Thinking of her drive with Tuck to see Carlyn. And that person in the black truck who’d terrified them on the highway.
Jake had mentioned “Finn.” There could be another Finn, of course, but Jake’s Finn was involved with Perl. Maybe she should give Mr. F. Eberhardt a call at DFS.
Hmm.
Were the DFS people—Maggie Gunnison—aware of Perl’s arrest yet? Even if Jane couldn’t write the story, she could help out the reporter who did by digging up a reaction quote. Any brownie points she could get with Alex were a good thing.
It took only a second to get connected. Eight o’clock. She imagined Vee enthroned at the reception desk. “Maggie Gunnison, please.”
“She’s not … available,” Vee said.
Probably too early. Or—of course, she was still on vacation, in Anguilla. She’d missed everything. “Okay, then, may I speak to Finn Eberhardt?”
“He’s in today, but out of the office, on the road, ma’am,” Vee said. “He’s probably driving right now. I can patch you through to his cell phone.”
Before Jane could reply, she heard a click and a buzz—exactly like she had in the car when she’d asked Tuck to check that Finn couldn’t be tailgating them. The same noises she’d heard when Tuck placed their test call to DFS.
“Finn Eberhardt,” the voice came back.
*
“Curtis Ricker. What an asshole.” DeLuca, in the passenger seat of Jake’s cruiser, was already on his third cup of coffee. From the looks of him, he’d had about as rough a night as Jake. Turned out DeLuca hadn’t been with Kat McMahan, but hearing a crack-of-dawn confession from a terrified, hysterical Maggie Gunnison. “They’re all assholes.”
“So you told her Ricker was dead? Why?” Jake stopped at the light, a search warrant safely in his pocket. He and DeLuca were about to kick some bad guy ass, if he did say so himself. About time. According to Maggie Gunnison, Ricker had been in on the kidnapping scheme. Though it didn’t excuse Hennessey’s disastrous action, at least Jake’s arrest of the creep was righteous.
More good news—since Perl was now in custody, it didn’t matter whether little Phillip identified baby Diane. He’d be safe with Bethany till this all played out. Things were looking up.
“Why not tell her?” DeLuca shrugged. “Filled her in on the Perl arrest, too. I went to her cell, told her—‘You don’t have to say a thing, just thought you’d like to know.’ Yadda yadda. She flipped out. Couldn’t spill the beans fast enough. Said she didn’t need a lawyer.”
“You got her on tape? Saying that?”
“Oh, duh, no, shoulda thought of that. Mercy me, if only you’d been there.”
“Screw you.” Everybody was a comedian.
“No, thanks,” D said. He took a slug of coffee, put it back in the cup holder. “So. That guy Finn that Perl was talking about? Works at DFS with Maggie. He’s Perl’s nephew. He’s in the dark about the arrest, of course, so we’ll pay Mr. Eberhardt a nice visit. If we can get him to talk voluntarily, we won’t have to read him his rights.”
“You’re a credit to the force, D,” Jake said. “Did Gunnison explain the Ricker connection?”
“Yup. Ricker was Perl’s—like, apartment manager. Watched over the places where they did the ‘kid exchanges,’ that’s what they called it. Knew all about it. Maggie’d yank the children from the system, always on a weekend. She’d babysit until Perl picked them up.”
Jake thought back. “Remember when we asked if he had ‘dependents’? On Prize Patrol day? He kinda hesitated, remember? Man. It was because there were kids depending on him. Just not his own.”
“Asshole. Like I said. Anyway, this Maggie Gunnison. Turns out she had no idea Perl was cashing in. That he was getting money for arranging the adoptions. I informed our clueless Maggie that he was not Lord Bountiful. That Crime Scene had easily found the bank records in Perl’s apartment, the kickbacks from the adoption lawyer. We’re talking like, megabucks. That’s what really did it. She’s gonna testify. Slam dunk. Yay for the good guys.”
Jake considered this as he checked the house numbers on the cookie-cutter Cape Cods lining the neighborhood. Lots of “for sale” signs. Sagging shutters and rusting cars. Grim. Even the melting layer of snow was grubby. “She was doing it out of some misguided good intentions? Thought she was helping kids go to better homes?”
