Drive Time

Chapter Fourteen

I’m trying to keep the grease on the red-printed brown paper bags of Chinese food away from my new camel coat as I dig for my keys to open the front door. Impossible. I bang on the door with my shoulder, but only produce a muffled thud.

“Hello? It’s me. Come to the door, okay? I’m home early, didn’t have to work late.”

I try to ring the tiny doorbell with my woolen elbow. Failure. If I put the bags down on our front steps, they’ll get wet from the snow and disintegrate before I get to the kitchen.

“Hel-lo?”

Botox responds from inside, meowing miserably as if she’s been abandoned forever. Which means-no one’s home?

I prop one stapled bag on the porch railing, and holding it with my chin, extract my keys and open the door. I push it open with one foot and one shoulder and, finally, step inside. Botox curls through my legs, insistent for attention. It’s probably more my shrimp than me.

“Anyone? Guys?”

The light in the living room is off. I flip it on. The dining room is dark, too. I flip it on. We always leave a light on in the kitchen to fool the burglars. Nothing is out of place, so it seems to have worked.

I deposit my fragrant, oil-spotted parcels on the kitchen counter. Maybe Josh and Penny are at a movie, like a normal family on a Friday night. Or out to dinner. I thought my coming home early would be a fun surprise. Now they’re out having the fun. And the surprise is that it’s only me with hot-and-sour soup for three.

I should have called first. Which reminds me.

I find my cell phone and check for messages, hoping for word from Borum. Nothing.

Dumping my work clothes into the dry-cleaning pile on the shelf in Josh’s closet, I steal a pair of his black sweatpants and my favorite Nantucket sweatshirt. Josh’s socks. I see Penny’s crayon drawing of us, pouffy-dressed bride and top-hatted groom, taped to Josh’s mirror. Our mirror. And there on the bedroom floor, where Josh tossed it this morning, is the Bexter fundraising report.

Suddenly solitude is a good thing. I grab the pamphlet, head downstairs to the kitchen and pry the lid from a plastic container of still-hot soup. Pulling up a stool to the counter, I open the report and look again at the circled names on the donations lists. Five names.

Fiona Rooseveldt Dulles on one page. Randall Cross Kindell on another. At least I know where to find those people.

Alice Hogarth is circled. Brooks Fryeburg. Lesley Claughton. Never heard of them.

Each one is a Bexter donor. Did they go to Bexter? Do they have children at Bexter? Why are they circled?

“Chinese food!” Penny’s voice echoes through the front door.

That girl has a terrific sense of smell.

“Sweets, are you home?” Josh’s voice.

The two arrive at the kitchen door. Each is carrying a red-printed brown paper bag.

By the time we stash my white containers of moo shu shrimp and egg rolls into the refrigerator, and put Josh and Penny’s containers of exactly the same items into the microwave, I’ve explained to Josh about my visit to Millie, and her suspicions, and the names on the fundraising report.

“You just took it?” Josh says.

“Millie wanted me to look into things. You’re missing the point,” I say, giving him a chopsticks poke in the ribs. At least he’s not annoyed I went to her house. “The more important question is, do you know any kids with the last name Hogarth?”

Josh shakes his head.

“Or Fryeburg? Claughton?”

“No, and no.”

“Rats,” I say, gingerly taking the cartons of now-steaming food out of the microwave. “How am I supposed to-Oh.”

I stop, hot food in midair. I’m a genius. “Does Bexter have a yearbook? Like, an archive of yearbooks?”

Josh takes the boxes from me. “Get with the private-school program, honey. The last thing Bexter wants is photos of their students easily accessible to nosy-reporter types like you. Bexter has the BEX.”

“Sounds like some kind of disease.”

“They take a group photo of each class, starting in first grade, at the awards ceremony in the spring,” Josh continues, ignoring my crack. “Then they put the photo into the BEX. Which, Miss Know-it-all, is a big leather photo album. It’s kept in the Head’s office. Are we eating in here or the dining room?”

