If anyone saw him, he’d claim he needed records Lillian had taken home from her office. Better, from his office.
He pushed open the car door, avoided the slush by the curb, and clicked the automatic lock. He heard the sharp beep of a car horn. His heart jumped, twisting in fear. What was that? He caught his breath, surprised at the clench of his chest. Then he smiled. My car door. Perhaps I’m a bit jumpier than I thought.
He clicked his keys again, to make sure. Another beep. Yes, that’s what it was.
The gray van parked on the street could belong to any neighbor. Happily, there were no police cars. He looked across the tree-lined street to Lillian’s house. Some lights were on, he could see that through the bay window curtains, but the police had probably left them on to fool intruders. Lillian lived alone and now everyone knew she was… gone.
He was across the street before he knew it, lifted one leg carefully over the tape, then the other, marched up the flagstones. His heart was pounding, so silly, since there was no need to hesitate. He belonged. In and out. He felt his chest flutter in anticipation as he fingered his coat pocket for the gold knob of his keychain. Saw his breath plume white in the chill.
Ready. And go.
31
This has to be it. The proof. The key. But why did Lillian-? Ella picked up the piece of paper, a skewed copy with one edge blurred and the other edge off the page. She turned it over, then looked at the front again. Her living room TV was showing a cooking show, usually her Monday night favorite, but tonight she’d muted the sound. The empty Target bag, her now-tattered document camouflage, lay beside her on the couch. The files now covered her glass coffee table. Whiskers jumped onto her lap, nosing into the paper.
“Shoo, Whisk,” Ella whispered, and for once she obeyed. The words on this RR 103 were baffling. She’d seen a million report release forms since she started at the Brannigan, but never one as potentially life-changing as this one.
The top copy, the white original, always went to the birth mother. The blue page went to admin, the green to finance, the yellow to the state. The pink page was the last one of the multipage form. The photocopy she was holding would have been of the pink one, since on the bottom it said: “for agency files.” The forms were notoriously blurry, from being typed through so many carbons back then. Now the forms were completed by computer, but the older files still contained the old-fashioned pull-apart kind.
Female Baby Beerman, the fuzzy heading read. Mother: Carlyn Parker Beerman. These RR 103s had been sealed along with the rest of the files. When Carlyn called to release them, that’s when Lillian-Lillian! Ella pressed her lips together, holding back tears, trying to focus. That’s when Lillian had opened the manila envelope and started the search for Carlyn’s little girl.
Ella ran a finger down the paper again. Addresses, phone numbers, a social. Date of birth. She skipped to the important part, rereading the typed answers.
Line 17. Identifying marks. None.
Line 18. Identifying indicators. None.
Line 19. Identifying clothing, tags, or jewelry. None.
None. No glittering charm bracelet. She could almost feel the weight of Tuck’s evidence in her hand, see it sparkle in the harsh light of the coffee shop. Tucker Cameron’s birth mother had left her with a bracelet. A bracelet that proved her name and proved her identity and proved, yes it did, that she was not Audrey Rose Beerman.
Identifying jewelry. None. And nothing about a note.
Ella leaned her head against the back of the couch, staring, unseeing, at the flickering screen of her television. Stretched out behind her, Whiskers lowered a comforting paw onto Ella’s shoulder.
“I know, Whisk,” Ella said. “Seems like Lillian Finch really did send Carlyn Beerman the wrong girl. Now what do I do?”
Her mind spun with possibilities. Lillian had either known, or she hadn’t known. If she had known-was that why she was dead? Or was it a mistake? If so, was it her only mistake? Had she taken her own life in anguish and guilt?
Or maybe Lillian was dead because she didn’t know-and someone else did. Someone who wanted to make sure Lillian never found out. Or maybe because she did find out, maybe that’s why Lillian was dead. Someone killed her to keep her quiet.
And now, she, Ella Gavin, single, alone, and only trying to help, had discovered the same thing. What would happen to her when whoever killed Lillian discovered what Ella knew?
Jake twisted open his second IPA, tossing the cap into the white plastic wastebasket by his kitchen door. The files about Phoebe and Phillip’s past he’d gotten from Margaret Gunnison-such as they were-lay open on the round table by the kitchen’s tiny window. She’d told him she’d assigned the staffer who copied them to also “dig up” Brianna’s records from the archives. Those he’d have in a day. “Or two.” Gunnison obviously wanted to get to the airport. Skittering branches on the old silver maple outside his condo battled with the new Paul Simon CD he’d finally downloaded. Diva, as usual, curled into a golden retriever ball at his feet. She’d eaten dinner. Jake hadn’t. The beer would hold him until he got through the files.
He turned the last pages of the caseworker’s sketchy and unrevealing notes, then started over. There must be something here about what happened. Or about a baby. Sure haven’t seen it yet.
DeLuca had bailed the second their shift ended, elaborately insisting that medical examiner Kat McMahan was not on his social calendar. D was a shitty liar, but Jake didn’t push his partner on it. Could be it was better if Jake didn’t know the full score. DeLuca certainly suspected his relationship with Jane, but didn’t bug Jake about it. Least he could do was give his partner the same respect.
Jake’s cell phone vibrated on the table. The number came up: blocked. Time: 8:15 P.M. Maybe it was Judge Gallagher? She’d be “out,” her clerk had said, until eight, unavailable to hear their pitch for the warrant on the Ricker residence. They’d e-mailed her their warrant application, but could be he was screwed on that, anyway. Ricker could have dumped everything incriminating by now. The “money for you” ruse had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Still, he reassured himself, the ruse had elicited valuable info from the guy. If they’d arrived chez Ricker as cops, the guy would have clammed up instantly. Roll of the dice.
The phone vibrated again.
“Brogan.” He took a fast swig of his beer.
“Brianna Tillson, right?”
It was Jane.
“No, this is Jake Brogan.” Situation. If she was calling about the Tillson name-who the hell had leaked that?-it was a potential mess. That didn’t mean he wasn’t pleased to hear her voice. He only wished she was saying something else. Something soft. And promising. “You must have the wrong number.”
“Jerk.” Jane’s voice had that smile in it.
“So you always say.” He knew he was smiling, too.
“Anyway, this is a professional call, Detective Brogan,” Jane told him. “I’m calling from the Register to confirm the identity of the victim of the Callaberry Street murder. Brianna Tillson. Correct? And to confirm the identities of her foster children, Phillip and Phoebe Lussier. Correct?”