Drive Time

Chapter Ten

Trying to channel Mike Wallace, I step onto the journalism tightrope. Here’s where I’m balancing our quest for a good story with my guilt-ridden reluctance to throw a Bexter bigwig under the bus. The result? I’m afraid the Rental Car King may end up with tread marks.

Holding up my mirrored compact between me and Randall Kindell, I pretend to check my lipstick so I don’t have to chitchat with him. Small talk, especially right before a potentially contentious interview, is impossible. You can’t be nice, because you’re about to nail someone. You can’t be aggressive, because the interviewee might walk out before you get the good stuff. The old “checking my makeup” stall always works. Men never interrupt it.

Franklin is adjusting the tiny lavalier microphone on Kindell’s pin-striped jacket, tucking the thin black cord behind his lapel. J.T. clicks a cassette tape into his camera and twists his molded earpiece tighter into place. He’s ready.

We’ve rigged up a portable tape player on a round walnut side table next to me. Someone familiar with television interviews would get the instant message there was trouble ahead. If someone’s going to show you video and have a photographer tape your reactions, you probably will not be happy with what’s on the screen. Kindell, however, seems unfazed.

Kindell had surprised us by instantly and amicably agreeing to our request this afternoon for an on-camera interview at the Rental Car King office. I used my best “it’s a consumer-education story and it will help the public” pitch. Within an hour, J.T., Franklin and I had packed up our portable tape player, our pile of video logs, our biggest light kit and all our story ammunition, piled into the car and arrived at RCK. Ready for battle.

Kelsey Kindell, in a lacquered updo and op art fingernails, greeted us from behind her counter. At least, she greeted J.T. Franklin and I were apparently invisible.

She led us down a narrow fluorescent-lighted hallway and unlocked a gray metal door. A brass nameplate on it announced President. She gestured us inside with her clanking ring of keys.

“I didn’t know you were from TV before.” She checked out J.T. more brazenly than Emily Post would approve of, settling a hand on one cocked hip. “Do you guys ever need, like, interns?”

“In here?” I had interrupted the impromptu job interview, gesturing J.T. and Franklin inside to save them from having to answer. Then I stopped myself from judging a book by its cover.

“Sure,” I told her. “But only for college credit.”

She shrugged. End of job interview. “My uncle says he’ll be with you in five.”

The Rental Car King’s throne room pays homage to his own good-guy credentials. Curliqued “Man of the Year” plaques from several local chambers of commerce, gilt trophies flanked with generic winged goddesses, chunks of crystal perched on ebony holders. A sleek model of a flashy convertible emblazoned RCK-20 Years of YES. Silver-plated frames display the stubby, broad-shouldered Kindell in smiling foursomes; golf outfits, tennis outfits, dinner jackets. Kindell, the curls of his almost comb-over hidden by a baseball cap, surrounded by grinning kids with bats and balls.

I’m about to throw him a curve.

He thinks-because that’s what I told him-this is an interview about the importance of repairing recalled cars. He thinks-because that’s what I told him-that we’re interviewing him because of his stature in the car-rental field. But after I pitch him those puffballs, we’re going to hit him with our video. Show him Annie’s car and then the one in his own lot with the same VIN. If he’s truly surprised, he should try to help us with our investigation. That would be good.

If he’s angry and defensive, that means he might be involved. That would be good.

He might even throw us out. That would be even better. We’ll have the whole thing on video.

Ambush interviews like this are not my favorite. But they’re effective. Revealing. And always great television.

I close my compact, tuck it under my thigh in case I need it later and turn to J.T.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Rolling,” J.T. replies.

“You’re one hundred percent certain these numbers are correct? Beyond a shadow of a doubt?” Kindell leans back in his chair, staring at the still-frame of video on the monitor. It’s a close-up of Annie’s VIN. We transferred my very successful cell phone snapshots to tape so we could display RCK’s white Ombra and Annie’s white Ombra side by side. It’s irrefutable.

“We checked the numbers again this morning,” I reply. J.T. is still rolling, of course, and we got the perfect images of Kindell’s face as I showed our evidence ten minutes into the interview. First he was baffled. Then calculating. Of course, I’m not revealing Annie’s name. “We confirmed the private car. And the one in your parking lot. It’s still there, in fact. You can check for yourself.”

I glance at Franklin, who’s sitting off to the side, out of Kindell’s view. He makes a surreptitious motion, slam dunk.

“So, Mr. Kindell? What’s your reaction to that?” I ask. “And to the unrepaired recalls we found in your cars? And to the missing air bags?”

I wait while Kindell mulls my tricky-to-answer questions, deepening the already-etched lines across his forehead and along his boxer’s nose. I’m patient.

Kindell holds up a hand. “Let’s turn off the camera.”

But two can play this game.

“No, I’m sorry, Mr. Kindell. I’d like to get your reaction on camera.” If he doesn’t want to talk, what he doesn’t want to say is exactly what I want to hear. I’ve got the power of videotape and I’m not giving it up. “These are critical questions. And we need your answers.”