“Perfect,” I say, pointing him to the dining room. “Then I definitely need to have a look at this BEX. Darn. Tomorrow’s Saturday. And the Head won’t be in till Monday, right? Why are journalists the only ones who work weekends?”

“Wrong again,” Josh says. “In fact, he’ll be at our faculty meeting tomorrow afternoon. Penny! Dinner!”

“So I’ll come to the meeting with you. Dutiful fiancée. I’ll smile and be enthusiastic, bat my eyelashes and say, golly, I’d love to know more about Bexter history. Maybe see who’s in Penny’s class.”

“Who’s in my class at Bexter, you mean?” Penny flops sideways into her dining room chair, her flannel shirt predictably inside out, tucking one bare foot underneath her. “I can tell you that. Annie says fourth grade rocks. There’s Tenley, and Sigrid, and Eve…”

The rest of the names get smothered by egg-roll chewing. Penny recently expanded her acceptable eating options from “white food only” to include anything fried or crunchy. Annie’s influence, apparently.

Josh looks at me, peering over his chopsticks. “I suppose it can’t hurt. But keep in mind that…” He pauses. Flickers a glance at the carb-occupied Penny. “‘He’ doesn’t know that I told you about the ‘things.’ And he doesn’t know about the other things.”

I nod. The Head doesn’t know Josh told me about the phone calls. And he doesn’t know about the extortion demands to the Dulleses and the Kindells.

“I’ll think of something by tomorrow,” I say.

“I hate to watch our newscast.” I’m obsessed with TV news, can’t live without it, but too often I cringe when I actually see it. Leaning back into the couch cushions, I wave one socked toe at the screen. “Can’t anyone write? Why is everything alliteration? And look at that outfit. What’s Tia thinking, wearing that jacket? There’s no cleavage in journalism.”

Josh props his legs on the coffee table, scooting the fortune-cookie wrappers out of the way. He puts one arm around me and draws me nearer, snuggling, burying my face into his sweater. I feel a kiss on the top of my head.

“We’re having a ‘Friday-night couch date,’ as you always put it,” Josh says into my hair. “Penny’s upstairs. How about you try to relax. Instead of watching the eleven o’clock news, we’ll put in a movie. And then you can fall asleep in the middle of it, as usual, and forget about the-”

“Give me the clicker.” I wrest myself away from him and hold out my hand, eyes glued to the screen. “Really. I missed what they said. I have to play it again.”

“No, you don’t,” Josh says, holding the remote above my head and out of reach. “I promise, whatever you missed will be in the paper tomorrow morning.”

“Josh.” I can hear the tension in my voice. Josh apparently can hear it, too. He hands me the remote.

I push Rewind-thank goodness for TiVo-and our otherwise reasonably dressed anchor starts from the beginning again. Tia’s on camera, reading the prompter. I’d only heard part of what she said, but even that was enough to rev my fear level into high. Even though the video is going backward, I can read the garish black-and-red animated graphic behind her: Carjacking: Cause for Alarm.

I push Play.

“Police are asking for witnesses in an apparent carjacking and murder in the South End this afternoon,” Tia intones. The graphic changes to a live shot of a sleekly serious African-American woman, bundled against the cold in a red hooded parka with our 3-in-a-circle logo embroidered on the front. I can’t tell where she is-it’s pitch-dark outside, and the one blasting spotlight illuminates only her. She could be anywhere. “Our reporter Elizabeth Whittemore is live now at Boston police headquarters with the latest. Liz?”

Liz nods, all business, as her image comes full screen. “Well, I can tell you, Tia, right now police are working two shocking crime scenes. And sources tell me they suspect those two events will turn out to be one deadly crime. Let me show you now, this is video you saw breaking first on Channel 3…”

The screen switches to the same aerial pictures Franklin and I saw come into ENG Receive.

