I lean against the other car, drawing my coat closer around me. The ceiling lights buzz and crackle, gradually whirring into a blue-white glow, one tube at a time. One flickers, knifing Kindell’s face into moving shadows.
“Help you? Help you—what?”
“I got a phone call. At home. Yesterday. From someone who mentioned my daughter, Nancy. He—or she—” Kindell stops, then looks down at the oil-spotted concrete floor. “Forget it. It’s probably nothing.”
He looks up. He’s made a decision. He stands up straight. “Never mind.”
No way.
“Does Nancy go to Bexter Academy?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“And did the caller indicate there’s some sort of scandal at Bexter? Drugs?”
Kindell’s expression morphs from shock, to relief, to anger. He hesitates, then plunges in. “Yes. Exactly. Listen. I went to Bexter, got a scholarship, years and years ago. Bexter is the best there is. That’s why my wife and I sent Nancy there. Least I could do is give back, so I try to donate what I can. But aren’t they watching the kids? Now some stranger tells me there are drugs at Bexter? Nancy’s fourteen!”
“Have you told the police?” I’m all too certain what his answer will be. But maybe someone has some sense.
“No.”
Of course. I wish I could ask if Nancy Kindell knows Lexie and Talbott Dulles. And the timing of this means the blackmailer couldn’t possibly be Dorothy Wirt.
“The caller said if I didn’t—” He stops.
“Pay? Send a money order to a post-office box?”
“How do you know that?” Kindell is frowning, looking at me through squinted eyes. “The voice said I had a week.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Kindell. And I know you’ll understand why I can’t tell you all I know. I’ve been asked to keep it confidential. And perhaps this will reassure you, too. About my ability to keep secrets. But extortion, blackmail, drugs at Bexter? It’s a matter for the police, it really is. And I can’t say any more about this, but I’m telling you…”
I pause, making sure he understands I’m trying to say something without actually saying it. “I’m telling you, if you did call the police? They’d understand why. And honestly, I’m so sorry. But there’s nothing I can do.”
Kindell blinks, considering. His gold wedding band glints as he runs a hand across the sleek hood of the car. Then does it again.
“I hear you,” he finally says. “But the police are going to have to figure out this thing without my help. I’m keeping Nancy—and my wife—out of it.”
“Drugs? At Bexter?” Josh rolls over, propping up his head on one hand. “Of course. It’s a school. No place is immune. But some huge scandal?”
Josh shrugs. The blanket slides away, revealing bare chest and the drawstring of his plaid flannel pants. We’re in bed earlier than usual. And it’s not just the result of last night’s late-night Bexter catastrophe. Penny’s sleeping over at Annie’s and we’re alone. Botox is curled up, a calico puff at the end of the bed. She’s pretending we’re not here.
I turn over, facing Josh. It’s all I can do not to reach out one hand and postpone the conversation. Maybe give a little tug at that drawstring. Resolute, I yank the pale blue blanket up to my chin. He yanks it down. I yank it back up.
“Don’t try to distract me,” I instruct. Although it’s too late. I’m already wavering. “First, Wen and Fiona Dulles. And now Randall Kindell. You still promise not to tell, right? I said I’d keep their calls secret. And now I’m feeling guilty even telling you. But demanding money? That’s new, isn’t it? Did Dorothy say anything about a blackmail demand?”
Josh rolls his eyes, then reaches to yank down the blanket again. I pull it up. Determined to stay on track. “The police are investigating. Let’s let them investigate.”
“Or Alethia?” I’m ignoring him. I just had a thought. “Did her caller say anything about money? It could be the police don’t even know about the extortion. Hey. Speaking of Alethia. Is there news? Has Alethia been able to tell the police anything about her fall?”
“Nope. She’s sedated. Sleeping. I hear they think she’ll come out of it. But, honey? Nothing is going to happen between now and tomorrow. So, I say we…”
He creeps his hand toward the blanket. I smack it to a halt.
“So do you know Lexie and Tal Dulles? And Nancy Kindell? Do you think there’s a drug thing going on? Have you heard anything? Would you?”
