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.
Jane leaned in, trying to get a better look.
Ella leaned in too, frowning, touching her fingers to her lips.
“Again, you’re perplexed,” Tuck continued. The gold charm twisted slightly with the motion of her sigh. “Which answers my next question. This baby bracelet was also attached to my blanket. But there’s nothing about it in your file, correct?”
“I-we-well-,” Ella stammered. “Ms. Finch will have to look at… we can call her and-”
“I see. And here’s another question for you and Ms. Finch. If I’m Audrey Rose Beerman, how come this charm bracelet is engraved with my birthday-and the name ‘Tucker’?”
19
Jake watched Brannigan settle on an attitude. His face had registered surprise, certainly, then anger, maybe even a little fear. He had apparently decided on sorrow, which, in Jake’s assessment, wasn’t a comfortable choice for him. Jake and DeLuca remained standing near the doorway. Apparently this Brannigan had no interest in making them comfortable, either.
“Mr. Brannigan?” Jake pulled out his BlackBerry, ready to take notes. DeLuca still razzed him about his habit, but it was easier than trying to read his pitiful handwriting. Plus, this way the info was already transcribed, and he could zap himself an e-mail and send it to his files. Jake saw the green 2 on his message icon. He’d have to call whoever it was later. The Supe knew he was here; he’d assigned them this notification, even though they hadn’t yet inspected the crime scene.
“May I ask, did Ms. Finch seem worried about anything? Depressed? Had she mentioned any reason she might be under unusual stress? And may we sit down? This may take a few minutes.”
“How did she die?” Brannigan waved them to the club chairs in front of his desk.
“Well, that’s under investigation, Mr. Brannigan.” That was true. The Supe had told Jake that Crime Scene reported Lillian Finch was a possible suicide-plastic bag over the head. Or possible homicide-pillows had been duct-taped over her face.
Question was, how much did Brannigan know?
“That’s why we’re here.” DeLuca took the chair on the left. He propped one ankle on the other knee and tapped his notepad with his Bic pen. “Investigating.”
Brannigan lowered himself into his leather swivel, steepled his hands on the desk.
“Could you… give me some time, gentlemen? This news is very distressing. I’ll need to compose myself. I’m sure you understand.” He stood up again, barricaded behind his desk, fingertips grazing the mahogany. “And in the meantime? I’m calling my lawyer. I’ll instruct my secretary to give you his number.”
This guy watched too many cop shows. Might have been smarter for Mr. Bigshot to suss out what Jake was going to ask, instead of kicking them out.
Still, not necessarily a bad thing. Calling a lawyer? Put Brannigan square on the guilty list.
“We’ll be in touch,” Jake said.
“Soon,” DeLuca said.
“Jane Ryland to see Margaret Gunnison?” She was late. She’d barely gotten to the twenty-third floor in time, risking her car in an iffy parking spot outside the bleak brick facade of the state’s Department of Family Services building. The text from the DFS public relations person arrived soon after Tuck had pulled out that charm bracelet, and Jane raced away, leaving Tuck to her own devices to get wherever.
“Now, or after next week,” the PR flak had warned. Margaret Gunnison, apparently knower of all knowledge about the state’s foster care system, was about to spend the second week in February in Anguilla, eager to take off from Logan this afternoon before the snow hit.
Jane untied her coat and stuffed her gloves into the pockets. I better not miss this meeting because of Tuck. She leaned closer to the barrier separating her from the elaborately coiffed woman commanding the blinking phone console. “Ms. Gunnison is expecting me.”
The receptionist assessed her through tarry eyelashes, then pushed a button on the intercom, setting columns of red and green lights flashing.
“DFS. May I help you?” she said into the phone. “No, he’s not here, but I’ll patch you through to his cell.”
Her necklace announced-in rhinestones-her name was Vee. On the wall behind Vee, a chronologically arranged row of eight-by-ten framed and dated portraits labeled DFS COMMISSIONERS showed prune-mouthed white men in increasingly contemporary suits and haircuts, one after the other-until the last picture in the row, a black woman in a carefully tied scarf.