On oxygen. Ella was breathing. Jane looked at Monahan, pleading for intervention. “Will she be okay?” Tell me she’ll be okay.
“Don, this is Jane Ryland.” Monahan stepped up, showed the EMT the handwritten paper. “The person your patient was asking for.”
Cannon frowned, shook his head. “Negative. She cannot talk. Let her see you’re here, Miss Ryland. Then we’re going.”
Jane took one step toward the gurney, fearing what was under that blanket, fearing the future, knowing she might have made a difference, and didn’t. Didn’t.
A movement under the blanket, and Ella’s right hand came out, gestured Jane toward her.
“Go ahead,” Cannon said. “Thirty seconds.”
Ella made a motion like writing.
Cannon handed Ella a mechanical pencil, then pulled a tiny pad from a pocket in his coveralls and held it in front of her, not touching the blanket. The three of them watched, Jane holding her breath, as Ella scrawled something, then something else.
“Pocket?” Jane leaned in to the paper. “Cat?”
The pencil moved again. “Feed?” Jane read.
“There’s something in your pocket, and you want me to feed your cat?” Jane struggled to keep herself from crying and laughing at the same time. “Are your keys in your pocket? Blink twice for yes.”
Ella did. Then pantomimed write again.
“I’m sorry,” the EMT said. “No more. The sooner we get her out of here, the sooner she’ll recover. Say your good-byes.”
The EMT had said “recover.” That was a good sign.
“Cannon, let’s do this,” Monahan said. “Get her keys. And whatever. Quickly.”
“Yessir.” Using two fingers, the EMT lifted the silver blanket, inch by inch. Then turned to Jane, holding a keychain in one hand. A folded piece of paper in the other.
“Is this what you want me to have?” Jane leaned in, close as she could.
Ella’s eyes widened, blinked twice, then closed.
“What van?” The woman shot Jake a withering look, right out of grade-school detention. “The van I told you about before. They’ve been here a couple times now. Looked to me like some kind of cleanup crew, you know? Carrying in buckets and mops, carrying out big green trash bags of-whatever. It reminded me of that movie, where the girls come and clean up after murders and things? I thought that’s who these people were. That’s why they had those rolls of yellow tape. But they wouldn’t come after dark, would they, Detective?”
Afterwards? Was here? He’d keyed in on them outside the funeral, but had been crazed with the Ricker thing since then. Afterwards was the crime scene cleanup crew who’d interrupted Kat McMahon’s examination of Brianna Tillson.
They’d been called to Callaberry Street. That must have been okayed by landlord Leonard Perl. And they’d been here. Who okayed that? This was Finch’s house. She owned it, not Perl. Jake had checked with Alvarez in Records. Finch lived alone.
So. Brianna Tillson-murdered. Lillian Finch’s death-ruled a homicide. Niall Brannigan’s death outside Finch’s house-suspicious. The glue that held all three together was Afterwards. And, possibly, the elusive Leonard Perl.
“Did you see any of the people from the van, Mrs. Richards?”
“Dolly, I told you. There were two at least, maybe three. I can’t be sure.” She gestured toward the house with her mitten. “You think the fire is out? Who was the body that firefighter was carrying? How do you think the fire started? The van people could have done it.”
Mrs. Richards paused her monologue and nodded, apparently approving of her own detective skills. “They sure could’ve.”
Jake had to agree. They sure could’ve.
He reached for his cell, ready to alert DeLuca to accompany him on a come-to-Jesus visit to the now-unsuspecting folks at Afterwards. Folks who would not be so happy when he interrogated them about their role in the death of Niall Brannigan. And their certain knowledge of the whereabouts of Leonard Perl.
He hit DeLuca on speed dial. Then Jake hit “end call.” Shit. How many gray vans were there in Boston? No way to prove whose van had been on Margolin Street. Any evidence of their “cleanup” was a smoking mass of embers and debris. Some defense attorney would rip them to shreds.
“Ma’am?” Maybe she could ID one of them. Something. Anything.
“Look at that Jane Ryland,” Mrs. Richards was saying. “So pretty. I’d recognize her anywhere. What’s she doing here, a story for TV? That’s her little black car, must be.”
“Yes it’s…” Jake watched Mrs. Richards take out a little pink spiral notebook, a ballpoint pen dangling from the spiral.
She clicked open the pen and began to write. “Is that a three or an eight, Detective? My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
“A three or an-on Jane’s license plate?” Jake was confused. “Why would you be writing that down?”
“Like I told you the other day.” Mrs. Richard puffed out an exasperated breath. “I always take license plates. Always. Even yours. It started when some neighbors were bringing in all kinds of unsavory types. Then it got to be kind of a habit. Tell you a secret, I use the numbers to play the lottery.” She smiled up at him. “Silly, I know. But very lucky.”
Jake was almost afraid to ask. Might he get lucky? “Mrs. Richards?”
“Dolly,” she said.
“Dolly. Let me ask you.” He eyed her notebook. “Do you keep track of the dates? Did you write down the license number of the gray van?”
69
“I hate search warrants.”
Jake had to smile as DeLuca’s voice came over the cruiser’s speaker.
“No reason to wait to get those assholes. Crime scene cleanup, my ass. They’re the freaking criminals.”
“Yup, D. They’re in on something. And they sure as hell know where Leonard Perl is. But Supe insists we get a warrant before we hit them up. Judge Gallagher’s been sent the request affidavit. Hey. It’s law and order, right? We’re the law. We need her order.”
Jake checked his rearview, made sure Jane was following him. It was after midnight. She’d looked zonked and scared and exhausted, but she’d insisted on driving home herself. He shook his head, keeping an eye on her headlights. They’d compromised that she’d follow him, he’d see her safely inside. He held up a hand. Jane waved back. She was so…
“Talk about law and order.”
Even over the speaker, D’s voice oozed disdain.
“What about it?” Jake turned onto Beacon Street, Janey right behind him. The snow was over, but the streets were still slick.
“Well, the bad news is our Maggie Gunnison lawyered up. Guess she realized she was in deep shit. Kidnapping and murder being your basic life-in-prison deal,” DeLuca said. “So we’re hearing zip from her. She’s currently residing in the luxurious confines of the Suffolk lockup, probably calculating her options.”
“Which may include offering up the whereabouts of Leonard Perl,” Jake said. “Speaking of which, you ever get that Florida DMV photo?”
“You’re livin’ right,” DeLuca said. “It’s a fax, if you can believe it. Stone age. The quality’s not that great. But I’ll e-mail it to your cell. You never know.”
Jane pulled into a place in front of her building, behind the spot where Jake had just turned off the engine of his cruiser. She saw his interior lights blink on, saw his door open. So he was getting out, not just waiting for her to come to his window to say good-bye. Would he want to stay over? Would she want him to?