Drive Time

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  I shift in my seat, tucking one leg under me, trying to get a better view. It’s driving me crazy that I can’t make out what they’re doing. But what I’m seeing is not what’s important.

  “You’re getting this, right?” I whisper. Camera lenses can be touchy. I’m worried about the murky distance to the garage. Or if the light inside is too bright.

  “Pretty sure,” J.T. says, his voice low.

  “We can always—” I stop talking, not wanting to ruin the audio. I know we really only need to select a few crucial shots from this to put on the air, the clear and revealing ones that confirm the crime beyond any question. My brain clicks into planning mode.

  We’ll eventually need to interview more victims, maybe another car-rental-agency owner, a cop, state and federal officials reacting to our story, and try to approach whoever the bad guys are. Besides the outside stuff we’re shooting tonight, we also have the hidden-camera video from inside the car. Our on-air story can last maybe six minutes. One of the most difficult decisions in TV news is choosing what to leave out.

  “Yo.” J.T.’s voice is softer than a whisper.

  Careful not to jounce the camera, I turn so both knees are on the seat, peering to get a clear view through the one tiny corner of open window that’s not blocked by the lens.

  A man in jeans and a dark sweatshirt with cutoff sleeves walks toward the passenger side of the car. Sweatshirt Man is holding some sort of tool—a flat lever? Like a very thin crowbar?—in both hands. As he leans into the front seat, my view is blocked. Worse, the camera view is blocked.

  I close my eyes briefly. The audio won’t be ruined by my puffed sigh of frustration.

  “Hidden cams, remember,” J.T. whispers.

  In the Explorer. Which is good news, bad news. If our shot is blocked, the hidden cameras will get the video. One the other hand, if No-Hat’s compadres are taking the car apart, they’ll find them.

  Nothing we can do about it now.

  “Ah.” The sound comes out of me like a prayer. I actually feel tears come to my eyes as Sweatshirt Man eases his way back into view. In one hand, his crowbar thing. In the other, what I instantly recognize as a section of leather and plastic he’s apparently pried from the Explorer’s dashboard. It’s flat and rectangular. I know exactly where it came from. It’s the cover of the passenger-side air bag.

  I risk the audio, speaking close to J.T.’s ear, barely able to control my excitement. Franklin is going to flip. Kevin, too.

  “You saw that, right? You got it?”

  “No,” he whispers.

  He’s kidding. My heart is racing. My feet are somehow no longer cold. Now there’s something else in Sweatshirt’s hands. I touch J.T. on the shoulder, the softest of taps.

  “Keep it rolling, brotha,” I say. I rise up, still on my knees, leaning toward him and straining to see out the window, as close as I can get without bumping the camera. “That’s the first air bag.”

  The wail of the siren crashes me into J.T.’s back, clanking the camera lens against the window. I scramble to regain my balance. This time, the dregs of my coffee spill from the cup holder and onto the floor, the plastic cover of the paper cup popping off onto the rug down by my tote bag.

  “We’re screwed,” J.T. says.

  “Dammit, dammit, dammit,” I hiss.

  It’s the cops. A dark two-toned sedan, headlights wigwagging and blue lights whirling on a bar across the roof, pulls up two car lengths behind us. I see a huge emblem painted across the hood, all eagles and flags. It says Newton Police.

  “J.T. Right now. Put down your camera. Put it on the floor of the backseat. And close your window, except for just a crack.”

  “But—” J.T. begins. There’s enough light for me to recognize the fear in J.T.’s eyes. And mine must certainly mirror his expression of alarm. Is it us they’re after? Or something—or someone—else?

  “Do it. The windows. The cops can’t see us inside.”

  I yank my focus back to the garage as I feel J.T. lift the camera over the front seat and lay in on the floor. The rolling metal door is on the way down, almost closed. That’s the end of getting video of whatever they’re doing inside. I mentally cross my fingers for the hidden cameras. And for our story. And for J.T. and me. Although we’re not the ones doing anything wrong.

  The garage door hits bottom. Its metallic slam on the concrete below clangs across the street. No-Hat certainly knows the cops are here. Question is, does he know about us?

