The Wrong Girl

2

“Kurtz got here first. She’s got the two of ’em in her cruiser. See ’em? Parked out on the street?” The beat cop, a grizzled veteran Jake didn’t recognize, cocked his head toward the Roslindale triple-decker’s inside stairway. “Lucky my new partner likes kids. Looks pretty bad upstairs, gotta warn you, Detective Brogan. DeLuca’s already up there. Back room on the left, second floor. Crime Scene’s on the way. The ME. And family services. Snow enough for you?”

“It’s Boston, right?” Jake’s words puffed in the chill. He brushed now-melting flakes from his police-issue leather jacket, pulled out his BlackBerry for taking notes. He looked to the top of the stairs, scanning. Sniffed. Nothing. The entry door behind him was open, letting in the cold. Any smell was long frozen away.

“Door open when you got here, Officer Hennessey?” That’s what the cop’s badge said, R. Hennessey. Looked old enough to be a lifer, still on the beat.

Hennessey nodded. “They’re canvassing, seeing if anyone saw anybody leaving. So far, no.”

“And there are two kids? Whoever called nine-one-one wasn’t clear. We know who that is yet? I have the kids as last name-” Jake checked his BlackBerry shorthand. His phone always ridiculously auto-corrected. “Is it Lussier?”

“So says the nine-one-one caller.” Hennessey, a stocky fire hydrant zipped into foul-weather gear, flapped his leather gloves against his BPD navy parka. “Wish we could close the damn door.”

At least Hennessey knew enough not to touch the scarred wooden doorknob of 56 Callaberry Street. There was barely room for the two of them in the cramped square of dark-paneled foyer. The dusty bare light bulb overhead didn’t cut it, and the one on the first landing was out.

“So, the kids? Don’t they know their mother’s name?”

“We asked. ‘Mama,’ the boy said. Their own names, he knew. Phillip and Phoebe. What kind of a name is Phoebe?”

“Hennessey?” Commentary, he didn’t need. “How many kids? The nine-one-one call indicated-”

“Apparently two. Maybe the caller meant three people resided here, ya know?” Hennessey shrugged. “We found a boy and a girl, approximately one and three years of age. Weren’t crying or anything when Kurtz brought them down. Guess maybe they don’t know. Victim’s their mother, looks like, white female, age approximately thirty. Checking her ID now. Cause of death, looks like blunt trauma. No weapon so far. Like I said. Ugly. Frying pan, something like that.”

“So says-?” Jake raised an eyebrow. It wouldn’t have been Kurtz, the officer who had the kids in her cruiser. She was new on the street, just promoted from cadet, now evidently partnered with Hennessey. The ME was still on the way.

“So says your partner, DeLuca.” Hennessey lifted his plastic-covered cap with one hand, propping it while he scratched a bristle of gray hair. “Guess he’d know. You two the big-time detectives and all.”

Here we go. All he needed. Yes, his grandfather, Grandpa Brogan, had been police commissioner. Yes, Jake got his gold badge at thirty, three years ago. Jake had aced the academy, probably gotten higher scores than this guy. Still, even cracking last fall’s Bridge Killer case, getting the commendation from Superintendent Rivera, hadn’t stopped the sneers from the old-timers. “The Supe’s fair-haired boy,” they called him. Whatever.

Jake ignored the bait. “So the nine-one-one caller? Any ID? I know we’ll have it on tape, but anything else I should know?”

“Yo, Harvard, that you?” Paul DeLuca’s voice boomed down the stairwell. “You planning on coming up here anytime soon?”

“Chill,” Jake yelled back. Jake’s college history and Brahmin mother were a constant source of amused derision for his partner, though after a few close calls together and a couple of massacres on the basketball court, their relationship had matured into respect and good-natured banter. Jake held two thumbs over his phone keyboard. “So, Officer Hennessey? Anything? Sign of forced entry? Anyone else live in the apartment? Husband, boyfriend, the nine-one-one caller?”

“Nope. Nobody’s owning up. Neighbors all say it wasn’t them. Mighta been a blocked cell, ya know?”

Calling from a cell phone, Jake knew, didn’t give dispatchers a GPS location. Enhanced 911 often worked only from a landline.

“Cell phone nine-one-ones are a bitch,” Jake said. “Keep at the canvass, though, right?”

Hennessey’s eyes went past him and out to Callaberry Street, where a gray-and-blue cruiser idled, plumes of exhaust darker gray than the darkening afternoon.

“Poor kids,” the beat cop said. “They’re screwed.”