With a shy smile, Hayley tucks my card into her jeans and skitters away into her world full of possibilities. If she’s TV’s future, does that make me its past? Shouldn’t there be room for both of us?
“She was kind of adorable, really, wasn’t she, Franklin?” I say, getting up to watch her go. I turn back to face him. “And, you know, so earnest and eager? Like me, kind of, back in the day.”
Franklin logs off his computer, glances at me sideways. “I’d have loved to see you in that getup, if that’s true,” he says.
“That’s not what I mean, you—”
Franklin goes on talking. “If you’re finished with the Charlie fan club meeting,” he says, “we need more info on the ownership of the Miranda.” He tucks a piece of paper in his back pocket. “And here’s how we’re going to get it.”
“Boat ownership, sure,” I reply, cutting him off. “Coast Guard. But aren’t those records in D.C.? Or Annapolis, or someplace like that?”
“Not anymore,” Franklin says with a raised finger. He makes a mark in the air. “Score one for the producer kid. And as a result, you’re gonna have to get your coat—and trust me.”
“Miss?” A gray-uniformed officer points me to the metal detector, gesturing me to put my purse on the conveyor. When Franklin announced we were researching the Miranda’s ownership at the Coast Guard’s waterfront headquarters, I forgot we’d be X-rayed and patted down.
I do a warp-speed inventory of what’s in my bag, in case there’s anything embarrassing (feminine hygiene), or illegal (my contraband pepper spray) or both (the Oxycet I hoarded after my last bout with the periodontist). I glance at the young sailor, doing a warp-speed inventory of his bodybuilder shoulders, steely eyes and white-gloved hands. Wonder if he does the patting?
“You’re fine, ma’am,” the officer says. You are, too, I don’t say back, even though in a nanosecond I’ve somehow aged from Miss to Ma’am.
Once the armed services are satisfied we’re not out to bring down the government, Franklin and I push though the brass-eagled handles of the double glass doors, past a series of oil paintings showing stern-faced officers in fancy dress uniforms, and follow a red-white-and-blue arrow down the stairway marked Records. We’re headed underground, I can tell, as the musty smell of basement overtakes the salt air of the high-windowed harborside reception area upstairs.
A line of olive drab doors stretches out in front of us. Franklin walks determinedly ahead, double-checks the directions, then turns into an open doorway.
Behind a dingy Formica counter, a uniformed officer, this one looking more like someone’s seafaring grandfather than the movie-star material manning the metal detector, adjusts his glasses and peers at me. His face crinkles into a beaming smile and he gives a little salute.
“Charlie McNally,” he says. “I watch you every day. Your assistant told me you’d be with him, but I just didn’t believe it.”
I can almost hear Franklin wince at the A word, but he keeps quiet. No one outside the biz really understands what producers do.
“Hello, sir,” I say, coming toward the counter. “You’re…”
“Chief Petty Officer Paul T. Rabb,” he answers, standing at attention and saluting again. “Retired. You did that investigation on port security—got us lots of good new resources. When your assistant called, I thought the least I could do is grease a few skids. You could get this paperwork anyway, eventually, but the red tape’d choke you first.”
Franklin holds out a hand. “I’m Franklin Parrish,” he says, “Charlie’s produ—”
Before he can get his title corrected, Rabb hefts a stack of manila file folders into Franklin’s arms.
“Oof,” Franklin grunts, staggering back a step under the weight. The papers inside threaten to slide out, and Franklin pulls a quick juggle maneuver to keep everything together.
I twinkle at my new pal. “He’s up for some weight training, I guess,” I say. Franklin will know I’m teasing. I hope.
“Would you like some coffee while you look at the ownership records?” Rabb offers. “I could show you the officers’ mess.” He’s looking at me, not at Franklin. Of course he’s smitten, but not my sailor boy upstairs.
“Oh, no, thanks,” I begin. “I’m—”
“She’d love some coffee,” Franklin says. I get it. Payback for the weight-training crack. “In fact, you two just go have fun, and I’ll look through these.”
“You owe me, Franko.” I’m back with my armed-services coffee and I want information. “What are you…?”
