Prime Time (20 page)

“It’s out on the coffee table, in plain view. That’s per
mission,” I say, wheedling. I lean forward again, about to open the cover, but then, out of the corner of my eye, I see Melanie in the doorway.

I quickly rearrange myself. “Are you all right?” I ask. “Do you want us to come back? Talk about this later?”

Melanie doesn’t answer. She stands in the arched doorway, framed by its elaborate white woodwork, hands behind her back. Slowly, she brings her arms in front of her, and in one hand, she’s carrying a book.

She takes a few steps toward us, holding the book out as she walks. “I got this from Brad’s nightstand drawer,” she says, gesturing at it with her head. Her face turns grim. “Here,” she says defiantly, tossing the book toward me. “Look familiar?”

Surprised, I almost don’t make the catch, but the leather volume lands in my hands with a soft smack.

I look down, and do a double take. I look at the book, and then at its exact double in front of me. Two brown leather-bound Bibles. The code book for the spam conspiracy. One I swiped from Wes Rasmussen. And the other apparently belonged to Brad Foreman.

“This is—” I begin. “How did—? When did—?” There’s almost nothing Melanie could have done that would have surprised me more.

I examine the Bible cautiously. It looks exactly like Rasmussen’s Bible, the one we’re so familiar with by now. The print, the paper, the binding, all the same.

“Melanie?” I begin again. “You said this was Brad’s? Do you know where he got it? When?”

“It looks exactly like Rasmussen’s Bible,” Josh adds. “Question is, did Rasmussen give him this copy? Or did he give one to Rasmussen?”

“Or did someone else hand out Bibles to both of them?” I wonder, thinking out loud. “And if so, who else has them?”

Melanie begins to pace, almost as if Josh and I were not in the room. She goes toward the built-in bookshelves lining one side of the room, then turns, heading to the chintz-draped bay windows. And then back again, ignoring us.

Josh and I look at each other. He asks a silent question. What now? I briefly hold up a hand. Wait.

“So,” Melanie says suddenly, her voice cutting through the silence. “It just gets worse and worse, doesn’t it? What am I supposed to do now? Call the police and tell them my husband was actually the mastermind of some illegal Internet stock market scam?” She begins her pacing again, talking to the floor. “That’ll be enchanting,” she mutters. “Police investigations, federal inquiries, search warrants or whatever they do.” She stops, looks directly at Josh and me.

“Because here’s the rest of the story.” Melanie leans against the bookcase. “That spam scheme? Sending coded trading tips via Internet junk mail? I’d already heard about it.”

“Already—?” I can’t seem to finish a sentence around here.

Melanie continues, almost talking to herself, remembering. “That was Brad’s big money-making idea. Brad’s! He was always coming up with far-fetched plans to strike it rich.” She brushes her hair back again, looking almost angry. “Guess he thought it was easier than earning real money.”

“But, Melanie—?” Why she didn’t tell me this back when I first interviewed her? Hadn’t we talked about whether Brad was into the stock market?

“And now of course,” she ignores me and continues, her face clouding with raw emotion, “that could mean Brad
wasn’t actually murdered. Maybe it was an accident. Or—” Melanie is having a difficult time getting the words out “—maybe he did kill himself, like the police think.”

A million questions crowd into my brain, but I can’t figure out what to say and how to say it. What’s the proper way to interrupt a widow who’s imagining the reasons for her husband’s death?

Melanie continues her narrative, picking up steam. “He killed himself, knowing the feds were on to his system. Had somehow learned of it.” She shakes her head again, looking bitter. “Killed himself. And left me to deal with the whole thing. Of course.”

I can’t stand it. “Mack Briggs?” I say tentatively. “Also died the same way? So maybe it—?”

Melanie whirls toward me, laser-eyed. “Mack Briggs?” she says, her voice rising. “Mack Briggs? Maybe it was Mr. Former SEC Commissioner Mack Briggs who alerted law enforcement to what Brad was doing. That’s what I think. His death? Just an accident. And now, because of your little discovery, I’m going to have to keep Brad’s secret, or lose everything.” She pauses, then lifts her chin imperiously. “And don’t even think of putting this on TV. I’ll deny every syllable.”

Melanie turns her back on us—I can see her shoulders shaking as if she’s deeply upset, maybe even crying. I sneak a quick look at Josh. He’s staring at Melanie, looking confused and concerned. I probably look exactly the same. Melanie’s reaction is beyond bizarre.

