The Wrong Girl (30 page)

“Copy.” Jake looked at D, inquiring. D shrugged. “Twenty” was shorthand leftover from the old days of police ten codes. A new dispatcher would have said,
What’s your location?
Jake imagined he could hear some kind of stress in dispatch’s voice, though they were trained to hide it.

“Harrison Street, two blocks from HQ,” Jake said.

“You’re needed at this location, Detective,” the dispatcher said. “Now.”

*

“At Lillian Finch’s house?” Ella struggled to understand what Wendy Nunziatta was telling her. Seated next to each other in one of All Saints’ carved wooden pews, the two had piled their coats and scarves beside them. Ella had barely made it home in time, racing into the shower, throwing on a black dress with only a little bit of cat hair on it. She pulled her cardigan close. No one would care how she looked.

Wendy worked in Collins Munson’s office at the Brannigan, and Ella was glad to have someone to sit with. Wendy was a yakker, kind of a gossip, everyone knew that, but in this case, what she was saying sounded interesting. In the front pew, Ardith Brannigan—Ella could see only the back of her black suit jacket, the black lace veil covering her silvery hair, and a white-gloved hand—accepted the condolences of a line of mourners.

Ella kept her voice low. Watched to make sure no one else was listening. “The police found Mr. Brannigan’s body at
Ms. Finch’s
house?”

“Yes.” Wendy covered her mouth with one hand, and leaned in closer to Ella, whispering. “Well, not
in
her house, of course, it was all locked up by the cops. But he was in his car. Outside her house. Across the street. And now, according to—well, anyway—now, the police are trying to figure out why he was there.”

“He was
there,
really?” Ella was having a hard time processing this.
Niall Brannigan at Lillian Finch’s house?
She was
dead.
Ella murmured, so only Wendy could hear. “But he had a heart attack, right? Oh, sorry.”

A couple Ella didn’t recognize edged in front of them in the pew, the woman’s paisley shawl dragging over Ella’s lap. Ella scooched against the back of the pew, pressing her knees to one side, until the couple finally settled in their seats.

“Well, he was
there.
That’s all I know. Can you believe it?” Wendy pulled a Kleenex from a little woven pouch, then unwrapped a yellow hard candy and popped it into her mouth. “So sad.”

Ella thought about how devoted Ms. Finch was to Mr. Brannigan. But after she died, he’d asked for the records on her last round of calls. Why? Ella, of course, had never actually delivered them because of—what happened. What if Mr. B.
suspected
Ms. Finch was sending people the wrong children? And feared she was putting his agency in legal jeopardy?

Or, wait. Ella picked up a leather-bound prayer book from the back of the pew in front of her and pretended to study a random page. She’d pretty much convinced herself Lillian Finch had committed suicide after she realized she’d made a mistake. But what if
Mr. Brannigan
had been the one in the wrong? And Ms. Finch threatened to tell what he had done?

“Do they know how Ms. Finch died?” Ella had to ask.

“No.” Wendy leaned in again, so close that Ella could smell butterscotch. “How weird is this, you know? Mr. Brannigan. Before that, just two days before, Ms. Finch. I actually think it’s a little scary.”

“Do you know if the police think they’re…” Ella began.

“Shh.” Wendy put a finger to her lips, frowning. “It’s starting. Hey. Sit down. Where’re you going?”

“I’ll be right back.” Ella put the prayer book on the pew to save her spot. She might regret this, but she might regret it more if she didn’t. “I have to make a phone call.”

“No, I’ve never seen
that,
either.” Carlyn Beerman was staring at the bracelet Tuck dangled between them. They sat side by side on a flowery couch, Jane in the wing chair. “It has your name on it? Tucker? And you say it was with you? When you were—given up?”

Crackling logs in a redbrick fireplace turned the scene fairy-tale perfect, but Jane knew what Tuck had just revealed was hardly the stuff of happy endings. Carlyn’s delighted greeting of Tuck, and her instant welcome to the sunlight-filled cottage, brought tears to Jane’s eyes.

She should have stayed out of it.
Why was she always so compelled to help?

“Yes. The bracelet and note were attached to my blanket. That’s what my…” Tuck paused, and Jane could almost hear her selecting words. “… adoptive mother told me.”