Franklin’s sitting at a government-issue metal table, tucked at the back of the records room; he’s sorting the files as if he’s dealing some oversize game of solitaire. After a moment, he taps the largest pile with his pencil.
“Carlo Bronizetti of Exotel,” he pronounces. Another tap. “A. Grimes Brown, CEO of Rogers Chalmers Enterprises.” Tap. “The Islington brothers, Alexander and Sam.”
He looks up at me. “According to these Coast Guard boat registrations, so kindly provided by your very own salty dog, they are all co-owners of the sleek sloop Miranda. And guess who the other owner is?”
I know the answer, of course. A certain arrogant, golf-playing, double-talking CEO.
“Wes Rasmussen,” I say confidently. “Am I right or what? Wes Rasmussen. Like I said.” I punctuate each word with a little hip-hop dance move, and then try to give Franklin a high-five. He rolls his eyes and ignores me, but he can’t hide his enthusiasm.
“Yeah, pretty cool, huh?” He’s actually rubbing his palms together. “So, turns out our Mr. Rasmussen is very hooked into the big-money fraternity of international yacht racing. And here’s my theory,” Franklin continues. “Tax shelter. Yachts are terrific tax write-offs. Especially if the boats lose races.”
But I’m still staring at the stacks of papers. “Wow,” I whisper, suddenly worried someone will overhear. “Islington brothers. Rogers Chalmers. Exotel.” I pause. “We wondered how the companies in Brad’s files were connected. And now, right here, are four of them. All in Brad’s files, their CEOs owners of the Miranda. That cannot be a coincidence.”
“This has got to be the key,” Franklin agrees, his voice low. “We just don’t know to what.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe the officers of the companies in Brad’s files own other stuff together. Other boats. Or, you know, hotels. Shopping malls. Golf courses. Race cars.”
“Charlotte Ann McNally,” he says, grinning. “You deserve a huge latte, girl. Those people who wonder why you win all the Emmys, this is why.”
I’m instantly concerned. “Who wonders why I win all the Emmys?” I demand. “Did someone actually say something about it? Who?”
“I’m never going to compliment you again.” Franklin waves me off. “Nobody’s questioning your Emmys. Jeez. I hope tonight’s your meeting of approval addicts anonymous.”
“You got me,” I admit. “Report-card mentality. Mother’s fault, you know? Still trying for all As.” I secretly think that’s an asset, not a personality flaw, but I know it’s probably a conversation to avoid. “So back to the world of big-money buying. We could do a wider search, couldn’t we? Databases of…car titles. Excise tax. Registration. That sort of thing. See if—”
Franklin puts one hand up to interrupt me. “What I’ll do…” he says slowly, “…is set up an ownership cross-reference from all those sources….”
“Let me ask you this, Charlotte,” Franklin says. Back at the station, we’ve shared some Tu-Your-Door brown-rice sushi and non-fat milk shakes. Blood sugar surging, we’re both feeling more optimistic. “What are the three little words you love to hear the most?”
“What are the three—what?”
“Come on, think about it.” The beginnings of a smile. “This shouldn’t be a toughie.”
What three words? Time for lunch? Angela’s been fired? A potentially delicious thought occurs to me. Message from Josh?
“Are you trying to say you love me?” I ask.
“What will your adorable Stephen do?”
Franklin throws a pencil at me, which I know he doesn’t mean to hit because it doesn’t. “Think, Charlotte,” he urges.
“My three…” Suddenly, I get it. “I was right!”
Franklin points to his nose. “Correct,” he says. “This database shows four CEOs, including Rasmussen, also own at least one other boat.”
“That’s great,” I say, eyes widening. “Anything else?”
“That’s the bad news,” Franklin says. “The database search is still churning away. Matching millions of records. I told you it was going to take a while.”
“Let me know the minute you have a hit,” I insist. “I’ll check for new spam.” With a little computer-music fanfare, dozens of new arrivals are displayed from top to bottom of my screen. And some are just what I was hoping for: Hello, A new re-figh deal 4-u, a good time to buy. Possibly they’re written that way to get past the spam filters. Maybe it’s a mistake.
