“You’re truly a good sport,” I say, still facing forward. Despite what Maysie feared, this guy is the genuine article. Clearly not an ax murderer. And I may have judged him too harshly about the network stuff. He’s sitting in the car, not complaining. “I really appreciate it, J.T. No matter what happens tonight.”
“Not a prob,” he says. His eye is still locked to the viewfinder. A few cars hiss by in the increasing snow, headlights briefly glaring through our front seat, then leaving us in the semidarkness. We’ve chatted off and on, passing the time, about nothing. Our coffees are long gone.
“You were with the network, huh? You like it?” Might as well let him talk about it, if he loves it so much. Television is relentlessly nomadic. Everyone always on the prowl for the next big job. Everyone with a where-I-came-from and a where-I-want-to-go-next story. And everyone loves to tell theirs. Which reminds me, again, of New York. I push the thought away. “Where’d you start in TV?”
“I left college right after graduation,” he says. “Went overseas, you know, big adventure. See the world. Did some work as a stringer for Reuters, got some lucky breaks, got hired by CNN International. Israel. Syria, for a few weeks. Afghanistan. Then got nailed by the economy. Boom. Laid off. Everyone’s closing their overseas bureaus. Jerks. But Boston isn’t a bad gig. You?”
“Boring. Predictable. Lucky. J-school after college. Interned back home in Chicago, got a good résumé tape. They needed to hire a woman in Boston—equal-opportunity laws, thank you so much. So I got there at the right time and I got the job. That’s the lucky part. Then it was weekends and nights. You know the drill. For a couple years.”
I shrug, still facing forward. Still watching the car. “Seemed to work. Eventually I was assigned the investigative unit.”
“‘Seemed’to work? How many Emmys you got now?”
“Not enough,” I say. The car is silent for a moment.
“Your family must be happy you’re back in the States.” I try another probably safe conversational topic.
“Who knows.”
Even though it’s muffled by the camera, I can tell J.T.’s voice has changed. I wish I could look at him to gauge what’s wrong, or different, but I can’t risk it. More headlights flash by, both directions.
“Who knows?” I repeat, wondering what he means. This could be precarious territory. But he seems to be asking for another question. “Are they—?”
“Who knows,” J.T. says again. “I was raised in foster families. Never found my birth parents. When I was eighteen, I decided to ask. They told me the adoption was sealed. I stopped looking. Now it doesn’t matter. They must have had their reasons for giving me up.”
“The Shaws?”
“Who knows. Shaw is the name of the hospital where I was born. My birth certificate just says—Tommy. Last name unknown. And that’s where J.T. came from. Just Tommy.”
We sit in silence for a moment. I know it’s late, and I’ve had too much coffee. But it’s so profoundly revealing. Maybe about both of us. I’ve been impatient with him, dismissed him as an egotistical know-it-all. He doesn’t even know his own real name.
“J.T.,” I whisper. Adrenaline time. “Roll.”
I see the dashboard clock in my peripheral vision: 11:28. If we’re lucky, and we often are, we’ll have plenty of tape to record whatever is about to happen. I cross my fingers. And I watch.
The valet gets into the front seat. The rear lights, red then white, flicker on.
I look at J.T. “Are you—?”
“Don’t worry,” he says. His eye is pressed to the viewfinder. The red light is on. He’s rolling.
A puff of exhaust plumes from the back of the Explorer.
I click the gearshift into D.
The Explorer pulls out, slowly, onto Water Street.
I check my rearview. Coast is clear behind me. I turn the wheel, just enough, ready to hit the accelerator and follow wherever the Explorer takes us.
The Explorer stops. It backs into a parking space. The headlights go dark. The valet gets out, slams the door and walks away.
I let out a puff of air. “Bummer,” I whisper.
So much for the stakeout. The car is clearly staying put. I leave my gearshift in Drive. We’re done. And we’re out of here.
“Tomorrow night?” I say. Like I’m asking for a date. Stakeouts don’t always work. You’ve got to expect that and embrace it. You have to hear no before you hear yes. And tomorrow we’ll be more experienced. I know all the rationalizations, chant them like some journalism mantra. “Same time, same place?”
