Drive Time (18 page)

“And Josh was wise enough not to say a word to the cops on the way,” Will says. He pats Josh on the shoulder. “Those pompous-ass assistant D.A.’s—Soroff has them convinced their ends justify their means. That it’s more important to catch bad guys than to respect the Constitution. The idea that they’d try to strong-arm Josh into confessing. Appalling.”

“But he’s—” My voice rises, my interruption almost a squeak.

“Yes, of course he’s innocent, if that’s what you were going to say, Charlie.”

I nod. I haven’t let go of my death grip on Josh’s arm. Except to put about five sugars into my coffee. Which didn’t help it.

“But they’re devoted to their ‘mission,’” Will continues. “Their law, and their order. Anytime they can steamroll some poor sucker, the Fifth and Sixth Amendments go out the window. Our tax dollars at work.”

“But what happened?” I look at Josh. “Ebling and Pratt told me the plainclothes police were swarming around Bexter this morning.”

“Right. I got buzzed to come to the Head’s office. He told me they had sent a teacher’s aide to my class. I’ve never seen him look so flummoxed. Anyway, the assistant D.A., this Ross Monahan, was standing there like Joe Friday. He asked me to come downtown and help with their investigation. ‘Look at some photos,’ he said. Told me it was ‘voluntary.’ So, fine. I have nothing to hide. And what the hell, I want to find out what happened as much as anyone.”

Josh shrugs one shoulder, remembering. “But once we were in their car, headed down the Pike toward their office, it turned into a parody of a cop show. Monahan was driving, some state trooper next to him in the front seat. I was in the back. We’re chatting about nothing, when the trooper turns around, drapes one arm casually over the seat and asks me how I had heard about the threatening phone calls Dorothy Wirt received. I said, from Dorothy. And then he says, ‘Where were you on the night of Dorothy’s death?’”

“Did they read you your rights?” I ask. I glance at Will, fearful. I also, briefly, wonder where the Head was all this time. Pratt said the D.A.’s investigators had called him in, too. But I have to hear about Josh first.

“No,” Josh says. “But that question certainly pushed our ‘interview’ into another realm entirely. So much for their charade that I was ‘helping in the investigation.’ At that point, I told them I’d prefer to have a lawyer present.”

“Wise decision,” Will puts in.

“I know,” I say.

“They were not happy, that’s for sure. The trooper actually asked me, ‘Why do you need a lawyer if you have nothing to hide?’ Asshole. I didn’t say another word until
we got to the D.A.’s office. They put me in some bleak conference room where I called Will. He was in court, all the way in Leominster. So I waited, staring out the window, fuming, until he arrived. They stationed another statie at the door. Young enough to be one of my students.”

“That’s pitiful,” I say. I look down at my murky coffee, imagining Josh in solitary, worrying. Wondering about his future. “But, Will, then what? Shouldn’t Josh have been able to leave if he wanted to?”

“Yes, but of course they rarely inform you of that. It’s all about intimidation. When I arrived, I notified the district attorney’s office I was representing Mr. Gelston. Josh and I conferred. Subsequently, I informed Mr. Soroff and his state-police lackeys that if they were not prepared to charge Josh with something—”

“What?” I say. My voice comes out a squeak. That seems risky.

Will holds up a hand, smiling. “If they were not prepared to charge Josh with something, we were out of there. Of course, they have, as we say in the legal world, zippo evidence against Josh. So we left. Case closed.”

We stand in silence for a moment. Me wrapped around Josh. Josh staring into nowhere. Will scoots his cordovan briefcase closer to the wall, its metal feet sliding across the scuffed tiles.

“Watch this, will you?” he says. “I’m getting more coffee for the road. You two?”

We both shake our heads as Will heads back to the remarkably decrepit excuse for a coffee shop in the corner of the lobby. The same frizzle-headed guy has doled out miserable coffee and weak tea and little bags of chips and packets of stale red licorice for the past thirty years. He must have photographs of someone important.

“Well. I’m glad that’s over,” Josh says. “That sucked.”

