I reach out to shake his offered hand. “So sad about Dorothy.”
“A very special person. Always remembered everyone’s name,” he replies. He looks down the steps, apparently recognizing someone. “Ah, my apologies. Someone I need to speak to. But I am looking forward to your fill-in appearances on Wixie. Lovely to have you on our air while our Maysie is tending to her baby. Perhaps radio will become your second career.”
“Thank you, that would be—”
And he’s gone. I shrug. I suppose he was just being polite. Time to check my voice mail.
“Sweetheart. I have news.” Josh is behind me, his voice is close to my ear. “Let’s walk, and I’ll fill you in.”
My phone goes back into my purse.
“The Head says it was an accident,” Josh tells me, keeping his voice low as we walk, arm in arm, down the church steps. “She had too much brandy, or whatever she was drinking, maybe fell asleep with the car running. Way too much carbon monoxide in her blood. The medical examiner is going to sign the death certificate. Accident.”
“So that’s that,” I say. We come to the bottom and stand on the Chapel Road sidewalk, looking out over the Bexter Common. The organ has changed to Bach. Milky sunshine glints off the snow still sticking to the lofty evergreens.
“Yes,” Josh replies. “That’s that.”
“How many times did you have to call? I probably lost weight in my left thigh from all that vibration.”
“I only called you twice. Maybe three times,” Franklin replies. “Anyway—”
“Never mind,” I interrupt. Maybe it was only three times. I called him back without even checking messages. I’m huddled, facing the wall, in a corner of the lobby of Landman Hall. It’s called Main since it’s Bexter’s main building. Long tables, covered with damask cloths and the lilies from the chapel, offer tiny lemon cookies and delicate quarter-cut sandwiches. Everyone from the memorial service is here. I’m feeling guilty. I should be at work. “What’s up?”
“Michael Borum.” Franklin savors the syllables, drawing them out, as if saying the name is a pleasure. “B-o-r-u-m. Mr. Blue Mustang. The owner. The registry came through. It’s a real break for us. J.T. and I are headed to his house in the South End right now. So. Can you meet us there?”
Now what am I supposed to do? I have to be here, for Josh’s sake. I have to be with Franklin, for our story’s sake. I lean my forehead against the dark paneling, trying to make an impossible decision. How can I be two places at once?
I delegate. “You guys go. Check it out, see if the car’s there. Get some shots of it. And get the VIN if you can. Don’t trespass. Too much. Then let me know.”
“Will you answer your phone when I call next time?”
“If you’re lucky.” I glance toward the room behind me. Josh is waiting, alone, over by the silver tea samovars. He catches my eye and signals, hurry up.
“What if Borum comes out?” Franklin persists. “What if he wants to talk? Or what if he gets angry, yells at us? It would be terrific video. And so much more compelling if you were in it.”
Like I don’t know this. Why is Franklin pressuring me now of all times?
“What’s more, we’ve got to be at the rental-car place by two. The health unit is demanding the hidden camera, they need it by five. For some story on deadly hot dogs.” Franklin’s voice is a sneer. “Big journalists, those health people.”
Josh. Dorothy Wirt. Threatening phone calls. Mr. Blue Mustang. Our story. Our wedding. New York. The rental-car investigation. VIN numbers. Dangerous cars. New York. Deadly hot dogs?
I’m just about in over my head. I struggle to stay afloat.
“Franklin. Just go, okay? Then call me. I’ll meet you at Rental Car King in plenty of time. It’ll work. All of it. One thing at a time.”
“I certainly hope so,” Franklin says. The phone goes dead.
Josh is heading toward me. Thumbs flying across my cell phone’s keypad, I open the text messages to erase all of Franklin’s calls. And see if there were really only three.
Ha. I was right. There were four. But I was wrong. One wasn’t Franklin. It was Maysie.
New baby arriving. Tonight? Cross fingers.
“You there, Franko? I can see you guys perfectly.” My laptop, my cell phone and I are once again stationed in the back of the surveillance car. I’m in a strip-mall parking lot and this time I’ve got binoculars. Last time it drove me crazy to be so far away.