“Honey, as I said. Drugs in school? I wouldn’t be shocked. Still, Nancy Kindell? The Dulles kids? I wouldn’t have thought so. Tal’s a top senior, plays football. Would I know if kids were smoking dope behind the athletics shed? Probably not. Are kids falling asleep in class? Strung out like crystal-meth users? Not that I know of, at least.”
With a sigh, I flop down on my back. “I wish they’d all just tell the police, you know? I’m tired of keeping secrets. I can barely remember who knows what.”
“I know something secret,” Josh says. He reaches out for the blanket again, and begins to pull it, inch by inch, away from me. “I know how to be two places at once.”
The phone rings. Jangling. Botox leaps from her spot on the bed. Josh pulls the entire blanket off the bed and tosses it over the phone. It rings again, muffled.
“Hey!” I yelp, grabbing the blue-striped sheet. I scramble after the blanket, naked, laughing, pawing for the phone. “It might be Penny, you know? Hello?”
Listening to the voice on the other end, I slowly wrap the sheet around me, tucking in a corner to keep the fabric in place.
“I’ll let you tell Josh,” I say. I hand him the phone. “It’s the Head. About Alethia.”
The room stills as Josh puts the receiver to his ear. I know he’s hearing what Byron Forrestal just told me. Alethia’s in a coma. She’s not coming out of it. She’s dying. Her family is bringing in her priest. It’s over.
I watch Josh’s face go solemn. He’s murmuring into the phone.
Sitting on the side of the bed, I tuck the sheet more tightly around me. Maybe the cops are buying the accident theory. But I’m not. Not about Alethia. And not about Dorothy.
Chapter Eleven
T his may be a huge wild-goose chase. We’re headed for the Longmore Hotel. More specifically, the parking lot of the Longmore Hotel. This could be dynamite. Or it could be a big fat goose egg. Nothing.
Franklin and I spent the morning plowing through RCK rental agreements. We’re following up with every person who rented the car with Annie’s VIN and every person who rented the same car I did, the black Vallero, the one without air bags. There are dozens of agreements, each printed onto a pink piece of paper with the hint of blur that comes with a toner-challenged copy. First we put them in chronological order, then, using the tried-and-true phone survey routine, we called each person who rented the car. We’re looking for clues, patterns, anything that will give us some idea of where and when the bad guys might have the opportunity to clone VINs and swipe air bags. We’re thinking: parking lots.
Phone surveys often result in a big time-sucking nothing. But I love digging for journalism gold. About an hour into the car-renter pursuit, after some dead ends and hang-ups, I’d hit possible pay dirt.
“Check it out, Franklin,” I said, holding up a rental agreement. “I just talked to this guy in Maine. He rented a car for the holidays. The same car I rented. Stayed at his parents’in Boston, he ever so willingly told me. Guess where they had a celebration dinner?”
“Just tell me, Charlotte.”
“Spoilsport. Okay, they had dinner at Bistro Zelda. And, ta dah, they used valet parking there. Just like—”
“Michael Borum.”
“Exactamundo.”
“Wait a second.” Franklin shuffled through his paperwork. “I had a valet parker, too. In the RCK car that has the same VIN as Annie’s. Not at Bistro Zelda, though.”
He held out the rental agreement. His notes, in Franklin’s precise, square handwriting, were att
ached on top with a red plastic paper clip.
“Longmore Hotel,” I read out loud. I shrugged. “Maybe they’re doing it there, too?”
“Easy enough to check,” Franklin said.
“You’re reading my mind. As usual.” I had stacked up the documents into a neat pile, no creases, no folds, to keep them pristine for the camera, and slid them into a protective folder. “Longmore Hotel, here we come. Time to see if we’re on the right track.”
Now we’re turning the corner onto Milk Street, winding through the impossible one-way streets and prohibited left turns.
When we pull to a stop in the semicircular driveway of the Longmore, a skinny kid in a too-big black nylon jacket positions himself at Franklin’s window. “Valet parking? How long will you be?”
The words give me goose bumps. We are so on the right track. I’m just not sure where the track goes from here.
Franklin hands over the keys, a gesture I’ve seen a million times. Suddenly it seems like such a stupid thing to do. The kid takes them, a gesture I’ve seen a million times. Suddenly it seems sinister.
