The Wrong Girl

73

“Well, who is on the city desk, then?” Jane checked her gas gauge as she started the engine. The Register receptionist was giving her a hard time. “Ginnie? It’s me, Jane Ryland. I need to talk to whoever’s making up the front page. I have the lede. But it’s like no one cares.”

Jane punched her phone onto speaker as Ginnie answered. “… take a message, that’s what I’ve been told,” she said. “I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“Hang on, my call waiting is beeping in,” Jane said. “Maybe it’s Alex.”

“Yeah,” Ginnie said. “Maybe.” And she hung up.

“I’m on the way.” Tuck didn’t bother with hello. “But it’ll take us at least ninety minutes. Can you wait?”

Us? Interesting. That meant Carlyn was coming, too. Although how else would Tuck get there? Jane made the turn onto Route 128, the eight-lane highway that looped around the city. To get to the Brannigan was a huge pain.

“I’ll try,” Jane said. “But if anyone’s there, ah, I don’t know. I may have to go in myself. The Brannigan people are the only ones who have the answers.”

“The Brannigan people are the only ones who have the answers.” Jake pointed to the framed photo DeLuca was examining as Jake drove them across town. Jake had found it in Kellianne’s macabre tote bag of treasures.

Backup had finally arrived to cart off the handcuffed and cursing Sessions trio to lockup. Desperate for leniency, Kevin had ratted out Hennessey as their conduit and Internal Affairs was already into the cop’s records for evidence of kickbacks.

“Lillian Finch and Niall Brannigan, huh?” Jake considered the couple in the photo. “That’s a cozy little snapshot. Now they’re both very dead. Apparently Ardith Brannigan has taken over the reins at the agency. Very interesting.”

“And very guilty. Woman scorned, huh?” DeLuca held up the photo.

“Maybe.” They were only a few blocks from the Brannigan. Something he’d seen nagged at him.

D interrupted his thoughts. “Friggin’ Sessions.”

“Yeah. My favorite part was when Kellianne tried to explain how selling-what’d she call it? Murderabilia? Wasn’t illegal.”

“The look on her face when you explained how selling stolen property is illegal?” DeLuca put the photo back into the bag. “Worth the price of admission.”

“Now we can give Phillip and Phoebe back their teddy bears, at least.” Jake sneaked the cruiser through a just-changing yellow light. “Whenever the district attorney is done with them.”

He needed to call Bethany, too, check on those kids. And the baby. The brick edifice of the Brannigan appeared as Jake turned onto the tree-lined side street. Perfectly pruned evergreen shrubs, shaped without one stray branch, lined the flagstone path to the front door.

“So. Alvarez called undercover this morning, pretending to be a worried mother. Confirmed Ardith Brannigan is here. You ready for this? Think we can nail her for killing Lillian Finch?”

“Hell hath no fury,” DeLuca said. “And the killer could have been a woman, all right. Kat says it looks like Lillian Finch got a plastic bag over the head after a dose of sleeping pills. Then the pillows were taped around her head. No muss, no fuss. Female style.”

“It’s a wonder any pills were left for the Sessions to swipe.” Jake pointed left. “Let’s park over there. On the side street. No need to give them a heads up, right?”

One good thing about reporting for a newspaper. You didn’t need anything but a pencil and paper. You could do it with nothing more than a reliable memory.

Jane turned onto Linden Street, resisting the caffeine temptation of the Lotsa Latte on the corner. In the old days-less than six months ago-she’d have had to call Channel 11 and beg for a camera guy. Now she had only to tell the city desk where she was going. If anyone cared. Which, this morning, no one seemed to. Budget cuts, probably.

And there was the Brannigan, in all its austerely pruned glory. The Web site had listed the public’s opening time at ten, but Jane’s “Sorry, wrong number” test call revealed someone was already there.

She puffed out a breath, slowed her car to a crawl, deciding. Tuck and Carlyn had not yet arrived, nor called her back. Should she wait?

She’d wait.

Ten more minutes. She drove past the Brannigan, turned right. So no one noticed her, she’d go once around the block. Maybe twice.

On the other hand, having a camera guy with her made forays like this a bit safer. Hard to beat up a reporter when someone with a video camera was getting it all on tape. Hard to refute a lie you’d told while the camera was rolling.

Past the Brannigan again. One more time. Jane took out her cell, deciding to put it someplace more accessible than the black hole of her tote bag. She could shoot video with it, too, if need be.

Damn.

Her cell was less than half-charged. She pulled to the curb, grabbed her plug from the center console. Jammed it into the thing on the dashboard. Why hadn’t Alex called back? She sat at the wheel, engine idling. Seeing reality.

She was going to be laid off. That was why he hadn’t called. Why Ginnie had acted so weird. Why the desk hadn’t responded. They couldn’t. If they talked to her, they’d have to say something, so it was easier to ignore her. Put her off. Until the axe fell.

She rested her forehead on the steering wheel. She envisioned her future unfolding and it was not pretty. Her father would be so disappointed. Again. She’d have to slink home to Oak Park, a failure, live in the shadow of her perfect sister, a pitiful minion at Lissa’s wedding. A failure at TV. A failure at newspapers. A single woman with a cat.

Mom, she thought. I’m glad you’re not here to see this.

No. She sat up, shaking a finger at herself. No one had fired her. As far as she knew, really knew, nothing had changed. Onward to her story. If she was getting kicked out of the Register, she’d go out with a bang.

Once more around the block. Then she was going in.