Drive Time

Chapter Nine

“No. Not later. Now.”

My hand tightens around my cell phone as the unfamiliar voice persists. Wenholm Dulles, who says he’s a Bexter parent, called me on my private line just after Franklin went to Buzz World to get us some late-after-noon caffeine. Franklin seems to be over his work panic. This Monday, feeling like a team again, we’ve already plowed through most of our video and targeted some potentially unrepaired recalls. Some are used cars still for sale and some are rental cars. It’s taken all day, but our story seems to be working. Cross fingers. Now we have to find those cars and check for air bags.

This unexpected phone call has screeched my momentum to a halt.

“Mr. Dulles, I’m afraid I don’t remember you from the Head’s party, forgive me. And-”

“It’s critically important,” Dulles interrupts. “As I said, about something that may be happening at Bexter. The Head said we should call you. And now, we’re just down the street. In the Parker House café. It’ll take fifteen minutes of your time. Ten. But again, Miss McNally. This must be a secret.”

Of course. What else is new.

“Hold on,” I say. I clamp the phone against my shoulder, grab a pen and scrawl on a yellow sticky pad. What I write is a lie.

Dentist. Forgot. Back soon. C.

I stick the note to Franklin’s monitor. I know he’ll believe me. We’ve never deceived each other. We’ve never kept secrets. But first there was New York. And now Bexter. And now an imaginary dentist.

Bexter. I yank myself out of guilt and back to reality. Has there been another phone call? Or is it something about Dorothy Wirt? Josh? Penny? Something is truly wrong there.

“Mr. Dulles? I’m on the way,” I say, struggling to talk and button my coat as I hurry down the hall. “But can you tell me more? On the phone? I truly have to get back to the-”

“I have two children, both attend Bexter,” he says, cutting me off again. “Lexie’s a freshman, Tal’s a senior. About to graduate. All these years, we’ve insisted on only the best for them, and-”

Silence.

“Mr. Dulles?” I clatter around the final landing of the back stairwell and out toward the side door. “Mr. Dulles?”

I check the cell-phone screen. Green letters pop into view. Dropped call.

When I reach the Parker House, I instantly spot Wenholm Dulles, wearing a double-Windsor rep tie, button-down white oxford shirt and expansive demeanor. He takes up most of the room on his side of the plush taupe suede booth. More a salon than a café, Parker’s has a subdued exclusive air that keeps tourists away and conversations private. Big menus. Big prices. Big business.

Dulles has his camel’s-hair overcoat folded plumply, russet satin lining showing, on the seat beside him. That obviously means “this seat taken.” I guess I’m supposed to sit next to the woman across the table.

“Miss McNally. Wen Dulles.” Dulles rises, much as he can. His navy-blazered bulk snags the tablecloth, gold buttons catching on the linen as he leans toward me. I get a solid handshake. Dulles smoothes his striped tie back into place, then gestures. “My wife, Fiona.”

Leaving my own coat on to telegraph my intentions, I ease into the booth. My back is to the restaurant. I can see my own reflection in the hazy mirror that stretches the length of the filigree-papered wall. I can also see the weary face of Fiona Dulles. Carefully ash blond, flawless eyebrows, pale skin stretched tight across patrician cheekbones. She’s one second away from tears. She hasn’t spoken a word.

“Call us Wen and Fee, Charlie,” Dulles instructs.

Fee, who must weigh less than a hundred pounds, is wrapped in a Burberry shawl. The fringed plaid is draped over her boiled-wool jacket, its tiny buttons embossed with an elaborate design. Her leather gloves, caramel and creamy as expensive chocolate, are on the table in front of her, one laid carefully on top of the other. Fee Dulles drops her eyes, and begins to stroke the gloves with a manicured hand.

Now I remember. This is the woman in the Hermès scarf who recognized me at the Head’s party.

“Lost connection earlier,” Wen Dulles continues. His voice, gruff-edged, seems impatient with the apology. “Damn phones.”

“Wen,” his wife says. Her voice barely registers above a whisper. “Please. This isn’t necessary.”

A waitress arrives at our table. With one silent glance, Wen instructs her to leave.

“Mr. Dulles?” I begin. I can feel the clock ticking. Franklin will be back any moment. My brain begins to concoct dentist stories. I have to hurry. But I’m so curious. “You said it was about Bexter?”

