The Wrong Girl (Jane Ryland)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Keefer shook his head. “Not for Margolin Street yet. We went in on Hennessey’s go, but we’re waiting for next of kin. Hennessey was s’posed to call us, like, today.” He shrugged, waved his beer at the TV. “Guess that’s not in the cards now. Bummer.”

  “Shit,” Kev said.

  “What’s the big whoop?” Kellianne couldn’t figure out why Kev was so nervous. Yeah, it was true the cop who’d been the shooter was the one who’d hooked Afterwards up with the jobs. But that wasn’t on paper anywhere, just a “business proposition.” She’d learned that only when Dad got sick.

  “Hennessey will call you as soon as he hears of a possible,” Dad had instructed the three of them from his hospital sickbed—once the hovering nurse left and Mom went down to the caf for coffees. “He’ll contact you by phone. If it’s his case, get to the scene, find him, and he’ll give you keys or point you to whoever’s got them. If not, you’ll work it out with him. Either way, you make copies, you get the keys back to him. The death family—if there is a family—will think the cops sent you, that it’s part of the deal, and who’s gonna tell them otherwise? They have no idea they’re supposed to hire the cleanup crew. How would they? They’re always upset, and don’t care who’s getting rid of the crap in their house.”

  “How about the other cops?” Kev had asked.

  “They’ll think the family called. Each one thinks the other did it. Nobody cares. There’s a dead person. That’s all they’re worrying about. That and the smell of death. So get in early, get what you can, and assess. Make sure there’s insurance.”

  Had they been doing something she didn’t know about? she’d wondered. Pretty funny, considering now they didn’t know what she was doing.

  “What’s he get out of it?” Kev had asked that day. “The cop?”

  “That’s between us.” Her father said it was all off the books, and probably not strictly illegal. “Just do it.”

  Far as Kellianne could see, it’d worked fine.

  “Okay, we gotta take care of this.” Kev aimed the remote at the front door, as if he could open it that way. “We gotta go back to Margolin Street. I mean, like, now.”

  “But Kev. We can’t.” Keefer’s voice always sounded whiny. “That’s where the guy had the heart attack. If the cops knew we were there, they’d put two and two together.”

  “Shit.” The remote dropped to his side. “But what’re we gonna do, bro, UN-clean? We took up all the rugs. And…” Kev flashed his brother some kind of a look. “You know. The bathroom.”

  “I told you,” Kellianne said. They were idiots. “I frigging told you. That was the world’s dumbest idea, dragging that guy out. Now they’re gonna know we were there, and figure out how he got into his stupid car, and you’re gonna be in the electric chair. I sure didn’t have anything to do with it. But you two morons are gonna fry.”

  They all stopped talking. The only sound was the TV anchorwoman, yammering about how many acres of land went up in flames somewhere a million miles away.

  “Holy freaking Christ,” Kevin said. “What’re we gonna do?”

  Keefer pointed to the TV with his beer bottle. “Well,” he said, “I might have an idea.”

  61

  “I thought you were in Anguilla.” Jake blurted the first thing that came to his mind, not exactly by-the-book cop talk, but seeing the woman in Ricker’s ratty armchair pushed protocol straight out of his head. He’d stepped through the back of the closet, pushed through the two coats on Ricker’s side, and opened the closet door right into Ricker’s hallway. Instantly had a clear view of the living room. And a clear view of Margaret Gunnison.

  Last he’d seen of the DFS caseworker, she was fast-talking through their interview about the kids in the Tillson murder because she was headed for Logan airport. Off to the Caribbean for a week. Only two days had gone by. She wasn’t tan.

  “I only—” Margaret Gunnison pulled a swaddled bundle in a blue-striped flannel blanket closer to her chest. A molded plastic car seat decorated with pink Scottie dogs sat on the couch beside a zipped diaper bag. “You can’t—”

  Jake saw a pink knit cap peeking out from the flannel, a tiny pink nose, and tiny closed eyes. Tried to read the expression on Gunnison’s face. Panic? Fear? Anger?

  He cocked his head at D, who’d stepped from the closet behind him. Stand down, Jake signaled, as he lowered his own weapon, but didn’t holster it. This situation—whatever it was—wouldn’t be solved with guns. He hoped.

