Prime Time (10 page)

I

Usually I’d want to open it myself. After all, it’s addressed to me. But I’m the tiniest bit tired from last night and I’m trying to hide it because Franklin will be relentless for details. For now, I want to keep my memories of Josh—and my hopes—to myself. Franklin can focus on the box.

As I watch him peel back the tape, though, I grow increasingly uncomfortable. We have no way of knowing what’s actually inside. It comes from someone we’ve never seen or even talked to in person. Our only connection has been by voice mail and e-mail, and we don’t know if it really was Mack Briggs on the other end. It could be someone pretending to be Mack Briggs, someone who knew we were looking for him. And the files.

Someone who wanted to stop us. I’m an idiot.

“Franklin?” I need to stop him. “What if the box isn’t from Mack Briggs, and…”

I hear the last of the tape ripping off the box, and then
the snap of the top cardboard panels being pulled apart. I wince, waiting for the explosion or the puff of white powder.

“Cool,” Franklin says. “Here’s a note from Mack Briggs, and a stack of papers, and it’s all on top of…Whoa.”

I uncoil myself from my terror-defense position and go see what Franklin’s looking at. I knew it would be fine.

“Read this note,” Franklin instructs, handing it to me along with a stack of papers, “and then look what’s in the box. E-mails.”

I easily recognize the e-mails Mack Briggs sent us. They’re copies of the exact same Bible-looking citations I got. The note is handwritten in black fountain pen on creamy stationery, monogrammed MXB.

Ms. McNally,
I read,
here are the e-mails Brad sent me. He asked: Why would Aztratech and the others be sending spam about refinancing? Before we could talk further, I learned he was killed in a car accident.

It’s signed with initials.

“I don’t get it,” I say. “Aztratech is a pharmaceutical company. It isn’t sending out refinancing spam.” I pause. I guess we don’t really know that.

“It gets stranger. Look what else he sent,” Franklin says.

I feel like that kid in
Home Alone,
palms pressed to my cheeks, mouth open in surprise. Inside the cardboard box I see a metal file-holding frame, and hanging from the frame are green file folders. Aztratech, then Rogers Chalmers…I look back at Franklin. “These are exactly the same, right?”

Franklin sits back in his chair, nodding, his hand still on the box. “This box of files is just like our box of files, his e-mails are just like our e-mails. Brad was certainly on the trail of something.”

We’re both quiet for a moment, remembering again what happened to Brad.

“Hang on,” I interrupt our reverie. “It’s about what’s not in here.”

“What’s not…?” Franklin replies.

“What’s not in the stuff from Mack Briggs,” I explain, the realization dawning more fully even as I say it out loud, “is one word about pharmaceutical prices, or price fixing, or Brad as a whistle-blower or anything like that. Not one word.”

“You’re right,” he says, flipping through the paperwork. “You think this means we’re on the wrong track with the ‘whistle-blowing Brad’ story?”

I hear a distant gurgle, as my career swirls down the drain. November, no story, no job…No.

“Time out,” I say, making the signal with my hands. “The e-mail Brad sent me. If it wasn’t about him being the whistle-blower, what was it about?”

“And what’s more,” Franklin replies, “why did he also send all this to Mack Briggs? Why Mack Briggs, specifically?” Franklin looks at the note again. “The monogram is MXB,” he says. “What if we…”

He turns to his computer. “Remember when we searched his name?” Franklin asks. “I’m thinking, I never searched just M. Briggs.” He hits Enter. “Did you?”

I think back while the computer whirs. “Nope,” I say. “Just Mack.”

The monitor flashes and a whole page of entries appears. The first one says
McKenzie Xavier Briggs.

Franklin and I exchange looks.

“Spelling,” he says dryly.

I pretend to shoot myself with a finger. “I should have
thought of that.” I’m so exasperated. “We stink. They should fire us.”

Franklin nods in pretend acquiescence, then reads the rest of the entry out loud. “Chairman, United States Securities and Exchange Commission, 1993 to 1996.”

“Chairman of the…” I begin.

“What would he know,” Franklin asks slowly, “that no one else could know?”

“Here’s a concept,” I say, hitting my forehead with the heel of my hand. “I’ll just call and ask him.” I start to punch in the number I have in my calling log. The area code is Vermont. “We should have called Briggs as soon as we got the box.”

The phone rings and this time I’m hoping it’s not the answering machine.

“Hello?” I hear a quiet voice. A woman. I give Franklin a thumbs-up.

“Mack Briggs, please,” I say, nodding with the good news. Any minute now, I’ll be chatting with the man of the hour.