Dulles splays both hands on the white tablecloth, showing manicured fingernails, a chunky class ring with a deep amethyst stone.

“Fee went to Bexter. We both did. It’s a fine school. Old school. Got the right stuff. We’ve donated a pile of money, I don’t mind telling you. To keep it that way.” He leans toward me, sizing me up. “But now we’ve gotten phone calls. Two of them. Nasty stuff. Nasty. My wife doesn’t think we should involve you. But I want you to find out who’s behind those calls.”

“I can’t-” I pause, stopping myself midrefusal. I didn’t contact Wen and Fee Dulles. They contacted me. This is inarguably a green light for me to investigate the Bexter phone calls without it being linked to Josh. And that’s what I’m going to do. “Can you tell me more? When did the calls come in? At your home? Who answered? What did the caller say?”

Fee looks at me and opens her mouth to say something.

“Our home. Our private number.” Wen raises a hand to stop her. “Fee answered the calls. Same person. Same message. But this remains confidential. Agreed?”

“A man or a woman?” I nod, directing my questions to Fee. I need this information. “What did they say?”

Wen nods, apparently giving his wife permission to continue. Or maybe, ordering her to.

“I couldn’t distinguish, male or female,” she begins. She puts a hand to her throat, pursing her lips. Shakes her head. “No. I just answered, as I usually do, and the voice said…”

She pauses, looking at her husband. He tips his head, go on.

“The voice said, ‘Do you know where your children are?’ And hung up. Have you ever heard of such a thing? That silly slogan from television. I thought it must be the prank. Senior prank at Bexter, you’ve heard of it?”

“I have. Heard of the prank, I mean.” But I’m thinking that’s not what this is.

“But I was so…unnerved, I called Bexter to check on Lexie and Tal. Dorothy-poor Dorothy-said they were fine.”

“The second call was no prank.” Wen’s voice is judgmental. “Last Wednesday. The same caller. This time, asked for money. Go on, Fee.”

“You’re aware of what happened at Milton Academy? The scandal? The sex? The voice told me Bexter was in the same situation.” Fee’s hushed voice catches, and those tears seem imminent. With two long fingers she begins to worry a votive candleholder, the flame flickering as she twists the crystal cylinder.

“Not sex, though. It was drugs. Pills. All kinds. That our son, Talbott, was deeply involved in it somehow. The police were closing in. They said if we sent a money order for nine thousand dollars, Tal’s name would be kept out of it. If we didn’t, everyone would know.”

“We mailed a check to the post-office box,” Wen says. “Yesterday. With Tal’s college applications pending, we couldn’t risk it.”

“Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Dulles, this is a matter for the police.” So much for my big Bexter story. This is far beyond anything I can handle. I put up both palms, stopping any further discussion. “It’s extortion. Blackmail. You must report this. You couldn’t be the only ones getting calls. And drugs being sold? To students? And you know blackmailers never stop. They always want more.”

“I understand. However-” Wen Dulles makes a flat dismissive gesture “-I’m certain Tal has done nothing wrong. But it’s imperative that our son goes to college with the spotless record we’ve all worked so diligently to keep. We’ll pay whatever we need to make that happen.”

“But this is just the beginning.” Why doesn’t he grasp the big picture? “It’s not going to end. And we only investigate what may be possible stories for the news. That publicity is exactly what you say you don’t want. You want the police. You really do.”

Fiona’s tears have won their battle. She’s dabbing her face with a delicate handkerchief.

“You have an inside track at Bexter, do you not?” Wen Dulles gathers his coat, his voice carefully polite. “And you solve problems. Solve this one. And keep our children out of it.”

I watch the couple leave the restaurant, Wen striding ahead, his wife behind. And I’m left alone. With another secret.

So much for teamwork. Although it’s my fault. Back at the station, Franklin had left a sticky note of his own on my computer monitor. It said: Tomorrow. Not even signed. In just that one word, I can feel the tension.

But, fine. Tomorrow it is. And at least I didn’t have to lie about seeing Wen and Fee Dulles.

Tonight, Josh is working late, Penny’s having dinner with Annie. I’m at home, my Beacon Hill home, in sweatpants and a vintage Beatles sweatshirt, having a glass of wine and nibbling ancient but vacuum-sealed string cheese from my neglected refrigerator. Prime-time CNN mumbles in the background. I’m on a ruthless mission. Suddenly, there’s too much stuff in my apartment. It’s all got to go.

