Drive Time Page 21

  “It’ll happen,” I say. I look around for some wood to touch, but have to settle for the fake stuff on the dashboard.

  I put a plastic bag of stakeout provisions on the floor of the front seat. We’ve got J.T.’s camera in the backseat. Full batteries and extra tapes.

  “Bar’s got to close at two,” I say. “If it’s going to happen, it’ll happen before then.”

  We caravan out the rackety mechanical garage door and out into the narrow alley behind the station. Still following Franklin in the Explorer, J.T. and I wind through the twisty downtown streets toward the Longmore Hotel. The festive blue-and-yellow lights of the Custom House Tower say 10:30. Twenty-six stories up, on top of the old Hancock Building, the four weather lights are showing “steady blue,” meaning forecasters predict the night will be clear. I stare out the car window, wondering what the night will hold. Josh is home with Penny. She knows nothing about what happened. She had a great first day of school. She’s the only one in our family who did.

  “And welcome back tonight to Maysie Green, the sports machine!”

  I jump in surprise as a hearty announcer voice booms from the speakers. J.T.’s turned on the radio while I was in Josh world. “Coming up next, Drive Time! But now, heeeere’s Maysie!”

  “Good evening and hey to all of you out in Celtics land.” Maysie’s familiar lilt buzzes through the car. I can’t help but smile. I know she’s doing the show via phone from her living room couch. I can picture her, cuddling baby Maddee in one arm, and holding the receiver between her shoulder and chin. She’s talking sports to ten thousand listeners and taking care of one tiny newborn at the same time. Talk about having it all.

  “And a big shout-out to investigative reporter Charlie McNally, who took over my slot while I was otherwise occupied. And now to your favorite green team, the number-one-ranked Boston Celtics,” she says.

  “How’d you like doing radio?” J.T. asks. He turns down the volume, happily agreeing we don’t need to hear about basketball.

  “It’s a paycheck,” I say, shrugging. “Though not a big one. Apparently Wixie is doing some budget-driven belt tightening. Doesn’t matter, I did it for Mays, not for money. And on radio, you don’t have to worry about getting hidden-camera video, of course. But I’m more interested in what’s happening at Beacon Valet, you know?”

  I just thought of something.

  “Hang on,” I say. I paw into my purse for my cell phone and punch Franklin’s speed dial. He has hands free, of course.

  “Franko. Did you ever find out who owns Beacon Valet? I mean, who’s behind the trust?”

  “Yes and no,” he replies. As if the question didn’t come out of nowhere. Actually, it didn’t. “I’ve got a pal in the Secretary of State’s office trying to untangle it. Some smart lawyer did a good job creating the trust, Marjorie tells me. She says it’s one of the best she’s seen.”

  “Best for hiding something,” I reply. I realize where we are and point a finger. “Hey, J.T. The gods of journalism are smiling. There’s a perfect parking place. Right where we were before. Franko, you set?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Franklin says. “You pulling up and parking now? I’m a block away. Cameras are all in place. And I’m pushing the record buttons.”

  Arriving at the Longmore, we quickly switch places, so I’m driving and J.T.’s in the passenger seat. He pulls out his camera and pushes the blue standby button, ready to shoot whatever happens. We turn the car radio off so we don’t get extraneous audio. The car is idling so we don’t have to turn the ignition when the time comes. Plus, we need the heat to stay warm. We crack the window so our breath doesn’t steam up the glass.

  In the light from the street lamps and the glaringly bright marquee of the hotel, J.T. rolls tape on Franklin dropping off the car. Handing over the keys. We get shots of him talking to a BeaconValet–jacketed man, one I hadn’t seen before. He’s wearing a baseball cap, but I can’t read what’s printed on it. Even though we’re not recording audio, I know Franklin is feeding him our story, explaining that he’s meeting someone in the bar, and would definitely be there for a few hours, until closing. Franklin gives the valet some folded dollar bills, then goes inside. We cross our fingers that the hidden cameras installed in the Explorer are recording. And that tonight is the night. We have four hours.

  The valet pulls the Explorer just two parking spaces up, then double-parks with the headlights still on. But this time, instead of getting out of the car, he stays inside.