I shove Rasmussen’s Bible back into my purse, and then, while Melanie’s still not looking, I sneak in Brad’s twin copy, too. I figure she actually gave it to me, didn’t she? And however this turns out, it’s clear having these two
Bibles will prove there’s some kind of conspiracy underway. I shift on the couch to get Josh’s attention, gesturing with my head.
Let’s get out of here.

Josh and I both stand up, edging toward the door. “Um,” I begin, floundering for words again.

Melanie turns to us, eyes flashing and wet with tears. “Just go,” she says. And she runs out of the room.

“M

Josh and I sit in the hospital’s folding metal visitor’s chairs, drawn up close to Franklin’s bedside, sipping rancid hospital coffee and sharing Milk Duds. Josh has one arm thrown casually across the back of my chair, the international man-signal for
taken.
Not that Franklin would care, but I sure do.

“I’m trapped here in Marcus Welby-land, and you’re…” Franklin shifts in his bed, continuing to complain. He struggles to find the words, waving his good arm back and forth in front of us. “You’re Nick and Nora frickin’ Charles.”

Josh laughs. “Well, from what Charlie’s told me, she’s used to working as a team. So I’m only subbing while you’re out of commission.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I interrupt the male bonding experience, eager to get back to business. “Listen you two, I’m having a brainstorm. After Melanie’s performance today, I’m seeing a whole new picture.” I hold up my hands like a film director bracketing his shots. “Andrea Grimes Brown—not a murderer, just doing some insider trading. Wes Rasmus
sen—not a mastermind, just a player. Mack Briggs—not killed in a mysterious car crash, just a coincidental casualty. Melanie—not the poor widow, but queen of the cover-up. And as for Bradley Foreman—he’s not the victim, he’s the bad guy.”

Franklin and Josh are staring at me, listening.

I tick off the points on my fingers. “Spam scheme. Brad’s idea. He tells Melanie. She loves money—look at all her expensive clothing and jewelry. Plus, she thinks he’ll never get caught. So Brad sets it all up for his boss Wes Rasmussen and the other CEOs of the companies he’s documented in the files. He knows he and Melanie can cash in, too, because he’s the only one who knows the system.

“So. Brad concocts the Bible code,” I continue, “and gives everyone a Bible just like his. He sends the spam from his own computer. Then, he gets cocky. He decides to send the spam to Josh and Mack Briggs, to see if either of you will crack the code. You, Josh, ever-trusting nice guy, just do as you’re asked, look up the quotes. No problems from your end. Mack Briggs dies before his suspicions are confirmed.”

Silence from my boys. This just proves how right I am.

“So,” I continue, “all we have to do is get the records of those CEOs’ trades, compare them to the spam, trace the spam to one of Brad’s computers…and oh, I just thought of something else.” I point to Franklin. “That’s probably why the Aztratech lawyers were telephoning Melanie that first day. They were probably on to Brad’s scam, and were already investigating.”

Franklin looks back at me, scratches the stubble on his cheek. “You’re saying, then, when Melanie did the interview with you, and when you and I went back to look at the files, it was all part of a cover-up?”

I nod enthusiastically. “Pretty good, too, huh? We’d never have suspected her, right? She’s the ‘grieving widow.’ Baffled by all those files. We thought we were so clever to get her to let us take them. She was actually luring us to sneak them out of her house, so the Aztratech lawyers couldn’t subpoena them or something.”

Josh raises his hand, like a kid who wants to be called on. “But here’s what I’m wondering,” he puts in. “Caro Crofts said Brad helped her with the whistle-blowing investigation. Why would he do that?”

“That’s easy,” Franklin puts in. “Distraction. Misdirection. The more the focus was on the price fixing at Aztratech, the more the focus was off the stock trading. And remember, when you’re playing the insider-trading game, the market doesn’t matter. Stocks go up, stocks go down, you can make money either way.”

Josh nods. “So maybe that’s why Brad sent you the e-mail, Charlie. He was going to tell you about Caro and the lawsuit. Misdirection again.”

“Now we just have to prove it,” I say. “Imagine the impact on the whole market,” I continue enthusiastically. “It’ll be much bigger than Martha. Even bigger than Enron. And we’ll have it first—and just in time for the November ratings.”

Franklin chews his thumb, his thinking pose.

“Just a second, Charlotte,” he says. “There’s still one thing I have to ask.”

I drop my hands into my lap, rolling my eyes in impatience. “Okay, killjoy. What’s the big question?”