I’ve already yanked three of the four drawers from my dresser, dumping more T-shirts and scarves and forgotten sweaters than anyone could possibly own onto my bed. That way I can’t go to sleep until it’s all divvied up. Three big green plastic bags await my decisions. Keep. Throw. Charity.

With a sigh, I put my wine on the nightstand and sit cross-legged on the floor. Selecting a never-worn and perfectly good turquoise wool hoodie, another failed attempt to break out of always wearing black, I fold it into the charity bag. But I’m thinking more about Wen and Fiona Dulles than my fashion mistakes. Organizing my thoughts along with the sweaters.

Kids using drugs at Bexter? They probably do, like everywhere, but Josh never mentioned anything remotely like that. And he certainly wouldn’t put Penny in danger. But maybe he doesn’t know. On the other hand, it doesn’t need to be true. The caller could have made it up. It would be simple enough to concoct a believable and devastating scenario as a way to scam money from wealthy parents. Risky, though.

I shake my head, selecting a chunky cabled cardigan with regrettable buttons for the donation pile. Dorothy told Josh and the Head she’d gotten exactly the same kind of sinister phone call. But Dorothy’s calls occurred more than a week before Fee’s.

And now Dorothy is dead. She always knew everything going on at Bexter. Did she try to track down the caller? And whoever it was killed her in retaliation? Does that mean Wen and Fee are in danger?

I stop, midfold, trying to retrieve an escaping idea. What did I just think?

Dorothy always knew everything that was going on at Bexter.

Maybe-maybe she was the blackmailer.

I put my head down on the stack of sweaters and stretch out my legs, just for a moment, to think about whether my idea could work. Dorothy, knower of all Bexter knowledge and with access to every personal file and phone number in the place, gets wind of a drug ring? Students selling drugs? Or more likely, someone from outside. Dorothy’s lonely. She’s trapped in a menial secretarial job on a modest salary. Frustrated, bitter, having to cater to wealthy parents and pampered students. She can’t take it anymore and starts her blackmailing scheme. To draw suspicion away from herself, she pretends to get a semi-threatening but possibly prank phone call of her own.

When actually, she’s the one making the calls.

What if a parent who discovered her extortion scheme killed her? Even Wen and Fee? Well, okay, not them. But what if whoever is actually selling the drugs found out? And he killed her?

If Dorothy was the blackmailer and she’s dead, the envelope with the Dulleses’ check is still in the post-office box. And maybe there are others.

“Josh? Is something wrong?” I guess I fell asleep in my sweater pile. Squinting at my nightstand clock, I realize it’s after midnight. Why is Josh calling? What’s the noise in the background? I press the phone closer to my ear and remove a piece of fuzz from my lip. “Honey? Are you home? Sorry, I fell asleep and I just-”

“I’m still at Bexter,” Josh interrupts. Hs voice is tense. Guarded. This is no late-night cuddle call. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes, what’s going on? It sounds like sirens. Are you okay?” A dozen disasters instantly present themselves, ugly little life-changing possibilities. Outside my window, white flakes glisten through the streetlights. It’s snowing again. “Are you okay?” I repeat. “Is Penny?”

“We’re fine. She’s home. Hold on.”

Muffled voices on the other end. Josh is talking to someone else. I close my eyes, straining, unsuccessfully, to hear what they’re saying. Whoever it is.

“You there, Charlie?”

“Yes, yes, of course. But hey, you’re scaring me. What’s…?”

“Alethia Espinosa. Dean of girls? Fell down the steps outside Garrison Hall.”

I picture Garrison, one of the newer classroom buildings, a three-story redbrick designed to look authentically colonial. The building houses mostly midlevel administrative offices. The steps are stone. And steep.

“Is she-? How did-?” My hand grips the phone, clamping it to my ear so I don’t miss anything. I hear cars, people talking, another siren. Josh is obviously outside.

“I don’t know,” Josh says. “We don’t know. It’s snowing again, the steps might have been slick. We suppose she was working late and fell as she was going home. She was out cold when the Head found her. Lucky he was there. Otherwise, I don’t know. She might have been there until morning. The EMTs are working on her now. And, Charlie? The Head also told me-Hang on, okay? Sorry.”

