Prime Time (6 page)

“Give me a little time,” I reply. “Let me see what I can come up with.”

Charlie McNally, girl detective, on the way to get some answers. I’m buzzing up the turnpike, high on journalism, wishing my Jeep had a convertible top to put down.

There was no Mack Briggs in my Internet database, but there was an instant hit on one Joshua Ives Gelston, no DOB listed, head of the English department at the oh-so-exclusive Bexter Academy. I know that’s the revered alma mater of countless moguls, hotshots, corporate patricians and even a few presidents. The school’s Web site says he’s been on the faculty for years, adviser to the honor society and Latin club, and director of the school’s drama program. Sounds like an interesting old coot, but his world seems completely alien to Brad Foreman’s accounting/pharmaceutical universe. Wonder what they have in common?

I carefully lift my steaming latte-to-go from the Jeep’s cup holder and take a few sips while I plan my approach.

Obstacle number one: this Mr. Gelston has no idea I’m on the way. If Bexter Academy has guards, or a locked gate, that may present a problem. I’m envisioning driving blithely in, parking somewhere, sauntering into some easily recognizable building and finding Gelston’s office. My plan doesn’t include rent-a-cops.

Obstacle number two: this Mr. Gelston has no idea I’m on the way. So even though it’s a school day, it’s possible Gelston’s not even there. I shake my head, dismissing the negative vibes. My plan doesn’t include disappointment.

I put my latte back, carefully keeping my eyes on the road the way you’re supposed to, and wonder yet again whether I should have called first. But, after debating the issue with Franklin, I decided to take my chances.

Giving a quick glance in my rearview mirror, I turn the Jeep up Bexter’s winding maple-lined driveway. I have to drive slowly, the draping canopy of crimson leaves making it more like dusk than daytime. As I emerge from the shadows, a blast of sunshine flares into my line of sight.

When my vision clears, I’ve obviously been teleported into a photo shoot for some documentary on the lives of the rich and preppy. Impossibly adorable mop-haired teenagers perch on artfully whitewashed fences; other youngsters sprawl fetchingly on the manicured lawn. I wince in momentary confusion, startled, as something metallic shimmers just over my car’s path. It’s a Frisbee. A tawny-haired, argyle-sweatered boy lifts a languid hand as he retrieves it from beside the road.

Still a little unnerved from the close encounter, I steer the Jeep into a space marked Visitors. I push the gearshift
into Park, which knocks the lid off my latte, spilling the last dregs of my coffee onto the passenger seat.

I scrounge into the console for my stash of napkins, remembering, too late, I used the last of them after Botox threw up on the way to the vet. All that’s in there now is my disposable camera (for insurance purposes in case I get in a crash), and about a million forks and straws. In case I’m stranded someplace where they don’t have forks and straws. As I’m cleaning up with a page from my reporter notebook, there’s a knock at my car window.

As I buzz it down, I see Frisbee Boy (even more photogenic close up) leaning in and looking repentant. “Sorry I almost nailed you,” he apologizes engagingly. “Can I help you with anything?”

And that’s why, a few minutes later, I’m knocking on the burnished oak door of Landman Hall, room 117.

“Come in!” I hear. My stomach gives a little maybe-there’s-a-good-story flutter. I step into possibility.

Gelston has his back to me as I enter his office. “May I help you?” he says, without turning around. He’s standing behind a battered but beautiful old wooden desk, and looks as if he’s trying to find something in a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf.

“Hello, Mr., uh, Professor Gelston?” I put on my humble and needy voice. “I’m Charlotte McNally from…”

He turns around.

It’s Gregory Peck. Not old, scary Gregory Peck in
Moby Dick,
or slimy, devious Nazi Gregory Peck in
Boys from Brazil,
but the tweedy, noble, taller-than-I-am lawyer Gregory Peck in
To Kill a Mockingbird.
My favorite movie.

I take a step backward. This is not the doddering old-fashioned schoolteacher I expected.

Gregory, I mean Gelston, smiles inquiringly, charmingly, adorably. He’s now giving me his full attention.