  “Who’s that?” DeLuca scanned the room, got the picture.

  “You remember Margaret Gunnison, the deputy commissioner of the DFS,” Jake said. “Maggie, you remember my partner, Detective DeLuca. Maggie? Who’s that in your arms? Is that Phillip and Phoebe’s…,” he was guessing now, “… sister?”

  No answer. Okay, then.

  “Is anyone upstairs, Maggie?” That’d be the big hitch. A woman and a baby in a supposedly empty apartment escaping into the home of a now-dead murder suspect, that was trouble enough. But if she had an accomplice hiding upstairs, that’d be a different story. What the hell was the deal? Was Maggie protecting this infant? Or kidnapping it? Was someone listening to everything they said?

  Jake kept his voice calm. “We can talk. You can keep holding the baby. But only if we’re alone.”

  Her eyes didn’t flicker to upstairs, a good sign. She adjusted the bundle in her arms, pulled at the seam of the blanket. A tear rolled down her cheek. She swiped it away with a finger.

  “You want me to check upstairs, Jake?” DeLuca, voice barely audible, still had his weapon out.

  Jake raised a finger. Wait one.

  “We’re alone,” she whispered.

  “Okay, Maggie. I’m trusting you. What’s the baby’s name?” Jake needed to get into Maggie’s head about this. Figure out what she thought about this child. So far, he had no idea if Maggie was a wacko who might use the child as a bargaining chip. Or a hostage. That damn car seat and diaper bag bugged him. Where was she planning to take the baby? When? Why? One wrong word, one misstep or miscalculation, and this whole thing would go up in flames.

  “Her name is Diane Marie Weaver.” Maggie looked down at the baby, fussed with the blanket, tucking it under her feet again. “Her mother’s dead, but she must have wished her daughter to be happy. She must have. And since baby Diane Marie has no other relatives—her father’s unknown—I’m helping her.”

  “So…” Jake had to tread carefully here. “You’re not her mother?”

  Maggie looked up at him, half-smiling as if that were the silliest question ever. “Oh, no,” she said. “Of course not.”

  “Okay, Maggie, help me now,” Jake said. “You were on the other side of the duplex, right? With baby Diane Marie? You heard us come in? And you ran to this side of the house so we wouldn’t find you?”

  Maggie nodded, silent.

  “Is my partner going to be okay if he goes up there? There’s no one there? I’m trusting you, Maggie. Yes?”

  “It’s only us,” she whispered.

  Jake cocked his head at DeLuca. “Okay. Check it out. Be careful.”

  *

  What did she do before cell phones? By the second ring, Jane had grabbed hers by feel from her tote bag as she braked to a semistop in the slow-moving Fast Lane of the Mass Turnpike, rush hour in full swing. Was it Jake? She inventoried herself, just in case. Black turtleneck, clean. Good jeans, her good flat boots. Hair, okay. Makeup, fixable.

  “This is—,” she began. Fingers crossed.

  “It’s me,” Tuck said. “Ella called. She wanted you, said she knew all along it was you at the Dunkin’s. So much for that idea. But she said she had to talk to you, wouldn’t tell me what it was about, so I gave her your cell, I hope that’s okay, and she—”

  Jane’s call waiting beeped in, interrupting Tuck’s light-speed recitation.

  “Tuck? Call you back.” She had to see if it was Jake. Punching the phone onto speaker, she inched through the tolls toward Bo
ston. “This is Jane.”

  “Miss Ryland? I’m so sorry to call. It’s Ella. Ella Gavin. Ella from—”

  “Yes, Ella, I know.” Jane was going to kill Tuck.

  “Okay. Good. Like I told Miss Cameron, I recognized you at the coffee shop. It didn’t seem like you wanted me to, but everyone knows you. How you protect your sources, no matter what. How trustworthy you are. That’s why I’m calling. It has to be confidential.”

  “Well, thank you, Ella.” Jane wondered where the hell this was going. Why does everyone ask for confidential? “Of course. Confidential. What can I do for you?”

  “Have you not picked up your messages at work?” Ella said. “I left you one two days ago telling you about Mr. Brannigan.”

