The Wrong Girl (Jane Ryland)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Jake was almost afraid to ask. Might he get lucky? “Mrs. Richards?”

  “Dolly,” she said.

  “Dolly. Let me ask you.” He eyed her notebook. “Do you keep track of the dates? Did you write down the license number of the gray van?”

  69

  “I hate search warrants.”

  Jake had to smile as DeLuca’s voice came over the cruiser’s speaker.

  “No reason to wait to get those assholes. Crime scene cleanup, my ass. They’re the freaking criminals.”

  “Yup, D. They’re in on something. And they sure as hell know where Leonard Perl is. But Supe insists we get a warrant before we hit them up. Judge Gallagher’s been sent the request affidavit. Hey. It’s law and order, right? We’re the law. We need her order.”

  Jake checked his rearview, made sure Jane was following him. It was after midnight. She’d looked zonked and scared and exhausted, but she’d insisted on driving home herself. He shook his head, keeping an eye on her headlights. They’d compromised that she’d follow him, he’d see her safely inside. He held up a hand. Jane waved back. She was so …

  “Talk about law and order.”

  Even over the speaker, D’s voice oozed disdain.

  “What about it?” Jake turned onto Beacon Street, Janey right behind him. The snow was over, but the streets were still slick.

  “Well, the bad news is our Maggie Gunnison lawyered up. Guess she realized she was in deep shit. Kidnapping and murder being your basic life-in-prison deal,” DeLuca said. “So we’re hearing zip from her. She’s currently residing in the luxurious confines of the Suffolk lockup, probably calculating her options.”

  “Which may include offering up the whereabouts of Leonard Perl,” Jake said. “Speaking of which, you ever get that Florida DMV photo?”

  “You’re livin’ right,” DeLuca said. “It’s a fax, if you can believe it. Stone age. The quality’s not that great. But I’ll e-mail it to your cell. You never know.”

  *

  Jane pulled into a place in front of her building, behind the spot where Jake had just turned off the engine of his cruiser. She saw his interior lights blink on, saw his door open. So he was getting out, not just waiting for her to come to his window to say good-bye. Would he want to stay over? Would she want him to?

  She clicked open her car door and got out, grateful to be home, grateful to be safe, grateful that Ella would live, would even be okay. She wished she could be mad at her.

  Ella’s keys weighed heavy in her pocket. Tomorrow morning, she’d go feed the cat. Tomorrow morning, she’d try to figure out what to do with the piece of paper Ella had given her. The sky was brightening, the moon a fading memory in the dark blue sky. It was already morning.

  Headlights glared around the corner, then stopped at the stop sign up the block.

  “Hey, Officer.” Jane met Jake halfway on the sidewalk. Then took a step closer. “I’m good. I’m fine. Thanks for, ah, babysitting me. Always good to have a cop around.”

  “Your tax dollars at work.” Jake glanced at her front door. Took a step closer to her. “Your tax dollars also allow me to see you inside. If you so desire. It’s our after-hours special.”

  They stood, less than arm’s length away. Jane felt his force field, drawing her, in the murky light from the streetlights, and the thin whisper of the wind, and the gray clouds separating to show a glimmer of the winter stars. Jake. She remembered his touch, the urgency in his voice as he’d grabbed her from the fire. Why couldn’t she fall into his arms, grateful, needing him, giving in, forgetting all the rules of the world and caring about only their own rules? “Jake, I—”

  Did they have to be careful, even here? Was the watcher in the brownstone seeing the two of them? What if he was the one who—She was too exhausted to think about it. About anything but Jake.

  “You—we—” Jane took another step closer, reached out her hand, dared to brush an imaginary snowflake from Jake’s jacket. Maybe now they could—His phone beeped, and she warmed with reassurance when he ignored it. “It’s been quite a day.”

  She heard a car’s engine shift, and looked up to see the headlights at the stop sign move closer.

  *

  “Yeah, it has. Quite a day. And now we both smell like fire.”