I almost burst out laughing, even though I know Josh
has been through hell and nothing about it is funny. Josh never says
sucked.
Instead of laughing, I snuggle a little closer. But then, because Josh is fine and Will isn’t worried, I can’t resist asking one question.

I pull back, still not letting go completely, and look up at Josh.

“Honey? Did they ask where you were when Dorothy was ‘murdered’? I mean, did they say the word
murder?
For Dorothy or Alethia? And did they say anything about Dorothy’s tox screen?”

Josh blinks, considering. “No. No, they didn’t. They did talk about Alethia’s fall, though. All the time I was keeping my mouth shut, they were yapping, one after the other, trying to goad me into responding. Seems like it was Alethia’s fall that’s got them concerned. One of them said it turned out, her briefcase and purse were still in her office. So I suppose they were wondering why she was outside.”

I nod. “Good question, actually. Though how would
you
know?”

“Problem is, as I told Will. I don’t have alibis for the nights of either death. Remember? I took you home then went back to campus the night of the Head’s party. I was working late the night of Alethia’s fall. You can see how that makes me a prime suspect.”

“But we know that’s absurd,” I say. “And they do, too. They let you go. You have no motive whatsoever. Besides, dozens of people were at the school the nights of the murders. Some we know. Clearly, some we don’t. And that’s who killed them.”

Josh raises an eyebrow.

“Yes,” I say. “Killed them. That’s what I think. Hey. You should call Penny. Leave her a message, in case she comes to your office when classes are over.” I zip open my purse, digging for my cell. It’s disappeared, some
where down into the black hole. I pull out a file folder that’s blocking my search. “Hold this.”

“How you ever find anything in that suitcase—” Josh begins. He looks inside the folder. “What’s this?”

“That’s the fundraising list, the one I told you about. From Dorothy’s study,” I say, my face half-buried in the tote bag. “You know. With the circled names.”

Josh is silent.

I look up from my search. “What?”

“Well, this report.” Josh flips through the pages. “It’s not distributed yet. We received several boxes of them from the printer. But until they’re mailed out, the Head’s storing them all. Some in his office, some in Ebling’s. So from his point of view, there’s no way you could have gotten a copy. Ebling didn’t mention that?”

“No, but as Penny would say, no biggie, right? Are the boxes all sealed or something? I mean, lots of administrative types must have the report. Maybe Ebling thinks I got it from you. Or the bursar. Or the Head. Here’s the phone. Call Penny. Tell her you had a meeting.”

Josh hands me the report, shrugging, as he takes my phone. He flips it open, and smiles as he sees himself in the St. Bart’s photo. “No, the boxes aren’t sealed. Anyone at Bexter could have them. I suppose you’re right.”

“As always,” I say. Which reminds me. I look across the room as Josh begins to leave his message. Will is in deep discussion with the coffee guy. Both are waving their arms, making gestures that look like football passes.

“Sweetheart?” I say. “After Will leaves? We should talk.”

“It’s a crosswalk, moron!” I point an accusing gloved finger of the hand that’s not intertwined with Josh’s as we almost get nailed by a driver who’s actually texting as he careens onto Cambridge Street. The moron almost takes out both of us. And just as I was getting to the crucial part
of my speech. Once across the street and though the tree-lined pigeon haven called Cardinal Medeiros Park, we’ll be at the front door of Channel 3. I better get to the point.

We dash across the painted white lines and arrive at the circle of snow-covered benches surrounding a snow-covered mound of earth in the center. Three months from now there’ll be daffodils, and workers eating brown-bag lunches in the sun. Now the circle of grass and bricks is bleak, white and empty.

“And so,” I continue, stepping carefully down the three steps to a curving stone pathway, “Kevin’s offer is a tempting one. And basically a dream come true.”

“If you want to go,” Josh says, smiling quietly, and taking my other hand, too, “I can deal. We can deal.”

