Prime Time (12 page)

Biting my lower lip, I speed-read the scrawled message.

Recognized your car. Got a moment to spare? Carno’s Café? 135 Main St.? I’ll wait for you. J.

Well. That settles the question of whether he saw me. Not a chance I’m going. Even though it might be interesting to hear how he tries to explain himself. I slam my Jeep’s door closed and dive for the map book. Maybe I’ll go just for a minute.

As the engine revs and the heat powers on, I’m flooded with memories—Josh and I sat in this very car, talking for hours, looking at the stars. I ram the gearshift into Reverse to erase the moment. Maysie’s latest “inspirational” postcard—a photo of Cinderella’s castle, with the scrawled
Someday your Prince will come!
—is clipped to my visor. Not likely that’s gonna happen. Men. I hate them all.

C

I see Josh in a back corner, holding up a hand to get my attention. He looks almost—contrite. A tiny sprout of hope struggles to emerge, but I stomp it before it can grow.
He misled you. He deceived you. And now he’ll try to convince you he didn’t.

I hang my coat over a hook on the side of the booth and slide in across the table. “Got your note,” I say. “What can I do for you?” I ooze nonchalance, telegraphing
this is just business and I’m being polite.

Josh seems bewildered, looks at me questioningly. “Charlie, is something wrong?” he asks. “I was so happy to see you at the funeral. But I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation with whoever that was, so I just left a note on your car, hoping you could meet me here. It’s so great to see you again, and…”

There’s a pathetic opening gambit. Happy to see me? I
doubt that, Prof. If you wanted to see me, you might have used that little thing called the telephone.

A waitress interrupts, asking for my order. I see Josh already has coffee, so I gesture at it, asking for the same thing.

“So anyway,” Josh continues, “I was on my way to the Jordan Beach Road house—remember my place in Vermont? No classes this week, just a weekend by myself. But after the e-mails I got from Brad Foreman, and your questions about them, and then what you told me about Mack Briggs, I just thought maybe I could sniff around at his funeral and see if there was anything to be learned.”

He stirs his coffee, and I notice he’s left-handed. Like I am. Supposed to be a sign of intelligence and sensitivity. And he has such nice hands. I remember how they felt when…I yank myself back to reality. Trouble is I can’t understand why Josh is acting like nothing is wrong.

“Charlie?” He reaches out to touch my hand. “You seem…angry, I guess. What’s up?”

Very clever. He’s trying to switch the focus to me. As if I’m the one with the problem.

“Nothing’s ‘up,’ as you put it,” I respond, moving my hand away. “You said you wanted to talk to me. So talk.”

“Okay,” Josh continues. “If you say so. Anyway, guess who I saw?”

“Why don’t you just tell me?” I reply, taking my coffee from a Sandra Dee look-alike. I rip open a pack of Splenda and tap it into to my cup. “But, before you do,” I add slowly, “let me ask you a question.”

Josh waits, eyebrows raised.

“A few days ago,” I continue, putting down my spoon and staring coldly into Josh’s eyes, “you told me you’d never heard of Mack Briggs. How is it, now, suddenly,
amazingly, you know he’s died and you know when and where his funeral is?” Got you now.

Josh doesn’t look that “gotten.” He reaches into the briefcase he’s tucked into the corner, pulls out a newspaper and hands it to me.

I see it’s the
Vermont Independent,
according to the masthead, published in Montpelier for southern Vermont. And on the front page, a huge obit for a favorite son. The reclusive but beloved ex-SEC chief, McKenzie Briggs.

“I get the
Indy
sent to me at Bexter,” Josh explains, “just to keep up on what’s happening around here. So I saw the obituary.” Josh takes the paper back.

That’s a pretty good answer, I suppose.

“I see,” I reply, as if that hadn’t really been a very important question. “So you were telling me—someone you saw at the funeral?”

“Well, yes,” Josh says, eyes sparkling now. “And I just knew you would be interested. I was going to call you with the news the instant the funeral was over, but then there you were!”

I can’t figure out why Josh is acting like everything is still cozy between us. Shouldn’t he be more defensive?

