Past the Brannigan again. One more time. Jane took out her cell, deciding to put it someplace more accessible than the black hole of her tote bag. She could shoot video with it, too, if need be.
Damn.
Her cell was less than half-charged. She pulled to the curb, grabbed her plug from the center console. Jammed it into the thing on the dashboard. Why hadn’t Alex called back? She sat at the wheel, engine idling. Seeing reality.
She was going to be laid off. That was why he hadn’t called. Why Ginnie had acted so weird. Why the desk hadn’t responded. They couldn’t. If they talked to her, they’d have to say something, so it was easier to ignore her. Put her off. Until the axe fell.
She rested her forehead on the steering wheel. She envisioned her future unfolding and it was not pretty. Her father would be so disappointed. Again. She’d have to slink home to Oak Park, a failure, live in the shadow of her perfect sister, a pitiful minion at Lissa’s wedding. A failure at TV. A failure at newspapers. A single woman with a cat.
Mom, she thought. I’m glad you’re not here to see this.
No. She sat up, shaking a finger at herself. No one had fired her. As far as she knew, really knew, nothing had changed. Onward to her story. If she was getting kicked out of the Register, she’d go out with a bang.
Once more around the block. Then she was going in.
74
“I apologize, Detectives, for the disarray.” Ardith Brannigan, dressed for success in a dark suit and pearls, gestured at nothing. Jake and D now stood side by side in front of the widow’s desk, a sleek slab of glass set on elaborate wrought-iron pedestals. Already she’d changed all the furniture, Jake noticed. No more club chairs and tweed. Now it was all sleek black leather, heavy brass. A black monolith of a couch with chrome armrests. What was it, two days since the funeral?
“We’re on a bit of a skeleton crew right now, reorganizing, of course, after…” She paused again, dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.
Grief 101, Jake thought, then tried to stay objective. He heard DeLuca clear his throat. He was feeling the same way, Jake could tell.
“We’re here about your employee Ella Gavin?” Jake decided to keep it vague, see how this woman reacted.
“What did she do?” Ardith Brannigan’s eyes narrowed. She no longer seemed on the verge of tears. She sat in her black swivel chair and tapped a chunky black pen against the desk, her pearl bracelets clacking. Hearing the sound, she stopped. Blinked at them.
“Do?” DeLuca asked.
“Have you heard from her today?” Jake asked. This woman was nervous. Guilty. About something.
Ardith blinked again, several times. “Well, I’m sure we have…” Her voice trailed off. “We asked our staff to stay home today, so I assume…”
Jake waited, silent, watching this woman’s mind work. Maybe realizing she’d jumped to an ungracious conclusion.
“Would you like me to check?” She raised both palms, questioning. “Detectives, is she all right?”
“Yes, she’s fine,” Jake lied. “Let me ask you-how well did you know Lillian Finch?”
“Yeah, Mrs. Brannigan?” DeLuca broke in, flipping open his notebook. “I’ll take it from here.”
Bad cop. Right on cue. Jake gave him the floor.
“Can you please account for your whereabouts last Sunday? Did you go to Lillian Finch’s home?” DeLuca was being a hardass. “Your memory should be pretty clear on that, it was only five days ago. Sorry to bring it up-but it was the day before your husband died.”
“She was with me,” said a voice at the door.
Jane had driven around the block four times. Still no Tuck, even though there’d been plenty of time for her to get here. And, a little worrisome, there’d been something in Tuck’s voice, some hesitancy. For some reason she wasn’t hot on coming.
“I’m done,” Jane said out loud. She drove into the parking lot, plenty of spaces, only one other car. Five more minutes. She’d sit in the car for five minutes. Look at the files again. Continue not-worrying about her job.
Then-Tuck or no Tuck-she was going in.
That’s the guy. The thing Jake had been trying to remember. Old-school tie, tortoise shell glasses, nose in the air. Hard-edge. The one he’d seen outside All Saints’, his arm around an elegant woman in mourning. Mrs. Brannigan, he now knew. Squiring the widow to her own husband’s funeral.
“She was with you.” Jake repeated the man’s statement. “All day Sunday? And night?”
“And you are?” DeLuca put in.
“Collins Munson.” The man closed the office door behind him.
“Mr. Munson is the-,” Ardith interrupted, fluttered a hand, no wedding ring, Jake noticed. “-director of History and Records for the Brannigan. He’s a longtime and valued-”
“We’ll take it from here,” DeLuca said.
“I heard you asking about Ella Gavin,” Munson said. “I attempted to call her this morning, but no answer at her apartment. So I’m afraid I have no answers for you. Happy to give you her address. If you need to contact her? For some reason?”
Jake ignored his offer. Munson didn’t seem to know of Ella’s situation. The cops had kept her name out of the news coverage. “So I’m sure you heard Detective DeLuca here ask if Mrs. Brannigan was at Lillian Finch’s home. If you were together, were you ‘together’ at Lillian Finch’s home?”
“Why would we be at Lillian Finch’s home?” Munson took a step closer to Ardith, then another. “We were here at the Brannigan, working on a case. Which case was it, Ardith? Our cars were parked here, all day. Although we have no parking lot surveillance video, I fear.”
“Well, that’s no problem, of course, Mr. Munson,” Jake said. Big smile. “I’m sure we’ll be able to confirm through the building’s pass card reader. Correct?”
Munson flickered a glance at Ardith Brannigan, whose hands had curled into fists. “I’m sure I have no idea,” Munson said. “Sometimes it doesn’t work. It’s new.”
“Technology, huh?” Jake stayed pleasant. He was the good cop this time. But about to go bad.
He tapped his cell phone, pulling up photos, found the one he’d snapped of a guy in a Newbury Street cafe he’d thought was Harry Belafonte. It wasn’t. “Do you recognize this man?”
He held the phone toward Munson, who lifted his glasses to peer at it. Jake glanced at DeLuca, who’d looked at it, and now was frowning. It was DeLuca who’d confirmed it wasn’t Harry Belafonte.
“I’m afraid not,” Munson said.
“Mrs. Brannigan?”
She moved closer to Munson, took her turn examining the little screen.
“I’m afraid not,” she said.
“I see,” Jake put his phone away. “That’s the cab driver who brought you to Lillian Finch’s home Sunday afternoon. That’s why we don’t need nonexistent surveillance video of your cars in the parking lot. And we don’t really need you to recognize the man in the photo. Because he recognized you. One of the neighbors keeps track of every license plate that goes by. She got the number of your cab. She didn’t see you, since you cleverly got out up the street, behind that big evergreen. And it was snowing, I’m sure you remember. But well-you can figure out the rest. An absolute and unmistakable identification.”
Munson wrapped his arm around Ardith, who moved into the circle of his embrace. “Preposterous.” Munson flipped one hand, dismissive. “Our cab driver was a-”
He stopped.
“Don’t say a word, Ardith,” he said.
75
Jane walked through the parking lot, up the evergreen-trimmed length of winding sidewalk, then turned onto the manicured flagstone path. Looked for a doorbell, saw only an electronic entry thing. Maybe she needed a pass card? But the door opened with a turn of the polished brass knob.