“You’re on,” J.T. replies. He gets it. “Take two.”
“Are you already awake? How late did you get in? How’d it go? Did you get any sleep at all?” Josh, bleary-eyed and half-groggy, turns over to face me. “You’re reading?”
I’ve got my back against the headboard, one leg crossed over my knee, wearing Josh’s socks and a toobig Bexter sleep-shirt. I close the Bexter fundraising report, holding my place with one finger, and lean over to give Josh a good-morning kiss. It’s almost eight, but my brain is too buzzy to sleep any more. Too much to think about.
“Yeah, I’m looking at the—Tell you later. Too complicated,” I say. “Stakeout was a bust. We’re trying again tonight. I have to go in late, again, sweets. I’m sorry.”
“Hmm.” Josh plucks the pamphlet from my hand and tosses it onto the floor beside the bed. He slides one hand, slowly, slowly, underneath my Bexter shirt. “What can you do to make it up to me, I wonder?”
Finally. A question that’s not difficult to answer.
A tiny terracotta pot of white chrysanthemums, tied with a thin white ribbon, is in the middle of my desk. And next to the flowers, a steaming latte.
“My bad,” Franklin says. He’s standing by his desk. Looking sheepish. “I heard about the stakeout last night. I’m sorry it was a no-go. And, Charlotte…”
He blinks a few times, watching me hang my coat and staticky muffler on the hook. It’s late afternoon, and since we’re working overnight again, I’m just arriving. I had a very lovely morning.
I decide to let Franklin say what he wants to say.
“Charlotte, I’m truly sorry about standing y’all up last night. It was, well, it won’t happen again.” Franklin’s southern accent only slips out when he’s upset or nervous.
“These are from you?” I hold up the pot of flowers, sweetly pristine, a peace offering I instantly accept. “Is everything okay, Franko?”
Franklin nods.
We’ve worked together for almost three years and I really can’t remember another time when there’s been any animosity. Sure, we’ve disagreed over story ideas, and planning, and strategy. But that’s typical reporter-producer. If you didn’t disagree and discuss and debate, no good ideas would ever emerge. But what happened last night? He didn’t show up. That’s a new one. And I wonder what’s going on.
“Is it Stephen?” I venture a guess. “Your family? You know, you can tell me anything. Work isn’t the most important thing, Franko. If there’s something going on in your life, you can tell me. Or, you know, don’t, if you feel more comfortable that way. We managed last night.”
I take two steps and give Franklin a one-armed hug, still holding my flowers. “But it wasn’t the same without you. You’ll be there tonight, right?”
“I’ve already rewound the tapes so we can use them again,” he replies. “No need to keep three hours of nothing. At least we know the setup works. Sorry you had to be alone with Mr. Network.”
I swivel into my chair and make a spot for the flowers on top of my little TV monitor. Franklin’s avoiding my questions. So I’ll let him off the hook. Talk about our story. “You know. Franko, J.T.’s not half-bad, once you get to—What?”
Franklin’s leaning into his monitor. He’s clicking his mouse. He’s typing. And he’s completely not listening to me.
“What?” I repeat.
“Come with me downstairs,” he says. “To ENG Re
ceive.”
ENG is television shorthand for electronic news gathering. “Receive” is the control room where satellite, microwave and KU-band transmissions from around the country and the world are fed into Channel 3. The walls in Receive are covered with monitors, each one showing nonstop pictures. It all has to come through ENG receive before it gets on the air.
ENG Joe, a lumbering old-timer in plaid flannel and jeans, has watched over ENG since before I can remember. He’s still got a cigarette tucked behind one ear, and it’s probably the same one he parked there years ago when the suits made the whole station nonsmoking.
These days, when TV is all breaking news, all the time, Joe juggles hundreds of feeds a day, each one flickering on a different monitor. Each monitor has a number taped above it. Each monitor is attached to a tape machine so Joe can record the ones the producer requests.
“We are receiving Sat 6 on L-4.” Joe pushes a button, and talks to a producer through a microphone snaking metallically out of the wall. Shaky pictures of what looks like a small plane crash sputter into view, then settle down. “We have audio. The window’s open till 4:00 p.m.”
