Drive Time

Chapter Seventeen

“I’m not press. I’m family.” I’m facing an expanse of government-issue wood and metal, the front desk in the foyer of the district attorney’s office. And I’ve suddenly hit the wall.

The wall in this case is the flame-haired, lip-liner-addicted, fashion-challenged receptionist of the D.A.’s office. Her green plastic nameplate says Monica Beales. Her demeanor says go away.

Monica flips the tiny microphone on her Time-Life operator contraption up over her head. Looks at me through disdaining eyes.

“You’re Charlie McNally, Channel 3. Correct? I remember you from before.” The Gorgon taps an acrylic nail on the laminated press pass I’ve placed in front of her. “Unless you quit your job since your last story about our office? And you’re somehow hanging on to your credentials?”

“No, I still work at Channel 3, of course. But you can understand this is a different situation. It’s personal,” I say, making my eyes plead, which isn’t that difficult since I’m verging on frantic. Attempting to elicit some sisterly empathy, I hold up my engagement ring, fluttering my fingers in the time-honored notice-my-diamond gesture. “Like I said, my fiancé, Professor Joshua Gelston, hasn’t answered his cell phone. I’ve been calling and calling. And I know he’s here. And I need to know if he’s okay. What’s happening. If he needs a lawyer.”

“You’re a reporter. You’re press. Press is press,” Monica says. Reciting the gospel according to bureaucrats. “Family is family. But you’re not family. You’re press.”

“I understand, I really do. And I know you’re doing your job.” Gag. “But in this case-”

She’s not going to let me finish my sentence. One imperious finger points me to the yellowing arrangement of earth-toned seventies-era chairs and pockmarked coffee table in to one side of the foyer. The wall is covered with a time-travel array of former district attorneys. Their photographs evolve from sepia-toned scions with pince-nez glasses and high white collars to power-suited pinstripes and designer ties. All men, I can’t help but notice. The recently imprisoned Oscar Ortega’s photo has been replaced, as if the disgraced ex-DA never existed, by a stern-faced Jeremiah Soroff.

Although her previous boss Oscar Ortega was ousted, Monica remains at her post. And apparently she blames me for Ortega’s demise. Hey, I didn’t corrupt the justice system. I just reported on the guy who did. That hardly makes it my bad.

“Take a seat,” she commands. “I’ll notify the press secretary you’re here.”

“But I don’t want the press secretary. I’m not working on a news story. Listen, Monica, I’m only wondering if-”

“Or you can call her later, for an update,” she says. She flips her microphone thing back into place. Lights on the phone console begin blinking green. “I’m on duty till five.”

I’ve lost this round. But I’m not defeated.

“I’m staying here. Until Josh is finished. Do you know how long it’ll be? He’ll have to come out this way, right?” I’m edging toward the tired-looking couch, proving I’m being obedient, but still digging for information.

“Sorry.” She aims a finger at one of the green lights, and punches down the button. I’m dismissed.

At least Franklin had good news. After unsuccessfully trying Josh again, Franklin was the second call I’d made from the makeshift office I’ve set up on the D.A.’s sprung-cushioned couch. Coat thrown across one corner. Tote bag open. Laptop humming on the scarred coffee table. Notebook and pencil out. Cell phone to my ear. From time to time, harried-looking people wearing clacking necklaces of laminated badges scurry by. With practiced I-don’t-want-to-get-involved attitudes, they entirely ignore the worried woman in black pants, black sweater and plaid muffler who’s spread out in their waiting room. Fine. Today I’d rather not be recognized.

Josh is still not answering his cell. I just hope he’s not in one.

According to Franklin, Kevin’s staying with the program. Franklin, J.T. and I are set to hit the Longmore Hotel valet parkers again tonight. Franklin is playing phone tag with Saskia about the blue Mustang and he’s tracking down the owner of the valet-parking company. He says BeaconValet is apparently set up as some sort of elaborate trust designed to obscure the actual owner’s name. Or names. The trust designers might say it’s to “protect” the actual owners’names. I would disagree. But Franklin will figure it out.