  I reach down for the bag of almonds I’ve brought, ready to settle in for a night of waiting.

  “Yo. Charlie. Check it out,” J.T. says. He’s got his camera up on his shoulder, eye to the viewfinder.

  One hand still in the plastic bag, I peer up through the windshield. And then I forget the almonds.

  Another man, also in a BeaconValet jacket but without a hat, trots out of the hotel, and leans into the driver’s window of the Explorer. Thin gray plumes of exhaust puff sporadically from the car. That means the engine is still running.

  I sit up and click my gearshift into drive, though I keep my foot on the brake. Have to be instantly ready to follow the Explorer when it pulls away. If it pulls away.

  “You rolling?” I say. I’m not taking my eyes off what’s happening.

  “You need to ask?” From behind the camera.

  A car drives up, headlights glaring. The car pauses outside the hotel, blasting light through our windshield.

  Flinching, I hold up a hand to shield my eyes. “Ow.”

  “Damn,” J.T. hisses. “Lens can’t handle that. Can’t see a thing.”

  “It’s okay,” I reassure him, still squinting. “They’re leaving now. And nothing’s happening with the Explorer.”

  The three of us haven’t really discussed it, but my “steal-the-car-for-a-brief-time-swipe-the-VIN-and-theair-bag-and-return-the-car-before-the-owner-knows-it” hypothesis is only a theory. An assumption based on guesses and conjecture and a few juicy facts. It may be proven false. If it is, we won’t have a story and my speculation will thereby doom three perfectly hardworking journalists to ratings-book hell. Investigative reporting isn’t easy. That’s what makes it fun.

  I stare out the windshield, flexing my fingers on the steering wheel. Trying to remember that this is fun.

  The driver’s-side door of the Explorer opens.

  “J.T.,” I whisper.

  “Yup. I see it.”

  The first valet, who I’ve been calling “Hat Guy,” gets out. The other valet, “No-Hat,” gets in. As Hat Guy heads back toward the hotel, he taps the back window of the Explorer with the flat of one palm. Tap-tap-tap.

  He doesn’t look back as he pushes through the Longmore’s revolving doors.

  “Charlie.” J.T.’s tone is sharp.

  I yank my eyes back to the Explorer. Damn. Never should have looked away. At least J.T.’s on it.

  A blast of gray now puffs from the Explorer’s exhaust. I sneak a glance in my rearview, checking to see if any cars are behind me, in case I have to pull out. One slushes by slowly, then another one. Not many people are out this late. The good news and the bad news. No one will be in our way as we pull out. And the first moments are critical.

  But it may make it tougher to follow this guy without being noticed. I’ve done this many times, carefully keeping at least two car lengths away. Making sure there’s at least one other car between me and my quarry. Sometimes, I even pull ahead. So far, I’ve never gotten caught. Nighttime makes it easier in some ways. Harder in others.

  “We’ll have the hidden-camera stuff, at least, if we lose him on the road,” I say, reassuring myself as much as J.T.

  “If he actually goes anywhere,” J.T. mutters.

  “Ye of little faith,” I say, keeping my eyes on the Explorer. Although I was thinking the same thing. And I have no plan B.

  The Explorer’s brake lights flicker on, then go off. And then the car starts to move.

  “Check it out,” I breat
he.

  The car eases forward and into the street. No-Hat’s arm comes out of the window. With a quick gesture, a gloved hand adjusts the side mirror. And then almost before I realize it, No-Hat hits the gas.

  The Explorer powers up Water Street, taillights disappearing into the Boston night.

  “Go!” J.T. yells.

  But I’ve already hit the accelerator.

  “He’s getting onto the Pike,” I say, eyes glued on the Explorer.

  We turn left down the ramp to the westbound side of the eight-lane highway. No-Hat is driving like a sixteen-year-old taking the Registry of Motor Vehicles’s licensing exam. He stopped at every red light between the Longmore Hotel and the entrance to the Massachusetts Turnpike, stayed within the speed limit, and used his turn signals.

  “Probably doesn’t want to get pulled over by the cops,” I say to J.T. “Smart for him. But he sure is making it a breeze for us.”