Kindell smiles. He nods, acquiescing. “I understand. The question again?”

That’s the boldest move I’ve seen in a while. He’s taking me on?

Franklin raises his eyebrows. I feel J.T. shift position.

“Rolling on a two shot,” he murmurs from behind me, letting me know I’m also in his picture. Okay, rental-car king. You’re up.

“What’s your reaction to the missing air bags and unrepaired recalls?” I ask again.

The silence is so profound, I can almost hear Kindell thinking. He crosses one leg over the other. One black wingtip taps, gently.

Suddenly, he sits up straight, planting his feet on the floor. He points to me.

“Miss McNally, you’re right. I’ve got a problem. Thank you for bringing it to my attention. Be assured, I’m going to take care of it.”

I’d been expecting Mr. Defensive. Big bluster, sputtering derision and instant dismissal. What I’m getting is “good guy”?

“That’s great, Mr. Kindell. How will you-”

“First,” he interrupts me, holding up one index finger. “First, I’m instantly requiring my employees to check all our cars to make sure there are no unrepaired recalls. We do our best to follow up when we get notifications from the manufacturers, but sometimes things fall through the cracks. Be assured, by this time day after tomorrow, not one car on my lot will have an open recall. You have my word on that.”

I hear the zoom of J.T.’s camera motor. He’s going in for a close-up. J.T.’s skeptical of instant capitulation. I am, too. It’s an old trick designed to get reporters to go away and forget to follow up. Not gonna happen here. I’m not going to “be assured” of anything just yet.

“In addition, I’m going to contact my colleagues in the business. Inform them of the recall situation and urge them to do the necessary repairs of their inventories. If it’s happening here, it’s happening elsewhere.”

He pauses, clearing his throat.

“Finally, I run a clean business. There’s no VIN cloning or air bag swiping around here. I’d know it.”

A knock at the door. It half opens. Kelsey’s head appears around the edge.

“Oh, sorry,” she says. “Uncle Randall? You wanted me to remind you when it was five o’clock.”

“Thank you, Kelsey. We’re fine.” Kindell waves her away, then shrugs at me. “Just a precaution. However. As I said, no VIN cloning. No air bag stealing. If my cars have been harmed? I’m a victim, too. I’ll do whatever it takes to find the culprits.”

He stops, jaw set, his eyes locked on mine. As if daring me to question his sincerity.

“That answer your questions?” he says.

He’s certainly persuasive. And seems sincere. And I’m surprised to realize that I’m, tentatively at least, won over. If he’s guilty, why would he be this helpful? Our investigation won’t stop here, that’s for sure. Time to test the limits of his helpfulness. And I know how to do it.

“Terrific,” I say. I’ll buy his version of the truth. For now, at least. “And we’ll certainly include that in our story. But there is one additional way you can help. Can you give us all the past year’s rental agreements for the white Ombra? And also for the car J.T. and I rented?”

“Not a problem,” he says. “We done with the interview?”

“What is it you want me to see?” I ask. As J.T. packs up his gear and Franklin heads off with a foot-dragging Kelsey to copy rental agreements, Randall Kindell said he “wanted to show me something” in the company garage. After I agreed, I followed him out the back door and into a separate building in the rear. He buzzed open double-wide doors, flicked on a series of long fluorescent lights and gestured me into the concrete-walled space. Two cars are up on lifts, two others parked side by side in a bay, but the place is deserted. Chilly. Unlike the impeccably organized Power House, the RCK mechanic shop is layered with oil and gas and dirt and grease. Tall stacks of tires form towering rubber columns in every corner. Toolboxes, lids left open, reveal expanding drawers full of bolts and screws and fuses.

Kindell hasn’t said a word. J.T. and Franklin will be waiting, so if Kindell is setting me up for a deadly attack, he’s not going to get away with it. Although justice for the bad guy won’t matter if I’m conked to death with a lug wrench or something.

“Mr. Kindell? Again, what is it you want to show me? Franklin and J.T. are going to be looking for me.”

“There’s nothing to see. I just needed a private word with you.” Kindell, wearing just his suit, no overcoat, is barely as tall as I am, but now I decide he’s almost handsome in a craggy, aging-athlete sort of way. He leans against one of the parked cars, looking across at me. “I helped you. Now you help me.”

I lean against the other car, drawing my coat closer around me. The ceiling lights buzz and crackle, gradually whirring into a blue-white glow, one tube at a time. One flickers, knifing Kindell’s face into moving shadows.

“Help you? Help you-what?”

“I got a phone call. At home. Yesterday. From someone who mentioned my daughter, Nancy. He-or she-” Kindell stops, then looks down at the oil-spotted concrete floor. “Forget it. It’s probably nothing.”

He looks up. He’s made a decision. He stands up straight. “Never mind.”

No way.

“Does Nancy go to Bexter Academy?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“And did the caller indicate there’s some sort of scandal at Bexter? Drugs?”

