“Good try.” Maggie shook her head. “That, I can’t tell.”
With a rasp like an insistent wasp, the intercom on Maggie’s desk broke the silence.
“I told Vee to tell me when twenty minutes was up. Thanks, Vee,” Maggie said into the speaker. “I’m okay. We’re done.”
“It’s not the time,” Vee said. “I forgot about that, actually. It’s the police. They’re on their way here. To see you. They’re asking about Brie-”
Maggie lunged for the phone on her desk, grabbed the receiver, punched off the speaker button.
Brie? Jane didn’t want to write it down, but she’d remember it, because it was past lunchtime and she was starving. Brie? Maybe it was Bree. Part of a name. Part of a name Maggie definitely did not want her to hear.
Maggie turned her back, whispering into the phone.
Maybe “Bree” had nothing to do with the Callaberry Street kids. But judging by Maggie’s demeanor, and if the police were on the way, then Jane had overheard a pretty tantalizing tidbit.
Jane pretended interest in the framed photos of children on the office wall until she heard the click of Maggie hanging up. She waited a beat before turning around, so it wouldn’t look like she’d been listening.
“I should never have come in to the office today,” Maggie said.
“The police?” Might as well go for it. “Anything you can tell me?”
“Yes,” Maggie said. “Good-bye.”
22
Alone in the echoing faux marble elevator lobby of the Department of Family Services building, Jake punched the “up” button, then watched the number twenty-three go green above the only car that seemed in working order. The door of one elevator was propped open with a couple of two-by-fours and zigzagged with duct tape. The other had an orange sawhorse barricading it, a hand-scrawled sign proclaiming OUT-A-ORDAH.
Our tax dollars at work, he thought.
But the good news was he had the victim’s name. Brianna Tillson. According to DeLuca, Kat McMahan ran the fingerprints, standard operating procedure. Not much hope the prints would be on file, unless the victim had been in the armed forces, or arrested, or had some kind of high-level security clearance, so Jake had put no eggs in that basket. But there they were. Because-
Jake checked the elevator lights again. Sixteen. The lone elevator was moving, but seemed to stop at every floor. Probably picking up all the state employees heading for lunch.
Because Brianna Tillson was a foster parent. She’d been printed, per Massachusetts regulations, when she applied for the state-supported program. And that, he and D agreed, was a huge break. Huge.
D had called the DFS before he’d even told Jake. So DFS now knew they had a foster parent as victim. And Jake knew he had a hell of a lead.
Not only did they have a name, but soon a whole history would unfold. Upstairs in the files there’d be a dossier on those two kids. Who, it now seemed, were not Brianna Tillson’s, but biologically someone else’s. Question was, whose.
That person was suspect number one.
Maybe the files would reveal Brianna Tillson also had a baby.
D insisted he needed coffee and would meet Jake in Maggie Gunnison’s office. Then they’d get some answers.
The clunk of the elevator’s mechanism announced its arrival. It rumbled to a stop, and as the brushed silver doors slid open, Jake had to step back to avoid being trampled by the lunch crowd. Mufflers, hats, parkas, talking, everyone with earbuds or a cell phone clamped to their face. Everyone striving to be first, they jostled through the opening, gloved hands banging the black rubber strip to keep the doors open. And then in the back-Jane.
Jake. Jane saw him, visible in flash-frame glimpses through the hats and scarves and shoulder bags of the ten million people who crammed themselves into the stifling elevator, floor after floor, after she got on. He hadn’t noticed her yet. Savoring a moment of secret surveillance, she watched him in that leather jacket she loved, his hair all mussed the way she loved. She wanted to smooth it, touch him, unzip that jacket and tell him that she’d decided they should-Wait a minute.
He was on his way to see Maggie Gunnison. Had to be. Why?
What was she doing here? If it wasn’t to see Maggie Gunnison, that was too much of a coincidence. If it was to see Maggie, it was a bad coincidence. What’s more, Jane had gotten here before him. That meant his life was about to become even more of a mess. Exactly why they’d decided to remain uninvolved. Even though-
“Hey, Jane,” he said. The elevator was empty now, except for her. The lunch crowd had scattered. They were alone.
“Hey, Jake.” She had crossed her arms, and was leaning back against the chrome railing, that Jane-smile on her face. “We have to stop meeting like this.”
She looked terrific.
“Going up?” she asked. “What floor?”
The doors began to slide closed. Jane didn’t budge. Jake jumped forward, almost not thinking about it, slamming one hand on the door, forcing it to stay open. The closing mechanism battled back, rumbling its impatience, as he stood on the threshold.
“What’re you doing here?” he said. “You came down. Aren’t you getting off?”
The elevator door seemed frantic to close, shoving against his hand. He leaned into it, waiting, still not stepping inside the car.
“Oh, I want a lawyer,” Jane said. “Because I don’t have to answer that. Unless you want to come in here and try to convince me.”
“Going up?” A guy in a puffy green jacket covered with snowflakes and lugging a unwieldy pizza box also covered with snowflakes strode past Jake and parked himself in front of Jane. “Could you push ten for me?” He turned to Jake with the beginnings of a frown. “Snowing like a son-of-a. And I got hot pizza. You going up?”
“Smells fabulous,” Jane said. “Pizza’s my favorite. Especially hot. You coming, Detective Brogan?”
Jake took a step into the car, the doors swishing closed behind him. He pushed the button for ten. But not for twenty-three.
“You’ll pay for this, Ryland,” he muttered. Somehow, his hand twined into hers. And hers curled back into his. He felt her lean in closer to him, pressing her arm against his jacket, her head briefly touching his shoulder. He could smell the perfume in her hair. Even over the cheese and tomatoes.
“That might be fun,” she whispered. “But do you think these things have surveillance cameras?”
23
“It is with deep regret that I call you all together.”
Regret? Regret about what, Ella wondered. Could Mr. Brannigan know what happened to Miss Cameron? Or what Ella had told her in the coffee shop?
Ella tried to shrink behind the other employees, edging into a corner of Mr. Brannigan’s outer office, gauging whether he was looking at her. Was he? Why had he called everyone here?
The others murmured, filling the silence with soft speculation as Mr. Brannigan surveyed the room.
He narrowed his eyes at her. He did.
She was late, that had been bad enough. She’d arrived at the Brannigan just before ten, counting her blessings that Ms. Finch was out, reassured she’d never know how late Ella arrived. She stashed her bag of copies under her desk, having decided, in a flash of defiance on the subway, not to shred them, but to take them home. They were evidence, of something, and who knew what might happen to the real paperwork?