I hop out of the passenger side, getting myself a good view before the valet gets in the driver’s seat. I have just enough time to see the name on the back of his jacket. Beacon Valet.
Once we enter the lobby, I leave another voice-mail message for the elusive Michael Borum. Franklin’s across the room, texting again. We told the valet we’re picking up the car in twenty minutes. Not long enough for any dirty tricks. If there are any. Today we’re just scoping out the system.
Borum’s parting words to me were to threaten a lawsuit. I’m not sure whether that makes a callback more or less likely.
“Anyway,” I continue my message, “we’ve got a bit more information about what might have happened the night of the accident. I’d like to share it with you. You had said you used valet parking? At Bistro Zelda? And I wanted to confirm…”
“Hello? Hello? This is Michael Borum.”
“Oh, thanks for picking up, Mr.—”
“Do I take it you’ve been doing your homework?”
I can’t gauge his hostility level, so I go for a cease-fire. Put a smile in my voice. “Well, in a manner of speaking. You said you used valet parking at Zelda that night?”
“Yes, I did use valet parking at Zelda that night. I didn’t just ‘say’ I did.”
“I understand. Now, I know this sounds off the wall. But was there any trouble with the valet service? Maybe…” I pause. I don’t want to lead a witness, but this ain’t court. And my suspicions are not yet fully formed. “Maybe it took longer than it should have? A delay of some kind?”
Silence. I let him think.
“In fact, Miss McNally…” His words come out slowly. “In fact, thinking back, there was a ‘delay,’ like you say. I guess you could call it a delay. We were supposed to be there for drinks and dinner, but one of my friends wasn’t feeling too hot, and had to leave. Before the apps arrived, if I remember right.”
Oh. Bingo. I knock on the polished wood of the Longmore’s carved end table. Don’t want to jinx it.
“So,” I say, fingers crossed. “Then what?”
“Then, nothing. It took a wicked long time for the valet to bring back our car. We had to send Jeff home in a cab. We were pissed as hell.”
My fingers are crossed so tightly they hurt. “Was it Beacon Valet? How did they explain why it took so long?”
“Who the hell remembers what they told me,” Borum says. “And who the hell cares. It would have been a lie, anyway. It’s a Mustang. They were probably out joyr—”
He stops.
“Ah,” he says.
Silence. We’re both letting this sink in. At this point, I’m not going to mention the possibility that someone swiped his car’s VIN. Or the air bags. I’m just nailing down the timing.
“Would you be able to identify the valet? The one who took your car?” I try to get Franklin’s attention, bring him into this conversation, but he doesn’t look up from his phone. Probably texting again. Maybe love notes to Stephen. “Do you think you could point him out?”
“Listen, Charlie…”
Borum’s suddenly calling me Charlie now, I note. The Borum versus McNally lawsuit is probably in our rearview.
“…this is bull. You say you have a photo of my car blowing through the Fast Lane tollbooth? I couldn’t have been driving it. I didn’t even have the damn keys at the time. And I’m gonna get nailed for some hit-and-run? I don’t think so. I’m going to head for Zelda myself. Talk to the valet-parking manager.”
Oh. No. This is the worst thing that could possibly happen: the victim decides to take matters into his own hands. When victim turns vigilante, the story slips out of the reporter’s control. It’s a touchy situation because what I’m really asking him to do is put aside what could help him, personally, for what could help me, professionally. Plus, he doesn’t even know about the possible cloning. If he rats us out to Zelda, our story is blown. The bad guys might stop cloning cars and ripping out air bags, which of course would not be a bad thing in real life. But this is television. The bad guys are only supposed to be thwarted after we expose them on the air. I can’t allow us to be scooped by our own witness.
I have to stop him.
I have just one card to play, a card Mr. Borum has played himself at one point. And I’ll use the patented McNally reverse psychology. Which also gives me deniability. Stuff they don’t teach you in journalism school.
“Mr. Borum? Absolutely. Do that. If that’s what you feel is proper.” I pause. “But you know, we only have suspicions. It might be, you know, just a bit premature, and perhaps even legally risky, for you to go accusing a corporation of criminal wrongdoing, based on what a reporter told you. You know? Lawsuit?”