  Not a move comes from the police car. The siren is now off, but the whirling blue lights blast unnatural indigo shadows through scrawny municipal trees and onto snow-spotted front yards. I see a light pop on in a house next door to the garage, a fragment of motion barely visible behind a gauzy curtain.

  “What if they’re coming to arrest the garage people? To take down No-Hat and his pals?” I whisper. “What if they’re busting this whole operation, right in front of us?”

  That would be a horrendous disaster. Except I suppose there might be one tiny silver lining. “I guess we’d have exclusive video of the raid, at least. Still, that would—”

  “Suck,” J.T. says.

  I smile, despite my thudding heart, thinking for a fraction of a second about Josh. Safe at home.

  “Exactly,” I say.

  Back to the cops. Nothing. Then a light flips on inside the car. Through the windshield, I can make out two uniformed officers in the front seat. One is talking into a radio. No other police cars arrive. Maybe it’s not a raid?

  Still, this is grim. And, if you like irony, I suppose it’s kind of funny. Our surveillance of the bad guys is getting ruined by the good guys.

  I untie the belt of my black coat, struggling out of the sleeves. Then twisting over the back of the seat, I cover the camera with the dark wool, like a blanket. Now it’s invisible. Now we’re a man and a woman sitting in a car on a public street. No biggie. Which reminds me, fleetingly, of Penny. Safe at home.

  J.T. and I have to play this out. But I’m not quite sure how.

  “We can’t tell them what we’re doing,” J.T. begins. Then, eyes widening, he points out his window. One door of the police car opens, then slams. Then the other. “Uhoh. What should we—?”

  J.T.’s question is interrupted by two beams of white light, crisscrossing in the murky darkness.

  Flashlights. And behind them, the still-shadowy but obviously determined figures of two uniformed police officers. Cops on a mission. Their booted strides are confident as I watch their high beams play across sidewalks and front lawns and onto our car. Through our windows. The good news? They’re not headed for the garage. The bad news? They’re coming for us.

  “We’re not doing anything wrong, remember that,” I whisper, touching the arm of J.T.’s leather jacket. “Let me handle this.”

  Footsteps crunch on frozen grass. Coming closer. A beam of light glints on the hatchback. It crosses the roof of our car. And then, there’s a sharp rap on J.T.’s window.

  J.T. turns to me, his eyes questioning.

  There’s no time to explain it to him, but I think I have a plan. It’s not a clever plan. Or a very original one.

  “Roll down the window, honey,” I say. Batting my eyelashes, I make a little kissing motion with pouted lips. J.T.’s expression almost makes me burst out laughing. But there’s no time for that.

  “Oh,” J.T. whispers. “Gotcha.”

  The window buzzes down. The dark glass recedes. Revealing—nothing.

  “Newton Police.” A brusque voice comes out of the darkness. “Everything all right in there?”

  I know they don’t come up close to the window right away. In case you’re planning to shoot them.

  “You’ve been sitting here for a while now,” the voice from behind us continues. “Neighbors were concerned.”

  Nailed by Neighborhood Watch. You’re kidding me. Why don’t those folks report the people who are really doing something wrong? I flash a look at the garage. Closed and dark
. Damn.

  What’s making this even more complicated is the fact that No-Hat’s got to get the Explorer back to the hotel before the bar closes. What if the cops’arrival has unwittingly trapped them inside?

  Go away. I send the telepathic message to the police. Go away.

  “Sure, no problem, Officer,” I say. I try to make my voice sound completely innocent but somewhat embarrassed. As if we’ve been caught making out. Or whatever they call that these days. “We were just leaving.”

  One officer takes a step forward, possibly because we haven’t a pulled a gun on them. He holds his flashlight high, aiming it so he can see inside. Now we can see him, too. His gold-and-black plastic name tag is embossed Ofcr. Solano. His fifty-something face is round as tonight’s hide-and-seek moon. Every part of it—chin, hairline, eyebrows—is receding.

  He points the flashlight directly at J.T. J.T. holds one hand up, shielding his eyes, instantly on the defense.

  “We’re only talking,” J.T. says. Very man-to-man. “Me and my girlfriend. You know how it is.”