DeLuca pointed at a maybe-white house. “That’s it. Forty-three Bronwell Street. Up the block. Yup. That’s how Uncle Lennie Perl and nephew Eberhardt convinced her to help them. ‘You have the power to make a better life for the kids.’ She said she couldn’t come up with a reason why it wasn’t a good thing.”
“The old ‘kidnapping is against the law’ didn’t occur to her, apparently. You ready?” Jake parked the cruiser half a block away. It was unmarked, but scumbags could always sniff out cops. Only the good guys were easier to fool.
They walked up three concrete steps to a sagging wooden porch, saw the aluminum mailbox gaping open, hanging by one nail.
“Don’t even think about it,” Jake muttered.
“Gimme a break.” DeLuca kept his voice low, too. “You knocking?”
“Backup’s nearby if we need ’em. Here we go.” Jake banged on the door. “I hear a TV inside. They’re home. This is gonna be interesting.”
*
“Get the door,” Kev yelled. As usual, he didn’t move from his spot on the couch. The creeps were glued to some guy on TV who was eating raw bugs or something, completely gross. She’d headed for the kitchen, where there was real food. Calories didn’t count this early in the day.
Kellianne twisted open the plastic milk bottle. Sniffed. Winced. Yuck. “I’m in the kitchen, moron,” she yelled, dumping the milk into the sink. “Get off your ass for once.” That part she said only to herself.
She turned on the water, looked for a cleanish glass. It would be great if Mom was home more. She was always at the hospital, where things weren’t looking good for Dad, least that’s what she’d heard her mother say to someone on the phone. Mom hadn’t talked to the three of them much at all. There was some commotion in the living room, probably on TV. Who’d be knocking on their door? It was only like nine in the morning.
But maybe it was a special delivery? Her money from RedSky? Shit! She should’ve answered the door. If the boys got hold of it they’d demand to know what it was and she’d be—
She ran down the hall, toward the noise, trying to think of how she was gonna explain this.
Who was that?
She skidded to a halt at the edge of the living room. Kev and Keefer were with two guys, a tall guy and a cuter one, both wearing leather jackets. They looked familiar, but she couldn’t place them. The cute one was showing Kev a piece of paper.
“You a Sessions?” the tall one said to her.
“I’m—” Kellianne pursed her lips, thinking hard. Who were these guys?
“Don’t you say a word.” Kev pointed to her. His ears were turning red and she could see he was fuming. Keefer’s fists were clenching and unclenching.
This was not the mailman.
“I’m Detective Jake Brogan, Boston PD,” the cute one said. “This is my partner, Detective Paul DeLuca. I gather you’re Kevin, Keefer, and Kellianne? We’ve got a search warrant for the residence of Kent R. Sessions and the offices of Afterwards Cleaning, Inc., including any and all items belonging to Lillian Finch, Niall Brannigan, and Brianna Tillson. So now I’m going to ask all of you to—”
“I demand a lawyer.” Kev yelled it at the top of his lungs, though someone had put the TV on mute and there was no problem hearing.
“Lot of that going around,” the DeLuca guy said. “Jake, if you’d care to explain to Mr. Sessions that we don’t give a crap if he wants a lawyer. He’s not under arrest. We’re executing a search warrant, whether he yells about it or not.”
Search warrant? For what?
“Search warrant for what?” If no one was gonna stand up for them, she’d better. The cute one�
��Brogan, did he say?—was still holding the paper up for Kev to read.
“At least one of you has a brain,” DeLuca said.
Ha, Kellianne thought.
Then she thought about what was under her bed. On her computer. She remembered the chain with the cross around her neck. Shit. If they found that? But wait. It wasn’t illegal to sell murderabilia. Let these cops look wherever they wanted. She had nothing to hide. Only her brothers did. The old guy and the fire. No way the cops could get her for those things. She’d been forced. Yes. Forced to do what they said.
“‘For what’ is precisely what I’m in the process of explaining to your—brother?” Brogan answered her.
She nodded silently, trying to look like she was scared of her brother. Might as well.
“By the way. Anyone care to tell us where you three were last night?” Brogan said.
“Here,” Kev said.
“Yeah,” Kellianne said. Were the cops on to them? They couldn’t be. This was just fishing.