“And I have Van Alpha on 2. I’m loading tape. Ready to record. Standby, Van 2.” ENG Joanna, whose real name no one knows, was assigned to Receive a couple of years ago, ostensibly to learn the ropes. Everyone predicted they were moving Joe out, replacing him, like they do everyone else, with someone younger and sexier.
But Joe stayed and so did Joanna. Now they’re a team. Yogi Bear and Betty Boop. As long as the feeds come in as planned and the video is solid, ENG Receive is their domain. The room has no windows. The only view of the outside world is through the dozens of 19-inch screens.
“Franklin?” I can’t figure out why he brought me down here.
“One second…” Franklin holds up a hand at me, and turns to Joanna. “Joanna. Hey. I read the ‘incoming’ bulletin on the producer e-mail. Where’s the video?”
“Bravo’s putting up their mast now. They should be radiating in two from Eastie. It’s a bounce from Chopper 3. Taking it in on monitor 14.”
In two minutes, Microwave van B will be transmitting video via our helicopter from someplace in East Boston. Got it. But video of what?
I stage-whisper, “Pssst. Franklin. What?”
Franklin, wordless, points to monitor 14.
It’s a high-and-wide aerial view, our helicopter banking over what looks like a parking lot. The aerial camera zooms down closer. Smoky flames. Flashing blue lights. Flashing red lights. The chopper hovers. The camera zooms to a close-up. Out of focus. The photographer is struggling to get the shot.
I step closer to the monitor, squinting as if I can get it into focus myself. Then the video snaps into perfect clarity.
A blue Mustang is melting down into a pile of twisted rubble.
I only get the frustrating beep from the voice-mail system. I’d called Michael Borum immediately. And immediately got nothing.
“Borum never answers the phone, we know that,” Franklin mutters, pacing. Three steps across our office, three steps back. “Charlotte, there are more than three hundred blue Mustangs in Massachusetts.”
“Remind me to tell you what I found out about another one,” I say, hitting Redial again. I still haven’t told Franklin about Taylor and Tyler, and my theories about their blue Mustang. I can’t focus until we get an answer from Michael Borum. One toe of my boot is tapping on the mottled gray carpet. I stop it. It starts again.
Voice mail again.
“I’m leaving a message this time.” I lean over to get closer to the speaker. Maybe Borum will pick up. He did before.
“Hey, team.” J.T. appears at our door. He has the hidden camera in one hand, the lens to the hidden camera in the other. He’s holding both pieces of equipment as if they were contagious. “I have good news and bad news,” he begins.
I wave both hands to stop him, then point to the speakerphone.
“She’s leaving a message,” Franklin explains, his voice muted as if he’s calling a golf match.
J.T. leans against the doorjamb, waiting. His eyes register increasing understanding as I speak.
“Mr. Borum? It’s Charlie McNally. Are you home? Just checking to see if you’re there. If you’re there, pick up, would you? It’s important.”
The sound of nothing fills the room. We wait.
“Mr. Borum?” I try again. I give my office number once more, my cell, my home. “Call me as soon as you can, okay?”
I turn off the speaker and send a silent prayer.
“Guess you can’t say, hey, we’re checking to see if you got incinerated in a flaming—”
“Shush.” I frown at J.T. “It’s not funny.”
Then I cock my head at him, quizzical. “Wait. How’d you know why we were calling?”
“ENG Joanna,” J.T. says. “Anyway. We’re screwed for tonight. The undercover cams are trashed. The health people. I don’t know how they broke them. The good news, they’re fixable. Engineering says it’ll be tomorrow, at least, before they’re up again. Maybe Sunday.”
“Fine with me if we do it tomorrow or Sunday,” Franklin says. “I’m in, anytime.”
“Me, too,” I say. “There are no—”
“Weekends in TV,” Franklin and I finish the sentence together.
Chapter Fourteen
I ’m trying to keep the grease on the red-printed brown paper bags of Chinese food away from my new camel coat as I dig for my keys to open the front door. Impossible. I bang on the door with my shoulder, but only produce a muffled thud.