Franklin ignores my annoyance, looks at Josh, then back at me. “Question is,” he says deliberately, “if what you think happened is true, who killed Brad Foreman? And why?”

I deflate more quickly than yesterday’s birthday
balloon. My mind squeals into reverse, returning, in defeat, all the way back to square one.

“Yeah, yeah.” I shake my head, unhappily comprehending my mistake. “And who came after you in the parking lot? And me on the highway? I’m wrong.”

“So who is the big cheese, then?” Franklin asks.

I dig into my purse and get out the sheaf of spam e-mails. They’re now ratty and crumpled from being in my bag.

“Okay, listen,” I say, smoothing them out. “The files are still in the Volvo’s trunk, but we wrote the corresponding company names on each of these e-mails. Let’s just go through these and see if anything pops out. Reminds us of someone we forgot.”

Franklin opens his nightstand drawer and takes out a notepad and pencil. That guy is always ready to work. “Here’s some paper,” he says, handing it over. “Give me the e-mails, and I’ll read you what’s on each page. It’s still a little difficult for me to write.”

Josh stands up, stretches and holds up his empty coffee cup. “While you journos do your stuff, I’ll run down to the caf for more of this delicious hospital coffee—anyone else interested?” He pauses. “No? Okay, back in a flash.”

As Josh leaves, Franklin begins to read the company names.

“First, Aztratech.” He looks up at me. “Got it? Okay, second, Rogers Chalmers. Realm of the delightful Andrea Brown.”

“Okay,” I say, writing. “Go on.”

“Third, Electrometrics. Then, Fisher Industries.” He pauses, waiting for me to catch up. “Islington Partners. Gyro Engineering. HGP, Inc.”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupt. “Hang on.”

“Sorry,” he says. “Going too fast?”

I stare at the notebook, holding the pencil between my teeth. I take out the pencil, absently wipe it on my coat, and look at Franklin, who’s ready with the next e-mail.

“Franko,” I say deliberately. “Does the next company name begin with
D?
”

“Begin with…?”

“Go with me here,” I say, tapping the pencil on the pad. “Does the next company name begin with a
D?
”

He looks down at the next page. “Well, yeah,” he answers. “It does. Dioneutraceutics. How did you know that?”

“And the next one—begins with
E?
”

He turns the page again. “Exotel,” he answers. “What’s—how do you know what letter comes next?”

I lean against the back of the chair, holding the notebook to my chest. “You’ve got to give them credit, whoever it is,” I tell Franklin. “This is one clever operation.”

“What, what, what?” he says. “What?”

“I always wondered,” I begin, “how the people in on this insider-trading group figured out which so-called Bible verses went with which companies. Not to mention, with all the spams on everyone’s e-mail, how they knew which spams they were supposed to answer. You know?”

“Yeah,” he says. He looks perplexed. “But didn’t we decide it was the ones that said ‘a good time to buy’ or ‘a good time to sell’?”

“Yes,” I answer, nodding. “And that did make sense. But how about knowing which companies you’re supposed to buy or sell? This is so blazingly illegal—I kept thinking it would be dangerous to keep a list of the company names anywhere. So I wondered, did the traders just memorize all of them in the proper order?”

“They could have, I guess.”

I sit up and wave the notebook at him. “They could have indeed,” I say. “But they didn’t.”

The door clicks open and Josh arrives, balancing a tray with steaming foam cups of coffee and granola bars. “Room service,” he announces brightly. “May I offer either of you a…What?” He stops, looks back and forth at us, apparently picking up on the tension in the air. “What’s going on?”

“Hang on,” Franklin says. “Charlotte has some theory.”

Josh puts the tray on a side table and leans against the wall, listening.

“What I was saying,” I begin again, “is that the traders needed some way to keep track of the order of the companies, to know which one coincided with which Bible verse. Did they memorize a list in order? I say, nope, they didn’t have to.”

I pause. “They didn’t have to memorize the names in order because the order was right there in every e-mail.”

“Huh? No, it wasn’t,” Franklin interrupts, holding up the e-mails. “Look again. There are no company names here. What are you talking about?”

“You lost me, too,” Josh adds.

I pick up the notepad, turn it to face them. “Look at the order of names, you guys,” I say, pointing to what I’ve written. “Aztratech is first. Then Rogers Chalmers,” I continue.

Then I read the first letters of each company. Out loud. Pointing to each one.
“A. R. E. F. I. G. H. D. E….”

“Holy shit,” Franklin says.

Josh takes the notebook from me, looks at it again. “Pretty damn ingenious.”