“Oh, I thought you were a student.” He walks around his desk and holds out his hand. “Josh Gelston. Sorry, I’m just researching something, and…Well, it doesn’t matter.” His eyes twinkle at me. “So, Charlie McNally,” he goes on. “Of course I know who you are.” He looks briefly perplexed. “But—did you have an appointment?”

“Um, no, I don’t—didn’t.” I make a valiant attempt at composure. “I know this is an unusual request, but I’m researching a story, and I think you may be able to help me with it. Do you have a moment?”

He waves me to a forest-green leather chair in front of his desk, and he sits in the one beside me. “Of course,” he says, “and you have me curious. What could bring a TV reporter, with no camera, out to our neck of the woods?”

He crosses one ankle over the other knee, leaning back in his chair as if we’re old friends, and looks at me expectantly. I catalog salt-and-pepper hair, tasseled loafers, broken-in corduroy pants, tattersall oxford shirt, maroon crewneck sweater with just a hint of a tie sticking out. I expect an Irish setter to come sit at his knee, a fire crackling in the background, a little Ella on the stereo. I sneak a look at his left hand. No ring.

I can’t believe myself.

Then I remember. Gelston may not know about Bradley Foreman’s death. Am I going to be the one to tell him a friend has died in a car crash? Although Melanie indicated they weren’t exactly friends. But then again, they were e-mailing each other. Or maybe they weren’t; maybe Brad just sent him that one e-mail. Why, why, why didn’t I think about this in the car?

Too late now.

“I’ve been talking recently with Melanie Foreman,” I begin carefully. “Have you…Did you…”

“Yes, I heard what happened to Brad.” A shadow passes over his face, and his hazel eyes close briefly behind his tortoiseshell glasses. “I’m sure Melanie explained we were acquaintances. It’s very sad. From what I know, he was a great guy.” It looks as if he’s going to say something else, then he stops.

“Right. That’s exactly how she described your relationship.” I decide to explore a little further. “But he sent me an e-mail, just before he died. You know that, correct?”

“Yes, I know that.” If you like the studious English-teacher type, which I do, he’s incredibly attractive, but he’s giving me nothing. My turn again.

“And, well, it’s kind of complicated, but I didn’t read his message until after the accident. And now I’m wondering, and Melanie is wondering, what was it he wanted to tell me? I thought you might have an idea, since he sent you a copy of it.”

His turn. Now he’s going to spill it. Or throw me out.

Josh walks back to his desk, where, I just happen to notice, there’s not one family-looking photo of any woman. Or man. When he turns around, I’m—luckily—no longer looking at his romance-free desk, but looking right at him.

“I wondered what would happen about that,” he says. I can’t tell from his expression what he’s thinking.

“And?” I ask.

He sits back down, takes a leather book from his desk and holds it on his lap. “Well, a few, oh, weeks ago, I guess, I got a call from Brad. I did remember him from a big dinner party we both attended. We really just met in
passing. So I was a bit surprised when he called. Anyway, he said he had a box of files he was going to send to my home, and some references he wanted me to check.”

“References? Check?” I’m confused, then realize maybe Franklin was right. “Like job references?” I ask.

“Job…? No. Not like that.” Josh smiles and points to his own chest. “English teacher, remember? Literary references. So I said, sure, I’d be glad to try to help him. He read me the lines, though, and they weren’t familiar, so I asked him to e-mail them to me. I never figured out why he didn’t research them himself. Anyway. I looked them up, and e-mailed him back the results. It happened a couple of times, maybe three. And that was the end of that.”

I take out my notebook and flip it open. “Do you mind telling me what the quotes were?”

“I guess it’s fine,” Josh says slowly, apparently weighing any possible consequences. He holds up the book. “In fact, I was looking back on one of them now.” He runs a finger down what I guess is the table of contents, hunting for the page.

“Here’s the last quote he sent,” Josh says. He begins to read:

“The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;

And like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind.”

He puts a finger in the book to mark his place and looks up at me, starts to say something.

I can’t help but interrupt. “
The Tempest
, huh?”

And then, I almost burst out laughing. I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen anyone’s jaw literally drop. But Josh’s jaw does, and now he’s trying to recover.

“I’m sorry,” he says, eyes widening. “Of course I’ve seen your investigative stories, but I didn’t have you pegged as a Shakespeare buff.”