“Hello? It’s me. Come to the door, okay? I’m home early, didn’t have to work late.”
I try to ring the tiny doorbell with my woolen elbow. Failure. If I put the bags down on our front steps, they’ll get wet from the snow and disintegrate before I get to the kitchen.
“Hel-lo?”
Botox responds from inside, meowing miserably as if she’s been abandoned forever. Which means—no one’s home?
I prop one stapled bag on the porch railing, and holding it with my chin, extract my keys and open the door. I push it open with one foot and one shoulder and, finally, step inside. Botox curls through my legs, insistent for attention. It’s probably more my shrimp than me.
“Anyone? Guys?”
The light in the living room is off. I flip it on. The dining room is dark, too. I flip it on. We always leave a light on in the kitchen to fool the burglars. Nothing is out of place, so it seems to have worked.
I deposit my fragrant, oil-spotted parcels on the kitchen counter. Maybe Josh and Penny are at a movie, like a normal family on a Friday night. Or out to dinner. I thought my coming home early would be a fun surprise. Now they’re out having the fun. And the surprise is that it’s only me with hot-and-sour soup for three.
I should have called first. Which reminds me.
I find my cell phone and check for messages, hoping for word from Borum. Nothing.
Dumping my work clothes into the dry-cleaning pile on the shelf in Josh’s closet, I steal a pair of his black sweatpants and my favorite Nantucket sweatshirt. Josh’s socks. I see Penny’s crayon drawing of us, pouffy-dressed bride and top-hatted groom, taped to Josh’s mirror. Our mirror. And there on the bedroom floor, where Josh tossed it this morning, is the Bexter fundraising report.
Suddenly solitude is a good thing. I grab the pamphlet, head downstairs to the kitchen and pry the lid from a plastic container of still-hot soup. Pulling up a stool to the counter, I open the report and look again at the circled names on the donations lists. Five names.
Fiona Rooseveldt Dulles on one page. Randall Cross Kindell on another. At least I know where to find those people.
Alice Hogarth is circled. Brooks Fryeburg. Lesley Claughton. Never heard of them.
Each one is a Bexter donor. Did they go to Bexter? Do they have children at Bexter? Why are they circled?
“Chinese food!” Penny’s voice echoes through the front door.
; That girl has a terrific sense of smell.
“Sweets, are you home?” Josh’s voice.
The two arrive at the kitchen door. Each is carrying a red-printed brown paper bag.
By the time we stash my white containers of moo shu shrimp and egg rolls into the refrigerator, and put Josh and Penny’s containers of exactly the same items into the microwave, I’ve explained to Josh about my visit to Millie, and her suspicions, and the names on the fundraising report.
“You just took it?” Josh says.
“Millie wanted me to look into things. You’re missing the point,” I say, giving him a chopsticks poke in the ribs. At least he’s not annoyed I went to her house. “The more important question is, do you know any kids with the last name Hogarth?”
Josh shakes his head.
“Or Fryeburg? Claughton?”
“No, and no.”
“Rats,” I say, gingerly taking the cartons of now-steaming food out of the microwave. “How am I supposed to—Oh.”
I stop, hot food in midair. I’m a genius. “Does Bexter have a yearbook? Like, an archive of yearbooks?”
Josh takes the boxes from me. “Get with the private-school program, honey. The last thing Bexter wants is photos of their students easily accessible to nosy-reporter types like you. Bexter has the BEX.”
“Sounds like some kind of disease.”
“They take a group photo of each class, starting in first grade, at the awards ceremony in the spring,” Josh continues, ignoring my crack. “Then they put the photo into the BEX. Which, Miss Know-it-all, is a big leather photo album. It’s kept in the Head’s office. Are we eating in here or the dining room?”
“Perfect,” I say, pointing him to the dining room. “Then I definitely need to have a look at this BEX. Darn. Tomorrow’s Saturday. And the Head won’t be in till Monday, right? Why are journalists the only ones who work weekends?”
“Wrong again,” Josh says. “In fact, he’ll be at our faculty meeting tomorrow afternoon. Penny! Dinner!”
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