The Wrong Girl

71

Jane stared out her living room window, looking through the gray morning light toward the building where she’d been told the surveillance guy lived. The police department’s “camera buff.” Right. Hec Underhill. Leonard Perl. Now-as she’d heard during the arrest-in custody for the murder of Brianna Tillson. A murder he hadn’t wanted Jane to care so much about. Why had he killed her? Jake said-kidnapping?

She’d barely been able to sleep, her brain too full of Perl and Ella and the smell of fire. She’d e-mailed Alex to pitch the story, whatever they could confirm via police protocol, but he hadn’t responded yet. There was plenty of time, especially since her byline couldn’t be on the story. Jake was right about that. The conflict of interest was enormous. Which totally sucked.

Especially if the Register was laying off people. Like Hec-or actually, Perl-had said.

Coda jumped onto the windowsill, getting between her and the view. She scooped her up and carried her down the hall to the study.

Hec-well, Perl-had taken the cat. So disgusting. So brazen. So nice that he was in custody. And so satisfying that she hadn’t been wrong. Jake had texted that Hec-she still thought of him that way-had admitted picking her lock and later rattling her door, just to scare her. The cops owed her big. Girl who cried wolf, my ass. “I don’t think so, cat.”

Coda writhed to the floor, scampered away.

It was easier to think about how right she’d been than about Ella Gavin, now in Mass General’s ICU. Jake would probably inform the Brannigan people about her, but Jane would have to tell Tuck. And Carlyn. Before they heard about it on the news. What would she to say to them, anyway?

She plopped, exhausted, into her swivel chair, then looked for the millionth time at the tattered piece of paper she’d left on her desk, smoothing out the crumples yet again, smelling the remnants of the smoke that clung to it.

A footprint. A baby’s footprint.

Certified by the hospital as an official copy and marked BABY GIRL BEERMAN, this one piece of paper Ella saved from the fire provided the incontrovertible evidence that could reveal Tuck’s identity.

The person whose foot matched this decades-old print was unquestionably Audrey Rose Beerman. Was that Tuck?

The moment Jane told someone about it, the moment Jane set the wheels in motion, two lives-at least-would be forever changed. And there’d be no way to stop it.

But this is what Tuck asked her to do. A young woman had almost died to help Tuck find the answer.

Jane reached for the phone. Then stopped, hand in mid-air.

Was it too early? She checked her computer monitor-still before eight in the morning. Too early. She wasn’t stalling. But no need to terrify anyone with an early morning call. She took her hand away, rested her chin on her fists, stared at the inky footprint.

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.”