Drive Time Page 24

  She covers her face with her hands again.

  “Could I get you some water?” I say. I stand, setting my briefcase on the floor. “I think I can find the kitchen.”

  She nods, not moving her hands from her face.

  I’ll give her some privacy. Although I’m not sure how long that can last.

  By the time I return with a crystal glass with ice cubes and water from the stainless-steel fridge, I have a theory. A good one. Fee seems to have regained her composure. I hand her the chunky glass and perch on a chintz wing chair.

  “Maybe it was the baby’s father who called you. Maybe he knows you’re well off now. Forgive me, but maybe he’s angry and thinks he deserves some of your money.” I gesture at the living room, assessing the antiques, the art, the silver. A museum-quality clock on the mantel reminds me how much time I don’t have. I’m now incredibly late. I need to leave. And I need to wait for Fee’s reply.

  “It’s not the father who’s calling,” Fee whispers. She takes a tentative sip of the ice water.

  “It could be,” I persist, leaning forward. “And since you know who that is, maybe we could—”

  Fee Dulles stands and takes a step or two toward the fireplace. The fire flickers, still crackling, flames licking the crisscrossed logs.

  “It wasn’t the baby’s father who called.” She turns to face me, hands on hips. “That’s why I thought you were here. That’s what I thought you knew. The baby’s father is Randall Kindell.”

  I stand, slowly, attempting to take this in. All the puzzle pieces of the Bexter mystery shift and rearrange in my head, taunting me as I struggle to put them together into an accurate picture. Randall Kindell got a phone call, too. Does Fee know that? Does the caller know the Rental Car King is the father of an illegitimate daughter? Or not? Exasperatingly, I don’t have time to figure this out. I pick up my coat from the love seat and grab my briefcase.

  “Fee, I’m so sorry,” I say. “This must be terribly difficult for you. But I urge you to go to the police. This is blackmail and cannot have anything but a tragic ending. And trust your husband, maybe? Tell him?”

  “And if I don’t tell, you will, Miss McNally?” Fee raises an eyebrow.

  “No, of course not.” I drop my bag on the love seat and slide my arms through my coat sleeves. “Making sure information stays confidential is part of my job as a journalist. Otherwise no one would trust me.”

  I pull on my gloves, pick up my briefcase and my purse, and head for the front door.

  “I only came here to see if you knew any of the people circled in the fundraising pamphlet,” I remind her of the reason for my visit. And myself. I’m late, but I need to ask one more question. Turns out, she actually did know Randall Kindell. Now that she’s telling the truth, what can she tell me about the other names? I put my hand on the doorknob, then hesitate.

  Taking my hand off the knob, I dig into my bag for the Bexter report.

  It’s not there.

  I scramble, opening zippers and searching in side pockets. And again. It’s not there.

  I look in my purse. It’s not there.

  The back of my neck goes clammy. I feel the blood drain from my face. My brain searches for answers. Did I leave it in the living room?

  I look at Fee Dulles. She’s watching me, without a word.

  “I’m so sorry, Miss McNally. I know you’re trying to help. I don’t know what the names mean. I don’t know who marked them. Or why. I honestly don’t. But my name is circled and so is Randall’s. I can’t let us be linked in any way.”

  I’m so tired. I’m so confused.

  “The report.” she says. “When you went to get my water, I burned it.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I t doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. I repeat my desperate mantra as I drive back to Channel 3. Harrison Ebling has the names. I gave them to him to look up. He saw them in the book. Josh saw them in the book. It doesn’t matter that Fiona Dulles is a certified wack—

  I stop myself mid-tirade as I aim my automatic opener at Channel 3’s garage door. I’m not really supposed to park in here, except when we’re doing a story, but I’m late and no one will care if I sneak in for a little while. I’ll move my Jeep after we talk with Kevin. But I can’t miss this meeting.

  The door hums upward as I reconsider Fiona Dulles. She’s not so much a wack job as she is concerned about her future. And her past. As far as she knows, that pamphlet could sandbag her entire life. And maybe that’s what it is. Someone’s hit list.