“But wait. Here’s the deal I’d like to offer,” I say. “How about, I put my condo on the market. Can you make enough closet space for me on Bexter Drive? And then, let’s go back and taste the wedding cakes again.”

I feel, absurdly, as if I should be going down on one knee. Like Josh did in St. Bart’s.

“There’s no dream come true that’s more important than being with you,” I say. “When you were in that office, when I knew the stupid D.A.’s cops had actually taken you away, and then stupid Monica would not let me see you and I didn’t know if you had a lawyer, and no one would…”

My eyes fill with tears of anxiety and leftover worry. I might have lost Josh forever. Not only because he might have been accused of murder, which is ridiculous, but because I might have chosen to turn my back on a real once-in-a-lifetime offer. Josh’s offer. Of high-level battles over breakfast cereal and calamities of missing socks. Of sharing closets and sharing secrets.

I’m a reporter. I’m devoted to my career. I can’t imagine giving it up. But I can’t be two places at one time. And I only want to be here. With Josh. From now on.

“Sweets?” Josh says. He puts an arm across my shoulder and pulls my plaid scarf away from my face. His leather-gloved finger tilts my chin to look up at him. “It’s fine, honey. I’m not in jail. I’m not accused of anything. It’s all over. Over. Why are you crying?”

“Because you
might
have been. What if I had been in New York? What if you had been in trouble? What if Penny had been left alone?” My voice rises, high-pitched, and a couple of steel-gray pigeons skitter away at the sound.

“It’s over, honey. Nothing’s going to happen.” Josh pulls me close, our heavy wool coats and gloves and mufflers keeping us uncharacteristically far apart.

His words puff into clouds of winter white, then dissipate as we stand silently. I’m having a daytime nightmare about what might have been. And how we escaped it. A siren screams by and horns blare from the intersection. I tuck myself in as close as I can to Josh’s warmth. He’s right. It’s over.

When I look up into Josh’s hazel eyes, I see something new. It’s the road ahead. I know this will turn out to be a moment we remember. An illustration of how the worst of days can become the best of days.

One tear makes its way down my wind-chilled face. At this very second, part of my life is over. And a new part is beginning. I have no doubts about what I’m about to say. I take one step back from Josh so I can look at him full-on. Then I head into our future.

“Kevin can find another reporter in NewYork. It’s you and me, sweetheart.” I pause, suddenly shy, plucking at the twisty fringe on my muffler. “If that’s still okay with you.”

After a few moments my mouth actually hurts from our kisses. And luckily Cardinal Medeiros Park stayed deserted as we almost venture into private personal areas that are not really for public view. And activities the good
cardinal almost certainly would not have approved of. Probably a good thing it’s so cold.

“So we’re picking a date? And you’re staying home?” Josh whispers into my hair as we walk the last hundred yards toward the station. “Is that what you really want?”

Our arms are tangled together so tightly, we must look like one person. And that’s exactly how I feel.

“I do,” I reply. Franklin and I are a team at work, but Josh and I are a team for life. And I won’t allow anything to change that.

“T
his is what they don’t teach you in journalism school, Franko,” I say. Channel 3’s basement garage is deserted this time of night. All the news cars are out on assignment for the eleven o’clock show. Franklin will be driving the camera-wired Explorer and dropping it into the Longmore’s valet parking. His job is to stay in the hotel bar until he gets a call from J.T. and me that the game’s afoot. “You’re getting paid to hang out at Fizz, with drinks, TV and a bathroom. Of course, we’ll be in the lookout car, cramped, freezing and bored.”

“Well, if they decide to swipe our car, they may check to see where I am,” Franklin says, ignoring the dig. “They’ll want to make sure I’m not getting ready to leave. And let’s hope you’re not bored. Kevin’s possibly going to pull the plug if tonight’s stakeout goes down the tubes.”

“Cross that bridge when we come to it,” J.T. says. His head is deep into the rear of the Explorer, tweaking the hidden-camera setup. He ducks out from under the hatchback and slams it shut. “Each video chip has a four-hour run time. You should stop a block from the Longmore and push the record button on each tape deck. Then we’ve gotta hope it all happens fast enough so the video time doesn’t run out.”