I try Josh again. No answer. Next, Toni DuShane, the station’s lawyer. I land in voice mail, story of my life. I punch out a text message. CHARLIE MC. CALL ASAP. Seconds later, my phone rings. It’s not the Charlie’s Angels ring. It’s Toni.

“Hey, sister. What’s happening?”

Sistah, she says. Toni’s Harvard Law, out of Roxbury High, by way of a stint as a fashion model, her career capped by an award-winning cover on Essence. Now, her street-corner accent is long gone, except when she resurrects it to charm her pals or win over jurors. She’s what they call a “green-light” lawyer because she works to get our stories on TV, not keep them off. We bonded many years ago over the First Amendment and scotch on the rocks. The hard stuff is a little more risky as we both now push fifty. We’re both still as devoted to the First Amendment. She and Maysie are shopping for wedding outfits.

In the briefest possible way, trying to avoid commentary about Bexter’s patrician hierarchy and leaving out the Dulles and Kindell phone calls completely, I tell Toni what I know. I keep my voice low to keep Monica from eavesdropping as I give Toni the bullet points.

“And doesn’t that seem odd?” I finish my recitation with an all-encompassing question. To me, the whole idea that Josh is being questioned is odd.

I hear a dismissive snort from Toni’s end of the line. “Well, not only odd. It’s absurd. To send your own employees into the unholy maw of the shiny new district attorney’s office? Without a lawyer?” She pauses, and I hear someone’s phone ringing in the background. “No one should ever, ever talk to the police without a lawyer. I mean, it’s not only in the movies that you see innocent people being framed. Or getting so nervous they say something they shouldn’t. Or saying something that makes them a prime suspect. Rule one, sister. If there’s a murder investigation? Shut the heck up.”

“I know, I know,” I say, looking at my watch. “He’s been in there for hours. That’s why I’m calling you, of course. Can you get over here? Call them, or something?”

“Oh, kiddo, I’m so sorry. I’m in court. The clerk’s calling our case. Listen. I have two minutes. Let me ask you something. Go with me, here, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Do they think Josh is guilty? Why?”

Exactly what I’ve been wondering. Obviously Josh is not a murderer. So why is he now being kept behind closed doors in the highest law enforcement office in the county? I glance at Monica. She’s stolidly ignoring me.

“Why do they think he’s-well, they don’t. As far as I know.” I’m fully whispering now, hiding my mouth behind my hand. Maybe Monica is only pretending to ignore me. “They’re just, what was it Pratt said? Checking everyone’s whereabouts the night of the, um, deaths.”

“Precisely,” Toni says. “It’s all about alibis. So? Does Josh have one?”

I turn my back to receptionist Monica, my shoulders hunched and head down, facing the lint-filled inside corner of the mustardy couch. My two minutes with Toni are almost up.

“Well, yeah. Listen. No. I guess he, really, doesn’t have an alibi. Because see, on the night that-”

“Charlie, hon, I’m so sorry,” Toni breaks in. “They’re calling me. Listen, quickly, I’m walking down the hall. But if Josh comes out, you have him call me. Okay?”

“If he comes out?”

“When he comes out,” Toni says.

And she’s gone.

I lower the cell phone from my ear, slowly, and stare at the photograph displayed on its tiny screen. It’s Josh, in a baggy bathing suit and Red Sox cap, a citrus-striped beach towel over one shoulder, standing on an expanse of white sand, the turquoise Caribbean twinkling behind him. The sun glares from his dark-lensed sunglasses. If you look closely in the reflection, you can make out a wavy Charlie, towel wrapped around my waist and camera raised, snapping the photo. Every time I see it, I can almost smell the coconut sunscreen.

We’d been engaged for exactly one day when I took that snapshot.

I lean back into the couch, propping my boots up on the coffee table before I remember that’s probably pushing it with old Monica. I hold my cell phone in one hand, my lifeline, so I can answer instantly if it rings. When it rings. With a sigh, I put my elbows on my knees and stare at the unfortunate rug.