“Anyway,” Josh continues. “I saw—Wes Rasmussen. Isn’t that intriguing? What was Rasmussen doing at Mack Briggs’s funeral? You knew Foreman and Rasmussen were connected of course, at Aztratech. And you knew Foreman and Briggs were connected because of the e-mails. But I thought you’d be interested in what seems to be clear proof Rasmussen and Briggs were connected.”

I’m too stunned to answer, and but Josh goes on, gesturing with his spoon. “I know, I know. Leave the research to the experienced reporter. But one more thing,” he says.
“Don’t be upset, but I approached Rasmussen and told him we had a mutual acquaintance in Brad Foreman. Just to see what he’d do. And here’s the fascinating part—he knew I was an English teacher. Who could have talked to him about me? And why?”

Oh, he’s good. This Josh is really good. But I predict his elaborate cover story is just about to crumble under the weight of its own clumsiness—and now I’ll just give his little house of cards the final push.

“So you went up to Wes Rasmussen,” I say. “Interesting. How did you know who he was?”

Josh has a baffled look again.

“I never told you about him,” I continue, crossing my arms in front of me. “So you already knew him, didn’t you? That long conversation we had in my car, when you were oh-so-interested in my story. You were just trying to figure out how much I knew.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks. He leans toward me, elbows on the table. “Of course you told me about Rasmussen. Don’t you remember? You told me about the
Miranda
, and all of the owners.”

“I…” I start to answer.

“What’s this all about, Charlie?” Josh’s eyes harden. “Why are you behaving as if I’ve done something wrong? How the hell would I know Wes Rasmussen if you didn’t tell me about him?”

I can’t possibly be wrong here. I’ve got it all figured out, and I’ve just got to be tough enough to play out my hand.

“From the dinner party he gave!” I retort. “That’s how you met Brad, right? At a dinner party—Wes Rasmussen’s dinner party. And you’ve been reporting back to him ever since you got Brad to confide in you. And when you found
out I was asking around about the spam, you got me to spill the beans, too. What are you getting in return, Aztratech stock options or something?”

For some reason, Josh doesn’t look dismayed that my brilliant analysis has revealed his true motives. He takes another sip of his coffee, then picks up a spoon and slowly stirs what’s left in the cup.

When he finally looks up, his face is unreadable. He takes the napkin from his lap, places it on the table. “I don’t know what to say to you, Charlie,” he says slowly. “This is not how I hoped today would turn out.”

Josh puts some change on the table, the coins clinking on the Formica.

“I had a wonderful time with you, in my office and at the play. I didn’t want to crowd you—I know you’re busy with your sweeps reporting and I don’t really know much about the rest of your life. So frankly, I was hoping we’d somehow see each other again, and I admit part of the reason I came to the funeral was that perhaps you’d be there, too.”

He gives a bleak smile. “I’m still headed up to the house on Jordan Beach Road for a few days, and had thought, maybe, that you could come up and visit. No phones, no e-mail, just rural solitude. That’s part of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

I know my mouth must be hanging open.

“But I guess that’s not going to happen,” Josh finishes, reaching over for his briefcase. “Wes Rasmussen?” he says, sliding across the plastic booth. “He certainly was not the host at the dinner party where Brad and I met.”

He starts to get up, stops. “I realized it was Rasmussen because I heard someone else call his name. A lucky co
incidence, I thought at the time. I thought you’d think it was—” he pauses with a wry smile “—cool.”

He shakes his head ruefully. “Anyway, whatever you think I’m involved in, I’m not. I admit, I was just so taken with you…” Josh stands and puts both hands on the table, leaning down to face me.

I’m still staring up at him. My mouth has stopped working altogether, and my brain is struggling in emotional quicksand.

He suddenly changes gears.

“I can’t imagine,” he says, with a trace of bitterness in his voice, “what it is that you’ve concocted is going on. You seem to be implying I’m playing the nefarious villain in some complicated journalism plot. That’s absurd. I would have thought you, of all people, had better instincts than that.”

He pauses, tense, and I can feel his anger. Something has gone terribly wrong and I don’t know how I screwed up.

“I was just trying to be part of your life,” he says. “And have you be a part of mine. So much, apparently, for that idea.”

And, as I watch in despair, he walks out of the restaurant. He’s gone. And I’m left with cold coffee, welling tears, and utterly confused.