  Jake had to leave, needed to leave, couldn’t possibly leave. He should be at Bethany Sibbach’s house at the crack of dawn, before Phillip got a look at baby Diane, and there was no way he could make it though another day on no sleep. Today’d been tough enough. Putting it mildly. Dolly Richards’ license plate list—including the gray van’s—were safely in his notes. But Jane. She’d been through so much. He didn’t even know why Ella had called her. “You were nuts to go into a burning building, hon—Jane.”

  “You went in, too, you know.” Jane’s voice was a whisper. Her touch lingered on his jacket. “To get me. So you’re just as nuts. But I keep thinking what might have happened if you hadn’t.”

  Headlights pulled into a parking space in front of the brownstone across the street. Jane pointed to the car.

  “Your hotshot surveillance guy’s probably seeing him, you know,” she whispered. “And, more importantly, he’s seeing us. Don’t want him to report you, right? You here with me in the middle of the night. Standing like this. How’d you explain that?”

  “Police business, ma’am.” Jake looped her arm through his, pulling her even closer. “All on the up and up. In fact, I won’t have done my duty until I go upstairs, check your whole apartment. Maybe—stay awhile. Make sure nothing untoward happens. Make sure you’re safe. Doing my sworn duty.”

  Jane smiled that smile up at him. He could feel the weight of her body against his. He was exhausted, she was, too. If he went inside, they’d probably fall asleep instantly. Very romantic.

  “Hec.” She was looking over his shoulder now, and her face had changed.

  “Heck what?” Heck?

  “No. H-e-c. Underhill. The Register freelancer. Getting out of that car across the street. In front of surveillance-guy’s building,” Jane said, her voice low. She shrugged. “Alex told me he lived in my neigh—”

  “What?” Jake turned, following her gaze as she paused, mid-sentence. She was staring at the man across the street.

  He felt her hand clutch his arm.

  “Jake?” she whispered. “If you want to do your sworn duty, come with me.”

  70

  She was right.

  Had to be. Where had Hec Underhill been all those times she tried to find him? “He’s always out,” the guy in the photo lab kept telling her. Hec obviously knew she was working on the Callaberry Street story. He’d known exactly which house Brianna Tillson’s body was in. Knew she was looking for pictures of the bad guy. Knew she’d been banished from the paper. He had her cell phone number and could easily have made the threatening calls. And she herself had told him she was going to Connecticut with Tuck. But why would—

  “Hec!” Jane kept her voice cheery, waving, as she and Jake approached. He had those cameras strung around his neck. Keys in his hand. She needed to see where he lived. See if he had a camera pointed at her windows. Problem was, Jake still thought Hec was a good guy, working with the cops, and there was no time now to explain her theory. She’d play it by ear.

  Hec turned, standing by his car, out of the glow of streetlight. A dark shadow. But Jane recognized him easily enough. She heard Jake’s phone beep again, and this time he took it out of his pocket.

  “Hey, Hec,” Jane began. “What brings you here this time of night? Big story?”

  *

  Message from DeLuca. “Photo,” the subject line said. Photo? Must be the picture of Leonard Perl, finally, from the Florida Department of Motor Vehicles. Jake opened it with one thumb. Hec Underhill was a new freelance Register photog, he remembered. And hadn’t he just seen him at—where was it?

  Those cameras around his neck. Right. The pushy guy who’d shown up at Lillian Finch’s right after they’d fo
und Brannigan. Jake had been on his way to Jane’s supposed breakin. He’d directed the guy to Hennessey. Forgotten about him. What’s to remember?

  Jane was already chatting with Underhill. They were colleagues, of course. Jake checked his phone, where the faxed, then e-mailed, photo from DeLuca was slowly downloading.

  Keeping half an eye on Jane, he looked at the emerging photo of Leonard Perl.

  Then at Hec Underhill.

  Then at the photo.

  Same person.

  *

  Why was Jake staring at his cell phone? Jane had to keep up the chit-chat with Hec until Jake joined her. Hec was blathering about some news story he’d been shooting, complaining again about his imminent retirement and his crap assignments.

  Jane nodded, pretending to be fascinated. If Hec was the surveillance guy, he could have broken into her apartment, somehow. He wouldn’t tape himself! He could have even watched, among the bystanders, as she raced into her building the morning of the breakin.

  A breakin that had happened.