There’s silence at the other end.

“Hello?” Maybe she didn’t understand me. “May I speak to Mack Briggs, please?”

Another silence, then I hear the woman’s voice again. “One moment, please.”

This is great. This proves it was actually Mack Briggs’s number, which I had secretly harbored a few nagging doubts about.

I hear the hold button click off, and a gruff voice says, “Who is this?”

“Oh, hello, Mr. Briggs,” I begin.

The voice interrupts me, insistent. “I said, who is this?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I start again. “This is Charlie McNally, from Channel 3 TV? And—”

This voice interrupts again. “This is Officer Veloudos, State Police, miss. Why are you calling here?”

I can feel the warmth drain from my face. Why is a state trooper answering the phone? I look at Franklin, and he must recognize my confusion and bewilderment.

“What?” he asks, leaning forward. He’s frowning, concerned. “What?”

“Miss?” the trooper says. “Are you a reporter? If so, you’ll have to call our public relations department. We’re not giving out any statements here this afternoon.”

“Not giving out any statements—about what?”

“Like I told you,” the trooper says. “Talk to PR.”

And then he hangs up.

I’m unable to put the receiver back in the cradle. I look at it, as if somehow I could retrieve some answers.

I turn to Franklin. “It was a state trooper. He told me to call PR. And then he hung up.”

The phone begins to quaver its irritating “hang up or else” signal, but I’m too flummoxed to follow instructions. “What on earth,” I begin over the beeping, “could be going on?”

Franklin pushes the phone button, breaking the connection. “Time to find out,” he says, flipping through his Rolodex. “I think our Mack Briggs, sender of mysterious documents, has been arrested. And we need to know why. He’s the former SEC commissioner, after all. This may be a lead story.”

He rips out a Rolodex card and hands me the number of the police press office.

“You could be right,” I say. “Maybe Briggs is the target of some secret special prosecutor investigating SEC fraud. Or something. If that’s true, it’ll take hours for word to trickle down from Vermont to Boston. And we’ll have an exclusive. Love it.”

I hum “Ode to Joy” in my head as I punch in the number and briefly wonder—where did that tune come from? Then I remember just a few days ago, in a certain professor’s office…

“Vermont State Police,” a reedy voice answers the phone. “Detective Bogetich. Is this an emergency?”

I always hate that question. It would certainly be an emergency to me if some other reporter got this before I do.

“No,” I answer. “This is Charlie McNally, TV3 in Boston.” I turn on my serious investigative voice. “I’m calling for the status of the arrest of one Mack Briggs earlier today. Can you give me an update?”

Nothing.

Oh, come on. “Detective?” I prod.

“Miss McNally,” the detective answers, “you’re calling about McKenzie Briggs? From Cullodon Harbor? Mack Briggs is not in custody, miss.”

“He’s not…?” I’m thinking fast and now I’m talking like myself again. “But…how come you guys were at his house? And how come, when I called there, your officer answered the phone? And hey, how come he wouldn’t tell me anything, and told me to call you for a statement?” I take a breath. “So now, I’m calling you for a statement, okay?”

“Okay,” I hear.

Finally.

“Here’s the statement,” the detective says. “Vermont State Police confirm the death of McKenzie Xavier Briggs, age seventy-three, of Cullodon Harbor, Vermont, at 16:30 this date. Cause of death—motor vehicle accident. As per standard practice, the accident is under investigation.”

I sit back in my chair, almost dizzy. Franklin is franti
cally making questioning gestures, silently mouthing, “What? What happened?” but I don’t answer him.

“Was there anyone else in the car?” I manage to ask, my mind now regaining equilibrium. “Was there another vehicle involved?”

“That’s not in this statement, miss,” the detective answers. “What I told you is all we’re releasing.”

Then I get an idea. A big one.

“I understand, just doing your job,” I say calmly. Then I go for it, speaking slowly and confidently. “But we have information,” I lie, “that this was a one-car incident, no other cars found on the scene, and also that Briggs was alone in the car. Off the record, not for attribution, can you just confirm that for me?”

Nothing.

“I’ll never say it was you who confirmed it,” I entreat. “I won’t even say ‘state police sources.’”

There’s a sigh. “You’re not wrong, miss,” he says. And then he hangs up.

Franklin stands over me, looking as if he’s ready to rip the phone from my hand. “Good Lord, Charlotte,” he says. “What the hell happened?”

I look him square in the eye. “Mack Briggs is dead,” I say. I can hear how surprisingly flat my voice is. “Mack Briggs is dead, and I just confirmed he died exactly the same way Brad Foreman did.”