“…a car fire burns out of control in an East Boston parking lot. Police this afternoon are baffled because they find no victim in the fiery conflagration.”

“What’s this about, honey?” Josh asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I push Pause, freezing the flames into place and stopping Liz in midsentence. I turn to Josh. “I haven’t told you about this yet, I was going to, but anyway, this video is from this afternoon. That’s a blue Mustang on fire. And Michael Borum didn’t answer the phone this afternoon, and-” I shake my head. “I’ll tell you the rest in a minute. I need to see this.”

I push Play. The camera is back on Liz.

“Now, some hours later, we’re told, police get a call from a worried South End resident. They report a body in the bushes behind a South End brownstone. Now, I can tell you, this area is known to police for its high crime stats. Two shootings in the same block within the past two weeks. Those, sources tell me, were drug related. Let’s show you the video we shot moments ago of the scene where police say the victim was found.”

Nighttime. Streetlights illuminate some narrow apartment-lined street, the camera swaying as the photographer walks toward a barrier of cops and crime-scene tape. The front of the brownstone flashes into view as the camera light blasts on. And I’ve been there before.

“Damn,” I whisper.

“What?” Josh says.

“One more sec,” I say, never taking my eyes from the screen.

“Police are not allowing us into the parking lot behind this building, that’s where they suspect person or persons still unknown apparently shot and, what we understand, killed the victim. Crime-scene techs are still examining the area. The victim’s name is being withheld pending notification of next of kin, but I can tell you, residents here are saying he is the owner of that fiery blue Mustang we showed you earlier. Bottom line, this investigation is still a wide-open-”

The camera comes back to Liz, who suddenly looks distracted, then triumphant. “Stand by, Tia. I see Deputy Police Superintendent Frances Rivera arriving here at headquarters. If you’ll bear with me for one moment. Deputy? Liz Whittemore from Channel 3? We’re on live now and…”

“Fran Rivera’s coming in, this time of night?” I say. “This must be huge.”

“Why?”

“One more second.”

Liz walks out of the light. A fraction of a second later, she’s back in the frame. Next to her is a Valkyrie in a Boston cop’s uniform. Behind her back, cops call Frances Rivera “the Goddess.” To her face, if they know what’s good for them, they call her “ma’am.” Deputy Rivera towers over Liz. She adjusts her patent-billed hat, which on her somehow looks chic, then looks at her watch. She murmurs something into the radio Velcroed to her shoulder.

Liz is unclipping the tiny microphone from her Channel 3 parka.

“Go Liz,” I say. I stop, remembering why I’m watching. Michael Borum may be dead. Someone who owned a blue Mustang certainly is.

“Deputy Rivera, thanks for joining us. What can you tell us about this situation?” Liz moves the mic toward the officer, waiting for her reply.

“At approximately 1830 hours, Area B officers responded to an anonymous call of a body found in the vicinity of Welkin and Ott Streets. Upon arriving at that address, a Boston police officer discovered one apparent victim. Male. That’s the extent of what we can release at this time.”

“We know the medical examiner was on the scene at the brownstone. Can you confirm the victim is dead?” Liz persists. “Do you have a cause of death?”

“We are not releasing any more information at this time, Liz.” Rivera, her posture rigid and her voice tough and final, obviously thinks this interview is over. She takes one step, putting her face half in darkness.

But Liz, well trained in the tactics of local news and unwilling to let an exclusive interview end so soon, holds on to Rivera’s arm and draws her back into the light. “Can you confirm, though, that the incident in the South End is connected with this afternoon’s car fire in that East Boston parking lot? Did the victim own that car? Is this a carjacking gone wrong?”

“No comment,” Rivera says. Her tone is chillier than the January night.

Liz lets go. Rivera disappears into the darkness.

“And there you have it.” Liz is wrapping up her live shot with a final recap. But I don’t wait to hear the rest. I click off the television and stare at the blank screen.

Liz had a good news night. She scored a big exclusive. She can go home happy.