  Hec was even wearing a Celtics hat. But he couldn’t have been the guy in the black pickup, because he’d talked to her on the phone from the Register. Damn. What was taking Jake so long?

  “Yeah, but you know, the news must go on.” Jane decided to risk it. “In fact, did you hear there was a breakin at my apartment?”

  “Yeah. I live right there.” Hec pointed to the brownstone. “Police have any idea who did it?”

  Gotcha, Jane thought. She was tempted to say yes, just to see what he’d do, but gestured toward his apartment instead. “Oh, interesting. Did you see the cops from your apartment that morning?”

  “Hey, Jane.” Jake stepped up to them, close, almost putting himself between her and Hec. He was holding his cell phone with one hand, with the other adjusting something under his jacket.

  “Hey, Jake,” she said, moving aside. “Hec Underhill, do you know Detective Jake Brogan? Jake, this is—”

  “We met at Margolin Street, if I’m not mistaken. Hold this for a second, Jane, okay?” Jake gave her his cell and stuck out a hand to shake Hec’s.

  Why would he give her his phone? She glanced at the screen. It had gone to black.

  “Hec Underhill?”

  Jake had not let go of Hec’s hand. And with the other he was bringing out—what?

  *

  Underhill tried to pull his hand away. That wasn’t gonna happen.

  “Hec Underhill?” Jake said again. He flipped open his handcuffs, snapped the first side over Underhill’s left wrist, then with one motion turned him and clicked the other so Underhill’s hands were cuffed behind his back. His cameras still hung over his chest. “Or should I say—Leonard Perl? You’re under arrest for the murder of Brianna Tillson. We know about Maggie Gunnison. We know about the baby. We know about Finn. And Ricker.”

  Which wasn’t exactly 100 percent true, but there was time to find out.

  “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say—”

  “I demand a lawyer,” Perl interrupted.

  “Brilliant,” Jake said. This explained why Perl had never answered their calls to Florida when they’d tried to contact him. He’d been here in Boston. Killing Brianna Tillson. “And if your lawyer forgets to tell you, I’m pretty sure kidnapping and murder are both life-sentence felonies. After I finish informing you of your rights, feel free to use the phone downtown. Your taxpayer dollars at work.”

  *

  Leonard Perl? The landlord? Hec? As Jane worked to put the puzzle pieces together, Jake was finishing his recitation of the Miranda rights. But Perl lived in Florida, didn’t he? Absentee landlord. This was Hec Underhill. The phone? She punched the button. Up popped what looked like a driver’s license photo. Florida DMV. Leonard Perl’s name.

  But it was a picture of Hec Underhill.

  Holy sh—And what did Jake mean by kidnapping? And Jake said Finn. Did he mean Finn Eberhardt? Before Jake took the guy away—whoever he was—she had a few questions of her own.

  “Jake, I bet Hec’s the surveillance guy. Perl, I mean. Right? He didn’t report himself to the police, see? When he got into my apartment? Probably simply turned off the camera or something. He knew I was looking into Callaberry, and Brianna Tillson’s death. He’s the one who called me, Jake! The nasty calls. Hey. Were you in my building last night, too?”

  “Lawyer,” Underhill-Perl said. “And just so you know, Miss Hotshot, the Register’s about to lay off a bunch of people. You heard it here first.”

  What a skeeve. She handed Jake his phone. Then understood the final puzzle piece. Underhill—or, Perl—knew what kind of car she drove.

  “Hec? You took my CAT? Are you kidding me? You’re the guy who handed her to Tuck. And then put her collar in my car.” Total skeeve. “Tuck had left the car open, right?”

  “Good luck finding a new job,” Perl said. “And don’t get old. No one hires you if you’re old.”

  “Nice guy.” Jake guided Perl toward his cruiser, talking over his shoulder at her. “Call me, Jane. Sorry we had to cut this short.”

  “Hey. Wait.” Jane trotted after him, already composing the story in her head. The arrest of Tillson’s killer? A Register freelancer? The paper’s lawyers were going to explode. But she had the headline.

  No longer tired, she pulled out her phone, ready to speed-dial Alex and fill him in. So much for her terror of layoffs. This was a big fat story. Who cared how late it was.