  The flashlight shines on me. “Ma’am?”

  “Yes?” I say. I put my hand up to block the flare of light as well as cover my face a bit. Then I look down, going for demure. I hope he doesn’t notice I don’t have a coat on. Or maybe that’ll play right into our love deception. “Are we doing something wrong? I’m so sorry.”

  Officer Solano is gesturing “come closer” to someone else. I hear more footsteps. Then he turns his attention—and his flashlight—back to us. “May I ask why you were taking pictures? Lady across the street saw your camera. Called 911.”

  Busted.

  I lean back into the beam of light, defeated. Might as well get this over with, quick as possible. We can’t draw attention to ourselves. It’s bad enough that we’ve lost our view into the garage. But No-Hat and his crew are no doubt watching this shakedown. If they recognize me, or figure out we’re TV, the whole cloning operation will shut down faster than you can say no comment.

  “Officer? I’m—”

  “Charlie McNally! Hey, I’m a big fan.” Cop number two is at our window, leaning his elbows on the door and grinning as if I’m the prize in a scavenger hunt. “I’m Hal Harker. Used to be in vice. Remember when we worked on the—hey, what are you guys really doing here? You’re not makin’ out. Hey. You working a big story? What are you guys really doing?”

  Music comes from the floor by my feet.

  It’s the theme from Charlie’s Angels.

  Harker stops, midsentence. Then he grins, brandishing a thumbs-up as he recognizes the tune.

  And finally, I get a really good idea.

  “McNally,” I say, almost before I flip the phone open. I know it’s Franklin, but the cops don’t. Smiling conspiratorially, I hold up one finger, signaling “wait.” Franklin begins talking. I talk right over him.

  “We’re in the wrong place?” I say, feigning disappointment into the phone. “It’s the other Rantoul Street? The one in Lawrence? That’s ridiculous. You have got to be kidding.”

  “What in hell are you talking about, Charlotte?” “Hell” comes out southernized, like “hay-ull,” which means Franklin’s tired and cranky. My usually intuitive producer isn’t understanding my strategy tonight. No reason why he should, I guess.

  “Listen.” I try to interrupt his escalating tirade.

  “You listen. I don’t know what’s going on at your end, but it’s last call here. They’re closing the bar. Half an hour, and then I’ve got to get the Explorer. I thought I would hear from y’all by now.”

  “Well, isn’t that what we needed to hear. You had it wrong,” I say. Oozing sarcasm and talking over him again. I shake my head and shrug at the police officers, performing as many rueful-looking gestures as I can. “Now that means we’ll have to come pick you up, I suppose. I’ll call you in ten minutes, okay? And then we’ll talk.”

  I snap the phone closed with a theatrical flourish. Franklin will be fuming, but not for long. And maybe this will get us out of here.

  “Well, those idiots,” I say, tsk-tsking. “You know how it is, right? Bigwigs sent us on a wild-goose chase. Bozos can’t even keep their facts straight. Got the town wrong. Middle of the night, can you believe it? They’re not the ones out here freezing, right?”

  The officers are nodding at me through the open widow, making empathetic noises. “Scorn for the boss,” a universal emotion, crosses all sectors of employment.

  “With ya on that one, Charlie,” Harker says. My new best friend.

  “The suits strike again, huh?” Solano snaps off his flashlight and we’re in semi-darkness again. Thank goodness.

  “No story here,” I say to J.T. with an exaggerated sigh. “We’ve been ordered to head back to the barn.”

  He nods. “Bummer.”

  Solano and Harker touch the brims of their hats. “Have a good one,” Harker says. “We’ll inform the neighbors you’re clear. See you on TV.”

  “We’ve gotta go. Turn on the heat,” I say. Our cop buddies have pulled away, actually waving in newfound solidarity. J.T. and I are regrouping. We need to move fast. I turn the key in the ignition and hope the engine noise doesn’t freak out the neighbors again.