“Given that that something
does
happen,” Franklin says.

Franklin looks as if he’s ready for a night on the town in a black leather sport coat, a black turtleneck with a polo pony on the front and black corduroy jeans. J.T. and I dressed for comfort in jeans and turtlenecks (without ponies) and black coats. We look like some pretend SWAT team. Which we kind of are. But instead of tear gas, we’re using cameras to smoke out the bad guys. We hope.

“It’ll happen,” I say. I look around for some wood to touch, but have to settle for the fake stuff on the dashboard.

I put a plastic bag of stakeout provisions on the floor of the front seat. We’ve got J.T.’s camera in the backseat. Full batteries and extra tapes.

“Bar’s got to close at two,” I say. “If it’s going to happen, it’ll happen before then.”

We caravan out the rackety mechanical garage door and out into the narrow alley behind the station. Still following Franklin in the Explorer, J.T. and I wind through the twisty downtown streets toward the Longmore Hotel. The festive blue-and-yellow lights of the Custom House Tower say 10:30. Twenty-six stories up, on top of the old Hancock Building, the four weather lights are showing “steady blue,” meaning forecasters predict the night will be clear. I stare out the car window, wondering what the night will hold. Josh is home with Penny. She knows nothing about what happened. She had a great first day of school. She’s the only one in our family who did.

“And welcome back tonight to Maysie Green, the sports machine!”

I jump in surprise as a hearty announcer voice booms from the speakers. J.T.’s turned on the radio while I was in Josh world. “Coming up next,
Drive Time!
But now, heeeere’s Maysie!”

“Good evening and hey to all of you out in Celtics land.” Maysie’s familiar lilt buzzes through the car. I
can’t help but smile. I know she’s doing the show via phone from her living room couch. I can picture her, cuddling baby Maddee in one arm, and holding the receiver between her shoulder and chin. She’s talking sports to ten thousand listeners and taking care of one tiny newborn at the same time. Talk about having it all.

“And a big shout-out to investigative reporter Charlie McNally, who took over my slot while I was otherwise occupied. And now to your favorite green team, the number-one-ranked Boston Celtics,” she says.

“How’d you like doing radio?” J.T. asks. He turns down the volume, happily agreeing we don’t need to hear about basketball.

“It’s a paycheck,” I say, shrugging. “Though not a big one. Apparently Wixie is doing some budget-driven belt tightening. Doesn’t matter, I did it for Mays, not for money. And on radio, you don’t have to worry about getting hidden-camera video, of course. But I’m more interested in what’s happening at Beacon Valet, you know?”

I just thought of something.

“Hang on,” I say. I paw into my purse for my cell phone and punch Franklin’s speed dial. He has hands free, of course.

“Franko. Did you ever find out who owns Beacon Valet? I mean, who’s behind the trust?”

“Yes and no,” he replies. As if the question didn’t come out of nowhere. Actually, it didn’t. “I’ve got a pal in the Secretary of State’s office trying to untangle it. Some smart lawyer did a good job creating the trust, Marjorie tells me. She says it’s one of the best she’s seen.”

“Best for hiding something,” I reply. I realize where we are and point a finger. “Hey, J.T. The gods of journalism are smiling. There’s a perfect parking place. Right where we were before. Franko, you set?”

“Yes, indeed,” Franklin says. “You pulling up and
parking now? I’m a block away. Cameras are all in place. And I’m pushing the record buttons.”

Arriving at the Longmore, we quickly switch places, so I’m driving and J.T.’s in the passenger seat. He pulls out his camera and pushes the blue standby button, ready to shoot whatever happens. We turn the car radio off so we don’t get extraneous audio. The car is idling so we don’t have to turn the ignition when the time comes. Plus, we need the heat to stay warm. We crack the window so our breath doesn’t steam up the glass.

