Drive Time

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Ross wraps one arm around Gabriel, then in one motion lifts him up and deposits him on his lap. In his floppy New England Patriots T-shirt, all ankles and knees and ears, the little boy looks a lot less scared than he did by the side of the road.

  I decide to play along. After all, we have all we need. “So, Gabriel, who’s your favorite football player?”

  Gabe looks dubious. Football is not why he’s here.

  “It’s was like I told you. Like I told Daddy,” he says, stolid and serious as only a five-year-old can be. “It looked like my blue Matchbox car.”

  I’m silent. Franklin is silent. Behind me, almost in a whisper, J.T. says, “Still rolling.”

  “What kind of a car is that? Do you know?” I ask. I’m interviewing a five-year-old. How reliable can he be? Can I even use this on the air? But he’s on his father’s lap and his father isn’t stopping me. I keep my voice gentle.

  “Did you see the car go through the toll booth on the highway? You know the toll booths?”

  “Yes. I saw it going. It went fast. Then our car went bang.” His lower lip begins to pooch out, his long eyelashes cobwebbing with tears. “And Sophie was really crying. And Daddy wasn’t talking.”

  Forget the camera. In one motion, I’m off my chair and crouched in front of him, eye to eye.

  “Gabe? Can you go get your Matchbox car for me?”

  The uniformed factotum at the guards’ desk is barricaded behind a chin-level Formica fortress strewn with black vinyl ring binders I know are sign-in sheets. His back is to an array of tiny TV monitors, some flickering grainy black-and-white video of unrecognizably blurry figures waiting at elevators and walking down the institutional hallways of the Park Plaza state office building. As the three of us approach, the guard reluctantly puts down the greasy-looking paperback he’s reading. He’s curled the cover around to the back to hide the title.

  “We’re going to the Mass Pike offices, room 1504,” I say, filling my voice with confidence. I don’t tell him we have an appointment with Massachusetts Turnpike mogul David Chernin. Because that’s not true. We have no appointment at all. We’re just attempting to insinuate ourselves upstairs. If we fail, we’ll be escorted to the down escalator and out into the overpriced food court.

  An hour ago, Gabe showed us a tiny blue Mustang. Here’s where we might track down the real one. We’ve got to at least try.

  “Synneer,” the guard says. His plastic name tag says Bill Bevan. With a stubby finger, Bevan spins one of the notebooks in our general direction. “Idees.”

  “Sure, of course.” I give the guys a surreptitious thumbs-up, and flash my driver’s license instead of my station ID. If this guy is the slacker he seems, we may be able to keep people from confirming we were here. I sign on the next available line, although I write Tina Marie Turner instead of my real name. Franklin, nodding his understanding, signs Don Ameche. J.T. signs an illegible scrawl, keeping his camera low and out of sight.

  Bevan “analyzes” our signatures without a blink. So much for security.

  Just as I’m certain we’re in the clear, the guard, whose pinkish scalp is attempting to burst through his invisible hair and whose neck flab is encroaching on the collar of his blue uniform, narrows his eyes at me. Unfortunately, I then get to see his teeth.

  “You that TV girl,” Bevan says. The smile evaporates and he begins to reach for an enormous phone console covered with push buttons. “Maybe I should call.”

  “Hey, man, cool setup,” J.T. interrupts. He unzips his black parka, hoists his camera onto the desk, then points toward the monitors. “You got surveillance video there? You got tape, or digital? How many eyes? Is it a VTR-54B? How do you recon the scenes?”

  Apparently, the security guard isn’t much of a multitasker. He abandons the phone and focuses on J.T. My photographer, I’m willing to bet, is talking complete nonsense.

  But J.T.’s suddenly a team player.

  “Show me your setup, dude,” J.T. says. As the guard turns back to his monitors, J.T. cocks his head at us. In the direction of the elevators. “Go,” he mouths.

  David Chernin owes me big and he knows it. When he and his wife got some horrible stomach bug on their tenth-anniversary cruise a few years ago, he called me to do a refund battle with their uncooperative travel agency. Companies get very nervous when they hear “This is Charlie McNally from Channel 3.” I managed to get all their money back. Although I never expect a quid pro quo for just doing my job, that fact places Franklin and me in a very nice negotiating position.