  J.T.’s hoisted the camera back onto his lap. I’ve got my coat back on. Outside, the door to the garage is still closed. The lights are still off. I look at the clock on the dashboard. Quarter till two. I really-really-really want to get video of No-Hat driving back on the Turnpike and returning the car to the hotel. That would be the real clincher of the story, proving the car was driven into the garage with an air bag and driven out without one. Chain of evidence. On the other hand, if we miss that, it’ll still be recorded on the hidden cams. If they worked.

  Should we wait here? Or try to catch up with them on the highway? If we leave right now, and the traffic is light and no state troopers nail me for speeding, there’s a chance we could manage it. And arrive at the hotel the same time they do.

  “The Explorer’s got to be gone. Doesn’t it?” I shift into Drive but don’t pull out onto Rantoul Avenue. “They’re going to assume Franklin will want the car back by closing. No-Hat’s gotta know that.”

  “Who?” J.T. says. He looks at me, confused, as he clicks the heat to high.

  “The driver. The valet. He wasn’t wearing a hat. You know.” I wave him off. “Anyway, the question is, is the Explorer still here? Is it in the garage, and they’re waiting for the cops to leave? Or what if there’s a back door? And they’ve already gone?”

  “Your call. I’m set to roll if we need it.” J.T. shrugs and adjusts something on the camera.

  Stay? Or go? There’s no way to know the answer to this.

  “They’ve seen us, our car at least, and they know the cops came. I bet they wouldn’t risk moving the car in front of them.” My fingers are drumming on the steering wheel, but I’m staring at the still-closed garage door. At least I’m beginning to feel my toes again.

  We’re staying.

  “I bet they’re still here. They wouldn’t connect this car with what they’re doing in the garage.” I shift back into park. “They have no idea we followed them. Probably. And they pushed the timing with Michael Borum’s car, remember? They know people aren’t suspicious if the car is a little late.”

  “Valets always take a long time returning your car,” J.T. says. “I guess now we know why.”

  “Exactly. So it takes, what, fifteen minutes to get from here to the hotel?”

  “With you or me driving?” J.T. says. He’s staring at the garage door, too.

  And it begins to open.

  Chapter Twenty

  “T he old camera-in-the-ceiling-light trick,” J.T. says. “Works every time.”

  “I’m in love with it,” I say, pointing. “Look at that.”

  “Slam dunk,” Franklin says.

  The three of us are crowded around the minuscule screen of our portable monitor, watching the video from the hidden cameras J.T. w
ired into the Explorer. At some point, ENG Joe and ENG Joanna will transfer them to normal-size cassettes so we can look at them on our regular playback machine. But we can’t wait for that. We’re exhausted and I’m starving, but we can’t resist success. We need to see each one of the tapes now, even on this frustratingly tiny viewer. We’re addicted to the moving images on the glowing screen. So far, our surveillance worked. Every tape. Every time. Every shot.

  Lots of little pictures. One big story.

  “There’s the air bag,” I say. “See? They’ve popped it right out. We got this exact moment on our camera, too. And I bet they’re taking all the air bags, not just the ones in the front. That’s why they have to go to the garage.”

  “Good thing I didn’t get into an accident driving home,” Franklin says. He steps back from the screen. “Oh. Charlotte. I almost forgot. Remind me to tell you about Drive Time.”

  “Check it out,” J.T. says. “They’re stuffing—newspapers? Into the space in the dashboard where the air bag came from.”

  Franklin turns back to the screen. “Newspapers?”

  “So the dashboard won’t sound hollow if you tap on it. I’ve read about that,” I say.

  “This should be on the network,” J.T. says. “Let’s look at a different tape. Check another angle on the air-bag shot. And let’s see if we got them writing down the VIN.”

  No one else is here to share our triumph. The bleach-and-lemony disinfectant smell means the cleaning people have come and gone. At three forty-five in the morning, the Special Projects office is deserted, littered desks empty, lights off.

  “I wonder how long they’ve been doing this,” I say. While J.T. selects the next tape, I push a stack of notebooks out of the way and perch on the edge of my desk, imagining hundreds and hundreds of cars left in valet parking by trusting drivers.

  “You go in, you hand over your keys, you have a nice dinner. You’re thinking how convenient the whole valet system is. No parking hassles. And little do you know.”