He is so very, very cute. And so flatteringly sweet, remembering me from TV. I know it’s a big journalism “don’t” to flirt on the job, but there can’t be any harm in being friendly, right? Well, there actually can, but I’m promising myself I won’t cross the line.

“My mother always warned me my major in Shakespeare would make me unemployable,” I tell him, attempting to look charming and well educated, but not too self-satisfied. “But from time to time, it comes in handy.”

“Impressive,” he says. He clamps the book closed. “But anyway, that was one of the quotes. He wanted me to identify each one and then tell him the next two lines.”

“‘We are such stuff/As dreams are made on, and our little life/Is rounded with a sleep,’” I quote back. “That’s what’s next, isn’t it?”

“Very good.” Josh nods in professorial admiration. “Who knew you TV types had hidden depths?”

I can see little laugh crinkles behind his glasses, and he absently brushes away a shock of barber-needy hair that’s fallen onto his forehead. I calculate there’s more salt than pepper, and that he must be early fifties, maybe mid. I can feel “the line” getting fainter and fainter.

“Wait,” he says. “Let me show you another quote he sent. This one’s tougher.”

I watch as he gets up and turns back to the bookcase, moving his hand slowly across a shelf of multicolored
covers. There’s laughter out in the hallway; somewhere a door slams. It feels…familiar.

I’ve been here before? No. It was years ago.

It was the day I met James. Sweet Baby James.

My hair was still dark brown back then, parted Steinem-style down the middle, pulled back into a ponytail. My skirt was unimaginably short. Not that it mattered. I was Charlotte Ann McNally, radio reporter. First real job out of college, no contract, five dollars an hour. My mind was racing with my looming deadline, wondering how I could explain the state’s newly passed clean-water law in a thirty-second story.

Then, I heard laughter out in the hallway; somewhere a door slammed. I felt someone enter the room, and turned around. Even now, I remember I had to steady myself on the back of my chair. Cheekbones. Pinstripes. A smile that wrapped me in promise. I hadn’t even heard his voice. And who cared what he said in the interview. Deadlines melted, time evaporated, sound disappeared.

I wore a pink Ultrasuede suit and white stockings to our wedding—just a few months later—in a fluorescent-chilled clerk’s office at City Hall. I could see nothing in my future but that handsome face. For months, his astonishing looks distracted me from what I decided was his astonishingly manipulative lifestyle. Eventually, as I got into the book behind his glossy cover, I found it was less a romance and more an autobiography. All about himself.

Half-empty/half-full? Life with James, I soon decided, meant it was always half-empty, and my responsibility to make it full again. He wanted to change the world, except for the part behind our apartment door.

His work? Valuable and worthwhile. My work? Fine as
long as I was home to make dinner. His long hours? Valuable and worthwhile. My long hours? Proof I only cared about my career. My hard-won job interview at Channel 3? A pitiful attempt to match his public success. My Sweet Baby James turned out to be just a baby. I grew up and he didn’t. Which is exactly what I told him.

He told me I was married to my career, not to him. He wanted children; I wanted to wait. Which of us, he sneered, was the grown-up?

As it turned out, I left behind the array of trendy appliances I’d purchased to prove my homemaking prowess. I kept my collection of Tina Turner cassettes, Gramma’s good china, my Betamax and my dedication to journalism. Every time I placed a new Emmy on my bookshelves, it was a shining reassurance I had made the right choice. Career. Success. Still, tucked into my emotional hope chest, I always thought I preserved the right to choose again. Now I wonder—was I wrong? Now I wonder—has
for now
turned into
forever?

What would happen, I find myself speculating, if I just glide into happy talk with this guy. What if I forget what happened to Brad, forget about Franklin back at the station, forget about wrinkle-free Cyndi from Cincinnati who’s no doubt packing her extensive hair-spray and eye-shadow collection in preparation for her foray into my job territory. Don’t let them banish me to the home for obsolete reporters. Get out while the getting’s good. While it’s still my decision.

J

The moment he begins to read, it’s
my
jaw that drops. If I hadn’t been so distracted by my theoretical future with a certain schoolteacher, I probably would have predicted it.

