Someday.
Right now, she was cramped into the incredibly hot back seat of the Afterwards truck, Keefer in the front seat zoned out with his ear buds, Kevin inside the triple-decker. She’d bet ten billion dollars they were too early again. She wiped a place on the car window with her fingers to see out. The news people were still here, for crap sake, she recognized that hooker-looking girl from Channel 5. And that was absolutely the ME’s white van parked by the hydrant. Long as the ME was still here, they couldn’t go in and start. Even she knew that.
“Yo, team.” Kevin opened the driver’s side door, blasting her with cold air.
Team. What a full-blown moron. Who died and put him in charge? She winced, remembering the morning’s visit to the hospital. Well, their father hadn’t died yet.
Keefer looked up, his head still moving in time to whatever played on his iPod.
“We’re in, we’re golden.” Kevin cranked the heat up even higher. “Gotta wait till the news conference ends, then the ME’s guys are coming to take the body. Maybe an hour or two. Then us. So we’ll stand by. Ten-four?”
Kellianne rested her forehead against the chilly glass, staring at nothing. Ten-four? What a moron. They were so screwed. And Keefer and Kevin never seemed to care.
She was counting the days.
Ella stood, motionless, waiting. Listening. That had been a sound, she was sure. But now, standing with fingertips barely touching her boss’s desk, she had second thoughts. Maybe she was a little jumpy. Well, okay, guilty, because how could she explain why she was going through papers in her boss’s office?
Well, she could, but the explanation would not be a good one. She was supposed to go through channels, Mr. Brannigan always said. Snooping through files on a Sunday was not channels.
She counted to ten, silently, then to ten again. Listening.
Ella, you’re losing it, girl. She tried a tiny smile, wondering if she could smile her fear away. Whistling a happy tune would make noise. The silly thought made her smile again.
She nodded, convincing herself. She was alone. There was no one outside.
Should she go look?
Easing herself back into Lillian’s leather chair, she leaned down and gathered the spilled papers back into the manila file. What she could also do, of course, was copy it all. Then, from home, she could call this not-Audrey-Rose-Beerman, this (she checked the file) Tucker Cameron. See what she could find out.
Who would know?
Niall Brannigan stood, silent, in the muted light of the carpeted hallway, watching the glow of light under Lillian Finch’s office door. He’d checked the parking lot. No cars. A few taps on his office computer confirmed Ella Gavin’s pass card had been swiped two hours before. Naturally, he hadn’t announced to the staff that he could monitor their pass card use. Why offer his employees knowledge they didn’t need?
Never one to rush a decision, he imagined-in fact savored-what would happen if he simply opened the door of Lillian’s office and confronted the girl. She was a girl to him, no matter what he was supposed to call her.
One other option was to do nothing. Give her enough rope to hang herself. She’d have to walk out at some point, use her pass card to leave. He could check the time remotely from his home. On Monday, he could ask this young lady exactly what she thought she was doing.
Enough rope, he decided.
He spun the gold links of his watchband around his wrist, feeling their slickly solid weight, remembering the same watch on his father’s wrist. What would his father have done with such an impertinent employee? One who disregarded protocol and thumbed her nose at procedure? One who was clearly snooping where she didn’t belong?
His smile broadened. Who cared what his father would’ve done?
Niall was in charge at the Brannigan now.
11
“I’m Detective Jake Brogan, this is my partner, Detective Paul DeLuca, and with us is Dr. Katharine McMahan, medical examiner.”
Standing on the wood-slatted front porch of 56 Callaberry, Officer Hennessey’s uniformed bulk blocking the open door of the triple-decker behind him, Jake spoke into the bouquet of microphones TV crews had duct-taped to a metal light stand. He squinted into the battery of too-bright lights, wondering yet again what was so damn newsworthy about a poor woman’s death. Crime Scene was inside, getting photos and fingerprints, so at least the investigation was underway. He put a shading hand above his eyes, pretending to scan the clump of reporters and photographers organizing themselves five steps below on the scraggly snow-patched front lawn. A couple of neighborhood types, lookies, lurked on the fringe. He was actually scouting for Jane.
“You guys ready?”
There. Black parka, that little stretchy hat. Some photographer stood beside her, snapping away. Still weird to see Jane without a TV camera.
“Jake!” a woman’s voice called from the pack. “Lynne Squires, Channel Five. Can you give us an identification of the victim?
“Can you confirm there’s a victim?” came another voice.
“We hear there are kids.” A man’s voice. “This is Reuben Seltzer, from Channel Two. We’re broadcasting live now, Detective, so can you confirm-”
“I have a brief statement,” Jake interrupted, “we’ll take a few questions, then we’re done. It’s late, it’s cold, we’re still investigating. You want more, you know to call Tom O’Day at headquarters.” He paused. They were doing their jobs. Like he was trying to. “I’m here so you’ll all go away and leave the neighbors in peace.”
“Detective Brogan? Jane Ryland from the Register.” Jane’s voice. From the back. “The medical examiner doesn’t usually come in person. Can you tell us-”
Katharine McMahan stepped forward, leading with her chin toward the bank of microphones, but Jake put out a hand, stopping her. “Ms. Ryland, as I said, I have a statement, it will come directly from me, and only from me.”
“But Jake, she’s got a point,” another voice piped up. “Why is Dr. McMahan-”
“You guys want the statement?” Jake wasn’t happy with this. It wasn’t SOP for him to be in front of the microphones. But the new PR flack, Tom O’Day, was out-of-pocket somewhere, the Supe said. So Jake was “volunteered” for the short straw. Sundays. He should be inside with the crime scene techs, checking evidence, not out here babysitting the media.
“Ready? At approximately four forty-seven this afternoon Boston Police nine-one-one dispatch received a call reporting an incident at fifty-six Callaberry Street, Roslindale.”
“It’s a triple-decker, what floor?”
Jake ignored the question. They’d already checked the usual resources-registry records, resident list, even the phone book and Google. So far, nothing was showing for a resident at 56 Callaberry, apartment C. Interesting. As soon as he wrapped up this circus, he could go back to looking for answers.
“Units from Area B responded to the address in question, found the body of a deceased white female, approximately thirty years old, in a third-floor kitchen. Police also found two juveniles, both now in police protective custody awaiting results of our investigation. We are asking the public for help in this matter, and hope that anyone who saw or heard anything, or who may have some evidence or information about what happened or may have happened, or who is acquainted with the victim, please call the Boston Police tip line at…”