The Wrong Girl

25

No way was she letting them go upstairs. Jake seemed way more interested in the Brannigan thing-or maybe in Tuck?-than Jane had expected. He’d gotten off the elevator. And clearly been annoyed with D for mentioning “the bad guy.” These two stories were connected, somehow, whatever happened at the Brannigan and the Callaberry death, and they were going to ensure her continued employment at the Register. Thank you, journalism gods.

“Does Margaret Gunnison have something to do with the Brannigan?” she asked. Might as well try to get the rest of the story. The elevator pinged. On its way down.

She watched the two cops exchange glances.

No answer, huh? Okay, then.

“Is it”-she was taking a chance here, but why not?-“something about Bree?”

Jake took a coffee from D’s tray, flipped the lid, took a sip. Not answering. D grabbed his own cup, then pushed the tray into a metal waste bin. Not answering.

Jane almost burst out laughing at their studied evasion. She must be on the trail of something, because they were not-answering like mad. Often a very good sign that the question was worth asking.

“Guys?” Jane said. “If you’re finished with your coffee break? Something’s going on, and you’re doing a pretty stinko job of covering it up. What does Brannigan have to do with Maggie Gunnison? What’s the deal with Bree? I’m a reporter, remember?”

“I sure do.” Jake jabbed the up button. The floor indicator blinked 4, and coming down fast. “But duty calls. So if you have questions, you’ll have to contact PR. That’s how we do it downtown. You want the number?”

“Gimme a break.” Jane grabbed his jacket, then took her hand away. The silver doors slid open. “Off the record. Tell me.”

DeLuca stepped into the elevator. “I’ll leave you two kids alone,” he said.

Jake stared at her, but she couldn’t read him. He seemed to think for a minute, his back to DeLuca. Jane could see D’s boot was keeping the elevator doors open.

“What?” Jane asked, wishing for telepathy. Jake wanted something from her, she knew him well enough to see that. And she sure did want something from him.

“Like I said. Call PR, Jane,” he said. But with his thumbs he was clearly sending her a different message. Text me.

I have to get out of Mr. Brannigan’s office. I have to go home. Ella tried to hold back her tears, tried to remember to breathe, knowing it was not proper to cry in front of the entire Brannigan staff, yet she couldn’t help it, not at all, no matter how hard she clenched her fists. She was upset about Ms. Finch. And she was upset about that bag of copied documents that festered, like the TellTale Heart, under her desk.

What should she do with those now?

“Then that concludes our meeting,” Mr. Brannigan was saying. “Again, I thank you all for your patience and compassion. I will have more information as it becomes available.”

The office door opened, and Grace gestured the downcast staffers into the hallway. Ella turned, following them out, head bowed. Her fingernails bit into her palms. I have to go home. I’ll take the documents with me. I’ll burn them. Or something.

She stood a little straighter, reconsidering. Trying to regroup. Whatever someone did wrong, it really wasn’t her fault. She was the good guy. She was trying to help. She was-

“Miss Gavin?” Mr. Brannigan’s voice lassoed her from behind. “May I ask you to stay a moment?”

Ella’s stomach hit the floor.

“Close the door, please, will you?”

The girl was an idiot, no doubt about that. Crying? Well, of course she was upset that her supervisor was dead-he supposed. But Brannigan had long harbored the suspicion that Ella’s deer-in-the-headlights act was only that, an act, and that she actually had her eye on the big desk in Lillian’s office. Not that she’d have the temerity to say anything to him about it. He stopped, remembering the new reality. Now he’d never be able to ask Lillian.

Funny how things worked. Or didn’t.

“Miss Gavin?” Brannigan circled behind his desk, waving her to a visitor’s chair, careful to keep a sympathetic expression. Make sure she knew she wasn’t… in trouble. He had her, certainly for being late today. Also for her unauthorized visit to Lillian’s office last evening. Why was she there? What’s more, it would be helpful to know how much Lillian had told her, if anything. He’d had perfect confidence in Lillian, but then one never knew with women.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, for all of our loss. Ms. Finch was a particular fan of yours, always spoke highly of you, and…”

“Oh, Mr. Brannigan, what happened to her?” The girl had tears running down her cheeks, her nose going all red. She twisted her hands, worrying the edges of her cardigan sweater between her fingers.

“Well, we don’t know, Ella,” he said. “But I’m wondering if there’s any way you can help us help the authorities in this matter. Did she ever, say, divulge to you any reason why she was, perhaps, upset? Worried?”

Brannigan worked to keep his own face blank as he tried to read Ella’s expression. Fear, certainly. Knowledge, possibly.

“No, nothing,” Ella wiped her eyes with the back of one hand, then cleared her throat, as if the words didn’t want to come out. Gulped. “Nothing. I mean, what do you mean?”

“Was she-happy in her work? Did she have, shall we say, any stresses in her personal life?”

“Her-well, no, Mr. Brannigan-we never-I mean, she wouldn’t have-I mean, I never thought-”

Ella didn’t seem able to finish a sentence.

“You’re upset,” he said. And doing an unsuccessful job of hiding something. “But we must persevere. If you’d like to, perhaps, take the rest of the day off, go home?”

She leaned forward, eyes widening, like a child longing for a sweet. “Yes, I-”

“But first,” Brannigan said, “could you bring me Ms. Finch’s current files? I’d like the dossiers on the next clients designated to get the Call, as well as those from the last month or so.”

Ella stood, as if straining toward the door. “Okay-I mean, yes, I’ll find them.”

Seemed as if her voice still wasn’t working properly. Interesting.

“Ella? Is there something-”

The girl blinked at him. “No, I was only thinking… it’s actually Mr. Munson in History and Records who’d have the archived files. Should I ask his office for them?”

“Don’t bother them now,” Brannigan said. “We’ll talk about Ms. Finch’s clients tomorrow.”

Now. That expression was worrisome. How much did this girl know?