I can hear the buzz of the ancient fluorescent lights above me. My computer screen, keys untouched, clicks to black. Somewhere, behind closed doors and unreachable, is the man I’m going to marry. What if he gets arrested for murder?

Forget about it. I put my boots on the table, and clonk my head on the back of the couch. This is script fodder for some made-for-TV movie. Penny and I, hand in hand, going to court every day while Josh sits at the defendant’s table. While he takes the stand. Manipulative police officers, one after the other, spout a parade of lies. Jeremiah Soroff gloating. Cameras rolling. Josh’s career in shambles. I’d have to quit my job at Channel 3, take a leave of absence or something, in order to stand by him. Maybe I could even work on his case. We could hire the best of lawyers, someone like our pal Will Easterly, or the media-savvy Oliver Rankin. The jury would-

My phone rings. Charlie’s Angels jars me out of my melodrama. I shake off my absurd scenario. Josh has done nothing wrong. Nothing any district attorney or cop tries to say can possibly change that.

“Hey, Franko. What up?”

“News?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say. “You?”

“Well, yeah. I talked to Saskia, at the radio station. Got the phone number. Called it.”

“Fantastic. I guess I wrote it down wrong, right?”

“Wrong. You got it right. It’s just not a phone number.”

“Not a-?” I can’t help but sing it to myself. I’ll be able to sing it forever: 555-0193.

“Not a phone number. There’s no such number. There’s no prefix 555. It’s only used for movies and stuff.”

“Could it be a cell phone? One of those prepaid phone things?”

“Oh, darn, Charlotte. Y’all are so awfully smart. I jes’ forgot to ask the phone company that.” Franklin pauses, making sure his sarcasm sinks in. “Yes, of course I checked on that. And no, it’s neither of those. Trust me, it’s not a phone number. It’s a dead end.”

“Hssst.”

I twist around, trying to gauge where the hissing sound is coming from. It’s Monica.

“Hang on, Franko.” I look at Monica, questioning.

The receptionist cocks her head backward, toward the closed doors behind her. She holds up five fingers. Then, with a dramatic twist of her head, turns back to her blinking phone console.

“Gotta go, Franko. I’ll call you.” I click the phone closed before Franklin has a chance to answer. I close my computer and return it to my tote bag. Flap my notebook shut, click my pen closed and stash both of them in the side pocket. I grab my coat, but the sleeves are somehow hopelessly tangled, refusing to let me put my hands through as I struggle to put it on. I adjust my muffler around my neck and stand, staring at the doors.

Five minutes until what?

Until Josh comes out, in handcuffs, being led away to the lockup?

Until Josh comes out, smiling and free, and we can go home?

I look at my watch. Two more minutes. I look up. Monica is no longer at her desk.

Monica slides through the opaque double doors and into the back rooms of the D.A.’s office. Franklin and I have been here countless times, and I know it’s nothing but zigzags of fabric-covered movable walls, a checkerboard of cubicles. Behind that, a row of actual offices, with actual walls, and with windows overlooking the gold dome of the state Capitol.

The doors open. There’s Josh. His back, at least. He’s wearing his coat, which I hope is a good sign. He turns halfway, looking back toward the hallway and offices, talking to someone else I can’t see. Josh gestures, a swift chop of one hand I’ve seen hundreds of times. He’s not wearing handcuffs.

I have to press my lips together to keep myself from crying. Then I see another man’s hand on one of the double doors, keeping it open. Who? Why? Pale long fingers, a wedding ring. Then a pin-striped arm comes through. A broad shoulder.

My own shoulders drop in relief. It’s Will Easterly. When we first met about a year ago, he was a lanky pale whisper of a man, gray hair a bit too long, cheekbones a bit too high, suit a bit too off the rack. Back then, he was crusading to get an innocent woman out of prison. Now he’s happily married to her. Now he’s much better dressed and clearly found a barber. But he’s still crusading. He’s one of the best defense lawyers in Boston.

Josh turns and sees me.