Me, on the other hand? Not such good news. Has our search for a big story somehow resulted in Michael Borum’s death?

I instantly call Franklin. Even over the phone, I can tell he’s concerned. We’re both trying to stay calm.

I’m failing. Josh heads upstairs, officially ending our couch date.

“Are you kidding me?” I say, my voice rising. “One blue Mustang, demolished. One blue Mustang owner, dead. One plus one equals murder. Even I can do that math.”

Franklin sighs. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I even tried calling him again. Still no answer. But let’s say it is Michael Borum, his car. What we don’t have-”

“I know,” I interrupt. “We don’t have a connection between what happened today and the valet parking thing.”

“I can hear the cops now,” Franklin says. “They’ll say, ‘It’s a Mustang.’ They’ll remind everyone Borum lived near the projects. That’s their ‘one plus one.’ Shiny car plus urban gang thugs equals carjacking. They’ll figure when the jackers heard Borum was dead, they ditched the car and torched it so they couldn’t be connected. Actually, the cops might have a point.”

I stare across the living room, seeing nothing, trying to sort out the whys and what-ifs. Franklin must be doing the same thing at his place. For a few moments, there’s only the hum of our phone connection. Music from upstairs. Running water. Everyone’s getting ready for bed. Except me.

“Declan Ross,” I say.

“He didn’t do it,” Franklin says. “Not even possible. He doesn’t even know Michael Borum’s car was the one that ran him off the road.” He pauses. “I mean, did he? What if he found out about the car? Like we did. And decided to do something about it.”

“I suppose.” I play out the scene in my head, closing my eyes to envision a scenario where Declan Ross turns from victim to murderer. “But hunting down and killing someone over a car accident in a rental car? Killing someone to get car insurance money? Seems, well, counterproductive. To say the least.”

“Maybe the killing part was an accident,” Franklin says. “He was awfully angry in that interview, remember, Charlotte? Said someone should ‘hunt that guy down,’or something along those lines. Remember, we don’t really know anything about Declan Ross.”

Declan Ross rented a car from the Rental Car King. If our theory is correct, he was forced off the road by someone driving Michael Borum’s car. And it couldn’t have been Michael Borum. Was someone trying to kill Declan Ross? Frame Borum for the “accident”?

“I’m trying to figure out where Borum fits,” I say slowly. “Let’s go back to square one. Say he’s completely innocent. He just happened to park his car in the wrong valet parking lot. The bad guys take his car and don’t get back in time. He’s angry, but doesn’t suspect anything. So later, if the bad guys killed him, swiped his car and set it on fire…why? They could easily find him, of course. All they’d have to do was copy his personal info, from his registration and insurance stuff, when they took the VIN. But why kill him? Why Borum?”

“To cover up,” Franklin says.

“But why him?” This is the puzzle piece I can’t click into place. “Our theory is that they’re swiping VINs-”

“And air bags.”

“And air bags, from desirable cars that come into valet parking. It’s quiet, quick and untraceable. The whole point, the whole key that makes their scheme work, is that they don’t call attention to themselves.”

“So you’re thinking-it was a carjacking? And Borum was once again in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

“I don’t know, Franko. And I don’t know how to find out. And what do we do about Declan Ross?”

Silence again.

“You know what I think?” I have an idea. “We need to find something that connects Michael Borum and his car to the VIN scheme. I think we’ve got to find that blue Mustang they’re selling on the radio. See if it has Borum’s VIN. Did you get that phone number from WWXI?”

“I called this afternoon, but it was after five. Story of our lives, I got an answering machine. Left a message, but I predict no one calls me back until Monday. No one works on weekends except-”

There’s a click on the phone.

“Charlie?” Franklin says. “I think someone’s calling you.”

The call-waiting click interrupts again.

We both pause. What if this is Michael Borum? Safely home, Mustang untouched, saying he’d been out of town, and just watched the news.