I

Wrong again.

Sitting there, in one of the lobby’s puffy oyster-colored, fake leather chairs, is Melanie Foreman.

She’s wearing sunglasses and clutching her coat around her. Her face is so hidden in a black wool scarf I almost don’t recognize her.

“Melanie?” I say. “What’s…?”

She leaps up, looking spooked and on edge, and clutches my arm.

“Charlie,” she whispers. “I’ve been waiting and waiting for you. Franklin’s not here and no one seemed to know where you were. They told me to come back later, but I figured you would have to be back at some point, and then the guard at the desk said it was all right for me to sit here, and…”

Even through her darkened lenses, I can see her eyes dart around as if she’s looking for someone.

“I need to talk to you about a phone call I got this morning.” She takes off the sunglasses, and I see her face is red and puffy. “I really do.”

I put my arm across her shoulders and glance around the room. What is she looking for? Or whom?

“Let’s go upstairs to my office,” I say, trying to sound soothing. “It’s private, and you can tell me all about it.” I look outside at the alleyway in front of the station. It’s a tow-truck trap—they’ll nab you if you’re parked there too long. “Did you park in the alley?”

At this Melanie bursts into tears. “No, I don’t have a car. Not anymore.”

Of course. Her car was destroyed when her husband was killed. In it. Charlie the idiot.

She looks up at me, her elegant face contorted in sorrow. “Can we just go upstairs?”

Melanie finishes her cup of tea, still tense as she describes the phone call she received this morning.

“And so then,” she says, touching her lips with a Dunkin’ Donuts napkin I had stashed away, “the lawyer person says he knows I have the documents Brad took from Aztratech. He told me they had some type of surveillance video of him carrying the boxes out and putting them in his car.

“I told them again and again, I had no idea where any such documents were—which I figured is true since I don’t really know what you did with them, do I?” She manages a fleeting smile. “But he insisted it was a federal offense to have those files, and if I didn’t hand them over, he was going to send the police.”

“Well, he couldn’t really do that,” I muse. “I think there would have to be some sort of criminal charges for that, and…” I shake my head. “Anyway, you don’t have them.”

“I know. That’s what I said. I don’t have any documents.” Melanie slumps in her chair. “But he just hung up on me.”

“I can understand why you’re upset,” I say cautiously. “But I think it was probably a fishing expedition.” I’m warming up to my own theory. “See, he’s just testing to see if you’ll crack. And since you didn’t, no problem. He decides you’re telling the truth, and he’s out of the picture.”

Melanie sits quietly, looking at me with those big eyes. I figure she’s better now, calmed by my reassuring manner and infinite logic. But she shakes her head.

“There’s more,” she continues. “After the phone call I went for a long walk with the dog, and when I got home…” She’s crying again. She sniffs and dabs at her eyes with the soggy napkin. “Well, Banjo streaked away, headed for the basement, yapping and yipping. I guess I thought a squirrel might have gotten in the house. That’s happened before.”

I nod at her; I understand.

“So I followed her downstairs, and, and…” Her voice catches, but she continues. “The basement window is smashed—glass everywhere. All the drawers open, the file cabinets. Papers all over the floor, books from the bookcase, just—chaos.”

She closes her eyes briefly, apparently picturing the scene. “Banjo was under the window, teeth bared, growling and growling.”

“Did you call the police? 911?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I started thinking, it’s the Aztratech people, of course. And then I remembered they said they had video of Brad taking documents, and it was a federal crime. I thought if I called the police, Aztratech would just say they were trying to recover what I—Brad—we—whoever—had stolen from them, and then I would be charged with something.”

“Oh, Melanie, no. You’ve got to call the police,” I insist.
“It was breaking and entering. Burglary. Call right now.” I pick up the phone and hold out the receiver to her.

She shakes her head. “Nothing was taken,” she says. “Not from anywhere.”

“Really?” Slowly, I put back the phone. “So that pretty much proves,” I continue, “it was someone connected with Aztratech, looking for the files. Those papers you gave us must really be important.”

Melanie puts her face in her hands, her tiny body a portrait of fear and misery.