Am I too suspicious? I flop back onto my clothing-strewn bed, considering. That’s two “accidents” in less than two weeks. Dorothy. And now Alethia. Her best friend. And the Head found her? Why was he in Garrison? His office is in Main. The steps couldn’t be that icy. Yes, it’s starting to snow now. But barely. And the Bexter people are scrupulous about shoveling.

“Charlie?”

I sit up. “Yeah?”

“I had to go around the corner. Listen, sweetheart, there’s more. The Head told me there was apparently another phone call. Like the one Dorothy told us about.”

I start to tell him about Wen and Fiona, who must have taken my advice and reported their call. Then I decide-no. Let him tell me about it. Then I can tell him I already know. “Really? Who answered it?”

“Alethia.”

I made it to Bexter in record time. And I’ll be fine as long as no one makes me take off the ankle-length parka and substantial muffler that are hiding my sweatshirt and sweatpants. A stretchy wool cap camouflages my yanked-back hair. When Josh told me Alethia got a “Do you know where your children are?” phone call, I almost lost it. I insisted he tell the police, no matter what the Bexter hierarchy said.

Turned out, they’d already done that. And now the police are demanding everyone stay at Bexter for questioning, even though it’s the middle of the night. It’s frustrating that I can’t tell the police about the Dulleses’call, but no way I’m staying home. Annie agreed to stay overnight with Penny. At least I can sit with Josh until it’s his turn. If police are investigating, maybe this will all be solved.

We’d walked arm in arm down the echoing paneled hallway, deciding to wait for the police in Josh’s office. I can tell Josh is running on adrenaline. He tosses his parka on the couch, yanks open his tie, and for the millionth time, runs a hand though his still snow-damp hair. His jeans are soggy from the slush. He told me the dean of boys, Kent Bishop, is in the conference room already. Then they’re calling the new development consultant, Harrison something. Hope they won’t mind I’m here. But it’s too late if they do.

“Did they already interview the Head? What did the cops say about the phone calls?” Josh and I are nuking cups of tea in the ancient microwave he keeps on one of the bookshelves. I never come here without remembering this is where we first met. I’d appeared, without an appointment, searching for answers in what turned out to be a ruthless and deadly insider-trading scheme. I’d expected “Professor Gelston” to be a Mr. Chips geezer, wheezy and old-fashioned. Instead, I went weak-kneed, faced with my teen heartthrob Atticus Finch come to life.

“They’re pissed. I don’t mind telling you.” Josh hands me a ceramic mug, tea-bag tag hanging over the side.

He looks at me, perplexed. “Are you cold?”

“A little,” I fib. I can’t take off this parka. “Anyway, why’d the Head decide to spill it? And when?”

“Tonight. Before the EMTs got here. The Head was frantic. Panicked over the school’s reputation. As well as his own reputation, naturally. Harrison Ebling was there, as well. He was all bent out of shape about his fundraising plans. Thinks the publicity will ‘kill the take.’ What an idiot.”

“He must get a cut.” I dunk my tea bag, calculating.

Josh shrugs. “The bursar is worried parents will yank their kids. And then, goodbye tuition money. You see the pattern.”

“And so?”

“But finally I told them, forget about the money, it’ll be worse if we cover it up. What if it came out we’d all known about this? That we didn’t say anything? What if the students are in danger? Avoiding a problem is never the answer.”

I take a tentative sip of not-quite-hot-enough tea, proud of myself for successfully resisting the urge to say I told you so. Anyway, there’s something more important I need to tell him.

“Speaking of which,” I begin. “I got a call this morning.”

A sharp rap on the door. Without waiting for an answer, it’s pushed open by a uniformed Brookline police officer. He consults a spiral notebook. “Professor Gelston? I’m Officer Jeff Petrucelly. Will you come with me?”

Josh puts down his mug.

I can’t stand it. I hafta know. I take a chance, relying on my unlikely outfit for cover. “Officer? Could you tell me-”

Josh frowns. “I’m sorry, Officer. My fiancée.”

“Yes,” I continue, hurrying to pick up my sentence. “Professor Gelston’s fiancée. I just came to keep him company. But I just wondered, is there any news on Miss Espinosa’s condition? Did she say anything? About what happened to her? And were there any other footprints on the steps?”

“We’re still working this case, ma’am.” Officer Petrucelly flips his notebook closed and tucks it inside his jacket pocket. Then he looks at me, assessing. “Miss Espinosa is in critical condition. However, Miss McNally, any further information will have to come from our public-affairs officer.”