I pause again. Letting the L word sink in.
“And, of course, I can’t give you the photograph of your car,” I say. Especially because we don’t actually have it. That I don’t say.
Silence. I go in for the clincher.
“We’ll continue to investigate and keep you updated at every turn. Remember, we don’t want people to start shredding documents and fabricating stories.”
I hear Borum puff out a breath.
“Fine. You win,” he says. “But listen, you let me know what you find.”
“Of course.” Now. Here’s where I should just let well enough alone. Say goodbye, tear Franklin away from his messaging, retrieve the car, get some lunch, go back to the station, check on Maysie and Maddee, then see how we can clinch our story. But my conscience is bugging me. I grit my teeth.
“Mr. Borum, one more thing. If you have a chance, could you take your car to a mechanic and have them check to make sure all your air bags are still there?”
I hold the phone away from my ear. Borum’s response is an indecipherable bellow of sentence fragments.
“Are you honestly saying—and you don’t want me to—and I could be—”
Reluctantly, I explain our suspicions. They’re only suspicions, but how can I leave him in such potential jeopardy?
“Check with a mechanic and then let me know, okay?” I fire the last salvo of a desperate reporter. “Remember, it may be for the greater good.”
“Miss McNally, you amaze me. You have two days. Before I go to the valet people myself. T-W-O.”
“Oh, that’s—”
“But here’s what you’d better know by then. Who the hell was driving my car on the Mass Pike? And why?”
“We should check police reports. See if a blue Mustang is reported stolen,” Franklin says. I’ve just finished replaying my conversation with Michael Borum. We’re back in the car, which the smiling valets instantly provided, and on the way to Channel 3. “If they’ve copied his VIN number, they’re going to slap it on a stolen car that’s just like his. That’s a possible lead,” Franklin adds.
I look at him. My expression must show I’m distracted.
“What?” he says. “Your tooth hur
ting again?”
“My—? Oh, no. I just had a thought.”
I pull my cell phone out of my new maroon tote bag.
“Hang on,” I say. I punch a few buttons and get connected to the number I need. When someone picks up, I put on a cheery voice. “Hello, we’re coming for dinner tonight? You have valet parking, right? Which company is that, again?” I pause. “Beacon Valet? Oh, that’s right. Thank you!”
“And voila,” I say. “Beacon Valet. At Zelda and the Longmore. The game’s afoot, kiddo.”
We’re almost back at the station. “Stop,” I say.
“Huh?” Franklin looks confused. “Stop what?”
“Stop the car. Or, better, turn. I had another thought.”
Franklin rolls his eyes. “Lunch?”
“Great idea. But no, listen. I know where I saw a blue sports car. And it might have been a blue Mustang. The light was horrible and I could be wrong because the car was high on a lift with the hood and trunk up. But it was in the garage at Rental Car King. Let’s pay another visit there. See what we can see. Maybe get the scoop on what Randall Kindell is really doing.”
Franklin checks his mirror, then turns on the right blinker, carefully turning away from the station. “If it was a blue Mustang, that could have been a stolen car. And someone at RCK may have been attaching Michael Borum’s VIN to it.”
I stare, unseeing, at the toes of my black leather boots. “But if Randall Kindell is in on the scam, why would he give us those rental agreements? I mean they led right to the same valet service Michael Borum used. Though he couldn’t have predicted we’d put those pieces together.”
“True. If they are pieces.”
The afternoon traffic swirls around us, drivers honking and jockeying for position. Why is there rush hour on a Wednesday midafternoon? It’s Boston. It’s always rush hour. The snowplowed piles of crusting snow encroaching on both sides of the street don’t help.
What puzzle pieces are we certain we have?
If we hadn’t checked Annie’s car for recalls and then confronted Kindell with his car’s duplicateVIN, we could never have connected the dots in this potential valet scheme. Poor Annie may have a stolen car. And because of Michael Borum’s visit to valet parking, someone’s blue Mustang may be in the bad guys’ sights. Kindell’s in the middle of it, that’s for sure. But as victim? Or mastermind?
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