Score one for me and for delegating tasks. Michael Borum wasn’t home. And his car wasn’t there. Therefore, I didn’t miss anything. As I said to Franklin, Borum’s probably hiding himself and his car from the police. We can try again later and hope we find him before the law does. Odds are in our favor, since we know the law isn’t looking.
Now we’re back to our recall story.
“Charlotte? Can you hear me?” Franklin’s voice bristles through my cell phone. Acting like pals who want to rent a car, he and J.T. are heading across the street. J.T.’s job is to go to the main office of the rental-car agency, where he’s supposed to distract the clerk. I’m hoping the clerk is female. J.T. will be in his James Dean element.
“Loud and clear,” I say.
Meanwhile, Franklin will stay in the parking lot with a tiny hidden camera lens sticking out of what looks like an ordinary black nylon shoulder bag. The camera guts are inside the bag. His job is to pretend he’s just waiting around, casually checking out the rental cars.
Thinking about Declan Ross’s accident, I’d wondered if rental cars also had unrepaired recalls. So this afternoon, after my quick change into jeans and a black turtleneck, we’re hitting the budget-priced agency where Ross rented his car. It’s a franchise preposterously named Rental Car King.
“Ready, Charlotte?”
“Absolutely,” I say.
No one watching would ever know. But Franklin’s getting video of each car. And of their VINs.
“One, FTRX, 18W, 17, CA, zero, 1212,” Franklin says as he peers through the windshield of a sporty red convertible. He takes a step or two back, obviously getting a wider shot of the car. “So when is Maysie’s baby arriving? Is she okay?”
I flop against the seat, exasperated. I just forgot half the numbers.
“Don’t wreck my train of thought. I told you, Maddee or Malcolm is probably coming tonight. Crossing fingers. Maysie’s fine, in the hospital, Matthew’s with her, kids have a babysitter, she’s going to call. Okay? Now read me that number again. We don’t have much time here.”
I type the VIN into our database, then grab my binoculars as Franklin moves to the next car. If we find a car that has an open recall, we’ll come back tomorrow and rent it. Rental Car King is mostly a car lot, with a squat yellow faux-brick office building planted in the middle. I focus my binocs through its plate-glass front windows, trying for a glimpse of J.T. and his quarry.
Frowning, I focus again. I can see J.T. pretty well, the back of his leather bomber jacket. And a fuzzy-faced but clearly female figure behind a long counter. But I can also see…? I squint, trying to read the blocky words on the poster. It says Rental Car King. But even squinting, I can’t make out the face beside them.
Franklin’s Bluetooth voice squawks through my phone. “Here’s another one. Ready?”
I put down the binoculars and type in the next VIN. We manage to get at least a dozen more before J.T. and a big-haired clerk in an unfortunate polyester tunic, complete with a king’s crown on the back, come strolling out the door.
“It’s all fine and we’re coming back here tomorrow,” J.T. says to Franklin. “Kelsey says we can choose any car we want.”
I love technology. I can hear everything. J.T. turns to the clerk, gesturing toward Franklin. “Told you he’s fussy about cars. But tomorrow, when we pick up our rental? I’m bringing my older sister.”
By the time the boys get back to the car, I’ve moved the front seat up so far it’s impossible for them to squeeze in. At such short notice, it’s the
only way I could think of to pay J.T. back for the older-sister crack.
“Funny girl,” J.T. says. He scoots the driver’s seat back into place. “And after I risked my life doing all that dangerous reconnaissance.”
“Some danger,” I say. “Maybe from hair-spray inhalation. Young Kelsey starting a fan club?”
“She’s the owner’s niece, I’ll have you know. And Miss Kelsey Kindell knows her cars. When your uncle is RandallC. Kindell, the Rental Car King, you’ve got to—”
The picture on the poster. Now I recognize it. And that’s a problem. “Randall Kindell?”
“He’s the owner, Charlotte,” Franklin chimes in. “Owns a string of RCK franchises. Didn’t you read the e-mails I sent you this morning? It’s all in there.”
Franklin twists around and glares at me over the back of the seat. Frowning. “Can’t know it if you don’t read it.”
It was much easier when my job was my whole life. I was lonely sometimes. But I never missed an e-mail.