  The door is open, but I’m too caught up in my own theories to press the accelerator. If there’s no drug scandal—which makes sense, because according to Josh at least, no one at Bexter has ever heard of such a thing—then it could be someone is concocting that story to cover up the real threat. Each person on the list has a secret. A secret the caller somehow knew about. A secret the caller knew they’d pay to keep quiet.

  Who’s making the calls?

  A horn blaring behind me blasts away my thoughts. Someone else is waiting to get in. I look in my rearview to see the tape coordinator, ENG Joanna. She’s smiling and waving at me with both hands. And in the driver’s seat of the news car, J.T. Shaw. He must have driven her on some errand. To the transmitter or some technical chore. And now he’s here for the meeting. Which means it hasn’t started yet. Which means I’m not late.

  I wave back, shift my Jeep into Drive and return to my theorizing. Kindell. And Fiona Dulles. Their secret past.

  My stomach lurches as the parking-lot ramp takes the familiar sharp drop. I edge my way into the crowded garage, searching for a place to stash my car. And then, the answer hits me. I slam on the brakes.

  “Hey!” J.T.’s shout from his open car window echoes through the garage and his brakes squeal at the same time. “You can’t just stop, McNally!”

  “Sorry!” I yell back. Though he can’t hear me.

  Kindell and Fiona. Together. Of course Kindell knows about the baby. What teenager wouldn’t tell her boyfriend? And when busybody Dorothy—who probably suspected it when Fiona was yanked from school—found out about their tryst, and the reputation-ruining result, she knew she had a gold mine, especially when Fiona married the affluent Dulles. She called, threatening them with exposure. They had to get rid of her. Kindell and Fiona concocted “blackmail” calls to themselves to steer away suspicion. After all, as far as I know, they’re the only parents who got the calls. Or should I say, who allege they got the calls.

  And Alethia? They actually called her, then killed her, too. Dorothy’s best friend. Who they might assume she confided in. Mystery solved. Kindell and Fiona. Yes. Definitely yes.

  But as I hurry through the basement door and up the inside stairway toward Kevin’s office, I reconsider. No. Definitely no. It’s not Fee Dulles and Randall Kindell. If Fiona and Kindell killed Dorothy and Alethia, how’d they do it? They would have been noticed hanging around at Bexter the night of Alethia’s “fall,” certainly. And would it mean Wen Dulles was in on it, too? He and Fiona were together at the Head’s party. He’d be Fiona’s alibi for the night of Dorothy’s murder.

  I shake my head as I yank open the metal stairwell door to the my office floor. This theory is too complicated to be true.

  It’s all about the names on the list. The list I used to have.

  “Harrison,” I say out loud as I walk into the hallway and turn toward Kevin’s office. “He’s got to have those addresses for me.”

  “What addresses?” Franklin comes through the double glass doors of Special Projects, and into the hallway. He’s in his usual perfect khakis. Today’s crewneck sweater is pale blue. Both his arms are loaded. He’s carrying a box of yellow videotapes with a sheaf of papers stacked on top.

  “Hey, Franko,” I say, changing the subject. “You get any sleep? Can I help carry something?”

  “Welcome to work,” he says, eyeing my overcoat and muffler. “These are the tapes from last night. And the logs. I came in early to
transcribe them. Remember, we planned to do that together this morning? So we could be ready to cue up the appropriate video for Kevin?”

  I look at him, feeling my mouth drop open in dismay.

  “What, did you forget?”

  He’s right. I forgot. I completely forgot.

  “How could you forget?” Franklin’s face twists in concern. “Are you—okay? You haven’t been yourself lately. Not connected to our story. This is big, Charlotte. And this is the first time I’ve seen you so distracted. You’re always gone. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “No, of course not,” I begin to defend myself. But he’s right. And of course there’s something I’m not telling him. A lot. At least I won’t have to tell him I’m going to New York. I hold up my left hand, fluttering my fingers, choosing a believable fib. “Wedding jitters. And I am not always gone.”

  “Well then, how come—”

  “Hey, Charlie…hey, Franklin.” Liz Whittemore, the nightside reporter, strides down the hall toward the stairway. She’s snapped into a TV-sleek red parka with the Channel 3 logo prominently displayed. Knowing they’ll never show on the air, she’s put on the world’s ugliest snow boots. “How’s it go—”

  Franklin stops talking.