I

I know I should be enjoying the hot water coursing over my hair, the scritch of Marie-Rosina’s fingers on my scalp. The coconut fragrance of the lavish shampoo. But this isn’t vanity, it’s required maintenance, and after so many years, a salon visit is as glamorously exciting as an oil change. I’m obligated to be washed, conditioned and blown dry here three times a week, and gray-preventioned every fifth Saturday. My real hair color? I have no idea.

The second M-R wraps a fluffy white towel around my head, I scramble for my BlackBerry. Maybe Franklin uncovered something about Mack Briggs.

My name is Charlie, and I’m a workaholic.

A few quick taps and I’m online. It’s the weekend. But it’s almost November, and we still don’t have a story, and—I’m staring at an impossibility.

I’ve received an e-mail from a dead person.

My brain scrambles to understand this. A typo? A mistake?

I scroll down, reading as fast as I can, not grasping how I could be reading a note from someone who—according to yesterday’s info from the Vermont State Police—is soon to be six feet under. But there it is: the signature line says Mack Briggs.

I slip into the salon’s massage room, desperate for privacy. Perching on the sheet-draped table, I click my BlackBerry back to the top and devour the flickering words. This is…a joke. A trick. A scam.

Ms. McNally,
I read,
by now you will have gotten the box of files Brad Foreman sent me. He was a student in my class at Wharton. I was taken aback when I received those files, because we hadn’t been in contact for years.

I scoot back against the wall, tucking a quilted pink pillow under my towel-wrapped head. I hold the BlackBerry up and keep reading, struggling to understand.

Reason for this e-mail: I should have mentioned he alluded to his search for a mortgage interest-rate reduction, and apparently had found some similarities among refinancing advertisements.

I jump to my feet and dig out my cell. Got to call Franklin. He answers on the second ring, and before he finishes saying hello, I’m telling him about the e-mail.

“Spam.” His voice crackles through his speakerphone. I can hear him clicking into his home computer as he talks. “It’s about the spam. Keep reading,” he demands.

Before I can continue, there’s a knock on the door—then a voluptuous henna-haired woman in a black smock peers in. She’s holding a pile of towels and an orange bottle of massage oil.

“Nancy at eleven-thirty?” she asks in what sounds like a French accent.

Merde.
“No,” I say brightly. Go away.
Go away.
“Not me.”

She clicks the door closed. I figure I don’t have much time left in my rosemary-scented hideout.

“Charlotte?” Franklin calls out. “You there?”

“Yup, sorry,” I reply. “Let me read you the rest. ‘He didn’t explain, just told me he wanted me to do original research, not influenced by his ideas. He e-mailed me those citations I assume are Bible verses. I gathered he was feeling some sort of pressure, even fear, though I could be mistaken.’”

I hear Franklin typing and clicking his mouse.

“Are you listening?” I ask, exasperated. “He thought Brad was afraid of something, did you hear that?”

“I haven’t missed a word,” Franklin says, “but wait till you see what I just found. How fast can you get over here?”

Course they don’t teach in J-School: Say So Long to Saturday—There Are No Weekends in TV.

I grab the wrought-iron railing, run up Franklin’s front porch steps and give three quick buzzes on his intercom. He clicks me into the spotlessly chic foyer and into his front door. When I arrive in his study, my still-wet hair hidden under the stripey wool cap I just speed-purchased at the Gap, Franklin’s hunched over the computer on his antique rolltop desk.

“Show me the rest of the letter,” he instructs, without so much as a hello. “Then you’ve got to see what I found.”

I hang my coat on the back of the door, grab my BlackBerry and click open Briggs’s letter. If it is from Briggs. “Can this be—real?” I ask, holding it out to him.

Franklin almost yanks the device from my hand. He looks as confused and concerned as I feel.

“Sit,” he commands, pointing me to a leather-and-chrome chair-sculpture contraption Stephen must have chosen. “Let me read this. Love the hat, by the way. Good for your street cred.”

“Okay, but read it out loud,” I insist, ignoring the hat crack. “From where I left off. Briggs must have sent it right before his car crash.”

“Yeah,” Franklin says, grimacing. “Anyway, it says, ‘I must warn you Brad asked me to tell him if I received any unusual phone calls.’”

He sits back in his special ergonomic desk chair, swiveling slowly from side to side, and keeps reading. “‘Before I could ask what was troubling him, he was killed. Perhaps you can make some headway. If I can assist you, let me know. You know where to find me. Sincerely, MX Briggs.’” Franklin looks up. “That’s all.”

