The Wrong Girl (8 page)

“Here’s the coffee,” she said. There was utterly no reason for her to be here. This was as nuts as it gets. “And the middles.”

The two women muttered their thank-yous and went back to focusing on the paper, their heads almost touching.

Weird, they both have the same color hair, now that Tuck’s gone auburn crazy,
Jane thought. Whole thing is crazy. Tuck had still not told her exactly why she felt she wasn’t Carlyn’s daughter. She’d kept repeating, “Let’s go hear what this Ella Gavin has to say.” Well, she was hearing it now.

Jane grabbed a molded plastic chair to sit across from them, wincing as it scraped across the tiles. She didn’t have to check in with the city desk until ten. She’d already e-mailed Family Services with her request for info about the foster child system. For now, she could sit here. Drink her coffee. Then this would be over.

“So, Jane?” Tuck pronounced her name carefully, as if to create the illusion that somehow “Jane” was an alias. “Miss Gavin seems to think—”

“Ella,” the girl interrupted.

Well, she’s acting like a girl,
Jane defended her own assessment. High little voice. Bitten nails and fidgeting. A bobby pin holding obviously growing-out bangs.

“Ella.” Tuck offered the briefest of smiles. “Seems to think the Brannigan doesn’t make mistakes.”

Ella nodded, her curls bouncing with her certainty. “The Brannigan has a fifty-six-year history of reuniting families. We would never—”

She looked around, seemed to remember they were in a bustling coffee shop. “Are you okay talking here?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I mean, it’s not very private.”

“I’m fine, Ella,” Tuck said. Not whispering. She flipped up the plastic lid of her coffee, took a sip, flapped the lid back down. “Go on. Tell my friend what you said.”

“We put families together, that’s what we do.” Ella looked at Jane, her eyes wide and sincere. “These are the documents in Miss Cameron’s—I mean Tuck’s—file. I can’t give them to her, of course, but I wanted to show her at least a few of them. So she could understand how carefully her history is documented. It’s not paperwork. It’s reality. Lillian Finch—I explained who she is, right, Miss Cameron?”

Tuck nodded. “Go on.”

“Ms. Finch puts together the files, confirms with the History and Records department, of course, and then, when Mr. Munson from H and R says go, she makes the Call.” Ella made finger quotes around the words. “That’s what we call it. The Call.”

Jane could almost hear the capital letter. She risked a look at Tuck.
The Call?

Tuck raised an eyebrow, so quickly Jane almost missed it.

“If you get the Call from Ms. Finch,” Ella continued, “there’s no question about it. It’s—a big step. Sometimes people aren’t ready to hear it. But Miss Cameron? Tucker? Trust me. You’re Audrey Rose Beerman.”

Ella paused, as if waiting for a response from Tuck.

Jane couldn’t read Tuck’s face. Posture perfect, arms folded on the table, Tuck was staring at Ella, silent.

“What I guess I wonder,” Ella finally said, “is—why don’t
you
think so?”

The entire place was going to hell.
Niall Brannigan tapped one finger on the mahogany expanse of his desk. This Monday morning certainly seemed to prove it. Something would have to be done.

He leaned across his paperwork and punched his phone to speaker, almost knocking into his ceramic mug of Irish Breakfast. Grace had delivered it with exactly the right amount of cream and sugar, accompanied by a chocolate cruller served on his mother’s favorite fluted crystal plate. Monday mornings were supposed to begin another week of Brannigan success. But not
this
Monday. Nine forty-five, and already—

“Miss O’Connor? Have we heard from her yet?”

“No, Mr. Brannigan.” At least Grace had picked up the phone.

“Or the girl, Ella?”

“No, sir.”

Brannigan’s fingers drummed on the desk, the only sound in the room. Outside he could hear the snowblower,
about time,
and down the hall, phones ringing. Unanswered. Things were about to change. He’d see to that.

“Sir?”

“That’s all, Miss O’Connor. Ring me when you hear from either of them.”

“Sir?”

What was wrong with this girl? Could she not hear?

“Sir?”

He paused, calculating. “Is it Lillian Finch?”

“Sir? They say—it’s the police.”

