Prime Time (19 page)

I feel him kiss my hair once, softly; I let myself relax into his shoulder. I close my eyes, savoring the moment, smell soap, and peanut butter and coffee. I hear Josh sigh.

“And,” he says, “I guess we’ll see where the trail goes.”

“S

We had driven halfway to Boston in case the bad guys were still lurking in Vermont, then dropped the film off at a drugstore with one-hour photo developing. “What’s more, the picture I took should be ready now. Josh just went in to pick it up.”

Franklin is still trying to get a word in, but I see the revolving doors of the drugstore start to turn, and I peer through the windshield. It’s Josh.

“Here he comes,” I say into the receiver. “I’ll call you when—”

Franklin interrupts, almost shouting. “Charlotte! Do not hang up!” he commands. “I’ll hold on while you open the photos. I’m not being left out of this.”

I shrug my shoulders, even though Franklin can’t see my dismissive gesture. “But you’re on the phone. It’ll be
tough for you to see, you know? But hey, whatever you say. Hold on.”

Josh opens his Volvo’s door and gets into the driver’s seat. We’ve hidden my Jeep in Josh’s garage and taken his car, just in case any highway muggers are still on the lookout.

“Do the honors?” he offers, handing me the package of developed prints.

I attempt to tuck the tiny cell phone between my cheek and my shoulder, but it pops out onto the floor. “Hang on,” I tell Franklin, retrieving it. “Dropped the phone.”

I hand it to Josh. “Here,” I direct him. “Talk to Franklin while I open the pics.”

He gives my phone a dubious look, and I remember he’s never met Franklin.
Men.
“Never mind,” I say taking the phone back. “You hang on,” I tell Franklin. “I can’t open the pictures and talk to you at the same time.”

I hear a faint, tinny “Okay” as I plunk the phone in my lap. I look out the window for the millionth time, eyeballing the traffic to see if anyone is following us. I don’t think so, but with thousands of cars on the road from Vermont to Boston this afternoon, I admit I’m not sure if I could really tell.

I take a deep breath and rip the pull tab on the top of the photo package. I hurry through snapshots of the clothing I donated to charity, Botox in the snow, the person I thought was Mick Jagger walking outside of Bloomingdale’s and a shot of a broken parking meter I plan to use fighting a ticket at City Hall. It’s the final photo that stops me.

“Look at this,” I say softly, staring at the picture. I turn to Josh, my eyes widening, and say it louder. “Look at this.”

From my lap I hear a faint buzz, and I know it’s Franklin yelling, eager to hear what’s going on.

“Just a sec,” I call down to my lap. “I’ll be right there.”

Josh takes the photo, and together we stare at the image. An amazingly in-focus shot of the weasely man in the passenger seat, and in the background, a partially visible profile of the driver. He’s somewhat blurry, but if someone knew the guys, they could recognize them both.

And I do.

I prop the photo on the dashboard in front of me and slowly pick up the cell phone. Looking at Josh, I begin to talk to Franklin.

“The picture of the guys in the car came out,” I report in a quiet voice. “Both of them are definitely recognizable.”

“Hey, that’s great,” Franklin replies. “Now we can go to the police and…”

Josh is talking at the same time. “Perfect,” he says. “All we have to do now is…”

But I’m not listening to either of the men in my life. Instead, I’m looking at the two guys who tried to end it. And I know who they are.

Weasel and friend are still there—caught on camera, one face contorted in angry surprise, one focused on driving the car that was supposed to run me off the road. And I’ve seen both of them before. At Mack Briggs’s funeral. They’re the goons, the thugs, the dark-suited robots who accompanied Andrea Grimes Brown.

Andrea Grimes Brown. Viper-faced CEO of Rogers Chalmers. Part owner of the
Miranda.
Certainly in on the insider-trading plot. And now, it seems clear the woman’s trying to kill me.

“Charlie?” Josh’s voice sounds as if it’s somewhere in the distance even though he’s right next to me.

“Charlotte?” Franklin’s voice buzzes into my ear.

“Yeah,” I answer both of them at the same time. I know my voice must sound flat, as if all the wind’s been knocked out of me. And that’s exactly how I feel. But I have to tell them. “Listen to this.”

