The Wrong Girl

61

“I thought you were in Anguilla.” Jake blurted the first thing that came to his mind, not exactly by-the-book cop talk, but seeing the woman in Ricker’s ratty armchair pushed protocol straight out of his head. He’d stepped through the back of the closet, pushed through the two coats on Ricker’s side, and opened the closet door right into Ricker’s hallway. Instantly had a clear view of the living room. And a clear view of Margaret Gunnison.

Last he’d seen of the DFS caseworker, she was fast-talking through their interview about the kids in the Tillson murder because she was headed for Logan airport. Off to the Caribbean for a week. Only two days had gone by. She wasn’t tan.

“I only-” Margaret Gunnison pulled a swaddled bundle in a blue-striped flannel blanket closer to her chest. A molded plastic car seat decorated with pink Scottie dogs sat on the couch beside a zipped diaper bag. “You can’t-”

Jake saw a pink knit cap peeking out from the flannel, a tiny pink nose, and tiny closed eyes. Tried to read the expression on Gunnison’s face. Panic? Fear? Anger?

He cocked his head at D, who’d stepped from the closet behind him. Stand down, Jake signaled, as he lowered his own weapon, but didn’t holster it. This situation-whatever it was-wouldn’t be solved with guns. He hoped.

“Who’s that?” DeLuca scanned the room, got the picture.

“You remember Margaret Gunnison, the deputy commissioner of the DFS,” Jake said. “Maggie, you remember my partner, Detective DeLuca. Maggie? Who’s that in your arms? Is that Phillip and Phoebe’s…,” he was guessing now, “… sister?”

No answer. Okay, then.

“Is anyone upstairs, Maggie?” That’d be the big hitch. A woman and a baby in a supposedly empty apartment escaping into the home of a now-dead murder suspect, that was trouble enough. But if she had an accomplice hiding upstairs, that’d be a different story. What the hell was the deal? Was Maggie protecting this infant? Or kidnapping it? Was someone listening to everything they said?

Jake kept his voice calm. “We can talk. You can keep holding the baby. But only if we’re alone.”

Her eyes didn’t flicker to upstairs, a good sign. She adjusted the bundle in her arms, pulled at the seam of the blanket. A tear rolled down her cheek. She swiped it away with a finger.

“You want me to check upstairs, Jake?” DeLuca, voice barely audible, still had his weapon out.

Jake raised a finger. Wait one.

“We’re alone,” she whispered.

“Okay, Maggie. I’m trusting you. What’s the baby’s name?” Jake needed to get into Maggie’s head about this. Figure out what she thought about this child. So far, he had no idea if Maggie was a wacko who might use the child as a bargaining chip. Or a hostage. That damn car seat and diaper bag bugged him. Where was she planning to take the baby? When? Why? One wrong word, one misstep or miscalculation, and this whole thing would go up in flames.

“Her name is Diane Marie Weaver.” Maggie looked down at the baby, fussed with the blanket, tucking it under her feet again. “Her mother’s dead, but she must have wished her daughter to be happy. She must have. And since baby Diane Marie has no other relatives-her father’s unknown-I’m helping her.”

“So…” Jake had to tread carefully here. “You’re not her mother?”

Maggie looked up at him, half-smiling as if that were the silliest question ever. “Oh, no,” she said. “Of course not.”

“Okay, Maggie, help me now,” Jake said. “You were on the other side of the duplex, right? With baby Diane Marie? You heard us come in? And you ran to this side of the house so we wouldn’t find you?”

Maggie nodded, silent.

“Is my partner going to be okay if he goes up there? There’s no one there? I’m trusting you, Maggie. Yes?”

“It’s only us,” she whispered.

Jake cocked his head at DeLuca. “Okay. Check it out. Be careful.”

What did she do before cell phones? By the second ring, Jane had grabbed hers by feel from her tote bag as she braked to a semistop in the slow-moving Fast Lane of the Mass Turnpike, rush hour in full swing. Was it Jake? She inventoried herself, just in case. Black turtleneck, clean. Good jeans, her good flat boots. Hair, okay. Makeup, fixable.