  “Really?” There had been nothing on Jane’s phone, so—oh. The operator had probably sent Ella to the “Jane” line, the voice-mail limbo where stressed-out receptionists dumped what they decided were nuisance calls. Which interns answered. Sometimes.

  “I bet you got the tip line,” Jane said. “I apologize. That’s—anyway. But I know about Mr. Brannigan, and I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Listen, Miss Ryland?”

  “Jane.” She was past exit 14 now. Almost home.

  “Jane. Okay. Ah, I’d get in trouble if anyone knew I—Well, listen. I have the paperwork that proves Miss Cameron is not really Audrey Rose Beerman. The original intake documents for baby Beerman don’t show a bracelet or note. Mrs. Beerman would have them, too, to compare. But thing is, I called some other families who were reunited with their birth children by Lillian, and it seems like…” Her voice trailed off, almost buried in the roar of a thundering sixteen-wheeler.

  “Ella? Are you there?”

  “Well, I think—I think they could have been sent the wrong children, too.”

  “What?” Jane tried to process this. “Why would anyone—”

  “I’m outside Lillian Finch’s house right now,” Ella interrupted, talking even faster. “With a key she gave me. There was nothing in her office that proved anything. So I think the proof must be in her house.”

  Was this flake planning to go inside? Into the home of a possible murder victim? Jane tried to concentrate on the road, on the increasing sputter of snow, and on how to keep Ella from making the dumbest move imaginable.

  “Ella? I’m so glad you called. Very wise of you. We can talk. But listen, don’t do that. Don’t go inside. I know you have a key, and I know she gave it to you.” No harm in letting Ella think she believed it. “Let me ask you. Is there crime scene tape on the door? That would mean the house is sealed, and there’s no way for you to go inside. It would be illegal.”

  Silence. The traffic was molasses, headlights and streetlights struggling to illuminate the way.

  “I can’t tell about any tape from here,” Ella said. “There’s trees. I’m across the street, in my car, and it’s kind of snowing. I’ve been sitting here kind of a long time. But I don’t care. I’m going in.”

  Jane hit her forehead with the heel of her hand. Colossally dumb. Insane. But it wasn’t Jane’s responsibility to—Fine. “Ella? You called to ask me what to do, right?”

  “Right. But now I’ve decided. On my own. I’m not leaving. I’m going in.” Her voice sounded taut, almost petulant. Or determined. “With you, or without you. It’s my responsibility. There are families who think they—”

  “Ella? Ella? Okay. Stay there. But do not go inside. Wait for me.” If she could stall this girl, she could convince her to drop this ridiculous idea. “It’ll take me a little while to get there, the snow’s getting worse out here. But I’ll come, we’ll talk. But only if you promise.”

  Silence.

  “Ella?” She imagined Ella breaking through the crime scene tape, the police finding out—Jake!—and poor Ella would wind up needing a very good lawyer. Jane was going to kill Tuck.

  “I promise,” Ella whispered. “But hurry.”

  62

  The baby’s eyes fluttered. Maggie was beginning to fidget on the couch. Jake needed to decide what to do. Now.

  “Maggie? Is Diane Marie supposed to be in foster care?” Another thought. “Was she Brianna’s foster child?”

  Maybe this was the wrong baby. Maybe not the one from Callaberry Street.

  “There are so many unloved children.” Maggie looked down at the infant in her arms, her eyes softening. “It’s not their fault, and there’s no way the system can save them all. I’m supposed to send them to new homes, but how can I be sure they’ll thrive and flourish? They … so often don’t. It began to feel like we could never do enough.”

  DeLuca returned. “Clear.”

  “Watch the front,” Jake said. Why hadn’t Maggie just run out when she heard them come in? Probably figured they’d never find the connecting door. Safer to stay put. “Did you call anyone, Maggie?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Gotcha, Jake. I’m on it,” DeLuca said.

  For now, at least, they were alone. Unless Maggie actually did have reinforcements on the way, no one would get hurt. And possibly he’d get some answers. Jake briefly envisioned the front door he’d smashed through outside. Apparently no neighbors had noticed. You’d think someone would have called 911 by now.

  Called 911. The blood drained from Jake’s face. He felt his skin go cold.