In the light from the street lamps and the glaringly bright marquee of the hotel, J.T. rolls tape on Franklin dropping off the car. Handing over the keys. We get shots of him talking to a BeaconValet–jacketed man, one I hadn’t seen before. He’s wearing a baseball cap, but I can’t read what’s printed on it. Even though we’re not recording audio, I know Franklin is feeding him our story, explaining that he’s meeting someone in the bar, and would definitely be there for a few hours, until closing. Franklin gives the valet some folded dollar bills, then goes inside. We cross our fingers that the hidden cameras installed in the Explorer are recording. And that tonight is the night. We have four hours.

The valet pulls the Explorer just two parking spaces up, then double-parks with the headlights still on. But this time, instead of getting out of the car, he stays inside.

I reach down for the bag of almonds I’ve brought, ready to settle in for a night of waiting.

“Yo. Charlie. Check it out,” J.T. says. He’s got his camera up on his shoulder, eye to the viewfinder.

One hand still in the plastic bag, I peer up through the windshield. And then I forget the almonds.

Another man, also in a BeaconValet jacket but without a hat, trots out of the hotel, and leans into the driver’s window of the Explorer. Thin gray plumes of exhaust
puff sporadically from the car. That means the engine is still running.

I sit up and click my gearshift into drive, though I keep my foot on the brake. Have to be instantly ready to follow the Explorer when it pulls away. If it pulls away.

“You rolling?” I say. I’m not taking my eyes off what’s happening.

“You need to ask?” From behind the camera.

A car drives up, headlights glaring. The car pauses outside the hotel, blasting light through our windshield.

Flinching, I hold up a hand to shield my eyes. “Ow.”

“Damn,” J.T. hisses. “Lens can’t handle that. Can’t see a thing.”

“It’s okay,” I reassure him, still squinting. “They’re leaving now. And nothing’s happening with the Explorer.”

The three of us haven’t really discussed it, but my “steal-the-car-for-a-brief-time-swipe-the-VIN-and-theair-bag-and-return-the-car-before-the-owner-knows-it” hypothesis is only a theory. An assumption based on guesses and conjecture and a few juicy facts. It may be proven false. If it is, we won’t have a story and my speculation will thereby doom three perfectly hardworking journalists to ratings-book hell. Investigative reporting isn’t easy. That’s what makes it fun.

I stare out the windshield, flexing my fingers on the steering wheel. Trying to remember that this is fun.

The driver’s-side door of the Explorer opens.

“J.T.,” I whisper.

“Yup. I see it.”

The first valet, who I’ve been calling “Hat Guy,” gets out. The other valet, “No-Hat,” gets in. As Hat Guy heads back toward the hotel, he taps the back window of the Explorer with the flat of one palm.
Tap-tap-tap.

He doesn’t look back as he pushes through the Longmore’s revolving doors.

“Charlie.” J.T.’s tone is sharp.

I yank my eyes back to the Explorer. Damn. Never should have looked away. At least J.T.’s on it.

A blast of gray now puffs from the Explorer’s exhaust. I sneak a glance in my rearview, checking to see if any cars are behind me, in case I have to pull out. One slushes by slowly, then another one. Not many people are out this late. The good news and the bad news. No one will be in our way as we pull out. And the first moments are critical.

But it may make it tougher to follow this guy without being noticed. I’ve done this many times, carefully keeping at least two car lengths away. Making sure there’s at least one other car between me and my quarry. Sometimes, I even pull ahead. So far, I’ve never gotten caught. Nighttime makes it easier in some ways. Harder in others.

“We’ll have the hidden-camera stuff, at least, if we lose him on the road,” I say, reassuring myself as much as J.T.

“If he actually goes anywhere,” J.T. mutters.

“Ye of little faith,” I say, keeping my eyes on the Explorer. Although I was thinking the same thing. And I have no plan B.

The Explorer’s brake lights flicker on, then go off. And then the car starts to move.

“Check it out,” I breathe.

The car eases forward and into the street. No-Hat’s arm comes out of the window. With a quick gesture, a gloved hand adjusts the side mirror. And then almost before I realize it, No-Hat hits the gas.

