Drive Time (19 page)

I turn to look at J.T. The camera is still in his lap. No cassette is inside it. Not good.

“Just put in a—”

“Watch it!” J.T.’s voice suddenly rises to a yelp.

With a blare of an air horn that almost blasts my heart from my chest, a massive big rig careens in front of us, swerving across two lanes. It’s a double-wide silver-and-black cab, pulling an empty but lethal flatbed that threatens to jackknife right through us. The pavement between me and the eighteen-wheeler disappears. This truck is at least ten tons of trouble, pointed toward Exit 17, and the driver doesn’t care who’s in the way.

I see the Explorer accelerate, powering off at Exit 17 as J.T. predicted. It’s headed up the steep two-lane ramp and into a complicated intersection that leads at least four ways. To industrial Newtonville. Chic Newton Center. Working-class West Newton. Or he could make a U-turn back onto the Pike and toward Boston. If No-Hat gets a green light and makes his turn before we get there, we’ve certainly lost him.

To follow him, we’ve got to get in front of the truck. If we don’t, we risk losing the Explorer altogether.

I glance into the rearview. Nobody behind us.

“Hang on,” I say. My voice is low. Determined. “Going for it.”

I yank our car hard to the right into the narrow breakdown lane. The wheels rumble, catching in the uneven, roughly paved strip that’s supposed to be used only for emergencies. Fine. This is one.

I hit the accelerator, and have just enough room to pass the still-speeding truck on his right. If I go too far, I’ll crash us into the highway’s corrugated aluminum guardrails and we’ll wind up like Declan Ross. Or much worse. Praying for the slightest bit more speed and hoping I have enough room, I swerve in front of him.

“Holy…!” J.T. yells. “Careful!” He’s cradling the camera on his lap with both arms, protecting it, the seat belt holding him in place.

I am being careful. Much as I can. The length of the exit ramp is my only hope. If the Explorer hits a red light at the top of the hill, we can catch up. My hands clench on the steering wheel, my eyes narrow, focusing on the road ahead.

The hulking truck moves over, pulling into the left lane, giving up just enough room so we can both drive without the side of his flatbed slicing our car—and me—in half. I cling to the right, leaning into my turn, and try to slow down without slamming on brakes.

Several hundred feet in front of us, I see the intersection. And the glorious red light. Waiting in the front of the line, brake lights on, is the Explorer.

“Are you freaking kidding me?” J.T.’s voice comes from beside me, a mixture of terror and approval. “Are you nuts? Or lucky?”

“Are you rolling yet?” I reply. “We’ve got him.”

And now we’ll see where he’s taking our car.

“T
obacco Road,” I say, counting my blessings as I squint past the steering wheel, out the windshield, through slashes of shadow and into the open double doors of the garage across the street. The moon is full, but mostly hidden behind thickly scudding pre-snow clouds. Inside the car, we’re sitting in total darkness. Our heat is off. The engine is off. My feet and nose are freezing. “Or someplace out of the Dust Bowl. Skeevy buildings. Creepy houses. And look at the streetlights. Or what’s left of them. Probably someone’s target practice.”

“The Dust Bowl wouldn’t have snow,” J.T. mutters. His tinted window is cracked open wide enough for the lens to fit through. His eye is still pressed to the viewfinder. We’ve switched off the red record light on the camera, in case someone looks our way. Don’t want
us
to be target practice.

“Whatever,” I say. Franklin’s in a cozy bar, probably watching ESPN. I’m sipping my now-tepid coffee, which somehow didn’t spill in the truck-avoidance maneuver, and watching the ramshackle building across the street. Rantoul Avenue, a potholed two-way in a bleakly needy neighborhood of Newtonville, is pretty much deserted this time of night. That’s bad news, because we’re an unfamiliar car and right out in the open. With luck, No-Hat and his pals are under such a crushing time pressure
they’ll figure we’re visiting one of the houses here. If they notice us as all. Our tinted windows are almost opaque at night. We can see fine from inside, but from outside, our car looks empty.

I hope. J.T. is shooting everything that moves. And some stuff that doesn’t. It’s been a video bonanza.

We got the doors to the garage opening from inside as the Explorer drove in. The roll-away door on the left is wide open, providing an ideal view of the complete garage setup inside. Rows of bright lights studded across the ceiling illuminate the whole scene, bright as a movie set. No-Hat hops out of the driver’s seat and disappears into the darker recesses of the garage. The hood of the Explorer pops up. Men in jeans swarm, one into each of the four doors. Another unlatches the hatchback. Another, lying on his back, scoots a wheeled dolly underneath the chassis.

A flash of worry. What if there’s something incriminating in the car? Something that screams Channel 3. A mic flag. A press pass. It’s too late to matter, though, I reassure myself. They’ve taken the car, which is illegal. And it’s on tape. We win.

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.”