And the doors close behind them. Josh is out.

I’m at Josh’s side in an instant. Burying my face in his shoulder, I lock both my arms through the crook of his, inhaling his scent, still close to tears.

“Why? How? Who? When? What?” I say, my voice muffled by navy blue wool. “Are you okay? Why didn’t you call me?”

“Charlie, darling, how did you find out I was here?” Josh is talking at the same time. “I didn’t want to worry you. I had my phone off. I’m fine.”

“Hey, Charlie,” Will says. “Long time no see.”

The coffee is disgusting. Inside the lobby of the Saltonstall Office Building it’s as dank and chilly as it is outside. Still, I have never been so happy to be anywhere, drinking anything. Josh is out. And if Will’s lawyer-magic worked, Josh is not going back in.

Toni DuShane was right. It was all about the alibi.

“They kept asking me where I was when Dorothy died. Where I was when Alethia fell. But I knew you would have killed me if I hadn’t called a lawyer, sweetheart.” Josh is leaning against a dingy mottled wall, propping his coffee cup on the marble pedestal of a statue of Leverett Saltonstall himself, the fifty-seventh governor of Massachusetts. “Will was good enough to hurry over from court.”

“And Josh was wise enough not to say a word to the cops on the way,” Will says. He pats Josh on the shoulder. “Those pompous-ass assistant D.A.’s-Soroff has them convinced their ends justify their means. That it’s more important to catch bad guys than to respect the Constitution. The idea that they’d try to strong-arm Josh into confessing. Appalling.”

“But he’s-” My voice rises, my interruption almost a squeak.

“Yes, of course he’s innocent, if that’s what you were going to say, Charlie.”

I nod. I haven’t let go of my death grip on Josh’s arm. Except to put about five sugars into my coffee. Which didn’t help it.

“But they’re devoted to their ‘mission,’” Will continues. “Their law, and their order. Anytime they can steamroll some poor sucker, the Fifth and Sixth Amendments go out the window. Our tax dollars at work.”

“But what happened?” I look at Josh. “Ebling and Pratt told me the plainclothes police were swarming around Bexter this morning.”

“Right. I got buzzed to come to the Head’s office. He told me they had sent a teacher’s aide to my class. I’ve never seen him look so flummoxed. Anyway, the assistant D.A., this Ross Monahan, was standing there like Joe Friday. He asked me to come downtown and help with their investigation. ‘Look at some photos,’ he said. Told me it was ‘voluntary.’ So, fine. I have nothing to hide. And what the hell, I want to find out what happened as much as anyone.”

Josh shrugs one shoulder, remembering. “But once we were in their car, headed down the Pike toward their office, it turned into a parody of a cop show. Monahan was driving, some state trooper next to him in the front seat. I was in the back. We’re chatting about nothing, when the trooper turns around, drapes one arm casually over the seat and asks me how I had heard about the threatening phone calls Dorothy Wirt received. I said, from Dorothy. And then he says, ‘Where were you on the night of Dorothy’s death?’”

“Did they read you your rights?” I ask. I glance at Will, fearful. I also, briefly, wonder where the Head was all this time. Pratt said the D.A.’s investigators had called him in, too. But I have to hear about Josh first.

“No,” Josh says. “But that question certainly pushed our ‘interview’ into another realm entirely. So much for their charade that I was ‘helping in the investigation.’ At that point, I told them I’d prefer to have a lawyer present.”

“Wise decision,” Will puts in.

“I know,” I say.

“They were not happy, that’s for sure. The trooper actually asked me, ‘Why do you need a lawyer if you have nothing to hide?’ Asshole. I didn’t say another word until we got to the D.A.’s office. They put me in some bleak conference room where I called Will. He was in court, all the way in Leominster. So I waited, staring out the window, fuming, until he arrived. They stationed another statie at the door. Young enough to be one of my students.”

“That’s pitiful,” I say. I look down at my murky coffee, imagining Josh in solitary, worrying. Wondering about his future. “But, Will, then what? Shouldn’t Josh have been able to leave if he wanted to?”

