Drive Time (28 page)

“The—?”

He takes my mug and hands me the folded
Boston Globe.
I open to the front page.

The story is on the left, one column, below the fold.

Radio Mogul Dead.

I look at Josh. My brain races to makes sense of it. “How—?”

“Read it. Apparently the police…”

But I’m not listening to him anymore. I’m reading. Fast as I can.

The story is certainly surprising and definitely big news. But our story, even bigger, is safe. The
Globe
doesn’t have anything about car cloning, or air-bag theft, or valet parking, or the radio show. Even so, the paper’s last paragraph is a shocker.

“A massive stroke when the cops went to question him,” I say to Franklin, waving the paper at him as I walk
into our office. I called him this morning at the same moment he called me. Of course.

“I called Zavala, of course,” I continue, taking off my coat and tossing it on my chair. “He told me No-Hat—whose name really is Doug Skith, astonishingly—ratted Fielder out in about thirty seconds. He gave up Taylor and Tyler, too. Now Zavala says the talk-show morons and No-Hat are battling it out with the district attorney to see who can turn state’s evidence faster.”

“Police came to Fielder’s door? And he just confessed?” Franklin asks.

“Well, no. He kept demanding a lawyer. Upset. Yelling at the cops,” I reply. “According to Zavala. He found out the rest from Skith and the
Drive Time
boys. Apparently Fielder was out of money. Radio station revenues tanking, fewer people using valet parking. So he decided to reorganize his resources. Took cars from one of his businesses, cloned them at another—”

“The Beacon Trust owned the Newtonville garage, too?”

“Yup. According to Zavala.” I nod. “He sold the air bags on the black market. Big bucks. And then sold the stolen cloned cars via the radio show. Even bigger bucks. Oh, and guess what? The stolen blue Mustang? The one No-Hat tried to sell me? No-Hat told them it was stolen from Randall Kindell’s rental lot. It was the car I saw on the lift.”

“So Fielder’s implicated to the hilt.” Franklin’s multi-tasking, of course, sorting his mail as we talk. He tosses a manila envelope into the wastebasket and places another envelope in a growing stack on his desk. He picks up his letter opener.

“Yup. Zavala told me it was No-Hat Doug Skith and his thug buddies who ruined the operation. Crashing the Mustang into Declan Ross, that’s one thing. But killing Borum? Carjackings? Fielder never authorized anything
like that. Still, it was his setup. As they handcuffed him to take him to the police station, he collapsed.”

I tap my pen on the
Boston Globe,
now spread out on my desk. “But all the paper has, thanks to my beloved Lieutenant Zavala, is Fielder questioned about some un-disclosed financial scheme, dies of a stroke, his wife mourns the tragedy.”

And there’s the shocker. I read, for the millionth time, the last lines of the brief
Boston Globe
article.

I don’t need the now-burned Bexter report to confirm that Harrison Ebling had also circled Alice Hogarth’s name. That means she was probably being blackmailed, too. Did she give up a baby? Did she ever tell her husband? Did she pay extortion money? Did he?

Out of the corner of my ear I hear paper ripping. And then unfolding. And then I hear Franklin catch his breath.

“What?” I say. Fleetingly, a selfishly unworthy thought flickers through my mind. Maybe the NewYork deal is off.

“In a plain envelope,” he says, holding up a white piece of paper. It looks like a photocopy of a photo. “It’s a picture of Michael—”

“Borum’s blue Mustang.” I finish the sentence. “David Chernin at the Mass Turnpike offices must have sent it to us.”

“Not that it matters now.” Franklin folds the photo back into the envelope. “That car’s a crispy critter.”

I think back about Michael Borum, an everyday guy who did an everyday thing. Tossed the keys to his car to a valet parker and expected it to be returned after dinner.
But Michael Borum gave his car to the wrong valet at the wrong time. And got killed for it.

“No, it’s still important,” I say. “Because this photo proves his car was not where it was supposed to be. Can you believe it? After all that, turns out Michael Borum is helping us.”

I
push the black button that connects me, electronically, with Liz Whittemore. I’m surrounded by flashing monitors and muttering technicians in the bustle and squawk of ENG Receive. Liz is across town, outside on the snowy common in front of Main Hall, ready to front her first live shot about the Bexter murder and extortion. J.T.’s with her, shooting it all, since there’s no reason for him not to be part of it. Suddenly, someone flips on the portable light in front of her. Liz’s red Channel 3 parka pops against the white snow and the lofty evergreens. I lean closer to the silver microphone. “Congratulations, girl,” I tell her. “Just give me credit when you pick up your Emmy.”