“Master Bowser, you come in happy times…” Josh is saying.

It’s Bowser and Bagot.

My brain begins racing faster than my mouth can form the words, and I know I’m not finishing any sentences.

Josh has turned his chair to face me, and his eyes are locked into mine. He nods intently, listening, as I spill out what I know: Brad’s collection of company files; the refinancing spams; the obscure quotes, including Bagot and Bowser; my search through Google and my experimental e-mails in reply.

“And here’s what makes it even stranger.” I’m winding up now, hoping I’m making sense. “I checked the new e-mails I got back, and each of the spam addresses I sent a quote to sent me back another e-mail. With another quote.”

“But it’s spam, isn’t it?” he asks, looking perplexed. “The whole essence of spam is that it’s random, nonspe
cific. Blasted out to everyone, like junk mail. Everyone gets the same thing.”

I nod in agreement. “Absolutely. It doesn’t make sense.”

We both pause. The room is quiet; the golden afternoon light filters through the walnut-rimmed windows, lighting the thick dark-green rug with a patch of color.

“Let’s go back to the beginning,” I suggest. “I sent back the completed quotes as sort of…a lark, you know? I didn’t really think I’d get a reply.”

“Right,” says Josh.

“So…” I pause to get my thoughts in order. “I’m wondering if that’s what Brad did, too. And if he did, whether that’s when he discovered something.”

“Discovered what?”

“Well, that’s the question.” I get up and start to pace around the bookshelf-lined office. I focus on the thick carpeting, thinking.

When I look up, Josh is staring at me. Good staring. Over-the-journalism-line staring. He fidgets, caught, then pretends the moment never happened.

“All right, let’s see,” he continues. He’s ticking off points on his fingers. “Brad had a cache of files. He asks me to dig up some obscure quotes. He writes to you, apparently with something to reveal. Then, there’s a car accident. Police think it’s suicide. And his wife tells you her husband was worried about something.” He shrugs. “That’s as far as I get.”

From somewhere, I hear the theme music from
To Kill a Mockingbird.
And then, from somewhere, I get an idea.

“Josh,” I say, “do you know a Mack Briggs?”

Josh raises his eyebrows. “Mack Briggs? Like a Mack truck?”

“Far as I know,” I answer. “At least that’s what Melanie said. She told me Brad sent this ‘Briggs’ the same e-mail he sent us.”

But Josh shakes his head. “Never heard of him.”

Every door in the journalism universe simultaneously slams shut. Maybe Brad’s secret just died with Brad. But I have to ask one more question.

“Back to why I’m here,” I say. “Did Brad ever mention any, say, inappropriate or illegal financial dealings at Aztratech?”

Josh looks surprised, and then surprises me by laughing.

“Well, there’s a bombshell.” Josh pretends to do a double take. “Where’d you come up with that one?”

I’m clearly putting my full hand on the table now, though I can’t quite remember when I decided to go all the way. Within a few minutes, he hears all about Franklin’s research, the lawsuit against Aztratech and our theory that Brad might be a whistle-blower.

His face evolves from skeptical to impressed. “Sounds…plausible,” he finally says. “But did you ask Melanie? I mean, if Brad was ready to rat out his employer to the feds, as you so colloquially put it, wouldn’t he have told his wife?”

“You’d think so,” I reply. “But she says no.”

Both of us pause, and in that quiet moment, I swear I hear bells. In fact, I know I recognize Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Then I realize Josh hears it, too.

“‘Ode to Joy.’” He waves a hand toward his window, smiling. “On the school’s carillon. Means classes are over for the day. Time for all good students to head for the dorms. Or the football field, or wherever.”

“And time for me to go, too, I guess.” I rummage in my purse for a business card. I also send a swift prayer to Saint
Maysie, patron of happy romantic endings. “Here’s my number if you think of anything,” I say. “Thank you so much.”

He takes the card. And Saint Maysie answers my plea.

“Um, Charlie,” Josh begins, coming around from behind his desk. “You know I’m the adviser to the drama department?”

I’m gratified to see he’s now the one looking uneasy.