“Yes, but of course they rarely inform you of that. It’s all about intimidation. When I arrived, I notified the district attorney’s office I was representing Mr. Gelston. Josh and I conferred. Subsequently, I informed Mr. Soroff and his state-police lackeys that if they were not prepared to charge Josh with something-”

“What?” I say. My voice comes out a squeak. That seems risky.

Will holds up a hand, smiling. “If they were not prepared to charge Josh with something, we were out of there. Of course, they have, as we say in the legal world, zippo evidence against Josh. So we left. Case closed.”

We stand in silence for a moment. Me wrapped around Josh. Josh staring into nowhere. Will scoots his cordovan briefcase closer to the wall, its metal feet sliding across the scuffed tiles.

“Watch this, will you?” he says. “I’m getting more coffee for the road. You two?”

We both shake our heads as Will heads back to the remarkably decrepit excuse for a coffee shop in the corner of the lobby. The same frizzle-headed guy has doled out miserable coffee and weak tea and little bags of chips and packets of stale red licorice for the past thirty years. He must have photographs of someone important.

“Well. I’m glad that’s over,” Josh says. “That sucked.”

I almost burst out laughing, even though I know Josh has been through hell and nothing about it is funny. Josh never says sucked. Instead of laughing, I snuggle a little closer. But then, because Josh is fine and Will isn’t worried, I can’t resist asking one question.

I pull back, still not letting go completely, and look up at Josh.

“Honey? Did they ask where you were when Dorothy was ‘murdered’? I mean, did they say the word murder? For Dorothy or Alethia? And did they say anything about Dorothy’s tox screen?”

Josh blinks, considering. “No. No, they didn’t. They did talk about Alethia’s fall, though. All the time I was keeping my mouth shut, they were yapping, one after the other, trying to goad me into responding. Seems like it was Alethia’s fall that’s got them concerned. One of them said it turned out, her briefcase and purse were still in her office. So I suppose they were wondering why she was outside.”

I nod. “Good question, actually. Though how would you know?”

“Problem is, as I told Will. I don’t have alibis for the nights of either death. Remember? I took you home then went back to campus the night of the Head’s party. I was working late the night of Alethia’s fall. You can see how that makes me a prime suspect.”

“But we know that’s absurd,” I say. “And they do, too. They let you go. You have no motive whatsoever. Besides, dozens of people were at the school the nights of the murders. Some we know. Clearly, some we don’t. And that’s who killed them.”

Josh raises an eyebrow.

“Yes,” I say. “Killed them. That’s what I think. Hey. You should call Penny. Leave her a message, in case she comes to your office when classes are over.” I zip open my purse, digging for my cell. It’s disappeared, somewhere down into the black hole. I pull out a file folder that’s blocking my search. “Hold this.”

“How you ever find anything in that suitcase-” Josh begins. He looks inside the folder. “What’s this?”

“That’s the fundraising list, the one I told you about. From Dorothy’s study,” I say, my face half-buried in the tote bag. “You know. With the circled names.”

Josh is silent.

I look up from my search. “What?”

“Well, this report.” Josh flips through the pages. “It’s not distributed yet. We received several boxes of them from the printer. But until they’re mailed out, the Head’s storing them all. Some in his office, some in Ebling’s. So from his point of view, there’s no way you could have gotten a copy. Ebling didn’t mention that?”

“No, but as Penny would say, no biggie, right? Are the boxes all sealed or something? I mean, lots of administrative types must have the report. Maybe Ebling thinks I got it from you. Or the bursar. Or the Head. Here’s the phone. Call Penny. Tell her you had a meeting.”

Josh hands me the report, shrugging, as he takes my phone. He flips it open, and smiles as he sees himself in the St. Bart’s photo. “No, the boxes aren’t sealed. Anyone at Bexter could have them. I suppose you’re right.”

“As always,” I say. Which reminds me. I look across the room as Josh begins to leave his message. Will is in deep discussion with the coffee guy. Both are waving their arms, making gestures that look like football passes.