  When he’s not on a cruise, Chernin is the computer guru of the Mass Turnpike’s toll enforcement division. After we promised not to tell where we got the info, he agreed to show us photos he probably shouldn’t.

  “Nope,” Chernin says, pointing. “Nope. Nope.”

  We’re watching black-and-white images flicker by on Chernin’s flat-screen monitor. We’re hoping to see a Mustang, just like the Matchbox car Gabriel Ross showed us, though of course we won’t be able to tell if it’s blue. Each photo, snapped automatically by the surveillance cameras mounted at all three tollbooths, displays the license plate of a car that blew through the tolls without paying around the time of the accident. If the driver we’re looking for paid the toll, in cash or with an electronic transponder, there won’t be a picture. But I’m predicting he was too freaked out and driving too fast to pay cash.

  “Nope. Nope. Nope.”

  Each car is on-screen a fraction of a second, just long enough for the three of us to assess whether it’s a Mustang or not. Dozens have gone by. So far, no Mustangs. But to me, each no means a yes is even closer. And I keep wondering. Why aren’t the police using this technology to enforce the law? How many bad guys are out there, caught on camera but not caught by the cops?

  “I understand you’re not going to throw me under the bus here,” Chernin says. His eyes never leave the screen as his right hand clicks the mouse on the Next button. One after another, the photos continue to appear, and his voice goes quiet. “You know as well as I do—this meeting never happened. So how are you going to explain how you found this car? Without implicating me?”

  “If we find the car,” Franklin says. He’s also staring at the screen.

  “When we find the car,” I say. “And when we do, I’m sure we can figure out a way to protect you.”

  Chernin turns away from the screen, stashing his wire-rimmed glasses on the top of his head. He runs triathlons and has that gaunt malnourished look some runners cultivate. Cheekbones. Shortest possible hair. He tightens his tie, shoots the cuffs of his shirt. His face is hardening.

  “Charlie,” he begins.

  We may be in trouble.

  “There’s one.” Franklin had picked up the mouse and continued clicking through the photos himself. He points to the screen. “Look. Clearly a Mustang.”

  Chernin whirls back and we all lean in closer, focused on the fuzzy but recognizable image. Franklin’s right. And the time stamp says 4:26. Perfect.

  “We done now?” Chernin asks.

  “You can print a copy for us, right?” I say. My fists clench and I feel my got-a-good-story shivers beginning. I always know. I also know it’s a risk to get too excited too soon. I turn to Chernin, aware we’re on thin ice. My fists become crossed fingers.

  “And can we keep looking, please, just briefly? There could have been more than one Mustang.”

  Chernin tilts his head, considering. He’s increasingly unhappy with this. And it is probably a job-threatening breach of something. He looks at the chunky black watch strapped to his emaciated wrist. “Ten minutes. At the most.”

  “Thank you so much,” I say. We know the accident was over by then anyway. “We’ll never ask for anything again.”

  “You got that right,” Chernin mutters. He goes back to the mouse, clicking faster and faster as the image parade continues. Whatever is going to happen better happen fast.

  By the time the time stamp says 4:36 p.m. we’ve seen no mo
re Mustangs. Chernin clicks the screen to black. “Time,” he says.

  Franklin and I exchange glances. No question the whole thing is iffy. If little Gabe is right. If this car is blue. And even if so, if this is the right Mustang.

  Still. It’s more than we had when we came in. And we may have found the driver who caused the accident. And caused so much expense and fear in the Ross household.

  “Again, you’re the best. This could really help us,” I say. “Can you hit Print? And we’ll be out of your life.”

  Mission accomplished. I hope. I put on my black overcoat, wrap and tie the belt, and scramble through my cordovan tote bag for my gloves. We hear the photo of the Mustang whir out of the printer. Chernin pulls it from the tray. I hold out my hand, smiling. J.T. is probably waiting for us in the food court. He’ll be psyched that his tactic worked.

  “Thanks, David,” Franklin says, zipping on his khaki parka. He takes his carefully folded black gloves out of a side pocket. “Obviously this is just for research. We won’t use this photo in our story.”

  Chernin is holding the printed picture in both hands. Then, with one swift motion, he crumples it, shaking his head. He crams the wad of paper into his pants pocket.

  “No,” he says. “I can’t let you have it.”