We’re halfway home. Josh pilots the Volvo, a grim expression on his face, as I watch the dashboard’s digital readout count down the miles. I wonder if we’re heading away from trouble or right into it.

I sneak a look at Josh. He’s got one elbow resting on the car’s window ledge, his other wrist draped over the steering wheel, and he’s wearing a chunky black turtleneck and a black down vest. He’s the perfect picture of “cool guy headed out for a ski weekend.” Problem is he’s actually an innocent schoolteacher dragged by a pushy TV reporter into a murder-and-insider-trading conspiracy.

Josh flicks his eyes to the rearview mirror, then turns as he sees me watching. He looks guilty, as if I’m the one who’s caught
him.

“You got me.” He gives the mirror a little tilting adjustment. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice me scouting for your highway buddies.”

“I’m doing a little highway scouting myself,” I admit. “I’m so sorry,” I say, briefly touching Josh’s shoulder. “I know it’s my fault and…”

Josh switches hands on the steering wheel, puts one of his over mine before I can take it off of his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Charlie,” he says, giving my hand a squeeze. “Remember, it was Brad who first asked me to look into those e-mails, and Brad who sent me that box of files that are now locked in the trunk.”

“I never thought about it that way,” I say. He’s right.

At that moment, a shiny black Lincoln sweeps down the entrance ramp at top speed and slides in front of us. I involuntarily grab my armrest, my heart racing, and I can see Josh’s knuckles turn white on the steering wheel.

Josh never takes his eyes off the road. “Well, now,” he says softly. “Let’s just put him to the test here, see if our Mr. Lincoln has any friends.”

The highway signs flash by as Josh moves into the right lane. The Lincoln stays where he is, just ahead of us. We speed up, he speeds up. We slow down, he slows down. I’m trying to see the driver, but I can’t even tell how many people are in the car.

My eyes are widening with fear, and I can see the muscles in Josh’s jaw clenching.

“That’s not one of the…” Josh begins.

“No,” I reply. “I’ve never seen this car before.”

We drive in ominous silence for a few moments, hearing only the hum from the car’s heater and the drum of our tires on the highway.

Josh hits the accelerator again. This time the Lincoln stays behind us. He’s on our tail, falling back a few car lengths, staying in a parallel lane. Or maybe he’s not on our tail at all. Maybe he’s just some well-heeled owner of a sleek gas-guzzler, heading home to the city, completely unaware of the freaked-out couple in the Volvo in front of him.

I turn in my seat to look back. Still there. Not getting any closer, not getting any farther away.

“He could just be a bad driver,” I offer, trying out my hypothesis. “Just because someone pulls out in front of you doesn’t make ’em a homicidal maniac.” I go for a little humor. “It just makes ’em a Boston driver, you know?”

“He still back there?” Josh asks, ignoring my theory. “He’s exactly in my blind spot now.”

“Yeah,” I answer dully. “He’s there.”

Road signs are whizzing by now, offering burgers and ice cream, chicken and pizza. Billboards for Canobie Lake, Mohegan Sun, Walden Pond. Mileage to Concord, then Lexington. And that gives me an idea.

“Josh,” I say, calculating. “The next exit coming up will take us to Lexington. To Melanie’s. Let’s get off, see if the guy follows us. If he does, we’ll head straight for the police station. If he doesn’t…”

“If he doesn’t, we’re just two middle-aged paranoids who have seen too many spy movies,” Josh replies. His jaw is set, and he’s not smiling.

Thirty seconds go by, the exit to Lexington looming ahead. At the last possible moment, Josh yanks the wheel to the right and peels off the highway. I hear the horn from some car behind us blare in outrage, and our tires squeal their complaints as Josh, ignoring the speed limit, expertly steers us though the curve of the exit. I grab the passenger strap to keep my balance. There’s a Stop sign at the upcoming intersection. As we slow down, I take one last prayerful glance in our rearview.

We’re alone.

I can see the blur of an eye come close to the peephole. There’s a pause, and then a click as Melanie unlocks and opens the door.

The reactions race across her face—surprise, calculation, even what looks like fear. She brushes a strand of hair back from her forehead, and it looks as though she’s struggling for composure.

“Cha—?” she begins. She’s looking at Josh, then back at me.

I interrupt her, embarrassed we’ve intruded on what must certainly still be her time of deep grief.