Franklin scrambles through the final pages of e-mails
he’s holding. “Put the rest together,” he mutters, “and—it spells out the whole thing.”

I look at Josh and Franklin, and say it out loud. “‘A refigh deal 4-U.’ Just like it said on the subject line of every e-mail. The last companies are 4Corners Real Estate and United Optical.”

“That’s why they used that spelling we could never understand,” Franklin says. “They had to include every company’s name in the anagram.”

I peer at the list. “And Aztratech is alphabetically before the other
A,
Azzores Partnership. And Electrometrics comes before Exotel.”

“It would be easy to just remember the names, once you knew which companies were in on it,” Josh says. “Using an anagram means no lists, no files, no proof.”

“You’ve got to hand it to them,” Franklin puts in. “We only figured it out because you wrote down the names from the e-mails. Without that, without the files, we never could have figured it out. Nor could the cops or securities investigators.”

“But someone knew someone figured out something,” I remind them.

“English, Charlotte,” Franklin demands. “Proper nouns.”

“That’s what’s driving me crazy,” I reply. “I don’t know. But that ‘someone’ killed Brad, and maybe Mack Briggs, and tried to run me off the road, too. And most likely that same ‘someone’ ordered those two goons to snag the files from you in the parking lot before we could discover their secret.”

Josh picks up his coffee, goes over to look out the window. “Speaking of which. Have the police come back to check on you? Show you mug shots, or whatever?” He turns to ask Franklin, “Do they say they have any leads?”

“No and no,” Franklin says. “They haven’t been here at all.”

“That stinks,” I put in. “You’d think they’d be all over it—big-time TV producer mugged, car torched, files stolen. Wonder what’s up with that?”

No answer from Josh or Franklin, so I just keep going.

“But remember, they were pushing the theory that it was part of a string of muggings, so maybe it turned out that was true.” I pause, considering. “You think?”

“No way,” Josh replies. “They probably don’t have lead one.”

“And I’ll be home in a day or two,” Franklin says morosely. “So I’ll feel nice and safe. Knowing those guys are still out there.”

Franklin’s got a point. And I realize that could put Stephen in danger, too. I decide not to mention that.

“But—hey,” I say, brightening. I’ve just remembered we haven’t told Franklin our biggest news. “I can’t believe we forgot. But when Josh mentioned mug shots—”

“Hell, yes,” Franklin interrupts. “The picture of the slimes who tried to run our Charlotte off the road.” Franklin holds out his hands, gesturing for me to hurry. “Bring ’em out, Miss Nikon.”

“There’s just one you need to see,” I say, digging in my tote bag. “Here.”

Franklin stares at the photograph I’ve just handed him. The look of disbelief I read on his face is enough to keep me quiet. Josh comes around behind my chair, resting both his hands on my shoulders. Together, we wait for Franklin to speak.

He drops the picture into his lap and lowers his head to look at it again. When he looks up, expressions cross his face more quickly than I can interpret them.

I can’t stand it any longer.

“What? Who?” I realize I’m whispering, though I can’t remember consciously deciding to do that. “Come on, Franko. Who’s in the picture?”

A sheen of perspiration appears on Franklin’s forehead, and he turns the photo around so Josh and I can see it.

“Those police officers who were here about the mugging, McCarron and Cipriani?” Franklin begins.

“That’s not who’s in the picture,” I interrupt. “They—”

He continues, resolute. “We need to call them. Right now.”

There’s silence again for a moment, as what he’s suggesting sinks in. “You’re—kidding me,” I say hesitantly.

Franklin slowly shakes his head, looking at the picture again. “Not kidding at all. Your two highway goons are the same two I encountered so unceremoniously in the parking lot behind my condo. The same two who arranged for my little stay here at Mass General Hospital.”

“Okay, team,” I say. “Time to bring in the police. Franko, I’ve already put you in enough danger. Josh, you’re clearly next on the hit list. I know it’s a hell of a story. But…” I look down at the floor. When was the last time I gave up a story? Never. But now, I don’t feel like I’m giving up. I’m feel like I’m…getting. “But I can’t risk…losing you. Either of you.”

I get up and head for the phone. Then I stop, turning back to Josh and Franklin. “You know, though,” I say slowly, “I just thought of another mystery the photo might solve.” I pick up the snapshot from the nightstand and point to the two men. “I’ll bet these are the same creeps who broke into Melanie’s house. She said nothing was taken,” I continue. “And she was afraid they were looking for the files, remember?”