The Wrong Girl (7 page)

If she had any sense, she’d accept his praise and go home. But she felt so sad. There were loose ends. She hated loose ends.

She parked herself on the arm of Alex’s file-covered couch, thinking. The tweedy beige cushions were, as usual, covered with piles of manila folders and spiral notebooks. Alex still kept files on paper. For him every place was storage.

“Thing is, Alex. You said you were gonna hand off this story to another reporter, but I can’t stop thinking about those kids. Whoever their mother is—was—what happens to them? If it turns out they’re alone now? There’d be three victims, you know? The mother—and her orphaned children.”

Alex blinked, spinning a pencil on his desk between two fingers. They both watched the yellow blur as it slowed, then stopped.

“Can you move over a little?” Alex said. “I need to look at something.” He wheeled his swivel chair to the couch, started moving stacks of papers.

Jane hopped aside, watching with amusement. “The piles of files system, huh? You know, if you scanned all that into your computer—”

“Trust me.” Alex didn’t look up. “I know I have it.”

Damn it.
Jane’s cell phone vibrated against her thigh. Alex was deep into his treasure hunt, so she sneaked a peek at the screen. Tuck.
Damn.
Jane had cut her off in mid-sentence when she’d called during the news conference. She let it go to voice mail and slid the phone back into her pocket.

“Here.
Ha.
I knew it.” Alex handed her a stack of papers held together with a black metal clamp. “The most recent Health and Human Services Inspector General report on the Massachusetts foster care system. Might be some leads here. I printed it after the thing with the Hyde Park kid—remember, the one who got put in that disgusting basement? Thought we might do a foster story someday.”

“You kill me,” Jane said, taking the report. “How do you always—?”

“And Ryland?”

Jane’s phone buzzed again. She tried to ignore it. “Yeah?”

“You might be on to something. If Phillip and Phoebe are about to enter the foster care bureaucracy? Maybe you can try to protect them.”

*

“
Now?
We’re going in
now
?” Kellianne whispered, even though no one else could hear except her brothers—Kevin, on his billionth cigarette, and Keef, so out of it his head lolled against the car window. One earbud had popped out, and she heard the pounding bass of some heavy metal crap. “Did we get the okay from the cops? I never heard anything.”

“‘Did we get the okay from the cops?’” Kevin used that mocking voice, like she was some four-year-old. “Ooh, let me check my special notebook.”

“You’re such an asshole.” She was honestly going to k—

“What’s it to you?” Kevin shot back.

“Huh?” Keefer sat up, blinking. “What time is it?”

“Show time.” Kevin twisted around in the front seat, narrowing his eyes at her. “Listen, sister. If it makes you feel any better? Keefer and I’ll do it. By ourselves. We’re not gonna clean till later, but we’ve gotta go scope.”

Kellianne puffed out a breath. It was the middle of the freaking night. Almost. The clock on the van’s dash said 11:15. The cops had gone about half an hour before. The cute one by himself in the cruiser, the tall one in the white van with that woman. And the whole time, for freaking ever, they’d been rotting here in the Afterwards van. “What can you do tonight that you can’t do tomorrow?”

“Who died and put you in charge?” Kevin said. “Keefer, you set?”

“Rock and roll,” Keef said.

“Listen, Tuck, I gotta interrupt you.” Jane turned off the ignition. All the way to the Riverside train station this morning, Tuck insisted Jane was “the only one” who could help her. No wonder Tuck had been such a kickass reporter. She made it impossible to say no. “This Ella Gavin is going to freak if I walk in with you.”

Jane draped her arms across the steering wheel of her Audi, staring through the windshield at the front window of the Dunkin’ Donuts. The wipers flapped against the tentative snow, the defroster blasted on the highest setting, the radio muttered the news. Coffee-toting commuters, heads down and in full Monday back-to-work mode, hustled through the flakes to their buses and trains.

“What if she recognizes me from when I was on Channel Eleven?” Jane continued. “Even if she doesn’t, who are we going to say I am?”

“You worry too much, Jane.” Tuck unclicked her passenger-side seat belt, then flipped the sun visor down, checking her glossy pale lipstick in the mirror. “I’m pissed off now. Truly. I’m getting to the bottom of this. And I’m so grateful for your help.”

“
She’ll
be the pissed off one,” Jane said. “The last thing Ella Gavin wants is a reporter sniffing around. That’s the last thing anyone wants. I’ll wait for you here.”