“Oh, Melanie, I’m so sorry. We should have called in advance.”

Melanie backs into the entryway, gesturing us through the door. “Forgive me,” she says, seeming to shake off whatever confusion our arrival had engendered. “I was just a little shocked to see you.” She looks at Josh. “And you. But of course—” she’s smiling now “—come in.”

We follow her down a hall to what must be the library, a room I’ve never seen before. She turns, offering us a seat, and I notice she doesn’t have the weary, worn-out demeanor I’d expect in a new widow. And no flowers. No cards.

Give her a break, I say to myself. We all handle sorrow in different ways. Maybe she went to a spa. Maybe she doesn’t want reminders of grief. More power to her.

Josh and I perch on the edge of what looks like a brand-new suede couch, luggage-tan with brass studded trim. Melanie sits down opposite us in a curvy chintz club chair, hands in her lap, waiting for us to make a first move.

I slide my tote bag under the coffee table in front of us. Inside are the e-mails, Wes Rasmussen’s Bible and the chart we made of the stock symbols and Bible verses.

“I don’t know exactly where to begin,” I say, “but I think we may have some clues about what happened to your husband. Would you want to hear about it?”

Melanie tilts her head a little, an inquisitive expression on her face. She says nothing, holds out a hand to indicate I should continue.

I bend down to my bag and zip open a side pocket to
retrieve the Bible. Pulling it out, I hold it up for Melanie to see. “This may be the key to a conspiracy.” I hold it between us for a moment, but she makes no move to take it. She looks guarded, nervous, one foot softly tapping.

I guess I’d be a little apprehensive, too, if someone was about to tell me why my husband died.

I put the Bible on the coffee table, then tell her the whole story. Caro Crofts, Wes Rasmussen’s office, the Bible, Josh’s copy of the files, our discovery of the chapter-and-verse code, what Brad must have also discovered.

“And so,” I finish, “that’s how we think whoever is in this insider-trading scheme passes information. If we get the SEC filings of the stock trades these guys made, we’ll be able to prove who’s sold what, and when, and connect it to the spams.”

I wonder whether Melanie understands what I’ve described. I have no idea of the extent of her financial knowledge, whether she’s stock market savvy or clueless. Maybe this whole thing is too complicated, way over her head.

Should I start at the beginning, make it easier? I wait, watching her process what I’ve just told her. She’s staring over my shoulder, hands still clasped in her lap, silent.

Am I imagining she’s gone a little pale beneath that flawless makeup? And now I can see she’s breathing harder, her chest rising and falling. This was a terrible idea.

Melanie puts one manicured hand over her mouth and stands up, eyes reddening and glistening with tears. “Can you give me a few moments?” she says through her fingers. “I’ll be right back.” Melanie turns and almost runs out of the room.

“Wonderful,” I whisper to Josh. “Now we’ve upset her.”
I screw up my face in regret. “I should have thought this through. Poor thing, she’s—”

“And you didn’t even tell her about the guys who tried to run you off the road,” Josh whispers back. “And the photo you have of them. And how you know they’re Andrea Grimes Brown’s sidemen. How come?”

“Well, that’s a relief, at least.” I’m still whispering, worrying Melanie will come back and hear us. “Can you imagine if I’d had time to spring that whole thing on her? Um, excuse me, Melanie? Thought you might want to know we also figured out who killed your husband, and here’s their picture. What do you say after that? Have a nice day?”

Josh shakes his head. “We have to tell her,” he says quietly. “But let’s just see what happens when she comes back.”

I look around the room, uncomfortable in the silence. This despondent woman, trying to keep herself together in a time of unimaginable sadness, and here comes the crusading reporter with her cute new boyfriend, reminding her of everything she must feel is gone from her life forever. I bow my head in personal despair, wondering if I’ll ever learn to keep my nose out of other people’s business.

Apparently not. On the coffee table, I see a thick black photo album, leather bound and brass cornered. On the front, embossed in gold, it says Our Wedding. I hafta look.

I reach out a hand to open the album. Josh instantly grabs my wrist, stopping me.

“Do not look at that,” he orders. “Come on, Charlie, give her some privacy.” He holds on to my wrist, and breaks into a bemused smile. “You are too much, Murphy Brown,” he says, letting go. “You can’t paw through people’s photo albums without permission.”