“Anyway,” he continues, “this Thursday, we’re having our student performance of ‘The Gold-Bug.’ Edgar Allan Poe, remember?” He hands me a black-and-white playbill, its cover amateurish but adorable artwork. “It ain’t Shakespeare, but you still might get a kick out of it. I hope this isn’t out of line, but the kids have really worked hard and…” He looks at me quizzically. “Can you make dates with people you interview?”

Franklin jumps from his chair, following me to the coatrack as I hang up my jacket. I’m still floating in a romance-novel haze, but the usually perceptive Franklin seems focused on his own agenda.

“What in hell were you doing?” he grills me. “What the hell took you so long?” His accent transforms
hell
into
hay-ull,
which makes it somewhat less threatening. Anyway, I know he’s not really angry—this is his “I have something interesting to tell you” mode.

“I’ll give you the lowdown,” I promise, “but what’s up with you? You look like you’re sitting on something hot.”

“It’s not me, it’s one Mr. Wesley Rasmussen who will soon be in the hot seat,” Franklin says.

“Wesley Ras…?”

“Rasmussen, Rasmussen,” Franklin repeats, grinning. “CEO of Aztratech. And here’s the scoop. He’s going to
do an interview with you about the pharmaceutical whistle-blowing case.”

“No way,” I say, plopping down in my chair. I swivel toward Franklin. “It’s in litigation. His lawyers wouldn’t allow it.” I urge my brain to move faster, consider the options. “I mean, he’s got nothing to gain, right? Sure, he might want to tell his company’s side of the story. But if the feds think Aztratech is ripping off taxpayers, going on camera seems like a losing proposition.”

“Here’s what happened,” Franklin says. “I called him, said we were doing a survey of all local pharmaceutical companies. Research on drug pricing, whether drug companies may be overcharging the government. He’s huffy and dismissive, says, ‘Oh, that’s all nonsense, media hype.’ So I’m all apologetic, yeah well, da da da, our bosses say we have to do this story.”

“So he doesn’t know we know about the lawsuit,” I say, realizing what Franklin didn’t tell him.

“Right.” Franklin smiles. “I figured we don’t have to give him everything, you know? It’s not like it’s news to him there’s a lawsuit. You start out with one of your wide-eyed-little-girl interviews, see what he tells us. Then hit him with the big one.”

Course they don’t teach in J-school: Getting the Interview—The Art of Omission.

“Ask if he knows who the whistle-blower is.” I nod. “Sure. It could work. When’s the interview?”

“I’m hoping today, even though it’s late-ish. Calling him now to confirm it.” Franklin turns to the phone.

While Franklin calls Aztratech, I do a quick spam check. It looks as if every one I answered sent me a response.

Franklin had updated my computer settings and showed
me how, with my monitor set properly, the same weird spams display fancy graphics of dollar signs and houses for sale. I switch my system back to the old way. I want to see the quotes instead.

I click on the first
Hello, a new re-figh deal for you…
With a flash of white, the screen changes to the now-familiar typeface, and this time, what’s clearly part of an address.

Vermont Songwriters Association, RD 2 Box

Fine. I know the drill. Into Google it goes, and out comes
Vermont Songwriters Association, RD 2 Box 277 Underhill VT. 05489.

I am one hundred percent mystified. Am I playing a game? Or is someone else playing a game? Or is there even a game?

I copy and paste the full address, and send it back. Just one more, I promise myself. I click on the next
Hello, a new re-figh deal for you.

The hard drive spins as it pulls the e-mail from cyberspace. A blank screen, followed by words. And then, a trapdoor under my chair opens, and I spiral though the blackness, rabbits with pocket watches going by, Mad Hatters, dormouses. Dormice. At my desk, things get curiouser and curiouser.

The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces…
It’s
The Tempest.
The same quote Brad sent Josh.

My fingers still resting on the keyboard, I stare at the monitor. It hums tauntingly, daring me to understand.

The only thing that’s clear: I’ve gotten exactly the same e-mails Brad did. I sent back the second half of a quote, and whoever got it sent me this in reply. Just the way, I bet, they did to Brad. Was the bottom of Brad’s rabbit hole a miserable rain-soaked morning and the crash of metal? Suicide because of what he found? Or something else?