I see Liz put a gloved hand to her ear, holding in her earpiece as she listens to me. She smiles, though she can’t see me, and gives a thumbs-up to the camera.

“Your story’s on next week, Charlie,” she says into her microphone. “It’ll blow this one out of the water.”

Secretly, I hope she’s right. But that I don’t say.

“Private School, Private Lives.” The too-sensational-for-my-taste black-and-red graphic suddenly appears in several monitors as the bright green numbers of the digital clocks tick toward the six o’clock news. The thumping drive of the electronic news theme fills the room.

ENG Joanna nudges me out of the way and leans into the mic.

“Fifteen seconds, Liz,” she says.

Liz nods, her lips pressed together. She’s nervous. My own heart races in reporter empathy, remembering the feeling. Being the new kid. The pressure of a first big story. A career maker. Or breaker. The anchor has begun the introduction to the story, but there’s still time for me to give Liz one more bit of encouragement. I reach for the mic button. And then I see Liz change. Her head comes up, her eyes sparkle, she radiates confidence. She doesn’t need me.

“Go for it,” I whisper.

Even though I know the story much better than Liz does, it’s still a blockbuster.

“Police say Harrison Ebling, now in custody, murdered two prominent and beloved faculty members at Brookline’s privileged and respected Bexter Academy because they discovered his blackmail-and-extortion scheme. Officials are charging he killed Dorothy Wirt with her own sleeping pills and carbon monoxide, attempting to make it look like an accident. They say he killed Alethia Espinosa by pushing her down a steep set of ice-covered stairs.”

I know the rest. I barely listen as Liz voices over the mug shot of Ebling, BEX photos of Dorothy and Alethia, and exteriors of the Bexter campus, carefully selected so they don’t reveal the faces of any students. I know police found at least some of Ebling’s stash. Now safely protected evidence, the D.A.’s office confiscated the confidential files he copied and stole from The Services. Channel 3 lawyers, panicked by potential lawsuits and fearing expensive liability, absolutely refused to let Liz mention any of the victims’ names on television.

The journalist in me is outraged. It’s the public’s right to know exactly what happened. The other part of me is relieved. It won’t help anyone to know about Alice Hogarth or Fiona Dulles or Randall Kindell. Their secret past can remain a secret.

I smile, thinking about the rental-car king. After checking his entire fleet for recalls and missing air bags, he began spearheading a national campaign to clean up his industry. What’s more, police finally confirmed Annie’s car had indeed been stolen. And Kindell, grateful that I’d kept his secret, gave her an Ombra from his fleet to replace it. He also called Declan Ross’s insurance company, wiped the incident off his policy and got his money refunded.

“There’s you!” ENG Joanna pokes me in the ribs, jabbing me out of my reverie. “You look hot, sister.”

I almost missed my part of Liz Whittemore’s story. I know it says—because I wrote it—“Channel 3’s Charlie McNally broke this case wide open, confronting and outwitting the alleged killer as he threatened to make her his next victim.”

Now I’m seeing myself, in high definition, wearing my crimson blazer, black turtleneck and trademark red lipstick, and showing almost no grayish-brown roots. The lighting works. I catch just the tail end of my sound bite.

“Bexter officials have assured me they are replacing all the money frightened parents paid to the disgraced Harrison Ebling. What’s more, Liz, The Services executive director, Joan Covino, told me she’s certain no other information was taken from her organization’s files.”

I burst out laughing.

“What?” Joanna says. “You’re great.”

“Private joke,” I say, waving her off. I’ve just realized. I’m talking on television. And standing here in ENG Receive. I’m officially in two places at one time.

“Franklin, come on. Smile. You, too, Charlie,” Maysie calls out. Her face is hidden behind her camera viewfinder, but her voice sounds upbeat.

Franklin and I are standing arm in arm, posing for photos, unintentionally dressed alike in black down vests,
big turtlenecks and striped scarves. My scarf is new, the old one having met its fiery, alcohol-soaked demise a few weeks ago in the Head’s living room. We’re on the front steps of Josh’s house. Our house. The movers are still packing up my condo. What used to be my condo. According to the closing documents, starting tomorrow it will belong to ENG Joanna and J. T. Shaw. Who, we all finally discovered, had some secrets of their own.

It’s not the best time to take a picture of Franklin and me. My eyes are puffy from crying. Franklin’s eyes are red, too, though he insists it’s from too much champagne. But it’s the last time we’ll all be together like this.

“Come on, say cheese. Or say something. You guys look like you’re losing your best friends.” Maysie takes the camera down from in front of her face. I can see she’s on the verge of tears, too. “I guess that’s the problem, huh? You really are.”

“Cheese,” Franklin says. His voice is quiet. And glum. And almost a whisper.

