The Wrong Girl

46

The last time Jake looked at his alarm clock, the glowing green numbers said 2:47 A.M. He refused to look again. He stared at the ceiling, stretched out in bed, spy thriller on his chest, no idea what he’d read. He was doomed, as Jane always said. He’d longed to call her, but held off. Surveillance reported her situation as normal. She’d better have changed those locks.

It didn’t make sense. The Jane he knew would not have left her door unlocked. He plopped the book onto the floor, turned over on his side, then tried the other side. He slept, right, every night? So why not tonight?

Nothing else made sense, either. The whole Bethany thing. When he’d arrived at her house, the social worker had been on the couch with Phillip, reading Dr. Seuss. No matter how they tried, cajoled, enticed, the boy would not say anything but “Batcar.”

“Yes, Batcar,” Jake had said, half-amused. At least the boy remembered him. Poor kid. But they got no further. He’d left Bethany-who seemed more flustered than usual, but maybe she was wiped out from dealing with two troubled children-with instructions to try to tape Phillip’s words. He could put her on the stand, or before a judge, to report she’d heard the little boy refer to a baby. It’d be hearsay, of course. In court, some defense attorney would object the hell out of it.

And what if he’d been talking about his little sister, Phoebe? Jake had stayed for an hour, hung out watching Phillip and Phoebe power through Bethany’s mac and cheese, but nothing. The boy said zippo. Which meant Jake was either nuts, or unlucky.

“Damn.”

Diva, curled up on her special rug, opened her inquiring eyes to check on him, then closed them, keeping one paw on her stuffed frog.

Phillip Lussier wasn’t the only thing keeping Jake awake. What if he’d arrested the wrong guy?

Jake went over it, yet again. Something snagged his brain, every time. For one, what motive would Curtis Ricker have for killing his ex-wife? Yes, he was a slug and a lowlife, but that didn’t make him a murderer. What if Jake’s drive to close the case had turned him into a narrow-minded hack?

Ricker’s alibi was thin. He’d told Jake he was at Doyle’s Bar. Impossible to confirm. But even more problematic, the kids, Phillip and Phoebe, weren’t his. Maggie Gunnison’s records substantiated that. So the whole “calling 911 to protect the children he cared about” theory made zero sense.

He’d had Officer Kurtz show Ricker’s photo door-to-door on Callaberry, but she reported she’d come up dry. No one knew him, no one had ever seen him.

But. The keys. No reason for Ricker to have keys to Brianna’s apartment unless he’d used them. The jerk had denied knowing anything about them. Not possible. Jake punched his pillow, tried to get comfortable.

Ricker was in the Suffolk County House of Correction, awaiting Wednesday’s arraignment. Had Jake arrested an innocent man? Charged him with murder?

No. The keys were-the key. Jake sighed, turning over again. He had no one to talk to about this. DeLuca was probably off with Kat, enjoying double entendre pillow talk about blunt instruments.

“Shit.” He said it out loud. This time Diva raised her head, floppy golden ears perked. Gave a questioning woof, and sat up. “No, not sit.”

He sighed, staring at the green-lighted numerals on his alarm clock: 4:00 A.M. Time to sleep. But his brain would not shut off.

No one else lived at Ricker’s apartment. So the keys could not belong to someone else. Unless someone else had access?

“Shit,” Jake said again. This time, Diva bounced to her feet, picked up Frog, and deposited it on the edge of Jake’s bed. “Good girl,” he said. Poor dog was totally confused. She was probably as exhausted as he was, too.

He gave her a pat, then reached to his nightstand and clicked on his iPad. This was the stupidest idea ever. He could do this in the morning. What the hell. It was already morning.

He found the city of Boston Web site. Clicked on “Assessor’s office.” Then “property owner.”

Typed in Ricker’s address. 343 Edgeworth Street, Allston.

Waited.

The screen dipped to black, then flashed into life.

Error 404, Server is unable to process your request.

Jake clicked off the tablet, resting it on his chest as he stared, once again, at the murky ceiling. Of course. Why did he think anything would work? Shadows slashed across the walls, headlights from an occasional car.

Grandpa Brogan always told him to trust his instincts. Did Jake even have the cop instinct? Sometimes it seemed he did, and was gratified by that. Even proud. Times like this, though, he wasn’t so sure.

Jane stared at the ceiling, her downy white comforter pulled up to her chin. No way could she sleep. Had she ever lived through a weirder day? Tuck and the stupid truck, then her open apartment door. Jake’s arrival. Phillip calling her Mama.

She closed her eyes, but that didn’t work, and she stared at the white-painted ceiling again.

Why had Jake gone to see Bethany Sibbach? Bethany had been so nervous, upset that she’d been speaking to Jane without permission. There wasn’t time for Jane to explain she and Jake were-whatever they were.

Jane punched her pillow, trying to get comfortable.

Bethany had grabbed Jane’s parka and purse and shooed her into an upstairs study, with stern warnings to keep perfectly silent until Bethany came to get her. She’d tried like crazy to hear what the two were talking about in the living room, actually put her ear to the floor-you never know-but couldn’t hear a thing. Trapped, she’d paged though about four New Yorkers and used up the battery on her iPhone catching up on e-mails. She couldn’t risk the sound of voice mail. Her sister Lissa’s wedding was looming, if you could call June “looming” in February. Liss was being relentless about making sure Jane would be there in time for the rehearsal, and get her dress altered, and find shoes, and was she bringing a date? Jane finished quietly tapping out her reassuring answer-except for the date part, for which there was nothing reassuring-just as the battery warning flashed.

Bethany had finally given the all-clear. Luckily, Jane had parked in the back, so Jake didn’t see her car. But no matter how Jane pressed, Bethany had decided their “interview” was over. Spooked by Jake’s arrival, she’d decided one close call was enough. She was done talking to Jane. About anything.

Jane punched the eiderdown again, stuck her bare feet out one side. Too hot. So much for her interview idea.

What was that?

She lay still, listening. Flat on her back. Was someone trying her front door?

She swung her feet to the floor, slid into her slippers, grabbed her cotton robe from the hook, and tiptoed down the hallway, yanking the terry belt closed and trying to decide whether to be angry or terrified. She paused, listening. Nothing.

Should she call 911?

Hawkeye, or whatever the cop’s brother’s name really was, was still supposedly monitoring her building from across the street. Or had the cops concluded she was a ditz who imagined catastrophes? And told him to forget about her?

Her front door. She listened. Nothing.

She checked in the peephole. Nothing. Left the chain on, clicked open the door. Peered through. Nothing. Opened the door. Nothing.

The hallway’s wallpaper, tones of taupe stripes, glowed in the light of the fluted milk-glass sconces. Jane heard silence, only silence, not even a murmur from some insomniac’s TV, or a gurgling dishwasher, or a midnight shower.

Flecks of sawdust from the locksmith’s work sprinkled the hall’s hardwood floor. Her new lock, shiny brass and solid, announced to all comers that changes had been made. Neena had left her three new keys with a note saying she’d kept the fourth for herself. So even if someone, whoever it might be, had made a copy of her other key-ridiculous, and unlikely, but still-they couldn’t use it anymore.

Puffing out an annoyed breath, she closed the door, locked it, chained it. She held up three fingers, Girl Scout’s promise: No more fear.

She was going. To. Sleep. No more fear.

Jane climbed back under the rumpled comforter, nestled into her pillow, closed her eyes.

Tomorrow, she and Tuck would go to Connecticut and see if they could figure out the connection between Carlyn Beerman and Tucker Cameron. If there was one.

Was Tuck her real daughter? Or the wrong girl?