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 billing.”
“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.”
18
“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 crawclass="underline" “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.