“Cheese,” I say at exactly the same time. My “cheese” comes out sounding like goodbye.

Baby Maddee, swaddled in a thick yellow blanket and cradled in Penny’s arms, chooses that very instant to burst into a howling wail.

Which makes all the rest of us—except for a bewildered Penny—explode into laughter.

“Got it!” Maysie says as the camera flashes.

“Come on, you all,” Josh says. “This is not the end. It’s a beginning, right?”

Franklin and I look at each other. Uncertain and unhappy.

“Drive time to New York is what, maybe four hours?” Josh steps behind us, throwing his arms around our shoulders. “You two will see each other all the time. And Franklin will be back for the wedding, of course.”

Maysie’s camera flashes again.

“Good one!” Maysie calls out. “Now, Penny, you and Maddee get in the picture.”

Penny’s almost-too-big pink plaid boots clunk up the two steps. She stands in front of us. Maddee is snuffling, but her crying has stopped.

“I suppose Josh is right,” I say reluctantly. I’m still looking at the camera. Which is easier than looking at my dear Franklin. Stephen will be here any minute to pick him up. Then he’ll be off to the rest of his life. And so will I. Just the way it’s supposed to work.

“Smile!” Maysie commands. And the camera flashes.

“We’ll be doing the ‘open recalls in rental cars’ story together for the network, right?” Franklin says. His arm goes tighter across my shoulders. I can’t tell if he’s looking at me, because I still can’t face him.

“Now one of Charlie and Franklin,” Maysie yells. “Josh, Penny, stand over by the car.”

“Kevin says since you broke it, you should be our Boston correspondent,” Franklin continues. “So we’ll still be a team, Charlotte.”

That does it.

“No one else—” I can barely get the words out, and I bury my face in Franklin’s black nylon shoulder. “No one else…calls me Charlotte. And now you’re leaving.”

Franklin’s arms go around me, tight. I realize he’s never really hugged me before. I can feel my tears arrive, unstoppable, and I let them come. We’ve conquered broken equipment and absurd deadlines, pursued obstinate sources and impossible stories. We’ve read each other’s minds. We’ve changed laws and changed lives. And both of us almost got killed doing it.

We’ve learned to trust each other. We’ve learned to love each other. And now, it’s come to an end.

“Honey?” I feel Josh touch me on the shoulder. “Stephen’s here. Franklin has to go.”

I wipe my eyes, blotching my red leather gloves, and reluctantly pull away.

“I’ll miss you, Franko,” I say. I blink, feeling the tears clinging to my eyelashes, and try for a watery smile. “Can I have your Rolodex?”

Josh holds out a hand to Franklin, then changes his mind. He wraps Franklin in a bear hug, just for a second.

“Thanks for taking care of her,” he says.

“She took care of me,” Franklin says.

“Smile!” Maysie says.

And as we all turn toward her, the camera flashes one final time.

“That’s the last box, ma’am.” A jumpsuited Hercules, one of the Dan’s Vans burly, bulked-up moving crew, waves a muscled arm toward Josh’s front door.

Our front door, I correct myself again. I’ve spent the last three hours directing traffic, watching brown corrugated boxes filled with my life’s accumulations carried out of a silver moving van and into my new life. Franklin left yesterday. Now, stationed on Josh’s front porch—our front porch—it seems the last of my transformation to suburban bride-to-be is almost complete.

“It’s all inside? Nothing left in the truck?”

“Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am. We put the boxes where you marked ’em.” He looks me up and down, taking in the ripped knees of my jeans and the cutoff sleeves of my fraying Bexter sweatshirt.

“The closet and bedroom are pretty full. You’re gonna have to get rid of some of those clothes boxes before you can get in the room. I’ll get the guys. And we’re out of here.”

He dusts his hands on the rear of his jumpsuit, then heads back inside.

“So that’s that,” I say out loud.

“What’s what?” Josh, smiling, comes through the open door. “You talking to yourself again?”

“Get used to it,” I say. “One of my many deep secrets you have not yet learned.”

Josh stands behind me, his body pressed against mine, his chin resting on the top of my head. “I know all I need to know about you,” he whispers.

We’re silent for a moment, looking through the open door. Penny scampers by, then Botox, tail held high, pretending she’s not following her.

“The movers are done,” I say, leaning into Josh. I can feel his heart beating, his breath in my hair. “I’m all yours, Professor Gelston. There’s nothing else to lug inside.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Josh says.

I turn to face him. “Wrong?”

“Absolutely wrong,” he says. “There’s definitely one more thing that needs to go inside.”

I feel my feet leave the ground as I’m scooped into his arms.

“You,” he says. And we step across the threshold.