The Wrong Girl (3 page)

He wiped his feet on the bristly reed doormat, loosened his striped muffler, and began to unbutton his overcoat.

An office light shone down the hall.
On?

Yes. On. A dull glow came through the narrow pane of one of the admin offices.
Someone was here?
He reached for his cell phone. Should he call 911? The second smile of the day curved his lips. Unnecessary.

The front door had been locked. So had the back, since no alarms clanged. Not a breakin. All he had to do was check the fancy computer scan on his fancy new lock machine, and he’d instantly know who was here, when they got here, and which door they used. No one had cleared overtime with him. Whoever was working today was doing it on their own time. And without pay.

He folded his gloves into a pocket, then crossed his arms, contemplating the closed office doors lining the carpeted hallway. One wall was all photographs, a calculatedly impressive gallery of silver-framed infants and toddlers and the occasional preteen. Their “wall of fame,” they explained to first-time visitors. Privately the staff called it their “family jewels.” Children were the Brannigan’s profit center, even though the service was a properly registered non-profit. Their “profit” was making families, he often explained, not only the money. Although the money was lovely.

Brannigan sniffed, cleared his head of random thoughts. At sixty-seven some thought he should retire, turn the place over to—whoever.
Not going to happen.
But who was here? Door number one, admin, closed, no light. The second door, bursar, closed, no light. The third door, History and Records, Munson’s office, no light there, either. His own office door, at the end, was still bathed in darkness, as it should be, a single pin spot illuminating his brass nameplate.

The fourth door. Closed as well, but a spill of orange glowed through the window and under the door. Lillian Finch’s office.

Brannigan sniffed again. He might have predicted as much.

What had Mother always said?
You can’t know too much about your employees.

He knew enough about Lillian Finch to know exactly where she was. And as a result, he could predict exactly who was poaching Lillian’s office on an illicit Sunday afternoon. Did she think he wouldn’t find out? And now, he had a decision to make.

Maybe there was nothing to find.

Hush, Ella,
she shushed herself, propping one elbow on Ms. Finch’s desk and tucking a stray lock of hair back into the bobby pin. She’d been Lillian’s eyes and ears for the past however many years, not that she’d ever call her Lillian to her face. Even those times when she’d been invited for tea at Ms. Finch’s beautiful home.

Anyway. Lillian always kept every piece of paper, and had told Ella, again and again, that documentation was the key to everything. If there was something to find, Lillian would have it.

Ella turned another page in the thick manila folder she’d pulled from the bank of wooden file cabinets along the back wall. Birth certificate for baby girl Beerman, a certified copy. Father’s name, not listed. Audrey Rose Beerman, dark eyes, dark hair, deemed healthy, all her shots. Letter from the birth mother. Court order. A revision. A few photos in an envelope—swaddled infant, toddler in a pinafore and floppy hat. Nothing odd, nothing strange, nothing she hadn’t seen dozens of times in dozens of family folders.

Was that a noise in the hallway?
She looked up from her paperwork, fingering the loop of one earring, her heart twisting for a beat or two. She wasn’t supposed to be here on a Sunday afternoon. She’d get in trouble if anyone found out.

A noise? No
. Only the creaking of the old building. Chilly, too, with the heat down. She buttoned her thin cardigan, wished she’d worn jeans instead of her corduroy skirt.

The call from that Tucker Cameron woman was, well, upsetting. She’d taken it the day before yesterday, Friday, last call of the afternoon. She’d already had her coat and muffler on, almost hadn’t picked up the receiver.

She sighed. She never could resist the phone. What if it was a match? Wouldn’t want to miss that. She’d answered, then tried to understand what the woman was saying, her words coming too fast to comprehend.

The wrong girl?

Impossible. The Brannigan was in the business of making families. Nothing “wrong” about that. Ella reassured the woman, as best she could, there was no mistake. Someone would call her back.

Should she have reported it?
At five on a Friday? What good would that have done? Monday would be soon enough. Lillian wouldn’t be angry with her.

She hoped.

Ella eyed Lillian’s desk, the silver container of massed white roses next to a silver-framed photo collection of the families she’d created. Lillian was a saint, no question. Still, she was pushing fifty, fifty-five, maybe, and someday she’d retire. Ella would be ready to take the big desk.