“The memorial service,” I explain. Lame excuse. But thinking again, maybe it was lucky I was there. Kind of. I mentally review the faces of the mourners. “Thing is, I’m sure I saw him this morning. Randall Kindell. He was at the service, too.”
We pull out of our parking place, J.T. heading us back to Channel 3. I was hoping we’d be able to prove rental cars from RCK were unrepaired, and potentially dangerous. But now, it seems, if we wind up going on the air with that, we may face an unexpected roadblock.
“Really? Does Kindell have a kid at Bexter?” Franklin asks.
“Wouldn’t that be something?” I say.
“Well, you can’t let that stand in your way,” Franklin replies. “And clearly, if we think a Bexter bigwig is renting dangerous cars, you certainly can’t warn anyone there about what we discovered. And by anyone, I mean Josh. We have to follow the story, no matter where it goes.”
He’s lecturing me about journalism ethics? I’m instantly seething.
I’ve never yelled at Franklin. Not even close. And wouldn’t consider it, much less with J.T. in the car. As I do a calming mental count to ten, I sinkingly realize that part of my anger is directed at myself. Feeling guilty for missing the Borum reconnaissance. Guilty for not reading my e-mail. Guilty because it crossed my mind that maybe—if Randall Kindell is a Bexter bigwig—we could leave him out of our story. And that is unacceptable. There are no divided loyalties in TV.
“Lighten up, Franko,” I say, making my voice cheery. “Think I’d let anything get between me and our next Emmy? No way.”
I hope I’m telling the truth.
Chapter Seven
“Y ou’re on the air in three, two…” Saskia Kaye, her beaded mass of braids swinging with the motion, points a showtime finger at me from behind the Plexiglas that divides the producer’s booth at WWXI radio from the onthe-air talent in the studio.
Tonight, I’m the talent.
“This is Charlie McNally from Channel 3 News, sitting in this Friday night for Maysie Green, thank you so much for inviting me! And tonight—a change in the conversation.” I’m acting like someone else is in the glass-walled WWXI studio with me, but really I’m just talking to the thousands of listeners who tuned in for Maysie’s weekly half-hour sports talk show. They’re gonna be disappointed if they want me to talk about sports, unless it’s Ralph Lauren’s spring sportswear line. But I figure anyone who likes sports likes cars.
“New mother-to-be Maysie’s off tonight, and if she’s listening, we wish her well. Can’t wait to see the baby, Mays,” I say. I’m going for breezy radio voice and channeling the seventies, when I had a part-time job in a Chicago suburb as a radio reporter. Until the news director found someone who had already graduated from college. I did farm news, mostly. But experience is experience.
I check through the Plexiglas as I continue my opening patter, raising a “how am I doing?” eyebrow. Saskia smiles back, her dark eyes twinkling, and gives me a thumbs-up. Okay, then. I’m back on the radio. And I’ve decided to use this gig to troll for some info for our TV story.
“Tonight, I’ll be taking calls about your cars. Anyone get a recall notice? Did you do the repairs? Love to hear about it.”
In an instant, the lighted buttons on the phone console of front of me begin to flash red. One, then another, and another.
“Good girl. You’ve got callers.” Saskia flips a toggle switch so I can hear her voice through my headphones. She punches a button on her phone console. “Transferring caller number one. Here comes Edward from Saugus.”
“Hey, Edward,” I say. I know Saskia writes down the names and e-mail addresses of all the callers for the station’s mailing list before she switches their calls to me. I hear their voices and mine in my headphones, and lean closer to the silver mesh of the football-size microphone. “Tell me about your recall.”
Two flashing bright green readouts on the digital clocks in front of me tick off the seconds, one showing how much time I have left, the other showing the actual time of day. The calls never stop. As the back-timer approaches zero-zero-zero, my radio re-debut winds down without a hitch. And, bonus, in my thirty minutes of airtime I may have found several possible victims for our story. People who bought used cars, not knowing they had unrepaired recalls. I’ll get their e-mail from Saskia. Suddenly she’s giving me the one-finger “wrap it up” signal.