*

“Come. Freaking.
On.
” Kellianne Sessions could not believe it. Could. Not. Believe it. Kev and Keefer were lolled on the couch of the dead woman’s apartment, watching the freaking Simpsons on a junky TV. Was that show
always
on? Her moron brothers had assigned her to the back of the place as soon as they’d arrived this morning, told
her
to pack up the bedrooms and check for any residue or externals, vac the rugs and bag the contents. Now it was pretty darn obvious they were trying to get rid of her while they goofed off.

“You guys billing for this? That’s pretty freakin’ bold.”

“You hear that?” Kev didn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Miss Priss here is worried about
bill
ing.”

“Who’s Bill Ling?” Keefer jabbed his brother with an elbow. “Good one, huh?”

Kellianne saw they’d at least baffled up the kitchen with plastic, rolling out clear sheets of it, overlapped and tacked them from ceiling to floor, so the solvents from the kitchen area didn’t contaminate the rest of the place. It was strong stuff. She’d had her first whiff in the hazmat class practicums, now she was kinda used to it. Which was disgusting. She didn’t want to be used to it.

Someone had died in this very place. Well, not died, been murdered. Creepy. She’d seen it all on the news, every channel. The reporters, the cops, and the freaky onlookers. She never watched cop shows on TV, or any of that serial killer stuff, but all her friends geeked out on it. “Did you see the dead person?” they always asked. “What’s it like?”

It was like, horrible, that’s what it was.

She stamped a foot, though its intended drama was muffled by the cotton-then-plastic boot thingies she had to wear over her shoes. Her Tyvek moon suit was about four sizes too big, it was hot, and it was grotesque. Flipping burgers—even babysitting—would be better than this. How could she get enough money to bail on this whole nightmare?

Kev and Keefer were annoying. The laugh track from the show was
incredibly
annoying. How could they sit there and watch a dead woman’s TV? Sit on her couch? Shove over her stuff so they could put their moron feet on her coffee table?

Just then, Kellianne had an idea.

A really, really good idea.

*

“No, sir, the officers didn’t tell me what it was about.” Niall Brannigan’s receptionist was clearly having a hard time trying to give her boss information without giving Jake any. She’d been pleasant enough, introducing herself with a polite “Good morning, may I help you?” when he and DeLuca arrived at the executive director’s well-appointed outer office, maybe figuring they were potential clients. After they’d shown their badges, though, Jake saw call-me-Grace go a little white under her careful makeup. Now, “helping” them did not seem to be her first priority.

Jake couldn’t hear Brannigan’s questions on the other end of the phone, but even with the woman’s guarded answers, what he was asking was obvious. It was also obvious the young woman was intimidated by the man in the closed-door office behind her.

“Yes, Mr. Brannigan. I
did,
” Grace insisted. “But apparently they need to talk to
you.
No, they wouldn’t give me any further…”

She looked at Jake, eyes wide, silently pleading for assistance. Jake smiled, but shook his head.
No way.
He and D were here at Brannigan Family and Children Services to talk to the executive director, end of story. If Grace was having a hard day? Welcome to the club.

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I will.” Grace hung up, then glanced at the closed door behind her. She looked at Jake with an expression he’d seen a million times. “Mr. Brannigan is in a meeting, I’m afraid. And he wonders if—”

Jake interrupted. “I see.” Which was true. “Detective?”

“After you,” D said. He gestured toward the closed door.

“Wait, you can’t just—” Grace stood, her chair swiveling, both hands up as if to push them away.

Jake was faster. He was already at the inner door, hand on the knob, pushing it open. “I’ll explain to your boss, ma’am,” he said, “but we—”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Brannigan.” Grace squeezed past the two of them, trying to get into his office first. “They’re—”

“I’m Detective Jake Brogan, Boston Police.” Jake flipped his badge wallet closed. The guy, tight-ass in a gold-buttoned navy blazer and prissy pocket square, was already standing, barricaded behind his big desk. One finger tapped the shiny wood.

Jake suppressed a smile, as well as his instant dislike. “My partner, Detective Paul DeLuca.”

DeLuca followed Jake into the room. “Sorry to interrupt your … meeting.”

Brannigan touched the shiny clip on his tie, narrowed his eyes for an instant. “That’ll do, Miss O’Connor,” he said, as the door closed behind her. “Gentlemen? What can I do for you?”

“You have an employee, Lillian Finch.” Jake kept his voice noncommittal, aware of their tightrope. This was always one of the crucial moments. Jake and D had information. Maybe Brannigan had it, too. Maybe even more. Or maybe he didn’t know.