“I’ll call you back,” I say. “If it’s him.”

Whoever was calling hangs up before I can get there. No message. Of course, someone could have been calling Josh, since this is his house. Now, star 69 to the rescue.

“The number of your last incoming call was…” I’m too impatient to get up and get some paper, so my pencil is poised over a New Yorker I grabbed from the coffee table. The techno-voice begins to recite the phone number of the person who called. After I hear the area code, I put down the pencil and the magazine. I don’t need to write anything. I already know this number by heart.

Mom.

I flop my head against the back of the couch, deflated. The air, and the hope, gone out of me. I guess I had really believed it was going to be Michael Borum.

A flare of worry. Why would Mom be calling me? It’s past midnight. What can’t wait until morning? What if-

I’m not even finished with my own thoughts as I punch in her phone number, curling myself up into a corner of the couch. I pluck the fringe on a plaid throw pillow. She has to die someday, I think, and if she has bad news of some kind, maybe she’s waiting until now to tell me. Or maybe it’s Ethan. Maybe something is wrong with her new husband.

“Mom?” I say, even before I hear the second syllable of her “hello.” “It’s me. What’s wrong?”

“Well. Charlotte. Where have you been? And what have you been doing?” Mom, ignoring my question, sounds like she’s interrogating fifteen-year-old me after some teenage transgression. I hardly ever transgressed, since there wasn’t much transgression territory for geeks and bookworms. I still recognize the tone.

“Nowhere. And nothing.” The time-honored teenage answer comes out before I can stop myself. I regroup, attempting to find a response befitting a forty-seven-year-old. “Is everything okay?”

“I’ve been leaving messages for you hour after hour,” Mom says, ignoring my question again. “Miss Tolliver from the Paramount Hotel has called me several times, wondering why you’re not contacting her about your wedding choices. I told her you were busy, but, Charlotte, it’s somewhat embarrassing. She told me their desirable dates are already being booked. And now there are no openings available until next year. Unless there are cancellations, of course. Honestly. Most girls, in times like this, would-”

“Mom? It’s after midnight. You’re freaking me out a little here.”

“Well, it’s only a little after eleven here in Chicago, dear,” she replies. “Why on earth didn’t you call me back? I finally decided to call Josh to track down where you were. Now I know.”

Forty-seven, I chant silently. I’m forty-seven and I can be anywhere I want. I go for a triple play: cease-fire, pacification and childhood nicknames.

“I’m so sorry, Mamacita. You’re so right, I have been busy, and thank you for talking with Miss Tolliver. I promise I’ll call her. But messages? Are you sure you called the right number? I’ve checked my cell, several times in fact, and there’s no message from you.”

“Your cell? I never called your cell phone,” she interrupts. “I called your home, of course. Isn’t that where you live?”

What’s that line about trying to hold two opposing thoughts in your head at the same time? I wonder after Mom and I promise to talk soon, and finally say goodnight. Right now, I’m hoping there are more messages than Mom’s on my home phone. At the same time, I’m hoping there aren’t.

Another pitfall of trying to live in two places at one time. Out of habit, I gave Michael Borum my cell number, my office number and my home number. I never gave him Josh’s number.

I can’t punch the codes in fast enough. “You have five new messages,” the flat computer voice reports.

Message from Mom. Delete. Another message from Mom. Delete.

“Message three. Received today at 7:00 a.m.,” the voice drones.

From the first syllable, I know this one’s not from my mother.

“Charlie, this is Michael Borum. It’s Friday morning, early, I’m figuring you’re home. Listen, I just got a registry citation in the mail. For blowing the tolls. It’s bull. Those valet parkers are riding around in people’s cars. I’m getting my air bags checked, then I’m telling those jerks I know exactly what they’re doing. I’m not paying this ticket. They are. Good luck with your story.”

And he hangs up. I sit, motionless, still holding the phone to my ear.

He just couldn’t keep a secret.