The Wrong Girl

72

Why hadn’t Alex called back or e-mailed? Jane checked her watch. Nine A.M. He should be at the Register by now, she thought, stepping inside the black-and-white tiled foyer of Ella’s apartment building. The address had been a cinch to find on Google.

She sniffed, wrinkled her nose. Oatmeal. Coffee. Wet wool. A row of louvered metal mailboxes labeled “G” through “8” lined one wall. “G” had a stick-on label saying Gavin. Okay, then.

Which key for the inner door? Jane guessed right, the door opened easily, and she took a short flight of stairs down to the door marked G. She listened, half-worried it’d be the wrong apartment and she’d get yelled at-or shot-by some trigger-happy terrified resident. Jane smiled, shaking her head. She was tired. She’d finish here, call Alex again, maybe even risk going to the paper.

Wait a minute. What risk?

She paused, holding the key, motionless, in the silence of the hallway. The bad guy was arrested. She stood a little straighter, smiling. No longer anything to be afraid of. Go in, feed the cat, get out. Get back to real life.

The lock clicked open. Jane heard a thump and a rustle, then one inquiring meow. A ball of white fluff padded toward her-stopped-then skittered away, streaking underneath a glass coffee table and flattening itself under a plaid couch.

“I’m okay, cat,” Jane said. “Chill. Ella says hi. She’ll be home soon. I’m just going to feed you.”

The cat did not come out.

Jane headed toward the kitchen, keeping her parka on. An insistent red light flashed on Ella’s phone, but Jane ignored it. In, then out. She’d open cabinets till she found the food. And she’d leave extra water.

Guessing again, Jane pulled the white ceramic knob of the cabinet nearest the refrigerator. A tattered Target bag tumbled to the floor.

Damn. No cat food.

She reached down to stuff the bag back into place. It looked like the one Ella carried at Dunkin’s Monday morning, the one she’d guarded so vigilantly. Jane looked inside. Files.

She dumped the manila folders onto the kitchen table. Beerman. Tuck’s file? She examined the others, fast as she could. Lamonica. Hoffner. DaCosto. Who were those people?

She unsnapped her parka, draped it over the metal chair, and sat. Just for a minute. Opened the Beerman file. A yellow sticky on the inside had a penciled notation: No footprint?

Lamonica. The same notation, the same handwriting. Over and over.

She tried to make herself close the files and leave. This was-private stuff. Another yellow sticky caught her attention.

What was that? A noise.

She jumped up, almost toppling the files. Then burst out laughing. The cat had padded into the kitchen and was now nudging Jane’s leg with her nose.

“I know you’re hungry, cat.” Jane reached to pet her as she sat down at the table again. “But I need to look at one thing.”

Which one of the Sessions was the weak link? They needed only to get one to confess and rat the others out. Jake couldn’t decide which sad sack looked most unhappy. The three lumped on the couch, two of them-the big shot with the muscles and the sidekick with the ratty mustache-staring straight ahead. The sister was intent on her hair, biting off the ends one strand at a time.

“Before I execute the warrant,” Jake said, “let me offer you an option. We’re gonna find something. I have no doubt of that.”

“Pssss,” one of the three muttered.

“Sorry? I missed that,” Jake said.

“Piss off,” DeLuca said.

“Oh, gotcha,” Jake said. “Like I was saying. If any of you would like to simply tell us what’s going on-about Niall Brannigan, and Margolin Street, and whatever you have going with Leonard Perl, who is now in custody, you might like to know-” Jake paused, checking for reactions. Got none. “It’s gonna go a lot easier. First to talk is the first to walk.”

DeLuca nodded. “And the other two are suckers.”

“Any takers?” Jake held up a palm. “You don’t have to say anything now. Just stand up and come with me. Show me where to look.”

“So you’ve got to come, Tuck, soon as you can.” Jane hadn’t budged from Ella’s kitchen table, although the files she’d been reading for the past half hour made no sense at all. The cat was now purring on her lap. “Like I said, Ella gave me a footprint. Now all her other files are marked as ‘no footprints.’ Last Sunday you asked me to help you figure out if you were the wrong girl, and I think the answer’s here. But the only people who can decipher these files are at the Brannigan. I say-get back to Boston, and let’s go. Let’s go ask them.”

As Tuck protested, Jane eased the cat to the floor and filled up an extra bowl of water. What was Tuck’s problem? She thought of Ella. What she’d sacrificed.

“Listen. Tuck. You started it. Come, or don’t. I’m going to the Brannigan. I’m going to find out what’s going on. With you, or without you.”

Jake would have bet on the wiseass sidekick, but Kellianne was his second choice. She stood, slowly, eyeing her brothers, then tossing her unfortunate hair. Jake kept thinking about how she bit off the ends. Why would anyone do that?

“Yes, Kellianne?” Jake said.

“And we have a winner,” DeLuca said.

“Hey, bitch, what do you think you’re doing?” The one called Keefer tried to stand up, but the Kevin guy yanked him back to the couch.

“Rat blood.” Kevin took a swig of whatever was in his mug, then raised it at her. “Rat blood in her veins. Screw you, sister. We know what’s under your bed.”

“Hey, you moron,” Kellianne said. “I’m the one who-”

“Screw you. Not anymore,” Kev said. “Do it, Detectives. Look under her bed.”

This was going nicely.

“Kellianne?” Jake said.

“Yeah, well, you should look in their backpacks. See the scrips they swiped from every house we’ve done.” The girl planted her fists on her hips, stuck out her tongue at her brothers. “They get in early, take the good stuff from the medicine cabinets before anyone notices. They think I don’t know. Well, think again.”

She plopped back down on the couch.

“Hey, you can’t-” Kevin stood, glowering at her.

“What’re you trying to-?” Keefer got up and shouldered in front of him, interrupting.

Jake shot them a look. Make my day. They stopped. Closed their mouths.

“Family Feud,” DeLuca said.

“My favorite show,” Jake said.

It took Jake less than two minutes to find the brothers’ stash of prescription drugs, a ratty brown paper bag crammed with amber plastic containers, contents all still conveniently labeled. Oxycodone. Percocet. Oxycontin. Vicodin. Dilaudid.

All labeled with other people’s names.

“You’re all three under arrest for the illegal possession of class B narcotics.” Jake returned to the living room, holding up the bag. “Oh, and larceny. And suspicion of arson, since there are several bottles here labeled ‘Lillian Finch.’ Seems to me you’d have to be in that house to have swiped those. Did you know there was a woman inside during the fire? That’s gonna present another legal problem for you.”

“Screw you,” Kevin said.

“So you keep saying,” Jake said. “But wait. There’s more. Let me mention you’re also being charged with manslaughter in the death of Niall Brannigan. He had a heart attack, the medical examiner says. But she will testify someone dragged him-still alive-to his car. And there he died.”

“Yes. Yes. They carried him out.” Kellianne stood, raising her hand, like a little kid trying to get the teacher to call on her. “The old guy. They made me help them. And that’s all I’m saying until I get a deal.”

“Shut up,” Kevin said. He yanked her back down to the couch.

“Smartest thing you’ve said today, Mr. Sessions,” Jake said. “D, wanna take over from here? This is quite the drugstore our friends have accumulated. They’ve really-how shall I put it? Cleaned up.”

“They’re gonna love you at Cedar Junction,” DeLuca said. “Maximum security prisons always need experienced cleanup crews.”

As DeLuca read the three their rights, Jake headed for the back of the house. He guessed Kellianne’s bedroom was the one with the pink walls and the flowered bedspread. Lifting the edge of the spread, he felt around underneath the bed.

And pulled out a zipped tote bag.