I click open the first of the “re-fighs.” Inside, it again says, Hello, A new re-figh deal 4-u, a good time to buy. Then it says, Numbers 4:55-56.
I copy and paste it into Google. I’m almost bored now. I know what’s going to happen. Some Bible verse is going to pop up, I’ll send it back and I’ll get something else in return.
I prop my chin on my hands as Google thinks.
After this, I decide, I’m not going to play anymore. It’s a waste. And probably will wind up being a gimmick. At the end of these mysterious back-and-forth e-mails is going to be some legitimate offer to refinance my condo or something. That’ll be truly, truly annoying.
A flash of white screen, then up pops the results page. One entry only, I see, and it’s not from the Bible.
It’s which buses you can take to get to some martial arts school in London.
This is perplexing. Why doesn’t it show a Bible verse?
“Hey, Franklin?” I say. He’s told me from moment one this refinancing trail is going nowhere, and I guess he’s right. “It’s your turn to hear the three little words.” That’ll get him.
Of course he looks up. “What am I right about?”
I show him the latest e-mails and the Bible verse.
“See? This is definitely a Bible citation, anyone could recognize that. But when I did the search, it comes up with this London address. So you were right. This re-fi e-mail is nothing but a huge time-sucker.”
Franklin, ignoring my admission of defeat, reads it out loud. “Numbers 4. Fifty-five to fifty-six.” He tilts his head, thinking, then looks as if he’s counting something on his fingers.
“What are—” I begin. Franklin stops me with a glare. I’ve apparently made him lose track of whatever he’s counting. He starts again.
“This isn’t a Bible verse,” he finally pronounces.
“Not a Bible verse?” I reply, unconvinced. “Sure it is.”
“Nope.” Franklin sounds confident. “It’s not. Anyone who went to church as much as I did when I was a kid back in Jackson knows this chapter and verse you showed me ain’t gospel. Numbers Chapter 4 in King James? Only goes up to Verse 45. So there is no Verse 55 and 56.”
“Franklin, that’s impossible,” I argue. “Besides, how could you possibly know the verses in the Bible?”
Franklin touches his temple and bows slightly. “Some guys know baseball stats, I know the Bible. My father was also my Sunday school teacher, remember?” he says. “But more to the point here, if the e-mails were designed to get you to complete a quotation, why would they send something that’s impossible to complete?”
“What do you mean, ‘designed’?” I demand, pointing at him. “You told me you thought these e-mails were nothing. A ‘junk-mail joke,’ if I remember correctly. So now you’ve changed your mind?”
“Well, I’ll admit, after looking at these—Bible verse things—I’m not sure. And I can’t forget Brad asked Josh Gelston about exactly the same quotations you got. And maybe he asked Mack Briggs, too. Whoever that is. It all seems too complicated to be a coincidence, you know?”
I knew I was right.
“And you know what we forgot?” I say. “That phone call Melanie got from the Aztratech lawyers, asking if Brad brought home documents. So what was it they thought he had? And if it’s what we have now—” I gesture to the box “—what is it we don’t understand?”
Franklin and I turn to look at the brown corrugated cardboard box. Inside, a metal bracket, with tabbed green file folders hanging from the frame. The first tab says Aztratech, then Azzores Partnership, then Dioneutraceutics. A dozen or so. Alphabetical. Organized. And completely meaningless.
“I have an idea,” Franklin says. “Go to the re-fi spams you received. The ones with the weird spellings. Print them all out, okay?”
Turns out there are about ten “re-figh” e-mails, and each one contains what still looks to me like the citation for a Bible verse. The book Numbers, then chapter and verse.
Franklin starts counting on his fingers again.
I hope he has a plan because I’m not going to be terribly helpful with Bible verses. My college comparative-religion class was at eight in the morning, and no question I rarely made an appearance. And even if I’d had perfect attendance, I couldn’t possibly remember how many verses there were in whatever books of the Bible they were teaching.
“Earth to Charlotte.” Franklin pokes me in the shoulder. “Earth. To. Charlotte.”