I sit up and shake my head to clear it. There’s no rabbit hole. Spam is just spam. But I cut and paste the rest of the
Tempest
quotation just in case.
We are such stuff as dreams are made on.
And once again, I hit Send.

Franklin clatters down the phone and hands me a piece of paper. “Here’s the directions to Aztratech,” he says. “Rasmussen’s all set. Your photographer is Walt.” He looks apologetic. “Sorry. No choice. He’ll meet you in front of the station in five.”

I gather up my stuff and turn for the door. “This’ll be good,” I say enthusiastically, tucking a notebook in my bag. “Even with Slo-mo Walt. I’ll call you as soon as it’s over.”

“Hey,” Franklin calls after me.

I turn around, impatient. “What? I’m all set. I’m outta here.”

Franklin is standing by his desk, hands on hips. “Before you head to your big ‘get,’” he says, “you want to tell me about whatever it was that happened at Bexter this afternoon? Whatever secrets you’re keeping from me?”

“No secrets,” I sort of lie. “I, uh, just interviewed Professor Gelston, who’s really not that much of a geezer, turns out….” I trail off, tongue-tied even trying to explain it.

“You’re blushing, girl,” Franklin reports. “’Nuff said.”

I know Tyra Banks can’t possibly work at Aztratech, but the lanky fashionista emerging from the elevator’s polished doors into the high-tech lobby is a real-life photocopy of the supermodel. Her carefully cropped hair, with just a smattering of silver, her got-to-be designer suit with its black ribbon belt tied artfully around the waist, her charcoal suede pumps.

“Charlie McNally? I’m Gwen Matherton, Mr. Rasmussen’s assistant.” She looks at her sleek watch. “He’s running a little behind today, I’m afraid,” she adds, with a look I translate as
he’s really an important, busy guy, you’re lucky to see him, you’re not going to be allowed much time.
“So set up your equipment, then I’ll bring him in.”

Fifteen stories up, Wes Rasmussen’s mahogany-and-steel office looks like a movie set, skillfully designed to suggest Big Commerce. Big Responsibility. Big Money.

Gwen leaves us alone, saying she’ll be back in ten minutes. Walt, with much exaggerated clanking of equipment (clearly to prove how hard he’s working), sets up his lights and clicks his camera onto the tripod.

I survey the room, looking for insight into this mogul. Awards, degrees: none. Family photographs: zero. Desk mountained with papers, and a leatherbound row of books held up by snarling brass lions. Nothing personal—no, wait. Recessed into the paneled wall in front of me is one cabinet, pin-spotted to show off the one thing it contains: a fantastically intricate model of a wooden sailboat, canvas sails unfurled. Before I can check it out, I hear the door open.

Now I know why Wes Rasmussen, CEO of one of the most go-go pharmaceutical companies in New England, is pressed for time. He’s obviously got an important meeting coming up—in the clubhouse. He’s wearing a yellow polo shirt, khaki pants, boat shoes with no socks. For someone whose corporate power is legendary, at least according to the background material Franklin gave me, this guy looks like someone who can’t wait to get out of the office and into a comfortable golf cart.

I shake his wooly-mammoth hand as we introduce ourselves, and he waves me to a chair. He pushes a button on
his desk and a panel in the wall slides open. He pulls out a navy blazer, putting it on over his knit shirt, as the hidden closet slides shut.

“This’ll do for TV, won’t it?” he asks. He has the air of someone who’s not used to anyone saying no. “You don’t want much from me, I imagine.” He sits behind his desk and looks at me inquiringly. “Now, what can I do for you?”

Walt clicks the microphone onto Rasmussen’s lapel, then goes back to his camera. “Rolling,” he announces.

“Okay,” I begin with a benign smile. “First, Mr. Rasmussen, how would you characterize the current pricing controversy?” I always ask easy, noncontentious, open-ended questions first. Brings their guard down.

Rasmussen spreads his arms expansively across his desk. “Ms. McNally,” he says, “the pharmaceutical industry is one hundred percent focused on keeping America and the world as healthy as humanly possible. We partner with the federal government to provide life-saving medications to underprivileged folk who can’t afford them. It’s a system that works to everyone’s benefit.”

He smiles at me, as if I’m some fifth-grader, and starts to stand up. “Got it?”