“This is-,” she began. Fingers crossed.

“It’s me,” Tuck said. “Ella called. She wanted you, said she knew all along it was you at the Dunkin’s. So much for that idea. But she said she had to talk to you, wouldn’t tell me what it was about, so I gave her your cell, I hope that’s okay, and she-”

Jane’s call waiting beeped in, interrupting Tuck’s light-speed recitation.

“Tuck? Call you back.” She had to see if it was Jake. Punching the phone onto speaker, she inched through the tolls toward Boston. “This is Jane.”

“Miss Ryland? I’m so sorry to call. It’s Ella. Ella Gavin. Ella from-”

“Yes, Ella, I know.” Jane was going to kill Tuck.

“Okay. Good. Like I told Miss Cameron, I recognized you at the coffee shop. It didn’t seem like you wanted me to, but everyone knows you. How you protect your sources, no matter what. How trustworthy you are. That’s why I’m calling. It has to be confidential.”

“Well, thank you, Ella.” Jane wondered where the hell this was going. Why does everyone ask for confidential? “Of course. Confidential. What can I do for you?”

“Have you not picked up your messages at work?” Ella said. “I left you one two days ago telling you about Mr. Brannigan.”

“Really?” There had been nothing on Jane’s phone, so-oh. The operator had probably sent Ella to the “Jane” line, the voice-mail limbo where stressed-out receptionists dumped what they decided were nuisance calls. Which interns answered. Sometimes.

“I bet you got the tip line,” Jane said. “I apologize. That’s-anyway. But I know about Mr. Brannigan, and I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Listen, Miss Ryland?”

“Jane.” She was past exit 14 now. Almost home.

“Jane. Okay. Ah, I’d get in trouble if anyone knew I-Well, listen. I have the paperwork that proves Miss Cameron is not really Audrey Rose Beerman. The original intake documents for baby Beerman don’t show a bracelet or note. Mrs. Beerman would have them, too, to compare. But thing is, I called some other families who were reunited with their birth children by Lillian, and it seems like…” Her voice trailed off, almost buried in the roar of a thundering sixteen-wheeler.

“Ella? Are you there?”

“Well, I think-I think they could have been sent the wrong children, too.”

“What?” Jane tried to process this. “Why would anyone-”

“I’m outside Lillian Finch’s house right now,” Ella interrupted, talking even faster. “With a key she gave me. There was nothing in her office that proved anything. So I think the proof must be in her house.”

Was this flake planning to go inside? Into the home of a possible murder victim? Jane tried to concentrate on the road, on the increasing sputter of snow, and on how to keep Ella from making the dumbest move imaginable.

“Ella? I’m so glad you called. Very wise of you. We can talk. But listen, don’t do that. Don’t go inside. I know you have a key, and I know she gave it to you.” No harm in letting Ella think she believed it. “Let me ask you. Is there crime scene tape on the door? That would mean the house is sealed, and there’s no way for you to go inside. It would be illegal.”

Silence. The traffic was molasses, headlights and streetlights struggling to illuminate the way.

“I can’t tell about any tape from here,” Ella said. “There’s trees. I’m across the street, in my car, and it’s kind of snowing. I’ve been sitting here kind of a long time. But I don’t care. I’m going in.”

Jane hit her forehead with the heel of her hand. Colossally dumb. Insane. But it wasn’t Jane’s responsibility to-Fine. “Ella? You called to ask me what to do, right?”

“Right. But now I’ve decided. On my own. I’m not leaving. I’m going in.” Her voice sounded taut, almost petulant. Or determined. “With you, or without you. It’s my responsibility. There are families who think they-”

“Ella? Ella? Okay. Stay there. But do not go inside. Wait for me.” If she could stall this girl, she could convince her to drop this ridiculous idea. “It’ll take me a little while to get there, the snow’s getting worse out here. But I’ll come, we’ll talk. But only if you promise.”

Silence.

“Ella?” She imagined Ella breaking through the crime scene tape, the police finding out-Jake!-and poor Ella would wind up needing a very good lawyer. Jane was going to kill Tuck.

“I promise,” Ella whispered. “But hurry.”