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27

Two problems. And, Jane realized, there was really no one to talk to about them.

She pushed open the prism-glassed door of the Kinsale Pub, a dark-paneled fern-draped hangout favored by local pols and civil servants, managed by the legendary bartender Jimmy the B. She needed food.

That made it three problems.

She scanned the room. Deserted, this late in the afternoon. She headed for the bar, happy to be alone. She needed to think.

First problem. Tuck insisted Carlyn Beerman did not know of the Brannigan’s mistake. Tuck was planning to confront the Brannigan people about it first, she’d said, after she “figured out what the hell to do and how to do it and whether we need a lawyer.” As a result, Jane couldn’t say anything to anyone. Not that she’d know what to say or who to say it to.

Second problem. Jake had pantomimed text me, and that’s exactly what Jane had done. But no text came back. She swiveled onto the black vinyl stool at the end of the zinc-topped bar, draping her coat over the seat, lining up.

Trying to focus on her story, Jane had battled through the city’s ancient property tax computers in the chilly basement of City Hall and found the owner of 56 Callaberry was a Leonard Perl of Fort Myers, Florida. The bad news, Boston’s perpetually outdated Residents List showed Perl as the only tenant. Clearly wrong. Since his address was Florida.

“Talkta the Mayah,” the clerk had growled when Jane pushed him for more current data. “Budgit cuts.”

Still, she’d reassured herself, Perl would know who did live there. Jane checked for his phone number but nothing was listed. Damn. Cell phones were ruining reporters’ lives. No way to find anyone’s number quickly anymore. Perl was a dead end.

Nothing was working. The Tuck thing. The Callaberry thing. Her life.

“What’ll it be, Brenda Starr?” Jimmy the B emerged from the kitchen, a bear in a white apron. “Working on a big headline?”

“Hey, Jimmy. Could be. A hamburger, medium-ish. No bun. A Diet Coke and, uh, just this once, French fries.”

“The usual,” Jimmy said. “In five.”

Jane swiveled, back and forth, hand on the bar, replaying her conversation with Maggie Gunnison. One critical tidbit, at least, came from that. The victim’s name was Bree Something.

Bree Something. Not much to go on. She couldn’t find more about those poor kids if she didn’t get the rest of the name. Jake probably knew it by now, of course, and she could wait until the cops released it. But that was no way to get a scoop.

She stared out the front window, an expanse of plate glass framing a colorless landscape of the snow-whitened concrete of City Hall Plaza, a flat urban tundra crisscrossed by briefcase-toting pedestrians. Three o’clock. Apparently these were the nonessential workers let out early to beat the inevitable snarls of snow traffic on the Mass Pike and the Southeast Expressway. The nonessentials scurried from the unwelcoming complex of gray stone and redbrick buildings, heading to the T or to the overpriced parking lots. “Nonessential” workers. There was a dilemma. Better to be nonessential and go home early? Or essential but work late and be stuck in traffic? Jane always picked essential. Especially now the Register bean counters were rumored to be plotting layoffs.

She sipped her Diet Coke, stomach growling as the fragrance of deep-fat frying wafted from the kitchen, watching the commuter show, everyone wearing a hat, some losing their battles with umbrellas. If nothing had consequences, she’d race back to the office, find Alex, and chat with the city editor about what she’d learned. She’d tell him Jake had mimed “text me.” That would make her queen of the May, since having a police source was hot stuff in the news biz. Alex would be impressed, her job future would solidify, and everyone would live happily ever after.

But everything did have consequences. Especially with the barbed wire separating a professional relationship and a personal one. Crossing that ethical boundary could topple her career. And Jake’s. To protect them both, she’d only tell Alex about her visit with Maggie Gunnison, and figure out what to do about the Jake part when the time came.

She picked up a fork, twirling it in her fingers, focused on the front window. Luckily Alex didn’t expect her to file a story today. Another reason she didn’t miss TV.

The double doors of the DFS building disgorged another pack of nonessentials, one of them wheeling a black suitcase, another using one hand to hold on to his-

Her fork clattered to the zinc-topped bar. “Jimmy!” she shouted toward the kitchen. “Don’t trash my food, okay? I’ll be right back.”

A bright green Celtics cap. A green plastic band like a gash across the forehead. Jet-black hair peeking out from underneath. Heading for the Government Center T stop. She had to get to him before he got underground.

“I’m leaving my coat,” she yelled over her shoulder, grabbing her tote bag. No time. She had on boots and a heavy sweater. “Two minutes!”

She powered out the front door and sloshed through the curbside slush, checking Cambridge Street both ways for frazzled drivers who’d be so distracted by the snow and the slickening streets they’d fail to see a jaywalker playing Frogger in the suddenly rush-hour traffic.

“Sorry! Sorry!” she muttered, holding up a hand, as if that would stop anything, and tried not to slip as she picked her way, fast as she could risk it, across the icy pavement.

Finn, right? Finn… Egleston. Everly. Eberhardt. Finn Eberhardt. Her fan. The oversharer.

“Finn!” she called. This was exactly what she needed. She couldn’t let him get away.

*

Kellianne stared at the teddy bear. It sat on her bed, like an alien visitor, making a dent in one of her puffy pillows. Why did it feel so creepy having the stupid bear touching her stuff? It was only fuzzy tan fabric and a couple of black button eyes. A stupid yellow-striped T-shirt. Not even that cute. But it might be worth-something. To someone. Along with the rest of the stuff. She’d figure that out.

It’d been easy, once she’d gotten the brilliant idea. Her Tyvek suit was so ridiculously big, no one would notice she’d stuffed two bears down one floppy leg, and the rest of the-what would she call them, souvenirs?-in the other. She hadn’t quite planned the whole deal in advance, so it worked nicely when Dumb and Dumber told her they’d change clothes in the truck and she could use the vic’s bathroom. Adiós, suckers. She stashed her treasures in her tote bag and walked out like it was any other day. And it was. Except for her, it wasn’t. It was the first day of the rest of her life. She’d heard that somewhere. It seemed right.

The stupid bear stared back at her. Like he knew she had the candlestick, and the little plastic rabbit bowl, and another of the fuzzy brown bears, all in her tote bag. Hidden under the bed. Which, come to think of it, was kind of where she wanted to be. She touched a hand to her stomach. She felt a little weird inside.

Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.

No. It was. Staring down the bear, she lifted her mop of hair onto the top of her head with both hands, then, with a sigh, let it fall back onto her shoulders. She didn’t have to decide right now. She’d left these things off the inventory, so the family, if they existed, or the state, if they didn’t, would never know they were gone. If you looked at the paperwork, this stuff never existed. And finally, finally, she’d be the one who got to make a decision.