The Explorer powers up Water Street, taillights disappearing into the Boston night.

“Go!” J.T. yells.

But I’ve already hit the accelerator.

“He’s getting onto the Pike,” I say, eyes glued on the Explorer.

We turn left down the ramp to the westbound side of
the eight-lane highway. No-Hat is driving like a sixteen-year-old taking the Registry of Motor Vehicles’s licensing exam. He stopped at every red light between the Longmore Hotel and the entrance to the Massachusetts Turnpike, stayed within the speed limit, and used his turn signals.

“Probably doesn’t want to get pulled over by the cops,” I say to J.T. “Smart for him. But he sure is making it a breeze for us.”

“That’s not what the guy did for Declan Ross, though,” J.T. reminds me. “The guy in the blue Mustang? Was driving like a maniac.”

I pull to the right and follow No-Hat, close but not too close, along the Pike and through the first set of automated tollbooths. J.T.’s rolling video on the whole trip, making sure we can document exactly what happens. It’s a challenging shoot. All of our tiny hidden cameras are mounted in the decoy car, so J.T. has to use his full-size Sony. Including the bricklike battery pack; it weighs more than twenty pounds. J.T.’s steadying it with one elbow braced against the passenger door. And he still has to wear a seat belt.

“True,” I say, remembering. I let a brown sedan get ahead of us. Luckily, the Explorer has such a high wheel-base, it’s easy to see even in the dark and with a few cars between us. “But remember, he probably got a call ordering him to bring the car the hell back. Remember? Michael Borum was waiting for it.”

We’re silent, briefly. I, for one, am thinking about what happened to Michael Borum.

As we move west through the alternating headlights and darkness on the Pike, it becomes easier and easier for me to blend us into the traffic. The Highway Department’s erratically flashing lighted arrows help, too, by briefly forcing everyone into the left lane to avoid construction. When drivers are forced to change lanes and
follow signs, there’s less time for them to notice there’s someone on their tail.

I hope.

I keep my attention balanced between monitoring the position of the Explorer and driving safely. But the night is clear, and the road is clear, and my view of the Explorer is clear. So far so good.

Plus, No-Hat has got to be focused on getting to wherever he’s going, doing whatever they do there, and returning to the Longmore before Franklin asks for the car back. He’s not worrying whether there’s a reporter in a unmarked news car trying to track his every turn.

I hope.

“You know what,” I say. “No matter what’s on the other end here, no matter where he’s going. This guy’s stolen our car. I mean, it’s supposed to be in valet parking. You know? And instead, it’s headed up the Mass Pike.”

“And we’re getting video of the whole thing,” J.T. says. “Who knows how big this is. How far it goes. But you’re right. We’ve got this guy nailed.”

My mind briefly wanders to Franklin, missing everything, probably sipping club soda in Fizz and certainly wondering whether he’ll still have a story in the morning. Maybe he called his adorable Stephen, inviting him to keep him company on his boring-but-important role in the stakeout. I should have suggested that. I will when I call him.

“Yo, McNally. I need to change tapes.” J.T. interrupts my pangs of conscience. “We’ve only got half hours. And I have maybe five minutes left on this one. Change it now? Or later?”

“Do it now, no question,” I say, pointing at him. “And make it fast.” No tape means no pictures. And he who hesitates runs out.

J.T. lays the bulky camera flat on his lap, the first time it’s been away from his eye for twenty-five minutes. I
press my lips together, anxiously counting the seconds, as I hear the motorized buzzes and clicks that mean he’s opened the side of the camera. I hear the whir as the yellow cassette pops out like a piece of toast.

“Got it? Put the tape in my bag,” I say. I see J.T. holding the cassette. He looks like he’s searching for something. “Don’t bother with a case. And I’ll label it later. Just bang in a new—”

“He’s getting off the Pike!” J.T. yells. He’s holding the camera with one hand, waving the other at the highway. “He’s moving into the right lane. I bet he’s taking 17, the Newton exit.”