“We were here the whole time,” Kev said.
“The whole time of what?” DeLuca asked.
“You were all home. Okay.” Brogan was interrupting him. “So let’s have the three of you sit right there on that lovely couch, and Detective DeLuca will stand by while I do some checking. We have backup on the way. It shouldn’t take long.”
72
Why hadn’t Alex called back or e-mailed? Jane checked her watch. Nine A.M. He should be at the Register by now, she thought, stepping inside the black-and-white tiled foyer of Ella’s apartment building. The address had been a cinch to find on Google.
She sniffed, wrinkled her nose. Oatmeal. Coffee. Wet wool. A row of louvered metal mailboxes labeled “G” through “8” lined one wall. “G” had a stick-on label saying Gavin. Okay, then.
Which key for the inner door? Jane guessed right, the door opened easily, and she took a short flight of stairs down to the door marked G. She listened, half-worried it’d be the wrong apartment and she’d get yelled at—or shot—by some trigger-happy terrified resident. Jane smiled, shaking her head. She was tired. She’d finish here, call Alex again, maybe even risk going to the paper.
Wait a minute. What risk?
She paused, holding the key, motionless, in the silence of the hallway. The bad guy was arrested. She stood a little straighter, smiling. No longer anything to be afraid of. Go in, feed the cat, get out. Get back to real life.
The lock clicked open. Jane heard a thump and a rustle, then one inquiring meow. A ball of white fluff padded toward her—stopped—then skittered away, streaking underneath a glass coffee table and flattening itself under a plaid couch.
“I’m okay, cat,” Jane said. “Chill. Ella says hi. She’ll be home soon. I’m just going to feed you.”
The cat did not come out.
Jane headed toward the kitchen, keeping her parka on. An insistent red light flashed on Ella’s phone, but Jane ignored it. In, then out. She’d open cabinets till she found the food. And she’d leave extra water.
Guessing again, Jane pulled the white ceramic knob of the cabinet nearest the refrigerator. A tattered Target bag tumbled to the floor.
Damn. No cat food.
She reached down to stuff the bag back into place. It looked like the one Ella carried at Dunkin’s Monday morning, the one she’d guarded so vigilantly. Jane looked inside. Files.
She dumped the manila folders onto the kitchen table. Beerman. Tuck’s file? She examined the others, fast as she could. Lamonica. Hoffner. DaCosto. Who were those people?
She unsnapped her parka, draped it over the metal chair, and sat. Just for a minute. Opened the Beerman file. A yellow sticky on the inside had a penciled notation: No footprint?
Lamonica. The same notation, the same handwriting. Over and over.
She tried to make herself close the files and leave. This was—private stuff. Another yellow sticky caught her attention.
What was that? A noise.
She jumped up, almost toppling the files. Then burst out laughing. The cat had padded into the kitchen and was now nudging Jane’s leg with her nose.
“I know you’re hungry, cat.” Jane reached to pet her as she sat down at the table again. “But I need to look at one thing.”
*
Which one of the Sessions was the weak link? They needed only to get one to confess and rat the others out. Jake couldn’t decide which sad sack looked most unhappy. The three lumped on the couch, two of them—the big shot with the muscles and the sidekick with the ratty mustache—staring straight ahead. The sister was intent on her hair, biting off the ends one strand at a time.
“Before I execute the warrant,” Jake said, “let me offer you an option. We’re gonna find something. I have no doubt of that.”
“Pssss,” one of the three muttered.
“Sorry? I missed that,” Jake said.
“Piss off,” DeLuca said.
“Oh, gotcha,” Jake said. “Like I was saying. If any of you would like to simply tell us what’s going on—about Niall Brannigan, and Margolin Street, and whatever you have going with Leonard Perl, who is now in custody, you might like to know—” Jake paused, checking for reactions. Got none. “It’s gonna go a lot easier. First to talk is the first to walk.”
DeLuca nodded. “And the other two are suckers.”
“Any takers?” Jake held up a palm. “You don’t have to say anything now. Just stand up and come with me. Show me where to look.”