Kindell’s expression morphs from shock, to relief, to anger. He hesitates, then plunges in. “Yes. Exactly. Listen. I went to Bexter, got a scholarship, years and years ago. Bexter is the best there is. That’s why my wife and I sent Nancy there. Least I could do is give back, so I try to donate what I can. But aren’t they watching the kids? Now some stranger tells me there are drugs at Bexter? Nancy’s fourteen!”

“Have you told the police?” I’m all too certain what his answer will be. But maybe someone has some sense.

“No.”

Of course. I wish I could ask if Nancy Kindell knows Lexie and Talbott Dulles. And the timing of this means the blackmailer couldn’t possibly be Dorothy Wirt.

“The caller said if I didn’t-” He stops.

“Pay? Send a money order to a post-office box?”

“How do you know that?” Kindell is frowning, looking at me through squinted eyes. “The voice said I had a week.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Kindell. And I know you’ll understand why I can’t tell you all I know. I’ve been asked to keep it confidential. And perhaps this will reassure you, too. About my ability to keep secrets. But extortion, blackmail, drugs at Bexter? It’s a matter for the police, it really is. And I can’t say any more about this, but I’m telling you…”

I pause, making sure he understands I’m trying to say something without actually saying it. “I’m telling you, if you did call the police? They’d understand why. And honestly, I’m so sorry. But there’s nothing I can do.”

Kindell blinks, considering. His gold wedding band glints as he runs a hand across the sleek hood of the car. Then does it again.

“I hear you,” he finally says. “But the police are going to have to figure out this thing without my help. I’m keeping Nancy-and my wife-out of it.”

“Drugs? At Bexter?” Josh rolls over, propping up his head on one hand. “Of course. It’s a school. No place is immune. But some huge scandal?”

Josh shrugs. The blanket slides away, revealing bare chest and the drawstring of his plaid flannel pants. We’re in bed earlier than usual. And it’s not just the result of last night’s late-night Bexter catastrophe. Penny’s sleeping over at Annie’s and we’re alone. Botox is curled up, a calico puff at the end of the bed. She’s pretending we’re not here.

I turn over, facing Josh. It’s all I can do not to reach out one hand and postpone the conversation. Maybe give a little tug at that drawstring. Resolute, I yank the pale blue blanket up to my chin. He yanks it down. I yank it back up.

“Don’t try to distract me,” I instruct. Although it’s too late. I’m already wavering. “First, Wen and Fiona Dulles. And now Randall Kindell. You still promise not to tell, right? I said I’d keep their calls secret. And now I’m feeling guilty even telling you. But demanding money? That’s new, isn’t it? Did Dorothy say anything about a blackmail demand?”

Josh rolls his eyes, then reaches to yank down the blanket again. I pull it up. Determined to stay on track. “The police are investigating. Let’s let them investigate.”

“Or Alethia?” I’m ignoring him. I just had a thought. “Did her caller say anything about money? It could be the police don’t even know about the extortion. Hey. Speaking of Alethia. Is there news? Has Alethia been able to tell the police anything about her fall?”

“Nope. She’s sedated. Sleeping. I hear they think she’ll come out of it. But, honey? Nothing is going to happen between now and tomorrow. So, I say we…”

He creeps his hand toward the blanket. I smack it to a halt.

“So do you know Lexie and Tal Dulles? And Nancy Kindell? Do you think there’s a drug thing going on? Have you heard anything? Would you?”

“Honey, as I said. Drugs in school? I wouldn’t be shocked. Still, Nancy Kindell? The Dulles kids? I wouldn’t have thought so. Tal’s a top senior, plays football. Would I know if kids were smoking dope behind the athletics shed? Probably not. Are kids falling asleep in class? Strung out like crystal-meth users? Not that I know of, at least.”

With a sigh, I flop down on my back. “I wish they’d all just tell the police, you know? I’m tired of keeping secrets. I can barely remember who knows what.”

“I know something secret,” Josh says. He reaches out for the blanket again, and begins to pull it, inch by inch, away from me. “I know how to be two places at once.”

The phone rings. Jangling. Botox leaps from her spot on the bed. Josh pulls the entire blanket off the bed and tosses it over the phone. It rings again, muffled.

“Hey!” I yelp, grabbing the blue-striped sheet. I scramble after the blanket, naked, laughing, pawing for the phone. “It might be Penny, you know? Hello?”

Listening to the voice on the other end, I slowly wrap the sheet around me, tucking in a corner to keep the fabric in place.

“I’ll let you tell Josh,” I say. I hand him the phone. “It’s the Head. About Alethia.”

The room stills as Josh puts the receiver to his ear. I know he’s hearing what Byron Forrestal just told me. Alethia’s in a coma. She’s not coming out of it. She’s dying. Her family is bringing in her priest. It’s over.

I watch Josh’s face go solemn. He’s murmuring into the phone.

Sitting on the side of the bed, I tuck the sheet more tightly around me. Maybe the cops are buying the accident theory. But I’m not. Not about Alethia. And not about Dorothy.