“Nothing. I’m just tired. And my tooth hurts.” I wince, not in pain, of course, but at my awkward attempts to reinforce my escalating deception. Problem is, if I tell Franklin what I was doing last night, I’ll unquestionably have to tell him everything about what’s happening at Bexter. I do trust Franklin to keep secrets. But these I promised not to tell.

“Sorry to hear that.” Franklin raises an eyebrow, not sounding that sorry. He turns back to his computer, leaning toward the screen, telegraphing his focus. I see my lists of VIN numbers on half the split screen and the NHTSA Web site on the other.

“Did I tell you Annie Vilardi got a new car?” I turn my desk chair toward him, trying to fill the uncomfortable silence, plowing through the tension. Hoping to lure Franklin back to normal. Maybe it’s only guilty me who’s uncomfortable. Maybe Franklin is just working. “Well, it’s new to her, at least. I guess her parents bought it from-”

“What’s the VIN? I assume you got it.”

“Yes indeedy. You bet I did. Girl reporter, always on the job. Do I get a big gold star?” I cross my legs, movie star, pretending to pat my hair into place. This is throwing Franklin an irresistible softball. When he teases me back, all will be well.

“Tell me the number. I’ll search the databases. You haven’t done that, I assume.”

Thud.

Franklin doesn’t even look up. Guilt washes over me again. I should have searched it myself. I forgot.

“I wrote it down here,” I say, putting my notebook on Franklin’s desk and pointing to the string of letters and numbers. He taps them into the computer, no comment.

Fine. I can be professional, too. I’m not required to share everything with my producer. I’m allowed to have a personal life. A private life. And if Franklin’s going to be so huffy and unpleasant, maybe I don’t feel so guilty about not warning him of Kevin’s New York offer. Maybe I’ll just go down to Kevin’s office now. Tell him yes, I’ll go to New York. Then Franklin can be dismissive to the new reporter.

“You got the number wrong.” Franklin swivels. He looks at me, his voice almost accusing. He points to the screen.

That’s weird. And unlikely.

“No, I didn’t,” I finally reply.

At least, I hope I didn’t. That’s just what I don’t need this morning. There’s no “wrong” in TV. I scoot my chair toward Franklin’s desk, squinting for a closer look at the monitor and get an uncomfortable thought. Because I was in a hurry, on the way to the Head’s party, I didn’t actually see the VIN. “I mean, I suppose Annie could have read it to me wrong.”

“Yes, well, whatever. This can’t be the VIN of Annie’s white Ombra.”

“Okay, fine, it’s not the VIN of Annie’s white Ombra.” If I’m wrong, which I suppose I could be, I might as well take the hit. Who cares, anyway? I can always go back and get the number again. But I’m curious. “How do you know it isn’t?”

Franklin begins to sort through the brown cardboard box of tape cassettes parked next to our television monitor. “Do you have the logs from the Rental Car King? Let me show you something on the video.”

“Can’t you just tell me, without making a big drama of the whole thing?”

Franklin ignores me. “The logs?”

I hand him the stapled sheets of paper, lists of numbers and descriptions typed by our current college-student intern. Ashley’s watched our undercover video, keeping track of what pictures correspond to the time codes electronically burned into the tape. Unlike counter numbers, which can be reset to zero-zero-zero with the push of a button, a tape’s time codes are always the same. That makes things easy to find.

Franklin slides the cassette into the viewer, then consults the log. “Zero one, fifteen, zero eight,” he mutters, twisting the fast-forward dial to find one hour, fifteen minutes and eight seconds.

The pictures speed by until Franklin whaps the yellow Pause button. The counter shows 01:15:00. He twists the machine’s fat black dial to click the seconds forward. At 01:15:06, the camera lens flares with a hit of sunshine, then auto-irises down. The hood of a white car wobbles into view. The camera lurches as Franklin walks closer to the vehicle. At 01:15:07, the lurching stops and the video settles into focus. At:08, it shows a white Ombra.

Franklin looks at me, gesturing dramatically at the picture. “Here’s the proof you’re wrong. This car, in the RCK rental lot, has the same VIN number you gave me. So you must have written down Annie’s VIN incorrectly.”

He pushes the red eject button. The tape pops from the machine. Franklin leaves it, half in, half out, as if it’s sticking out its tongue at me.