  Liz pauses, looking between us. “Oh. Sorry to interrupt.”

  “No, it’s nothing,” Franklin says. Clearly he’s lying. And Liz knows it.

  “Great job with Fran Rivera the other night. Good story on the carjacking.” I try to smooth the edges of the awkward moment, giving the young reporter a thumbs-up.

  “Thanks, Charlie. Means a lot, coming from you.”

  Franklin raises a derisive eyebrow in my direction. Liz, looking at me, misses his unspoken commentary on her compliment.

  “In fact, I’m on my way to another one,” she continues.

  “Another one?” I say.

  “A carjacking?” Franklin says.

  “Apparently. This time they took an Explorer,” Liz says. “No one’s hurt, though. Probably won’t even make the six o’clock news.”

  Franklin and I look at each other, argument forgotten, as Liz runs off. This may change everything.

  “We’re right on time, and with a big breaking story,” I say, peering through the glass door of Kevin’s office. “And now Kevin’s on the phone?”

  Franklin and I are pretending the skirmish in the hallway never happened. The arrival of J.T. outside the news director’s office made our cease-fire easier. And the idea that the bad guys have carjacked an Explorer has pumped all three of us full of story adrenaline. If it’s fire-engine red, like ours, we may be in the money.

  I can barely keep from rubbing my hands together in expectation.

  “That Explorer is going to have our car’s VIN number. It probably already does,” I say. “It’ll be a clone of ours. Now we’ve got to find that car.”

  “Which is, of course, the big mystery,” Franklin says. “Where would they hide it?”

  “Well, they have to attach the new VIN, right? So I say, not such a mystery. Those guys are definitely going to take their ill-gotten treasure to the Newtonville garage, slap on the swiped VIN and transform that stolen car into our not-stolen Explorer.”

  “Look at him,” J.T. says, waving a disdainful hand toward Kevin’s closed glass door. “He’s, like, completely ignoring us. And we’re out here with the story of the century.”

  We see Kevin, phone clamped to his ear, elbows on his desk. He’s oblivious to everything but his conversation.

  “Maybe he’s got a job offer,” I say. Oops. That was supposed to be sarcastic. But it’s not so funny, since it’s actually true and I’m not supposed to mention it.

  “So, you think it’s hidden-camera time?” Franklin says. “Go back to Newtonville?”

  Franklin doesn’t seem to be picking up on my potential slip of the tongue. So I guess I’m fine.

  “We go back out there—and I want to go with you two this time—and see what they’re doing?” he continues. “See if they bring in a red Explorer?”

  I lean on the edge of an empty desk and cross my arms, thinking. The newsroom is deserted. The noon news is just over. Almost everyone has bolted to get lunch.

  “I suppose the hidden-camera thing could work,” I say. “But problem is, even if we see an Explorer inside, we’d only be able to get wide shots of it. I mean, it’s a garage. People expect cars to be there. People expect mechanics to be working on them. How would we prove they were changing the VIN?”

  “Hey, Miss McNally.”

  I turn to see an intern pushing the battered mail-delivery cart toward Kevin’s office. The cart is probably older than she is. The intern has on matchstick jeans that she’s somehow rolled up in precisely the same thickness over each of her shiny leather boots. She apparently purchased her sweater from the too-small store.

  “Hey,” I say. I jump up, getting out of the way of the wobble-wheeled cart. For a million dollars, I have no idea of this person’s name. She knows me, that’s easy enough. I’ve been on television since before she was born. But who on earth could keep track of all the interns’ names?

  “Hi, Kaitlin,” Franklin says.

  “Hey, Kaitlin,” J.T. says.

  Show-offs.

  “Oh, Miss McNally,” she says, rummaging through rubber-banded stacks of padded manila mailers and narrow white envelopes. She pulls out a packet and hands it to me, smiling. “You’ve got mail.”

  “Job offers,” I say to Franklin, making sure he knows all my job-offer references are teasing. “And certainly fan letters.”