“Yes.” Brannigan frowned. “But she’s not in yet this morning.”

Then Brannigan switched on a smile, Mr. Helpful. “I’d call her assistant for you, but she hasn’t arrived this morning, either.”

Jake exchanged a glance with his partner.

“What’s the assistant’s name, sir? Did she call to say she wouldn’t be in? Is she usually late?” DeLuca had taken out his spiral notebook, pen poised over a page.

“Ella Gavin is her assistant’s name. And no, she’s not usually late.” Back at Jake. “Detectives? Is there something wrong?”

“Ah, there is, Mr. Brannigan. I’m sorry to have to tell you. Lillian Finch is dead.”

“Why don’t I think she’s my birth mother?” Tuck spun her coffee cup between her thumb and forefinger, seemed fascinated by the sound of it scraping on the plastic tabletop. The coffee shop’s morning crush and bustle had dwindled, and the three women were the only customers still at a table. The place smelled of fresh coffee and something cinnamon. A TV, mounted in the corner above the cash register, flickered a muted CNN. Jane read the screen crawl: “Severe weather on the way for New England. Officials warn residents may have to…”

“Well, here’s why.” Tuck stopped her cup-spinning, took a sip, then grimaced.

Remembering something?
Jane wondered. Or maybe Tuck’s coffee was cold. They’d been here a good hour, maybe more, looking at documents and listening to Ella explain how foolproof the Brannigan’s system was. That alone was enough to make Jane skeptical. Nothing was foolproof, any reporter could tell you that.

Tuck propped her chin on her intertwined fingers, elbows on the table, seemed to weigh what she was about to say.

“Listen. There were two things from my—birth mother. One, a handwritten note from her that was tucked into my blanket when the Brannigan took me in.”

“A note?” Ella tilted her head, frowning. She opened the manila folder, flipping documents, one by one, quickly, shaking her head as the pages rustled by. “No. That can’t be. If there
was
a note, it would be in here, definitely, a copy of it at least. I mean, I know I copied the whole file. What’s more, I know History and Records is required to keep any and all…”

Her voice trailed off, one hand still turning pages as she stared at them. “I mean…”

“A note?” Jane couldn’t resist interrupting. Why hadn’t Tuck told her that right off the bat? She’d certainly buried the lede of this story. “What did it say?”

“Exactly.” Tuck pointed a finger at Ella. “And Carlyn Beerman, lovely a person as she was when we met, did not say a word about a note. I gave her every opportunity. Since you say there’s also no copy of the note in your file, that means your infallible Ms. Finch got it wrong this time.”

“Ms. Cameron, that’s not—”

“But Tuck, how’d you know there was a note?” Jane had to interrupt again. This didn’t make sense. Tuck had explained she’d been left at the Brannigan in a closed adoption, which meant all the papers are sealed until the child is an adult, and opened only if both parties ask to see them. The whole point was to keep everything secret and private. Had a remorseful birth mother tried to leave Tuck a clue about her first identity? “Forgive me, but are you sure it’s real? Do you have it? What does it say?”

“How do I know it’s real? My adoptive mother told me. And my adoptive father.” Tuck said. She peeled back the plastic lid of her coffee cup, then tore the lid into pieces, dropping each shard, one by one, into the dregs left in the cup.

“Told me about it from the moment I could remember. I’ve seen the note, of course, a million times, but Mom has it. It was my birth mother’s way of saying good-bye, but it’s also my way to prove … well, I know it by heart. ‘We each travel our own road,’ it says. ‘Always choose the future over the past.’”

Jane stared at her, trying to comprehend. To get a message like that from your mother? The message she left as she was walking out of your life? This one pretty much implied—
don’t try to find me.
Poor Tuck. The two little kids from Callaberry Street, too. There hadn’t been a note for them, of course, when
their
mom left. How could they possibly learn to accept the story
they’d
hear, someday?

“Of course we could do a DNA test, Miss Gavin.” Tuck tossed her head, pushed the ruined coffee cup away. “If your agency agrees to pay for it. But why bother? That note is my proof. And so is this.”

Tuck plunged a hand into her parka pocket, and came out with a black velvet bag. Pulling apart the thin black drawstrings, she drew out a delicate gold bracelet, one circular charm dangling from the chain. She held it between two fingers, and it glinted in the too-bright fluorescent lights of the coffee shop.