  “That’s not what the guy did for Declan Ross, though,” J.T. reminds me. “The guy in the blue Mustang? Was driving like a maniac.”

  I pull to the right and follow No-Hat, close but not too close, along the Pike and through the first set of automated tollbooths. J.T.’s rolling video on the whole trip, making sure we can document exactly what happens. It’s a challenging shoot. All of our tiny hidden cameras are mounted in the decoy car, so J.T. has to use his full-size Sony. Including the bricklike battery pack; it weighs more than twenty pounds. J.T.’s steadying it with one elbow braced against the passenger door. And he still has to wear a seat belt.

  “True,” I say, remembering. I let a brown sedan get ahead of us. Luckily, the Explorer has such a high wheel-base, it’s easy to see even in the dark and with a few cars between us. “But remember, he probably got a call ordering him to bring the car the hell back. Remember? Michael Borum was waiting for it.”

  We’re silent, briefly. I, for one, am thinking about what happened to Michael Borum.

  As we move west through the alternating headlights and darkness on the Pike, it becomes easier and easier for me to blend us into the traffic. The Highway Department’s erratically flashing lighted arrows help, too, by briefly forcing everyone into the left lane to avoid construction. When drivers are forced to change lanes and follow signs, there’s less time for them to notice there’s someone on their tail.

  I hope.

  I keep my attention balanced between monitoring the position of the Explorer and driving safely. But the night is clear, and the road is clear, and my view of the Explorer is clear. So far so good.

  Plus, No-Hat has got to be focused on getting to wherever he’s going, doing whatever they do there, and returning to the Longmore before Franklin asks for the car back. He’s not worrying whether there’s a reporter in a unmarked news car trying to track his every turn.

  I hope.

  “You know what,” I say. “No matter what’s on the other end here, no matter where he’s going. This guy’s stolen our car. I mean, it’s supposed to be in valet parking. You know? And instead, it’s headed up the Mass Pike.”

  “And we’re getting video of the whole thing,” J.T. says. “Who knows how big this is. How far it goes. But you’re right. We’ve got this guy nailed.”

  My mind briefly wanders to Franklin, missing everything, probably sipping club soda in Fizz and certainly wondering whether he’ll still have a story in the morning. Maybe he called his adorable Stephen, inviting him to keep him company on his boring-but-important role in the stakeout. I should have suggested that. I will when I call him.

  “Yo, McNally. I need to change tapes.” J.T. interrupts my pangs of conscience. “We’ve only got half hours. And I have maybe five minutes left on this one. Change it now? Or later?”

  “Do it now, no question,” I say, pointing at him. “And make it fast.” No tape means no pictures. And he who hesitates runs out.

  J.T. lays the bulky camera flat on his lap, the first time it’s been away from his eye for twenty-five minutes. I press my lips together, anxiously counting the seconds, as I hear the motorized buzzes and clicks that mean he’s opened the side of the camera. I hear the whir as the yellow cassette pops out like a piece of toast.

  “Got it? Put the tape in my bag,” I say. I see J.T. holding the cassette. He looks like he’s searching for something. “Don’t bother with a case. And I’ll label it later. Just bang in a new—”

  “He’s getting off the Pike!” J.T. yells. He’s holding the camera with one hand, waving the other at the highway. “He’s moving into the right lane. I bet he’s taking 17, the Newton exit.”

  I turn to look at J.T. The camera is still in his lap. No cassette is inside it. Not good.

  “Just put in a—”

  “Watch it!” J.T.’s voice suddenly rises to a yelp.

  With a blare of an air horn that almost blasts my heart from my chest, a massive big rig careens in front of us, swerving across two lanes. It’s a double-wide silver-and-black cab, pulling an empty but lethal flatbed that threatens to jackknife right through us. The pavement between me and the eighteen-wheeler disappears. This truck is at least ten tons of trouble, pointed toward Exit 17, and the driver doesn’t care who’s in the way.