  I take the mail, then change my mind. I don’t want to carry it all into our meeting. And it looks as though Kevin may be wrapping up his call.

  “Thanks, Kaitlin.” Like I knew her name all the time. “But can you drop it upstairs, as usual?”

  Then I glance at the envelopes. The top one is from WWXI. And it has a little see-through window. I slide the envelope from beneath the rubber band. “Oh, wait. This must be my paycheck from doing Maysie’s show.”

  I hand back the rest of the mail, fold the Wixie envelope into thirds and—no pockets. I lift one edge of my skirt and slide the folded envelope down the inside of my left boot.

  Kevin’s door opens and he waves us inside. He reaches for his mail as we take our seats.

  “Hey, Kaitlin,” he says.

  “This video is terrific. Blockbuster,” Kevin says. Pulling the final cassette from his viewer, he hands it back to Franklin. “We’ll get a whole ‘Charlie Investigates’ campaign in the works. You got the rental-car king to repair his fleet of cars. And now he’s telling his pals to do the same. Public service. Excellent. And then the valet-parking scam? VIN cloning? Air-bag theft? Even more excellent. It hits our demos exactly, women and families. We’ll assign you the first days of the ratings book. Promo will tease it big on Wednesday, then we’ll run your stories Thursday and Friday. We’ll kill.”

  “That’s great,” I say. “But remember, we have to prove our Explorer is cloned. And somehow figure out where that cloned Explorer actually is.”

  “And we’re still working on who owns Beacon Valet,” Franklin puts in.

  “And then we have to decide how to handle that,” I say.

  “Well, let me know what you figure out.” Kevin comes out from behind his desk, signaling “meeting over.”

  “Too bad we can’t call your stories Drive Time,” he says. “That’s the radio show, right? Well, I’ll take care of the title. You take care of the story.”

  I hear the unmistakable sound of the old NBC network bells. J.T. jumps to his feet, unclicking the cell phone from his belt, and he heads out the door. “Sorry,” he says over his shoulder. The door latches closed behind him.

  The rest of us exchange inquiring looks, then shrug. Franklin and I both stand. We’re done here. And we have a lot to accomplish in a very short time.

  “Anyway, you guys never cease to amaze me,” Kevin continues, shepherding us out. “
And might as well exit on a high note, isn’t that right, Franklin?”

  I stop.

  Exit? I take my hand off the doorknob and turn back to face them. Kevin is smiling. Franklin is not. In fact, Franklin’s face is changing so quickly I can’t even read the expressions as they go by.

  Then I realize. Of course. It wasn’t a complete secret. Kevin’s told Franklin about his move to New York. How could I have thought he wouldn’t?

  “Well, of course,” I say, nodding conspiratorially. I reach for the door again. “Glad we could make it happen. And we’ll miss you. Right, Franko?”

  “Charlotte,” Franklin says.

  “Charlie,” Kevin says at the same time.

  I don’t move from the doorway. Franklin takes a step backward, deeper into Kevin’s office, still clutching his pile of tapes and transcribed logs.

  “I assumed you two told each other everything,” Kevin says. His demeanor is uncharacteristically merry, like a salesman endeavoring to motivate a reluctant customer. “I told you to keep it confidential, Charlie, but you two have no secrets, right? Don’t make a move without telling the other? The two musketeers?”

  Franklin is silent.

  I don’t say a word.

  “Well. Let me give you some privacy, then,” Kevin says. He reaches behind me, opens the door. Then he turns. And actually winks. “The offer still stands for you, too, you know. There’s still time to join us in the Big Apple. Love to have you.”

  And he disappears into the newsroom.

  Franklin and I are alone. Together. Though it appears we won’t be together for long. On the wall, five muted television screens flicker news and early-afternoon soap operas. I think the biggest soap opera may be happening right now. In real life. I only wish I’d been let in on the story. I’m not sure of my lines. And I don’t know how this episode ends.

  Franklin shifts the tapes piled in his arms, suddenly concerned with making sure they’re all stacked just right. He pushes up his glasses with one finger, flustered. A few typed pages of transcripts escape, fluttering onto Kevin’s desk.