“Ow.” I wince. “Cut it out. I’m just thinking about Bible verses.”
“Here’s the deal,” Franklin says, pointing to the sheaf of papers. “Some of these are Bible verse citations—but some aren’t. This one, for instance, refers to Numbers 10, Verse 73 to 74. The real Numbers 10 ends at Verse 36.”
“I’m still beyond impressed that you know this,” I say. “But, given that you do, why would someone send—”
“I have no idea,” Franklin interrupts. “But it’s late, and I’m out of here. Why don’t you e-mail back the address of the martial arts school, same way you’ve always responded to the spams. Just to see. Then tomorrow, we’ll move to plan B.”
“Great,” I say. “Plan B.” Whatever that is.
Chapter Nine
“B
eep. Message received Thursday at 7:42 a.m.” I’m looking for a…Charlie McNally? If this is the correct number, please call me—617-555-3413.”
Mystery caller, huh? Fine. Just in case it’s another Watergate or Monica, I’ll call back. Reporter’s credo. I hear a machine click into answer mode. No clue in the outgoing message about who I’m calling.
I leave my name and number, plus my e-mail address to prove I’m sincere, and I’m done. Tag, you’re it. I’ve returned the call, just the way they teach you in J-school.
I tap my computer keyboard to open my e-mail for the day, smiling in self-approval at my continuing commitment to journalism. The monitor flashes to white, then whirs up into my New Mail Received screen. I scan for more “re-figh” e-mails. Nothing.
My smile turns to a pout of bewilderment as I check again. No refinancing spam of any kind. I click Refresh. Nothing. I click Update. Nothing. No refinancing e-mails. Not one.
Maybe the e-mail has crashed again.
Then, as I stare at the screen in consternation, a new e-mail pops up. My eyes and my brain struggle through a moment of disconnect: the subject line says From Mack Briggs.
Mack Briggs. Mack Briggs. Mack Briggs is sending me an e-mail. Why?
I click on Open.
Dear Ms. McNally, the e-mail begins. I just received your voice mail message and decided it might be more efficient, initially at least, to correspond by e-mail.
I’m mesmerized. Mack Briggs was the mystery caller. What if I hadn’t called him back? I murmur a thank-you to the news gods and keep reading.
I have been out of the country for the past week, and it was only when I returned to my home in Vermont that I was notified of Bradley Foreman’s death.
As you know
from the e-mail he sent you, there were issues he was eager to discuss. He told me he had seen your article exposing the prices of pet medicines, and decided you might be interested in another story about the pharmaceutical world.
Ha. I was right.
Brad gave me some documents to examine, but now I have no need to keep them, so I’m having them delivered to your office. If I can be of any help, feel free to let me know.
Best, Mack Briggs
Blinking at the screen, I print out a copy of this bombshell. And then I print out another one, just in case my computer crashes and everything is destroyed and I lose the first copy.
So. The elusive Mack Briggs is found. And his little jewel of an e-mail answers a couple of questions at least.
One—what took him so long. Even though we couldn’t find Mack Briggs, I always wondered why he didn’t try to find me. Now we know he was out of the country.
Two—Franklin and I must be right about the pharmaceutical whistle-blower story. The e-mail certainly alludes to it.
So, we’re on the way. When the documents arrive, we may get some more answers. Like who is Mack Briggs, anyway? And why did Brad send him a copy of the e-mail?
I swivel contentedly in my chair, savoring the possibilities. And, I remember with the tiniest of smiles, there’s a critical decision ahead of me. As soon as I get home.
This is harder than it was in high school. More complicated than a job interview. I make a face at no one, making fun of my own melodrama. It’s just a date.
I perch on the white wicker footstool tucked into the corner of my walk-in closet, and scrutinize the selection that’s usually so obvious. Suit—too formal. Unless I pretend I just came from work. Which I didn’t. Jeans—too casual. Don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard. I sigh with a defeat that shudders through my evaporating confidence. Does it really matter what I wear? This Josh is going to like me, or not like me, based on our chemistry, not my clothing.
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