  I see the Explorer accelerate, powering off at Exit 17 as J.T. predicted. It’s headed up the steep two-lane ramp and into a complicated intersection that leads at least four ways. To industrial Newtonville. Chic Newton Center. Working-class West Newton. Or he could make a U-turn back onto the Pike and toward Boston. If No-Hat gets a green light and makes his turn before we get there, we’ve certainly lost him.

  To follow him, we’ve got to get in front of the truck. If we don’t, we risk losing the Explorer altogether.

  I glance into the rearview. Nobody behind us.

  “Hang on,” I say. My voice is low. Determined. “Going for it.”

  I yank our car hard to the right into the narrow breakdown lane. The wheels rumble, catching in the uneven, roughly paved strip that’s supposed to be used only for emergencies. Fine. This is one.

  I hit the accelerator, and have just enough room to pass the still-speeding truck on his right. If I go too far, I’ll crash us into the highway’s corrugated aluminum guardrails and we’ll wind up like Declan Ross. Or much worse. Praying for the slightest bit more speed and hoping I have enough room, I swerve in front of him.

  “Holy…!” J.T. yells. “Careful!” He’s cradling the camera on his lap with both arms, protecting it, the seat belt holding him in place.

  I am being careful. Much as I can. The length of the exit ramp is my only hope. If the Explorer hits a red light at the top of the hill, we can catch up. My hands clench on the steering wheel, my eyes narrow, focusing on the road ahead.

  The hulking truck moves over, pulling into the left lane, giving up just enough room so we can both drive without the side of his flatbed slicing our car—and me—in half. I cling to the right, leaning into my turn, and try to slow down without slamming on brakes.

  Several hundred feet in front of us, I see the intersection. And the glorious red light. Waiting in the front of the line, brake lights on, is the Explorer.

  “Are you freaking kidding me?” J.T.’s voice comes from beside me, a mixture of terror and approval. “Are you nuts? Or lucky?”

  “Are you rolling yet?” I reply. “We’ve got him.”

  And now we’ll see where he’s taking our car.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “T obacco Road,” I say, counting my blessings as I squint past the steering wheel, out the windshield, through slashes of shadow and into the open double doors of the garage across the street. The moon is full, but mostly hidden behind thickly scudding pre-snow clouds. Inside the car, we’re sitting in total darkness. Our heat is off. The engine is off. My feet and nose are freezing. “Or someplace out of the Dust Bowl. Skeevy buildings. Creepy houses. And look at the streetlights. Or what’s left of them. Probably someone’s target practice.”

  “The Dust Bowl wouldn’t have snow,” J.T.
mutters. His tinted window is cracked open wide enough for the lens to fit through. His eye is still pressed to the viewfinder. We’ve switched off the red record light on the camera, in case someone looks our way. Don’t want us to be target practice.

  “Whatever,” I say. Franklin’s in a cozy bar, probably watching ESPN. I’m sipping my now-tepid coffee, which somehow didn’t spill in the truck-avoidance maneuver, and watching the ramshackle building across the street. Rantoul Avenue, a potholed two-way in a bleakly needy neighborhood of Newtonville, is pretty much deserted this time of night. That’s bad news, because we’re an unfamiliar car and right out in the open. With luck, No-Hat and his pals are under such a crushing time pressure they’ll figure we’re visiting one of the houses here. If they notice us as all. Our tinted windows are almost opaque at night. We can see fine from inside, but from outside, our car looks empty.

  I hope. J.T. is shooting everything that moves. And some stuff that doesn’t. It’s been a video bonanza.

  We got the doors to the garage opening from inside as the Explorer drove in. The roll-away door on the left is wide open, providing an ideal view of the complete garage setup inside. Rows of bright lights studded across the ceiling illuminate the whole scene, bright as a movie set. No-Hat hops out of the driver’s seat and disappears into the darker recesses of the garage. The hood of the Explorer pops up. Men in jeans swarm, one into each of the four doors. Another unlatches the hatchback. Another, lying on his back, scoots a wheeled dolly underneath the chassis.

  A flash of worry. What if there’s something incriminating in the car? Something that screams Channel 3. A mic flag. A press pass. It’s too late to matter, though, I reassure myself. They’ve taken the car, which is illegal. And it’s on tape. We win.