“And that’s all the time we have for tonight,” I say. Saskia holds up a piece of poster board with big block-printed letters. I get it. Radio’s version of a prompter. No problem. “Keep your dial on Wixie for all the news, sports and weather. Stay tuned for Taylor and Tyler’s Drive Time, coming up in just three minutes. Got a car for sale? Tell ’em all about it. And we’ll see you back here real soon.”
“And you’re clear.” Saskia slashes a finger across her neck. She punches a couple of buttons and the red On the Air light above my console fades to black. I take off my headphones, hoping my hair isn’t hopelessly dented. Josh is waiting for me. If Maysie was right, we might be heading to the hospital.
Two lanky, identical-looking men, twenty-somethings in tucked-out plaid shirts and jeans are now lounging in Saskia’s booth. They’re poking at each other with the pointed metal plugs dangling from the curly cords of the padded-ear headphones they’re wearing.
The heavy glass door to the studio clicks open as they saunter into my studio. They’re obviously next on the air.
“I’m Taylor,” one says.
“I’m Tyler,” says the other.
“Two minutes, guys,” Saskia yells as the studio door closes behind them. Time for me to go.
“What I heard, not a bad show,” one of them says, looking me up and down.
The other one nods. “Ever thought of going into broadcasting?”
“We’re not going to crash, that’d be way too much irony.” I open the driver’s-side door of the black Vallero hatchback J.T. and I just rented from the Rental Car King and slide into the driver’s seat. No news from Maysie yet. It’s Saturday morning. There are no weekends in TV.
“Take as long as you want, McNally. Listen, I’ll shoot you driving from the backseat. Then I’ll hang the camera out the window—get us some hot on-the-road video. We did it at the network. It’ll rock.”
“Just get a few shots of me driving from inside the car,” I say. I don’t want to squash his enthusiasm, but I’m not so happy behind the wheel of a car the feds say needs to be repaired. It’s only ten-thirty or so, but the morning’s electric-blue sky has dulled to gray and white. And it’s starting to snow.
“Then I’ll pull over, you hop out, and you can get some footage of me driving by. We just need about a minute of usable video. Four or five good shots, okay? Franklin will meet us at the mechanic’s.”
What’s more, technically, I shouldn’t be doing this. Only J.T.’s name is on the rental agreement as a driver, since it’s too risky for me even to show my face inside RCK. But local news is all about “reporter involvement,” so
if I’m doing a story about driving recalled rented cars, I’ve got to be driving a recalled rented car.
Yes, it makes no sense. Yes, I have no choice. J.T. clambers into the backseat, struggling to fit his camera onto his shoulder without the light bracketed to the top smashing into the fabric-covered roof.
“When I was with the network in the Mideast, we were lucky to have a car at all, let alone with power steering. One that’s recalled, who cares, right? Piece of cake.” J.T. flips on his battery-powered camera light, glaring it briefly in my rearview, then adjusts it so I can see again. “Okay, McNally. I’m rolling. Hit it.”
Flicking on the windshield wipers to battle the intensifying snow, I slowly back out of our parking spot, then turn into the shopping-mall lot. The power steering seems to be fine.
“These recalls are precautionary, anyway,” I say, reassuring myself as much as him. I maneuver around a few shoppers and head for the exit to the highway. “But if the power steering goes, make sure you get the whole thing on camera at least. Ha-ha.”
“Ha-ha,” from the backseat. “You can get your Emmy posthumously. They can roll my spectacular video of the fiery crash at the awards ceremony. Very network.”
“Just get the shots and then we can get this baby’s rotary valve fixed,” I say. “Whatever a rotary valve is.”
At least I understand the accelerator. Easing it down, I guide the hatchback up the ramp onto I-93 North. Our destination is the Power House, the state-of-the-art garage run by the top-notch mechanic who takes care of Franklin’s silver Passat and the adorable Stephen’s red Miata. Apparently the two of them take their cars in for service together, just like they do everything together. Somehow, Franklin never worries about his job distracting from his love life. Somehow, that relationship works perfectly. Of course, they live in the same city.
“A rotary valve is the thing that gauges how hard you’re turning the steering wheel,” J.T. says. “I had to deal with all our cars at the network. Check it out. You’d have big trouble turning a two-thousand-pound car. So the rotary valve is what makes the power steering—”
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