Free The Wrong Girl by Hank Phillippi Ryan Page A

like?”
    It was like, horrible, that’s what it was.
    She stamped a foot, though its intended drama was muffled by the cotton-then-plastic boot thingies she had to wear over her shoes. Her Tyvek moon suit was about four sizes too big, it was hot, and it was grotesque. Flipping burgers—even babysitting—would be better than this. How could she get enough money to bail on this whole nightmare?
    Kev and Keefer were annoying. The laugh track from the show was incredibly annoying. How could they sit there and watch a dead woman’s TV? Sit on her couch? Shove over her stuff so they could put their moron feet on her coffee table?
    Just then, Kellianne had an idea.
    A really, really good idea.
    *

    “No, sir, the officers didn’t tell me what it was about.” Niall Brannigan’s receptionist was clearly having a hard time trying to give her boss information without giving Jake any. She’d been pleasant enough, introducing herself with a polite “Good morning, may I help you?” when he and DeLuca arrived at the executive director’s well-appointed outer office, maybe figuring they were potential clients. After they’d shown their badges, though, Jake saw call-me-Grace go a little white under her careful makeup. Now, “helping” them did not seem to be her first priority.
    Jake couldn’t hear Brannigan’s questions on the other end of the phone, but even with the woman’s guarded answers, what he was asking was obvious. It was also obvious the young woman was intimidated by the man in the closed-door office behind her.
    “Yes, Mr. Brannigan. I did, ” Grace insisted. “But apparently they need to talk to you. No, they wouldn’t give me any further…”
    She looked at Jake, eyes wide, silently pleading for assistance. Jake smiled, but shook his head. No way. He and D were here at Brannigan Family and Children Services to talk to the executive director, end of story. If Grace was having a hard day? Welcome to the club.
    “Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I will.” Grace hung up, then glanced at the closed door behind her. She looked at Jake with an expression he’d seen a million times. “Mr. Brannigan is in a meeting, I’m afraid. And he wonders if—”
    Jake interrupted. “I see.” Which was true. “Detective?”
    “After you,” D said. He gestured toward the closed door.
    “Wait, you can’t just—” Grace stood, her chair swiveling, both hands up as if to push them away.
    Jake was faster. He was already at the inner door, hand on the knob, pushing it open. “I’ll explain to your boss, ma’am,” he said, “but we—”
    “I’m so sorry, Mr. Brannigan.” Grace squeezed past the two of them, trying to get into his office first. “They’re—”
    “I’m Detective Jake Brogan, Boston Police.” Jake flipped his badge wallet closed. The guy, tight-ass in a gold-buttoned navy blazer and prissy pocket square, was already standing, barricaded behind his big desk. One finger tapped the shiny wood.
    Jake suppressed a smile, as well as his instant dislike. “My partner, Detective Paul DeLuca.”
    DeLuca followed Jake into the room. “Sorry to interrupt your … meeting.”
    Brannigan touched the shiny clip on his tie, narrowed his eyes for an instant. “That’ll do, Miss O’Connor,” he said, as the door closed behind her. “Gentlemen? What can I do for you?”
    “You have an employee, Lillian Finch.” Jake kept his voice noncommittal, aware of their tightrope. This was always one of the crucial moments. Jake and D had information. Maybe Brannigan had it, too. Maybe even more. Or maybe he didn’t know.
    “Yes.” Brannigan frowned. “But she’s not in yet this morning.”
    Then Brannigan switched on a smile, Mr. Helpful. “I’d call her assistant for you, but she hasn’t arrived this morning, either.”
    Jake exchanged a glance with his partner.
    “What’s the assistant’s name, sir? Did she call to say she wouldn’t be in? Is she usually late?” DeLuca had taken out his spiral