I pause for a moment. “And I guess we do know where to find him.”

“Yeah.” Franklin nods his head. “Morgue.”

“Two sets of identical files.” I hold up my fingers. “Two car accidents. Two people dead. It all has to be connected,” I say. “Doesn’t it?”

Franklin gestures toward his monitor, the Web site he’d been reading. “Remember I had something to show you?” he replies. “Well, these,” he continues, pointing to the screen, “are the specific courses Mack Briggs taught at Wharton. And look,” he says. “All stock market stuff. Rules and regs, practices and procedures, securities law. So, seems like Brad suspected someone was doing something wrong, or illegal, and figured Briggs could confirm it.” He pauses, still thinking. “Some stock market thing.”

But I suddenly feel as if I’m seeing the other side of a
coin. “Or,” I say deliberately, “could it be some sort of…test? Brad has a get-rich-quick scheme, maybe. And who better to try it out on than his old securities professor. See if he catches on.”

Franklin raises his eyebrows. “You think?”

“And that means,” I continue, beginning to get worried, “Brad might not have been the whistle-blowing protector of the taxpayer’s pharmaceutical dollars, but more like a money-hustling market-manipulating bad guy. And he was floating the scheme to Briggs, to see if he picked up on it. If someone with that deep level of experience and knowledge didn’t catch on, of course, Brad might have figured he could get away with whatever it was.”

“You could be right,” Franklin agrees. “Wouldn’t that be a hoot?”

I bang the back of my head against the sleek chair, deflated, defeated. “Oh yeah, a real hoot,” I say. “All this research, all this e-mailing back and forth, this mysterious Mack Briggs. The poor widow Melanie. The stupid
Miranda
. Either just the random acts of an uncaring universe or the fallout from a small-time stock scheme gone wrong.”

“Could be,” Franklin grudgingly agrees. “Remember, Brad and Melanie were in some sort of financial straits. Maybe it was Brad, the failing businessman, trying to save the family home and his marriage.”

“So his car accident was just an accident,” I say slowly. “Or even truly a suicide.” I pause, my realization coalescing into a lead weight in my stomach. “And at the end of it all, just one conspiracy-crazed, career-challenged reporter, desperately trying to make something out of nothing.”

“Charlotte?” Franklin watches my melodrama with
amusement. “Yoo-hoo, Camille. Just this once, see the glass as half-full.”

I flutter my eyelashes, doing my best Garbo. “Vy?” I ask. “Ve’re doomed.”

“It’s a reasonable theory about Brad having a stock scheme,” he says earnestly, “but maybe it’s wrong. Look again at the courses Mack Briggs taught.” He moves the cursor arrow up and down on his computer screen. “Nothing about market trends, or predicting stock prices.”

I squint to read over his shoulder. “So?”

“Look at what he did teach,” Franklin says. “Securities law.” He turns back to me. “It’s not about Brad, it’s about the companies in his files.”

“Thanks for trying to make me feel better,” I say, sliding away from the computer. “But I still think this is about Brad’s frantic need for money. Maybe he got inside information by hacking into Rasmussen’s e-mails, you know? And decided to parlay that into some quick stock market bucks.”

“Well, that would be insider trading,” Franklin answers. “He wouldn’t have to check with Briggs to see if he could play the market based on information from stolen e-mails indicating it was a good time to buy or sell. These days, even teenagers know you can’t do that. Martha Stewart, that whole deal.”

Suddenly Franklin’s study gets very quiet. I can hear the hum of his computer, the rumble of an electric trolley rattling through the streets of his downtown neighborhood, a hint of music from his upstairs neighbors.

I dig Brad’s spams out of my tote bag and hold the pages carefully in my lap.

“Franklin?” I say, gazing blankly at his wall of classical music CDs. “Say that again?”

He sounds confused. “Martha Stewart?”

“The other part,” I say, turning to look at him.

“Whatever.” He’s scratching his head. “I said, that would be insider trading, if Brad were using info he got from swiping Rasmussen’s e-mails.”

“Yeah,” I reply, keeping my voice even. “And then?”

Franklin is now acting as if I’ve totally lost it. “I said—he wouldn’t have to ask whether it was all right to play the market if he had inside info indicating it was a good time to buy or a good time to sell. It’s illegal. Everybody these days knows that.”

Each of the Bible verse e-mails slides slowly from my lap onto the floor, most fluttering into a scattered pile at my feet, one piece floating over toward Franklin’s desk. I hardly notice—because now I think I know what may be going on. At least, I think I’ve figured out what these spams really are. I just don’t know how to prove it.