She turned another page of the Beerman file. There was the R and R request from the mother, Carlyn Parker Beerman, asking the Brannigan to rescind her initial stop order of the closed adoption and release information requested by the birth daughter. Date of issue … Ella squinted at the page. Smudged. But clear enough, three months ago. She’d heard Ms. Finch phone the daughter herself.

She leaned back in Ms. Finch’s puffy chair. Getting to make the Call was one of the things she loved most. They both did, she and Lillian. The call where you know you are changing someone’s life. Two peoples’ lives. Two strangers, two people who probably thought about each other every day, maybe missed each other every day, would finally be together. After all those years, a mother meets her daughter. A mother meets her grown-up son. A father sees his child for the first time. They recognize themselves in each other’s eyes. They realize they’re not alone.

A sacred moment.
That’s how Ella thought of it. Maybe it would even happen to her, someday. If she never found her own mother, she’d at least spend her life putting families back together.

There wasn’t always a happy ending,
that
she knew. You can’t choose your family, and sometimes people regretted reality. Even wished they’d never known the truth. That wasn’t her responsibility. At the Brannigan, all they did was answer requests. After that, families were on their own.

But this Audrey Rose Beerman thing. Ella stared at the call log she’d filled out two days ago. Audrey Rose Beerman, because that’s who she most certainly was, insisting she wasn’t Audrey Rose Beerman.

Why would she say that? It was impossible.

Ella stood almost before she realized it. Her fingertips brushed the slick desk, the manila file sliding to the carpet, papers inside fanning out on the floor. That
was
a sound. It
was
.

“Call from…” The caller ID’s disembodied voice came from the wall phone in Jane’s kitchen. She winced, hoping it wasn’t about to announce a call from Jake. Tuck already suspected their relationship, half-teased Jane about it when they worked together. That would be a real Dear Miss Manners moment, having Jane’s “pal” in the Boston Police detective squad call her on a Sunday afternoon while Tuck sat in her living room. Unlike Tuck, Jane still had her job. Unlike Tuck, it was because Jane hadn’t gotten caught. Jane and Jake realized their careers were safe only as long as their relationship wasn’t discovered.

Not that there
was
a relationship. There couldn’t be, not while Jane was a reporter and Jake a cop. They’d skidded their passion to a halt one night last summer, after a little too much wine and almost too little clothing. What if someone found out? Was it worth their careers? Sleeping with a source was forbidden, according to the
Register
’s ethics protocol. The Police Department’s, too. It wasn’t as if she was one bit in love with the sandy-haired twinkly-eyed hilariously funny and brilliantly—

“… Alex Wyatt,” the caller ID voice finished. “Call from Alex Wyatt.”

“I know you have to get that.” Tuck clamped her arms across her chest, propping her feet on the coffee table. “Tell that jerk I said—well, no, don’t. Probably better for your career if you don’t let on I’m here. Right?”

“Gotcha.” Alex wasn’t a jerk, though. Tuck was bitter since he’d been the one who fired her. But as brand-new city editor, Alex had gotten word from on high. He’d had no choice. “Although he’s actually not—well, whatever.”

Jane uncurled from the couch, scrabbling her fingers through her finally growing-out but still too-short hair, speculating. Why would her boss call on a Sunday? The
Register
newsroom staff was barebones—increasingly worrisome budget cuts hit the weekend staff especially hard. A front-page story could happen at any time, any day. Problem was, news doesn’t know what day it is.

“Call from Alex Wyatt.” If there was a big story, she’d be lucky to get it. Especially since she was the new kid and even veteran reporters were getting laid off. Jane tipped one hand in a pouring “more wine?” motion to Tuck, who handed over her empty glass as Jane dashed to the kitchen, sliding around the corner in her bare feet.

“Hey Alex, what’s up?” She clamped the phone between her shoulder and cheek as she opened the fridge. Pretty bleak territory: weary celery, string cheese, a couple of Diet Cokes, and lemon yogurt. Last night’s pizza. She pulled out the last of the Pinot Grigio and hip-checked the door closed.