“Brad would never, never, have put me in danger.” she says plaintively. “Why would he bring home something so valuable that people would break in to get it back? And even endanger his family?”

I sigh with frustration. How am I supposed to answer that?

“Maybe he didn’t know what he had,” I offer. “Maybe that’s why he e-mailed me, and e-mailed Mack Briggs and Josh Gelston. Or maybe, when he found out what the documents proved, he told someone about it. And turned out, he told the wrong person.”

We’re both quiet for a moment.

“And then—” I break the silence “—it was too late to protect you.”

Melanie’s eyes tear up again. Poor thing. First her husband killed in a car accident, and now she’s being threatened by corporate enforcers who send ransacking thugs to her house.

“Still,” I continue, “I think you should call the police. Are you sure nothing was taken? Even computer disks?”

While she’s thinking, I allow myself a brief flash of selfish regret that Melanie came here. If whoever it was that trashed her house is smart enough to follow her, she’s led
them right to where the documents actually are. Here in my little office.

“Nothing was…” Melanie glances up toward my office door. She draws her cashmere shawl more closely around her shoulders, as if she’s felt a sudden chill.

I look at my doorway. Angela.

“Excuse me,” she says, bestowing Melanie with what I suppose could pass for a smile. “I apologize for interrupting your…chat.”

She gives a tap to her obviously fake Movado. “I’ve been wondering when you and Franklin would return,” she says. “We’ve beeped you both all morning, and we’re—” she raises an eyebrow “—disappointed neither of you has responded.”

We haven’t responded to the beepers because we despise them, I want to tell her. We rip out their evil little batteries and hide the pernicious machines in our desk drawers.

“I’m so sorry Angela,” I say, wide-eyed. “My beeper never went off. Or maybe I was out of range.”

Angela is not buying this for a moment, but even she isn’t boorish enough to confront me when there’s a crying person sitting in my office.

“And Franklin?” she asks with one raised eyebrow. “Is he also suffering from out-of-range disease?”

“You’ll have to ask Franklin.” I smile, making it clear that management by sarcasm is totally ineffective. “When he gets back.”

“Gets back from where?” Angela replies. “Apparently he hasn’t been here all day. No one’s seen him and he hasn’t answered his phone, here or home.”

She gives another look at her dime-store watch. “When you’re finished,” she says, acknowledging Melanie with a
glance, “come see me in my office.” In a swirl of rayon and acrylic, she turns and pudges down the hall.

“My boss, sort of,” I attempt to explain to Melanie, as soon as Angela’s out of earshot. “Sorry. She’s socially inept.”

“So it seems,” Melanie agrees. “But she asked a good question—where is Franklin?”

Our office becomes very, very quiet. I look at Franklin’s empty chair. The empty coatrack. There’s no briefcase. No umbrella.

I look at my desk phone. Maybe he’s left me a message. But the red message light isn’t on. “You know, Melanie,” I answer slowly, “I have no idea.”

Rewinding through the day, I try to retrieve the last time I heard from him. And then, I do. Times like this I realize my quickly developing short-term memory loss can be beneficial. I’d completely forgotten about that funeral call. I rummage in my purse for my phone, relieved.

“I completely spaced,” I say to Melanie without looking up. “He called me this morning, but I was at—anyway, I couldn’t answer the phone.” No reason to tell her about the funeral.

I find the phone and I’m already feeling better. There’s a staticy silence as whatever makes it work starts to happen, then the message.

“Ricky, it’s Weezer. I’m going to be late. Tell Ma. See ya.”

My brain grinds to a halt, and I angrily push the replay button to hear it again. It remains the same astonishingly disappointing wrong number. I seem to have lost Franklin. And now, in a complete role reversal, Melanie is trying to console me.

“Could he have a doctor’s appointment, something like that?” she asks.

“I suppose,” I say, unconvinced.

“He could be out on an interview, or getting his car fixed….”

I know she’s trying to help, and that’s admirable, of course, but she doesn’t know Franklin and she doesn’t know me.

“I’ll get you some water,” she says. “Where..?”

I point her to the fridge down the hall, and then try to shake off my growing panic. He overslept. He’s at the dentist. The tailor. With Stephen for a stolen day of passion. To reassure myself, I decide to count up all the times I don’t know where Franklin is.