“Sweetheart?” I say. “After Will leaves? We should talk.”

“It’s a crosswalk, moron!” I point an accusing gloved finger of the hand that’s not intertwined with Josh’s as we almost get nailed by a driver who’s actually texting as he careens onto Cambridge Street. The moron almost takes out both of us. And just as I was getting to the crucial part of my speech. Once across the street and though the tree-lined pigeon haven called Cardinal Medeiros Park, we’ll be at the front door of Channel 3. I better get to the point.

We dash across the painted white lines and arrive at the circle of snow-covered benches surrounding a snow-covered mound of earth in the center. Three months from now there’ll be daffodils, and workers eating brown-bag lunches in the sun. Now the circle of grass and bricks is bleak, white and empty.

“And so,” I continue, stepping carefully down the three steps to a curving stone pathway, “Kevin’s offer is a tempting one. And basically a dream come true.”

“If you want to go,” Josh says, smiling quietly, and taking my other hand, too, “I can deal. We can deal.”

“But wait. Here’s the deal I’d like to offer,” I say. “How about, I put my condo on the market. Can you make enough closet space for me on Bexter Drive? And then, let’s go back and taste the wedding cakes again.”

I feel, absurdly, as if I should be going down on one knee. Like Josh did in St. Bart’s.

“There’s no dream come true that’s more important than being with you,” I say. “When you were in that office, when I knew the stupid D.A.’s cops had actually taken you away, and then stupid Monica would not let me see you and I didn’t know if you had a lawyer, and no one would…”

My eyes fill with tears of anxiety and leftover worry. I might have lost Josh forever. Not only because he might have been accused of murder, which is ridiculous, but because I might have chosen to turn my back on a real once-in-a-lifetime offer. Josh’s offer. Of high-level battles over breakfast cereal and calamities of missing socks. Of sharing closets and sharing secrets.

I’m a reporter. I’m devoted to my career. I can’t imagine giving it up. But I can’t be two places at one time. And I only want to be here. With Josh. From now on.

“Sweets?” Josh says. He puts an arm across my shoulder and pulls my plaid scarf away from my face. His leather-gloved finger tilts my chin to look up at him. “It’s fine, honey. I’m not in jail. I’m not accused of anything. It’s all over. Over. Why are you crying?”

“Because you might have been. What if I had been in New York? What if you had been in trouble? What if Penny had been left alone?” My voice rises, high-pitched, and a couple of steel-gray pigeons skitter away at the sound.

“It’s over, honey. Nothing’s going to happen.” Josh pulls me close, our heavy wool coats and gloves and mufflers keeping us uncharacteristically far apart.

His words puff into clouds of winter white, then dissipate as we stand silently. I’m having a daytime nightmare about what might have been. And how we escaped it. A siren screams by and horns blare from the intersection. I tuck myself in as close as I can to Josh’s warmth. He’s right. It’s over.

When I look up into Josh’s hazel eyes, I see something new. It’s the road ahead. I know this will turn out to be a moment we remember. An illustration of how the worst of days can become the best of days.

One tear makes its way down my wind-chilled face. At this very second, part of my life is over. And a new part is beginning. I have no doubts about what I’m about to say. I take one step back from Josh so I can look at him full-on. Then I head into our future.

“Kevin can find another reporter in NewYork. It’s you and me, sweetheart.” I pause, suddenly shy, plucking at the twisty fringe on my muffler. “If that’s still okay with you.”

After a few moments my mouth actually hurts from our kisses. And luckily Cardinal Medeiros Park stayed deserted as we almost venture into private personal areas that are not really for public view. And activities the good cardinal almost certainly would not have approved of. Probably a good thing it’s so cold.

“So we’re picking a date? And you’re staying home?” Josh whispers into my hair as we walk the last hundred yards toward the station. “Is that what you really want?”

Our arms are tangled together so tightly, we must look like one person. And that’s exactly how I feel.

“I do,” I reply. Franklin and I are a team at work, but Josh and I are a team for life. And I won’t allow anything to change that.