“Sorry to call you on a Sunday. I’m swamped with snow coverage. Boston’s fine, but half of Newton still has no power, National Grid is freaking, the governor’s having another news conference, the Star Markets are outta milk. I mean—it’s snowing, right? In New England? In February? You’d think—”

Damn. Snow? She’d just lost at news roulette.
Snow?
Freezing, boring, and bleak. How many weather clichés would she be forced to use? White stuff, winter wonderland, no business like snow business? But there was this pesky job thing. As in, she needed hers.

Jane eyed the wine bottle. Lucky she’d stuck with Diet Coke. She was a team player. She’d yank on her storm gear and take the T into town.

“There’s a body in Roslindale,” Alex was saying. “Cops telling us they suspect homicide. Got a pencil? I’ll give you the deets. I know it’s a mess out there—so I’ll have the fotog pick you up in the newsroom Explorer. He lives close to you, it’ll be no problem.”

A murder? In Roslindale?
Okay, better than the snow assignment
. She winced at her cynical assessment.
That’s what being a reporter does to you, turns human suffering into a calculation of potential column inches.

“Yeah, I know. Better than snow.” Alex was reading her mind, as usual. He’d been a reporter, too, her competition, until his promotion last summer. As a result, another promising romance prospect—Hot Alex, as her best friend, Amy, had dubbed him
—
bit the dust.

“This one’s different,” Alex continued. “Two little kids left alone, Family Services has them. ‘Tragic,’ our stringer says. There’s no one else to send. I’ll hand it off to another reporter tomorrow, so only this one story. I’ll need your piece for the earlies, so chop chop. And Jane?”

“Yeah?” She’d better take food. Jane stretched the spiral phone cord so she could reach to open a cabinet. She pulled out a plastic sandwich bag, twisted open a half-full jar of salted almonds, and dumped in the entire contents. Opening the fridge, she added the string cheese to the bag. In the car it’d stay cold.

“Detective Jake Brogan’s the primary,” Alex said. “Think you can get us some exclusive stuff?”

“I—you—why would—” Jane’s stomach clenched and the taut phone cord knocked the empty almond jar from the counter. It hit the floor, cracking into three pieces on the tiles. Coda, eyes wide, appeared in the doorway. Jane shooed her away, fearful of the glass.
Jake?
Alex knew they were friends, but what if he now suspected—? Or was he—

“Kidding,” Alex said. “Keep me posted, Jane. Fotog’s on the way. Like I said, he lives near you, so, all the better. We go to press in three hours.”

“Friggin’ media. Looks like a headlight circus down there. TV live trucks, the whole nine yards.” DeLuca plastered himself against the living room wall, using one hand to pull back the lace curtains covering the windows, craning his neck to peer outside without being seen. “How the hell do they find out so fast? They’re here before the friggin’ ME. You seen the ME yet? Squad says she’s hot.”

Jake ignored him. Though he’d heard the same thing about the new medical examiner, now was hardly the time.

“Where the hell is Family Services?” Jake said. “Radio down to Kurtz, D. Tell her to get out of here, no sirens, take the kids to headquarters, someplace safe.”

This was turning into a shit show.
Jake eyed the open front door of apartment C. “All we need is a bunch of cameras blasting in those kids’ faces. Whoever they are. And whoever their mother is.”

“Was.” DeLuca let the curtains go.

“Was.” Jake looked toward the kitchen, where the woman’s splayed body seemed to soak up all the light in the room. They could do nothing until the medical examiner arrived to clear the scene. Then they could focus on finding whatever would close the case. Jake predicted two hours, max, they’d have a suspect. Boyfriend, ex-husband, jealous lover. Certainly a man.
Probably.

A squawk from DeLuca’s radio interrupted his thoughts.

“Kurtz is outta here, she says. The kids’ll be at HQ. My take?” D cocked his head toward the body. “This one’s textbook. Domestic. I give it a couple hours. We’ll be booking some sleazeball ex-husband.”

Hearing from DeLuca exactly what he’d been thinking made Jake wince. Cops’ number one mistake, jumping to conclusions. Meant trying to mold the clues to fit the story they’d created instead of waiting for the real story to reveal itself.

“Could be,” Jake said. He yanked the zipper on his jacket, then caught himself in the silly habit. Jane always gave him grief about it. “Or not. Where the hell is the damn ME? We’re screwed until she—”