Jane cradled her hot tea—chamomile, in a chunky earthenware mug—wishing she could be anywhere but a chintz chair in the Connecticut countryside hearing someone’s dreams get crushed. Carlyn had first been bewildered by the note Tuck described, and now the bracelet provided the
coup de grace.

“I see.” Carlyn didn’t reach for the bracelet, kept her hands folded in her lap. “You’re sure.”

Tuck slid it back into the velvet drawstring bag. Tied the braided cord. Zipped it into her tote.
Case closed.
“I’m sure.”

Strange, watching the two of them, identical profiles, really, each with exactly the same arched eyebrows. Even the way they crossed their legs seemed similar, though Carlyn was all soft edges in a filmy lavender scarf and a crinkly ankle-length skirt, and Tuck her opposite in tight jeans tucked into sleek black boots. Carlyn’s graying hair, short and spiky, might have once been as dark as Tuck’s, even though Tuck’s was now that funny auburn. They certainly
looked
related. On the other hand, Jane hadn’t resembled her own mother at all.

“So that’s why we’re here, Carlyn.” Tuck’s voice wavered only a little. “The bracelet. And the note. I’m sorry to just show up. I didn’t want to tell you over the phone because it seemed so—I don’t know.”

“You’re sure.”

Tuck nodded.

Carlyn dabbed under her eyes with a shredded Kleenex, then tucked the tissue into the ribbed wristband of her cornflower blue sweater. “How could that happen? It
seemed
right, when we met, didn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Tuck said. “I don’t know
what’s
right. Or how anything … seems. All I know is, I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

The fire popped, a glowing ember hitting the woven metal fireplace screen. No one moved. Wishing she was invisible, or better yet, not there at all, Jane watched the two women, one younger, one twenty years older, who had been promised a miracle, then bitterly disappointed. Was there anything she should say? Or do?

Tuck broke the silence.

“But, actually, the reason I brought Jane is, I’m enraged. Aren’t you? Carlyn? I waited all my life for this. Then they called, and I came to meet you, and it was terrifying and then wonderful, and now, I mean, these are people’s
lives
they’re messing with. How could they—” Tuck’s voice caught. She gulped, and tried again. “How can they
do
this?”

Carlyn reached over, touched Tuck’s knee, then took her hand away. “Why do people do what they do? I was in love with a professor who never cared about me. I was eighteen.
Eighteen!
I had to give up my own child. I
never
wanted to. Now I’m almost fifty. For years, I battled regret. And anger. But you know? That’s destructive. It steals your soul, honey. Incredibly disappointed? Yes. Disheartened? Yes. But enraged? After all this time? I’ll have to—”

“Listen, Carlyn.” Tuck kept talking. “Jane’s a reporter for the Boston
Register
newspaper. I don’t work there anymore, remember?”

“Of course, honey, but—”

“And I think if something went wrong with
us
—if the agency sent me to you incorrectly…”

Tuck paused, and an ember popped, filling the silence.

“I see. That it could have happened to other people, too.” Carlyn finished Tuck’s sentence, then turned to Jane, frowning. “Is that what you’re suggesting? Jane? Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

Jane took a sip of tea, then set her mug on a raffia coaster. Shook her head. “I haven’t,” she said. “And it would be very difficult to find out. Some adoptions are ‘open,’ those wouldn’t be the problem. It’s the sealed ones, like yours and Tuck’s, that’d be in question. But those closed adoptions are confidential, and private, and protected. We could never have access to those cases, unless someone complained. And even then it would have to be a public complaint, since if they simply contacted the Brannigan, no one but those involved would ever know. It would be in the agency’s best interest to keep it quiet.”

“Lawsuits, maybe?” Carlyn asked.

Jane held out both palms, agreeing. “Possibly. We can check. If you like. Of course, I’d predict if there were lawsuits, they’d be gagged by confidentiality agreements, maybe even completely sealed.”

“But what they did is unacceptable.” Tuck crossed her arms over her chest, matched Carlyn’s frown. “We have to pursue it.”

“Or not.” Jane knew Tuck was hurting, but it should also be Carlyn’s decision.

“Action is always more effective than anger.” Carlyn stood, brushing down her skirt with the palms of both hands. “And I think … we’re
required
to look into it. Not simply for our sake. For everyone’s. Let me show you something.”

Reaching under the coffee table, Carlyn pulled out a black portfolio, unzipped three sides. When she placed the folder flat on the table, Jane saw it was filled with papers, what looked like documents, and clippings. Carlyn selected a newspaper clipping attached to a pink piece of typing paper.