  “Jake? I need a statement. Did you say ‘kidnapping’? And Maggie Gunnison? From DFS? What’s this all about? Sounds like a huge story.”

  “Ah, maybe so. But not written by you, Janey girl.” Jake stuffed Perl into the backseat of his cruiser, slammed the door. Touched her on the nose with one finger. “Because unless he decides to confess, you’ll have to testify at this asshole’s trial.”

  *

  “Dispatch, this is Brogan.”

  Jake shifted into drive as the radio crackled to life. Perl slouched in the backseat, in the same spot where baby Diane Marie had slept only a few hours before. Perl was more the type. “I am en route with a suspect in custody, per the BOLO on Leonard Perl. You can cancel that BOLO, dispatch, as of…” Jake checked the dashboard readout. “Two-oh-five A.M.”

  He needed to call DeLuca. Imagined where he might be. Poor guy wasn’t getting much Kat McMahan time. But he’d want to hear about this. He punched in the speed dial as dispatch responded.

  “Copy that, Detective. We’ll make HQ aware.”

  “Jake?” DeLuca’s phone voice sounded groggy. “Where are you, for crap’s sake?”

  “With Leonard Perl, on the way to HQ,” Jake said. “I’m about to tell him what we know about Maggie Gunnison and baby Diane Marie. Maybe he’ll give up Finn. Before Finn gives him up.”

  Jake checked his rearview, gave Perl a cheery wave, hoping he was taking it all in. Whoever Finn was, Jake didn’t say.

  “So. D. If you’re not—otherwise occupied—thought you might like to join us downtown.”

  71

  Jane stared out her living room window, looking through the gray morning light toward the building where she’d been told the surveillance guy lived. The police department’s “camera buff.” Right. Hec Underhill. Leonard Perl. Now—as she’d heard during the arrest—in custody for the murder of Brianna Tillson. A murder he hadn’t wanted Jane to care so much about. Why had he killed her? Jake said—kidnapping?

  She’d barely been able to sleep, her brain too full of Perl and Ella and the smell of fire. She’d e-mailed Alex to pitch the story, whatever they could confirm via police protocol, but he hadn’t responded yet. There was plenty of time, especially since her byline couldn’t be on the story. Jake was right about that. The conflict of interest was enormous. Which totally sucked.

  Especially if the Register was laying off people. Like Hec—or actually, Perl—had said.

  Coda jumped onto the windowsill, getting between her and the view. She scooped her up and carried
her down the hall to the study.

  Hec—well, Perl—had taken the cat. So disgusting. So brazen. So nice that he was in custody. And so satisfying that she hadn’t been wrong. Jake had texted that Hec—she still thought of him that way—had admitted picking her lock and later rattling her door, just to scare her. The cops owed her big. Girl who cried wolf, my ass. “I don’t think so, cat.”

  Coda writhed to the floor, scampered away.

  It was easier to think about how right she’d been than about Ella Gavin, now in Mass General’s ICU. Jake would probably inform the Brannigan people about her, but Jane would have to tell Tuck. And Carlyn. Before they heard about it on the news. What would she to say to them, anyway?

  She plopped, exhausted, into her swivel chair, then looked for the millionth time at the tattered piece of paper she’d left on her desk, smoothing out the crumples yet again, smelling the remnants of the smoke that clung to it.

  A footprint. A baby’s footprint.

  Certified by the hospital as an official copy and marked BABY GIRL BEERMAN, this one piece of paper Ella saved from the fire provided the incontrovertible evidence that could reveal Tuck’s identity.

  The person whose foot matched this decades-old print was unquestionably Audrey Rose Beerman. Was that Tuck?

  The moment Jane told someone about it, the moment Jane set the wheels in motion, two lives—at least—would be forever changed. And there’d be no way to stop it.

  But this is what Tuck asked her to do. A young woman had almost died to help Tuck find the answer.

  Jane reached for the phone. Then stopped, hand in mid-air.

  Was it too early? She checked her computer monitor—still before eight in the morning. Too early. She wasn’t stalling. But no need to terrify anyone with an early morning call. She took her hand away, rested her chin on her fists, stared at the inky footprint.