And that’s the clincher. I always know where Franklin is.

Melanie comes back into the room, carrying two bottles of water. In the brief time she’s been away, I’ve figured out what’s happened.

I take a sip from my water bottle, then twist the cap back on. “Melanie,” I say carefully, “does anyone know where you are?”

Her eyes widen as she considers. “I called a cab,” she says slowly. “So the cab company knows.”

Not good. It’s not Melanie’s fault of course, but…

“Oh, Charlie,” she wails. “I see what you mean. The documents are here in your office, aren’t they? And since now they know I ran right to you, they’ll make trouble for you…and Franklin.”

No reason to be coy about this. “If they haven’t already,” I say.

Melanie collapses into sobs, elbows on her knees, face in her hands. She looks up, red-eyed. “I can’t do anything right. I can’t understand why Brad put me in this situation. And then I did it to you and Franklin. What’s going on, Charlie?”

“He didn’t mean to put you in any situation.” My turn to console her now. “Things just got out of control.”

“Maybe. But now,” Melanie says, “won’t they come here looking for the files?”

“Yes,” I admit. “Definitely possible. But now at least, they’re still here.” I point under my desk, showing Melanie where I stashed the files she gave us. Franklin and I camouflaged the box with my backup cosmetics basket, a couple of containers of Wet Ones, a package of RyKrisp and a tote bag full of plastic silverware.

“So now we have to figure out, right away, what to do,” I say. “And the copies Mack Briggs sent us. We have to hide those somewhere else, too.”

We put the files Briggs overnighted to us under Franklin’s desk. They’re still in their cardboard carton, too, but those we camouflaged with a pile of old
Wall Street Journals
and empty videotape boxes. I give a quick glance just to reassure myself they’re still where they belong.

They’re not.

I close my eyes. I’m imagining things. I leap out of my chair, then get on all fours to peer more closely under Franklin’s desk. It’s ridiculous of course, a box of files is either there or it isn’t. And this one—isn’t.

“Charlie?” Melanie says. “What are you doing under the desk?”

I turn around and collapse with my back against the wall. From this vantage point, I can see under my desk, too. And I can also see those files—are also missing.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” I say, wrapping my arms around my knees. “Franklin’s gone. The Mack Briggs files are gone. Brad’s files are gone. And you and I may be in trouble.”

My heart rushes with happiness and tears spring to my eyes. The phone on my desk is ringing, and it’s got to be Franklin. Questions answered, life back to normal. He’s going to be out of control over the missing files, but we’ll handle that together. I jump to my feet to grab the receiver.

“McNally,” I answer, plopping into my desk chair. I’m so relieved.

“Charlie,” I hear. “Can you come down to my office? Now? Your guest will have to wait.”

It’s Angela. Not Franklin. Damn. And “come to my office”? How does “never” sound?

I explain the situation to Melanie, then remember that crime report.

“I’ll be right back,” I assure her. “But it’s essential for you to call the police.” I point. “Use Franklin’s phone.”

Melanie crosses her arms in front of her and chews her lower lip. “Well,” she finally replies, “I suppose it can’t do any harm.” She picks up the receiver and starts punching in numbers.

So that’s at least in the works. As for Miss News Medusa downstairs, I decide she can just cool her ratty, too-high heels. Even Anne Boleyn got to fix herself up before she faced her executioner. I grab my faithful mirror from the wall and prop it against my computer, then pull my cosmetics bag from my top desk drawer.

I stop for a moment, mideyeliner, and sigh in resignation. I should just quit. Angela’s called me down to her office, a very unsubtle power move to get me onto her territory, making me walk through the newsroom and past all the gawking reporters at their desks.

I hear Melanie getting through to the police.

“Detective? This is Melanie Foreman, of Riverside Lane? I’d like to report a break-in….”

She puts a hand over the receiver. “I’m on hold,” she says. “You know what? After this, I’ll just call a cab and go to my mother’s. Thank you so much, Charlie. I’m sorry for being so needy. I’ll be fine.”

Good. At least she’s doing the right thing, and she’ll be safe. It can only help that she’s telling the police what happened. They’ll be able to keep an eye on her house. I wish there were someone who could keep
me
safe.