Jane recognized the typeface of the
Register
. And the tiny font size of the death notices.

Carlyn pointed one finger at a clipping. “The death notice of Lillian Finch. She’s the one who called me about Audrey. Last Sunday, she died.”

Jane nodded along with Tuck. “Yes, we know of her. I guess the police must still be investigating the cause of—or, wait. Is there something else about it?”

Carlyn didn’t answer, but selected another clipping. “This is the death notice of Niall Brannigan. He was there when I dropped you—I mean, Audrey Rose—off that morning. He died on Monday night, apparently. His funeral is today, according to the—Honey, are you okay?”

Tuck was lowering herself to the couch, clutching the flowery armrest for balance. Jane sank back into the armchair, wondering if her face had turned as ashen as Tuck’s.

“Niall—,” Tuck whispered.

“Brannigan?” Jane heard the hollow sound of her own voice. Two people from the same agency, dead, in a matter of days? The two people connected to Tuck’s case. “
Died?
Of what? Tuck, did Ella Gavin tell you that?”

“Ella Gavin?” Carlyn looked up from her documents.

Jane could not read her expression.

“Ella? Gavin?” Carlyn closed the folder. “You know who Ella Gavin is?”

“You don’t want to do this, Ricker.” Jake kept his weapon trained at Curtis Ricker’s head. He had to be ready to take the kill shot.

It had been three minutes since Jake arrived in the basement parking garage of Police HQ. The garage was a bitch of a place for this to happen. The dank shadows. The dripping pipes. The crammed-in cruisers and oil-slick floors. The suffocating smell of exhaust. The concrete walls that could ricochet a good shot into a catastrophe.

Not that this wasn’t already a catastrophe.

The Supe had met Jake at HQ’s front door when he and DeLuca arrived, ran them down the back stairs. “He’s been holding her for ten minutes,” the Supe said over his shoulder as they bounded down the concrete steps, all taking two at a time. “Desk guy didn’t see them, you know how the cams are down there. This the collar you’re having second thoughts about, Brogan? Seems guilty as hell to me. She was putting him into the transport van. Apparently the slimeball convinced her to loosen the damn handcuffs, and she—whatever.”

“So what’s the plan?” They’d clanged open the metal door to the parking garage.

“Plan? Hostage unit’s en route. I’ll bring ’em down. But the slime’s asking for
you,
Brogan. Says he wants
you
to see this. What a complete asshole. Get over there and make this go away.”

Ricker stared daggers at Jake. He still wore the grimy jeans and faded plaid shirt he had had on when Jake arrested him. One aluminum handcuff dangled from his left wrist as his arm clenched Officer Jan Kurtz in a headlock. His right hand—the one with no handcuff—held her police-issue Glock against her temple. Though he was a full head taller, they stood ear to ear. His head almost touched hers.

Jake had no shot. Impossible.

Kurtz, tears streaming, was not doing well. Eyes red and swollen, nose running, black mascara dripping down her face. One boot was gone, and the tails of her blue uniform shirt pulled askew from her navy pants. At least she wasn’t screaming.

“You’re okay, Kurtz. You’re doing fine.” Jake needed to reassure her. Make her a real person to Ricker. He had to understand Kurtz was a human being, not a pawn. He had to let her go. Or he’d be dead.

D was backing him up, now behind him somewhere with the other cops ducked between cars. Waiting. But it was all Jake’s show. And he knew it.
If he hadn’t arrested Ricker, none of this would have happened. What if Ricker wasn’t guilty, and now this was—

Later. That was for later. Now, Jake needed to keep calm. Lower the energy. That was his only hope.

And Ricker’s. And Jan Kurtz’s.

“Screw you.” Ricker half-dragged Kurtz toward the van, walking backward as the woman stumbled along with him. Her billed hat had landed in a puddle by a concrete post, and one lock of curly blond fell into her face.

Another step closer to the van. Another.

“She’s got the keys, she’s gonna drive me the hell outta here,” Ricker said. “You back the hell off. I didn’t do anything. This is bogus.”

In about four more steps, Jake figured, Kurtz would be at the van’s open driver’s side door. The multihinged mechanical garage door, Jake could see from a patch of daylight glistening on the damp concrete floor, was also open. What if—