Tuck tugged the black cap from her head, revealing a cascade of newly auburned curls.

“Whoa,” Jane said.

“Told you I was pissed,” Tuck said. “I had to do
something.
Anyway, why don’t you wear this hat, stick your hair underneath, and here, wear my sunglasses. I’ll say you’re my friend. Can you do a Southern accent?”

“It’ll never work.”

“It’ll work.”

Jane watched a stocky young woman in a toggle-front wool jacket and lace-up snow boots appear from between a row of cars, pause, and draw a fringed black-and-white woolen scarf closer around her neck. The sun glared off the hoods of the rows of cars, and scarf lady shielded her eyes with a mittened hand.

“I bet that’s her.”
Fine.
Maybe Tuck would finally explain why she thought the Brannigan had made a mistake. Fine. As a favor to a former colleague, she’d go in, find out, get it over with, leave. “She’s looking at her watch, but not running for a train.”

“Fab,” Tuck said. “We’ll let her go first, then we’ll—”

Jane closed her eyes, changed her mind, turned on the ignition. “Tuck. Wait. This is so … personal. I feel like I’m intruding. You go in and get the scoop. I’ll go to the paper, work on my own stuff like I’m supposed to, and meet you for lunch. Then you can tell me everything. If you want.”

“Hey, turn that thing off, Jane. I
want
you to come. And what if this is a huge story?” Tuck said. “I mean, Ella Gavin called
me
back, right? She’s gotta know something. Or be guilty about something. Maybe she discovered the woman I met in Connecticut is a … a … some kind of con artist. Who pretends to be people’s mothers and then rips them off. That’d be a story, wouldn’t it?”

Jane faced Tuck, looking at her from under her lashes, skeptical. This was Tuck’s life, not a news story. “You’re kidding, right?”

The woman in the muffler had scurried into the coffee shop, disappeared through the revolving door. Their appointment was for 8:15. The dashboard clock said 8:15.

“Okay, so no.” Tuck dismissed the idea with a flick of her palm. Then she touched Jane on her sleeve, entreating. “But Jane. Seriously. I have to find out. I
do.
What if…”

This had the potential for disaster. Tuck should be prepared for a truth she didn’t expect.

“Tuck? ‘What if’ this Ella Gavin has confirmed Carlyn Beerman
is
your birth mother? And that’s what she’s about to tell you?”

Jane worried she was crossing some line. But Tuck had put her there. “What if you really
are
Audrey Rose?”

*

Ella Gavin wished she’d brought a hat, wished her feet weren’t so cold, wished she were anywhere but here in the parking lot of the Riverside T station. And this was all her idea. She squinted against the sun—how could it be so bright and be snowing at the same time? It was like everything was happening at once.

Which it was.

All she had to do was turn around, hop back on the T, show up at the Brannigan, and if anyone asked, say she’d gotten the all-clear from the dentist. She’d e-mailed Ms. Finch about her “early-morning appointment,” reassuring her supervisor she’d be in by 9:30. The folder of paperwork—in her Target shopping bag in case she had to take it back to the Brannigan—would be well-camouflaged. She could throw it away, or shred it, or, heck, toss it in a trash can here at the station. Done and done.

She was leaving.

But what would she tell Tucker Cameron? It was Ella’s suggestion they meet. If she canceled, or didn’t show up—that didn’t mean the inquisitive Miss Cameron would go away. It meant she’d persist. Certainly call the Brannigan, and probably reveal Ella had called
her,
bad enough, then, even worse, tell how she’d bailed on their appointment. After that, Ms. Finch—even Mr. Brannigan—would get involved. And probably lawyers.

She was staying.

Will I never learn to keep out of people’s lives?
She took a deep breath, her nose wrinkling from the cold—but that
was
her life, wasn’t it? Everything she did changed people’s futures, whether it was saying yes, or saying no, or saying …
guess who called us?
And then, life went on. The dominoes would fall.

This time, though, the dominoes could end up falling on her.

Ardella Morgan Gavin,
she scolded herself. You are a grown-up with an important and responsible job.
Get a life.

She turned and marched through the slush, heading toward the door of the Dunkin’ Donuts, whatever was about to happen.

“I’m only trying to help,” she whispered. “That’s always a good thing.”

“I think I understand this,” Jake said.

“Alert the media,” DeLuca said. “And it’s only Monday.”

