

Jane couldn’t move. Couldn’t risk it. From her place against the wall—light switch stabbing her in the back through her jacket—her line of sight was a narrow sliver.

She couldn’t see the office door across the carpeted hall. She’d have to listen for the click of the latch. Listen for footsteps.

When whoever it was got close enough to her, she’d have them in view. Briefly. Long enough to know the score. If it was Jake and all was well, she’d stay hidden, and he’d never know she was there. Nor would anyone else.

In that case, she’d leave, come back later. Make an appointment. All by the book.

Her eyes hurt from having to look sideways. Her neck was complaining. But she couldn’t risk a move.

Footsteps. A door closing.

They were coming.

*

Should he yell? Try to move the couch? Somehow yank the couch across the carpet to the drawer where the guns were? With both hands handcuffed?
That’d never work.
Incredible that he had his damn handcuff keys, the spare ones, tucked in his wallet. Fat lot of good that’d do now.

Supe was going to kill him. And—it crossed Jake’s mind—maybe he deserved it. His partner was about to be murdered. An innocent person was being abducted, maybe killed, too.

He’d blown it.

*

“Still time to change your so-called mind, Munson.”

Paul DeLuca’s voice?
Jane was sure she was right. Munson must be Collins Munson, the Brannigan hotshot Ella had mentioned. His name was all over the files she’d found in Ella’s kitchen. Was he the one sending the wrong children? Had Jake and DeLuca found out about it? That’s why they were here?

Damn it. She still couldn’t see them.

Then she could.

Three people, DeLuca, certainly, who seemed to be walking slowly in front of—a man in a tweed jacket. And a woman. Crying? Yes. The woman—who was she?—was crying.

Holy shit. Jane clutched her phone. The man—Munson? Had a gun to the woman’s head. Why was DeLuca walking with them?

Where was Jake?

No gunfire. No screams. No commotion. So Jake wasn’t shot. Was he—well, where the hell
was
he? And why? He’d told her to stay away. Not that he knew it was her.

Now here was DeLuca, walking with a guy carrying a gun. Why wasn’t Paul doing anything to stop that man?

If Jake was okay, why wasn’t
he
doing something to stop him?

Was DeLuca—in on this?
DeLuca?

She took a step forward, on tiptoe, holding her breath. Watched the trio stride down the hall. The woman tripped in her patent leather heels. The tall man’s arm clamped around her, pulled her back into place.
The gun.

As Jane peered after them, baffled, terrified, and completely unsure, DeLuca turned his head for a brief glance back at the office they’d all just left.

Jane had never seen such a look of anguish.

*

All his fault.

Ricker, dead, because of him. And now, DeLuca was in deep shit, and Ardith Brannigan, and it was his fault again. Jake tried to stand, thrashing, yanking the idiot cuffs and the idiot couch, which didn’t move an inch.

“Damn it!” he yelled. “Damn it! Damn it!”