  “Where were you last Sunday afternoon?” Jake asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you know Brianna Tillson?” He paused. “Let me put it another way. How do you know Brianna Tillson?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Be very careful, now, Maggie. I know you’re a good person. Doing what you think is right. But whatever it is—is over. You know that, don’t you? Little Diane Marie is counting on you to protect her. Relying on you. You’re all she has. You, Maggie. Her only hope.”

  Jake could hear the baby breathing, a little snuffly sound.

  “I just went to the drugstore,” Maggie said.

  “Drugstore?” Did his words not register with her? The drugstore?

  “I asked Brianna to come over and babysit at Callaberry Street, only for that one hour. No one really lives there, you know. Like, over there.”

  She pointed toward the other side of the Edgeworth duplex. Then put her hand back on the baby’s flannel, twisting her fingers into the fabric.

  Jake took out his cell. Here we go. “I’m recording this, okay, Maggie?” Risky to interrupt. But if she agreed, it could be kickass evidence.

  Maggie nodded.

  “Okay?” Jake had to get her to say it out loud, so it was on the recording. In Massachusetts, the law prohibited secretly recording audio, even by cops. Jake couldn’t risk losing this potential evidence.

  “Okay, you can record,” Maggie said.

  “So you were saying about no one living there. In Brianna’s apartment.”

  “It wasn’t Brianna’s. Len just uses his vacant apartments as, I don’t know, way stations. Anyway, Len wasn’t supposed to come to pick up baby Diane until later that evening. Brianna didn’t know, of course. She was a registered foster mother, so she sometimes filled in as a babysitter if we needed help. She was good with kids. I was supposed to be there, watching the kids until Len came, but I had to get my stuff for Anguilla. You know? I couldn’t take them with me.”

  She stopped, then started again. “I was only gone for an hour. An hour.”

  Jake thought back, thought of the fragrance in the kitchen. He’d thought it was cleaning solution. But it was really—“Sunscreen,” he said. “You went to get sunscreen.”

  “Yeah. But the bottle cracked open when I threw the drugstore bag. After I saw what Len had done. It was horrible. So horrible.”

  Jake watched her face as she remembered. Decided to let her fill the silence. Let her explain what this was all about. Once they started, the ones who felt guilty always kept talking. They’d held it in for so long, sometimes getting to tell was their only solace.

  M
aggie took a deep breath, her arms tightening around the baby. “Len told me Brianna had tried to keep Diane from him. Said she didn’t believe it was … arranged, and she thought he was trying to steal the baby. Hurt her. A four-month-old baby! She threatened to call the cops. She died, protecting Diane.”

  Jake stared at her, imagining the scene. Brianna, somehow in the wrong place at the wrong time. About the rest, he still had no idea. But he’d act as if he did. “So Brianna didn’t know about your plan.” Whatever it was.

  “No. Of course not. I tried to see if she was still alive, you know? But it was … too late. And Len was bleeding, too. Phillip and Phoebe, they were asleep, with their teddies, in the other room. They were all set with their new family, and I was going to stay over with them, drop them off the next morning on my way to the airport. But Len had arranged for Diane’s potential new parents to meet her that afternoon. At the lawyer’s. He had come to get her. But he was early. And—”

  “Diane’s new foster family, you mean?”

  “Oh, no. No. Not foster family.”

  Her expression said—don’t you get it? And no, he didn’t. “Then—?”

  “Adoption. Private adoption,” Maggie said. “I mean, it all takes so long. The red tape is horrendous for foster care, and adoption is even worse, and there are so many foster kids, and so many files, no one can possibly keep track of them all. No one’s counting. No one but me. All I had to do was find kids with no relatives, fix the paperwork, and poof. One at a time, I saved them. One at a time, they disappeared from the nightmare. And they lived happily ever after. As they should.”

  “So you were taking kids out of the foster system and—”

  “For their own good! Len arranged it all. And it worked perfectly, every time. Until Brianna. He said she was freaking out, that she grabbed a pan from the stove to keep him away from Diane. Keep him from taking her. There was nothing he could do, Len said. He had to grab the other pan. And…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Leonard Perl,” Jake said. The landlord. The landlord here, and on Callaberry Street. No wonder he hadn’t answered their phone calls to Florida. He’d been right here in Boston. “Leonard Perl. Correct?”