Jake ignored him, nosing the cruiser into the parking space in front of the once-bright-yellow clapboard house. When they first showed up this morning, every shoveled space on Hinshaw Street had been taken. Not by cars, but by metal trash cans, webbed lawn chairs, and in one parking space, an orange plastic playpen. Neighborhood rules said once you cleared the snow from your parking spot, it was yours. Ignoring the rules would get you a punctured tire, or the gash of a key along the paint. D had lugged two battered aluminum folding chairs to the sidewalk so they could park. Aware of the social contract, they would put the chairs back in place when they’d finished their visit.

“It’s to save their spot, Harvard,” DeLuca said, palming the snow off his leather gloves. “Not just here in Southie. Probably in Wellesley and Dover, too. Or, ya know, they have their servants do it.”

Jake shifted into reverse, then park. “Not ‘I understand’ the parking, D, I grew up in Boston, remember?” He grabbed his second-of-the-morning coffee from the cup holder and slugged down the last dregs. “‘I understand’ about this woman. About this case. The nine-one-one call tape was a bust, came from a cell, no ID. That means someone heard something—but why aren’t they owning up to it? The victim was dead when the call came in, if you go by what your Dr. McMahan is estimating the TOD.”

“So either it was a witness who’s spooked for some reason, or the killer himself. Huh,” D said. “But the longer we weren’t on it, the longer the killer’d have to get away. So why call?”

Jake cocked his head at the yellow house. “Because of them, I figure. The kids. Whoever killed our vic knew the kids were there. Must have. Knew they were going to discover their murdered mother sooner or later. So. Someone might have hated her enough, or been mad at her enough, or whatever the motive, to kill her. But even then. He still cared about those kids.”

D nodded, scratching his nose with one finger. “And if he knew the kids—”

“The kids knew him. Exactly.” And was there another child? That cradle haunted him. Jake patted his jacket for his cell, then opened his car door. He looked at DeLuca. “You ready?”

D joined Jake at the bottom of the shoveled front walk, gesturing
go ahead.
The front door was only a few steps away. Cast-iron window boxes were filled with snow, a wood-burned sign over the door read
CEAD MILE FAILTE
. “So, you’re thinkin’ the kids might tell us who he is?”

“Yup. If we’re lucky. And sometimes we are.” Jake pulled out his badge wallet for ID, in case someone demanded to see the gold, even though he knew the court-appointed guardian who lived here was expecting them. Jake had a good record of talking to kids, but a text message from the brass reminded him that this Bethany Sibbach, a child therapist, was required to be their conduit, since the not-quite-witnesses were juveniles. About as juvenile as they come. If there was a baby somewhere—well, someone knew. And Jake would soon find out.

He lifted a fist to knock on the gray front door, then opted for the black button of a doorbell. He heard the
bing-bong,
hollow, inside. “If we’re lucky, Phillip and Phoebe might be able to tell us who the bad guy is. Or, almost as good? Tell us who their mother is.”

“Poor kids,” DeLuca said.

“Detective Brogan? This is dispatch, do you read?” Jake’s radio crackled from his belt. “Superintendent Rivera requesting a landline, stat, please.”

DeLuca puffed out a breath. “Now what?”

Jake took the radio mic from its holder. “Brogan, I copy. Can you—”

The door opened.

A forty-something woman in a nubby sweater vest, leggings, and an oversized heather green turtleneck balanced a squirming little girl on one hip. From somewhere behind her came the beeps of a video game.

The woman, smiling, pointed at Jake’s radio with the cell phone in her hand.

“I know. I’m Dr. Sibbach, hello and good-bye. Someone from your headquarters called to warn me you’ve got another assignment.” Her voice had a soft burr, and she placed a quick kiss on top of the little girl’s wispy brown hair. “No worries. Phoebe and I will be dandy until you get back.”

*

Tuck’s stupid hat was incredibly itchy, but Jane had to admit this Ella girl—woman—hadn’t given her a second glance. Tuck introduced her as “my friend Jane,” then Jane had been dispatched to stand in line for three regulars, one with Splenda, and six chocolate doughnut middles.

When Jane arrived at the table in the corner balancing the flimsy cardboard tray, Ella was holding up a piece of paper. Pointing at something. Tuck leaned in, peering at whatever it was. A thickly stuffed manila folder took up half the table in front of them, and a red Target bag took up all the room in Ella’s lap. They both looked up as Jane approached.