“Unless Annie’s new old car can be two places at once. Which it obviously can’t be.” He crosses his arms across his starched yellow oxford shirt. Waiting for my answer.

With one quick motion, I lean over and push the tape back into place. The motor whirs as the tape threads into position. I push Play, then Pause. Stare at the screen. A white Ombra. With the same VIN as Annie’s. Impossible. Impossible for a car to be two places at one time.

But actually, I know it is possible. And I know exactly how.

“Franko, listen. I mean, look.” I twist my chair around, and scoot back to my own computer. I punch up Google, and type in three words.

As soon as we find Annie’s car, we’ll know.

“There it is, on the end. By the yellow lines. See it?” Annie’s parked her Ombra in Bexter’s tree-lined student lot. Seniors go back a week earlier than the other kids. Which, today, is lucky for me and Franklin.

“I see it,” Franklin replies. He steers his Passat past a row of cars, each labeled with the elaborate gothic B of the Bexter parking stickers.

Garrison Hall is in the distance, which makes me wonder about Alethia. No word from Josh yet this morning about her. Last night’s police interview had been short, the cops divulging nothing. Afterward, we’d dumped the sweater and scarf mélange from my bed and collapsed together, exhausted, without even getting under the covers. We’re both going on about four hours’ sleep. But my Google search has given me quite an energy boost. I can be tired later.

Franklin pulls up beside Annie’s Ombra. He leaves the engine running, and we hop out into the cold afternoon, our words puffing white in the January chill.

“There’s no dealer sticker that I can see. And no dealer name tag around the license plate,” Franklin says, going around to the rear of the car. “Do you know where Annie’s parents purchased this?”

I tug lightly on the driver’s-side door. Locked. That means I can’t check the VIN on the metal plate attached inside. “Nope, no reason to ask. But let’s just see what Annie’s parents really got here. I’ll read you the dashboard VIN, okay? I can read that through the windshield. Ready?

“One. Y, B, one…” I begin. Seventeen digits. A one-of-a-kind combination. Supposedly unique. Like a car’s DNA.

But if my theory is right, and I bet a million dollars it is, at least two white Ombras have the same VIN. Because one of them is a fake. A copy. A clone. And it might be this one.

“Yup, the number’s the same,” Franklin confirms. “Weird.”

I lean against the hood of Franklin’s idling Passat, grateful for the engine’s heat coming through my winter coat. Branches rustle around us, a late-afternoon wind kicks up. Towering gray clouds invade the once-sunny sky. More snow coming.

“Not weird. Auto identity theft.” The three words I searched on Google.

“Auto identity theft?”

“Yup. One of the fastest-growing crimes in the country. Let’s say someone swipes a car, say, a white Ombra. All the crooks have to do is find another white Ombra. They copy its VIN number, make new VIN plates and replace the ones on the stolen car.”

I make a gesture like a magician with a wand. “Prestochango. The stolen car disappears. And if cops are looking for a stolen vehicle with a certain VIN, well, that VIN doesn’t exist anymore. The bad guys can easily sell the clone because the stolen VIN comes back as clear. Pure profit.”

Franklin leans into Annie’s windshield, peering at the VIN, then shakes his head. “You’re right. It’d be so easy. VINs are just numbers on metal plates. A snap to reproduce, a snap to put into place. Man.”

He opens the Passat door, slides into the driver’s seat and buzzes down the window. “Now what?”

I take a last look at Annie’s mystery car. Then I pull out my cell phone and click a camera shot of the VIN. And then a wide shot of the car. Good enough for now.

“Now what? Well, curiouser and curiouser,” I mutter to myself, considering. I knock the snow off my boots, one against the other, before I’m guilty of trailing deadly slush into Franklin’s always-pristine interior. Yanking on my seat belt, I turn to face him.

“Here’s ‘now what.’ Seems like someone has a cloned Ombra. It could be Annie. If her parents were sold a stolen car.”

“And if that’s true, she’s got a problem. You’ll tell her parents, right?”

“Of course. But there’s another possibility. Besides the unrepaired recalls and the missing air bags, it could be the Rental Car King-whether he knows it or not-is also renting stolen cars. I think it’s time to give him a call.”

I pull out my cell again.

“Either way, it’s blockbuster.” Franklin reaches a flattened palm in my direction.

I return his high five with a flourish and a smile. We’re back.

“Either way,” I say. And I punch in the phone number.