“Holy shit, Jane, what the hell are you-?”
“I said, hang on. Get ready. I’m not kidding.” Jane flicked a look into the rearview. The truck was behind her. She couldn’t make out the driver’s face. All she could think about was Finn Eberhardt, that’s how she’d recognized him at City Hall Plaza in the snow. His backwards Celtics hat. Could he have followed her? What if he’d put two and two together about-Hey. Had she given Maggie Gunnison her cell phone number? She had. She had.
She’d thought she was conning Finn into giving her information, but what if she’d actually been revealing her motives to exactly the wrong person? He might have figured she’d find out Brianna Tillson’s name eventually, and played along to see what she’d spill. And now Eberhardt knew she was interested in the case.
Was something going on at DFS? And how was he involved? What if Finn Eberhardt had gotten her phone number from Maggie’s files, and called her, threatening. Maybe he’d followed her all the way from home. Had the truck been at the gas station? She squinted her eyes, struggling to remember. The Dodge behind them was either driven by a random jerk with a twisted idea of fun, or a mid-level caseworker involved in some sort of scheme. A scheme she couldn’t begin to imagine.
NEXT EXIT, 8 MILES, the sign said.
“The truck’s getting closer,” Tuck began. “And-”
“I know.” Now or never. With one motion, she banged the gas, yanked the wheel, and crossed four lanes of snow-slick highway, leaning into the turn as if her weight could keep the car on an even keel. They rumbled over the slush-covered chevrons of yellow paint at the edge of the exit, rear tires jouncing over the raised pavement, and veered into the exit lane, landing almost on the opposite side of the pavement, flirting dangerously with the corrugated aluminum barriers.
“You’re crazy!” Tuck was bracing one hand on the dashboard, the other flat on the side window.
“Maybe. Possibly.” Jane’s voice wasn’t quite right. She realized she didn’t need to keep such a death grip on the steering wheel.
She took her foot off the gas, resisting the urge to hit the brakes, and downshifted, shaping her body along with the turn, letting the car settle into the elongated curve of the exit. No one appeared behind them. No way for the truck to exit for the next eight miles.
Easing the car into the left lane, she saw the highway markers pointing one way to a Taco Bell and a Mobil, the other to a Holiday Inn. Food, gas, lodging. Civilization. A few hundred yards away. She’d have a moment to think. Then make a phone call or two.
“Well? Tuck? Anything?”
Tuck twisted around again, scouting behind them. “Nope. Nothing. No one.” She poked one finger into the upholstery of Jane’s seat back. “So hey, Speed Racer. Care to tell me what that was all about?”
36
“Jake?” DeLuca approached the green Lexus, his black watch cap pulled over his hair, black turtleneck under his battered leather jacket, his Sorels salt-stained and edged with damp. ME Kat McMahan, in a bright blue parka, white moon boots and black briefcase, tramped in the freezing slush beside him. Jake noticed they carried matching Store 24 paper cups, hot coffee steaming from the flipped-open plastic lids.
“Detective DeLuca, this is Mrs. Richards, who called nine-one-one,” Jake said. DeLuca wasn’t going to believe this. “She’s the house on the corner, and she was telling me-”
“Yes, I was saying-,” Mrs. Richards piped up.
“Thank you,” DeLuca said. “But, ma’am, can you give me and Detective Brogan a few minutes? Go inside and get warm, maybe, then we’ll both come follow up.”
“But-” Mrs. Richards, almost pouting, turned to Jake for support. “You should let him know what I told you.”
“Ma’am? Detective?” Jake figured D was going to tell him about Lillian Finch’s house. He’d probably checked the address when he got the radio call. Jake held up a hand, trying to put Mrs. Richards on hold, and also signal DeLuca he had things under control. Which was somewhat true.
“What we need to do first is-,” Jake began.
The black van marked CRIME SCENE pulled up in the center of Margolin Street and the driver’s side window rolled down.
“Yo, Jake? Yo, D. Hey, Doc.” Photo Joe gestured at them with a paper cup, sloshing coffee on the pavement. The milky sun that had worked its way through the clouds briefly glared on the side mirror, sending a burst of light onto Joe’s doughy face. He shaded his eyes with the coffee cup hand, sloshing more liquid onto the street. “It’s me and Nguyen. Where do you want us?”
“May we use your driveway, Mrs. Richards?” That’d solve two problems-parking Joe’s van and dismissing the hovering neighbor. “For Officer Marcella? He’s here to get photographs. Then we’ll be right over to see you.”
“Well, certainly. Follow me, officers.” The woman padded off, focused on her new assignment.
Jake turned to DeLuca and McMahan. The two were standing side by side, coats touching, the medical examiner closer to D than Jake himself would have stood.
“Can you freaking believe it?” Jake said. “Quite the coincidence, huh?”
“Hell no, it’s not a coincidence.” DeLuca swiped off his wool cap, wiped his forehead with it, stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Took a slug of coffee. “We see this guy yesterday morning in connection with a mysteriously dead employee, and now, here he is? On her street? Dead as hell and probably frozen stiff? You think that’s coincidence. Are you shitting me? Sorry, Kat.”
“I’ve heard worse, Detective DeLuca.” Kat McMahan nudged D with an elbow. “Excuse me, Detectives. Might I have access to the-”
“What are you talking about, D?” Jake interrupted the ME, frowning. “What guy?”
“The guy in the front seat,” DeLuca said. “According to the license plate? This fine set of wheels belongs to one Niall Brannigan. Late of the Brannigan Agency. Boss to the late Lillian Finch. And from the looks of it-”
“Late himself,” Jake added. Niall Brannigan? What the hell was going on at that agency? And on Margolin Street? Two dead coworkers, zero explanations. “Not only late, but I’d say, very unlucky. Or very much in trouble.”
“Yeah. In trouble, dude.” DeLuca nodded. “Exactly like-”
“-we are,” Jake finished his sentence. “Exactly like we are.”
Ella had never seen Grace cry before. Crying was a daily occurrence at the Brannigan, for sure. In a wrenching moment of decision. When papers were signed. When people said good-bye. Sometimes, there were tears of joy. Finding the family they’d dreamed of. Tears of realization that life’s puzzle, missing a piece for so long, might finally be whole.
But sitting at her desk in front of Mr. Brannigan’s closed door, Grace could not be sharing tears of joy with a reunited family. Ella paused outside the open doorway. Mr. Brannigan’s secretary sat, head in hands, at her desk. Her sleek dark hair had come loose from its stylish little bun, random strands of escaped curls touching one shoulder of her tight black sweater. Touching her other shoulder, Ella was perplexed to see, was the hand of Collins Munson. He leaned close to her, speaking words Ella couldn’t make out.
Ella’s determination began to evaporate. She’d planned to tell-she’d decided to tell-Mr. Brannigan everything. It was the right thing to do. She’d even called him this morning on his private line, but no answer. Ella took two steps back into the empty hallway, reconsidering. Her parka was suffocating, her muffler was scratchy, and her one-strap backpack, documents burning a hole inside, was way, way too heavy.
She should go to her office, take all this off, and think things through again. Where was everyone, anyway? It was Tuesday, a workday. Usually, phones were ringing, copy machines whirring, and computers clattering. People waiting in the lobby. Not today. The hallway was deserted. Office doors closed. She looked at her watch. Nine thirty. It was probably everyone sad over Lillian. She’d go to her office, and then… oh. Lillian was gone.