*
“So you’ve got to come, Tuck, soon as you can.” Jane hadn’t budged from Ella’s kitchen table, although the files she’d been reading for the past half hour made no sense at all. The cat was now purring on her lap. “Like I said, Ella gave me a footprint. Now all her other files are marked as ‘no footprints.’ Last Sunday you asked me to help you figure out if you were the wrong girl, and I think the answer’s here. But the only people who can decipher these files are at the Brannigan. I say—get back to Boston, and let’s go. Let’s go ask them.”
As Tuck protested, Jane eased the cat to the floor and filled up an extra bowl of water. What was Tuck’s problem? She thought of Ella. What she’d sacrificed.
“Listen. Tuck. You started it. Come, or don’t. I’m going to the Brannigan. I’m going to find out what’s going on. With you, or without you.”
*
Jake would have bet on the wiseass sidekick, but Kellianne was his second choice. She stood, slowly, eyeing her brothers, then tossing her unfortunate hair. Jake kept thinking about how she bit off the ends. Why would anyone do that?
“Yes, Kellianne?” Jake said.
“And we have a winner,” DeLuca said.
“Hey, bitch, what do you think you’re doing?” The one called Keefer tried to stand up, but the Kevin guy yanked him back to the couch.
“Rat blood.” Kevin took a swig of whatever was in his mug, then raised it at her. “Rat blood in her veins. Screw you, sister. We know what’s under your bed.”
“Hey, you moron,” Kellianne said. “I’m the one who—”
“Screw you. Not anymore,” Kev said. “Do it, Detectives. Look under her bed.”
This was going nicely.
“Kellianne?” Jake said.
“Yeah, well, you should look in their backpacks. See the scrips they swiped from every house we’ve done.” The girl planted her fists on her hips, stuck out her tongue at her brothers. “They get in early, take the good stuff from the medicine cabinets before anyone notices. They think I don’t know. Well, think again.”
She plopped back down on the couch.
“Hey, you can’t—” Kevin stood, glowering at her.
“What’re you trying to—?” Keefer got up and shouldered in front of him, interrupting.
Jake shot them a look. Make my day. They stopped. Closed their mouths.
“Family Feud,” DeLuca said.
“My favorite show,” Jake said.
It took Jake less than two minutes to find the brothers’
stash of prescription drugs, a ratty brown paper bag crammed with amber plastic containers, contents all still conveniently labeled. Oxycodone. Percocet. Oxycontin. Vicodin. Dilaudid.
All labeled with other people’s names.
“You’re all three under arrest for the illegal possession of class B narcotics.” Jake returned to the living room, holding up the bag. “Oh, and larceny. And suspicion of arson, since there are several bottles here labeled ‘Lillian Finch.’ Seems to me you’d have to be in that house to have swiped those. Did you know there was a woman inside during the fire? That’s gonna present another legal problem for you.”
“Screw you,” Kevin said.
“So you keep saying,” Jake said. “But wait. There’s more. Let me mention you’re also being charged with manslaughter in the death of Niall Brannigan. He had a heart attack, the medical examiner says. But she will testify someone dragged him—still alive—to his car. And there he died.”
“Yes. Yes. They carried him out.” Kellianne stood, raising her hand, like a little kid trying to get the teacher to call on her. “The old guy. They made me help them. And that’s all I’m saying until I get a deal.”
“Shut up,” Kevin said. He yanked her back down to the couch.
“Smartest thing you’ve said today, Mr. Sessions,” Jake said. “D, wanna take over from here? This is quite the drugstore our friends have accumulated. They’ve really—how shall I put it? Cleaned up.”
“They’re gonna love you at Cedar Junction,” DeLuca said. “Maximum security prisons always need experienced cleanup crews.”
As DeLuca read the three their rights, Jake headed for the back of the house. He guessed Kellianne’s bedroom was the one with the pink walls and the flowered bedspread. Lifting the edge of the spread, he felt around underneath the bed.
And pulled out a zipped tote bag.
73
“Well, who is on the city desk, then?” Jane checked her gas gauge as she started the engine. The Register receptionist was giving her a hard time. “Ginnie? It’s me, Jane Ryland. I need to talk to whoever’s making up the front page. I have the lede. But it’s like no one cares.”
The Wrong Girl (Jane Ryland) Page 32