  “Seven, four, two, F, Y, six,” I say as the elevator doors close behind us. I dig for my notebook. Of course I memorized the license number. I’m sure Franklin did, too. “Regular Massachusetts passenger plate. With a sticker saying he’s due for a new one next July. Is that what you got, too, Franko?”

  “Yes, exactly.” Franklin hits the button for lobby. “And there was a decal for Hallinan Motors. That car dealer. Guess your Mr. Chernin got cold feet.”

  “Or maybe he simply figured we’d remember the plate and make a public-records request for it. He knows the number’s all we really need. Now he can deny he gave it to us. Plus, no one can make what’s already happened un-happen. That’s a secret no one can keep. Toll violations are clearly public record. And we’re the public. It’s all good.”

  I tuck my notebook and pen away as the elevator door opens and deposits us in the food court. J.T. is at a corner table. Happily, he’s alone.

  My cell phone suddenly trills the voice mail–message signal. I flip open the phone, tap in my code. Message from Josh that must have come in while we were upstairs. This office building is a notorious dead zone.

  “Franko, go tell J.T. the scoop, okay? And if you get lunch, will you order me a salad? No onions and no croutons. It’s already three. I’m starving. And maybe call the registry and ask for records of that Mustang violation. I’ve gotta call Josh, but we might as well get the show on the road. And we’ve got to follow up on the recalled cars.”

  Pushing through the revolving door out of the food court, I stand in the cold vestibule of the building, looking past the doors onto the darkening afternoon. Tremont Street bustles with swaddled pedestrians. A double-long city bus wheezes up to the curb. Snow-booted workers stretch over a gray pool of curbside slush to clamber inside. A man in a Yankees cap hops on just as the bus lumbers away.

  New York. The words are a taunting mental billboard. Ten years ago, five, I’d have moved to the big time in a heartbeat. Now, I admit, I’m avoiding the decision.

  “Sweetheart?” I say as Josh finally answers the phone. The signal is crackly, but I’ll persevere. I feel my eyes narrow, blocking out everything but my fiancé’s voice. Winter-wrapped downtown Boston fades as I listen through the static, intent. I’m surprised beyond surprise.

  “She’s—what?”

  Chapter Six

  T he plastic crime-scene tape loops around the three old maple trees in front of Dorothy Wirt’s home, garish black and yellow fluttering in the afternoon chill. Two Brookline police cars, front wheels on the curb and rear wheels on the street, cordon off the sidewalk. Their sirens are silent, but spinning blue lights reflect, harsh and unnatural, on the snow. Four black-jacketed officers stand sentinel, blowing into their hands, their breath puffing white. An ambulance, rear doors toward the garage and a uniformed EMT beside it, blocks the driveway. The garage door is closed. The front door is closed. No one is hurrying. But me.

  I trot toward the murmuring knot of onlookers, my mind racing for explanations, scanning for a familiar navy wool overcoat. Josh turns, sees me, just as I get close enough. A blue light flashes across his face.

  “So it’s true. Is it true? I got here fast as I could,” I whisper, tucking both arms through the crook of his elbow. I look around. “Penny?”

  “She’s home with Annie. The kids don’t know yet.”

  “Who’s here?”

  “The Head’s inside, so’s Dorothy’s younger sister, Millie. She’s just back from a business trip. What a horrible—they live together. Lived.”

  His face is red from the cold. His eyes are also red. He stops, shakes his head.

  “Anyway, Alethia found her. Espinosa, the dean of girls? Remember? In the garage. In her car. When Dorothy didn’t arrive for work at Bexter this morning, we all thought maybe she’d had too much to drink at the Head’s last night.”

  I wrap myself more tightly against him, fitting myself behind him, my face buried in his back, my eyes peering over his shoulder, watching the house.

  “So then?” My voice is muffled in his navy overcoat.

  The sound of metal on metal. Every head in the crowd turns, transfixed, as behind the ambulance, Dorothy’s old-fashioned wooden garage door creaks open, inch by inch. The EMT leaves his post at the ambulance and ducks underneath as the door gets waist high.

  The door slams back to the ground. I flinch as it hits. I feel Josh flinch, too.

  “She’s inside?” It still feels better to whisper.

  “They think it’s carbon monoxide, that’s what the Head told me,” Josh replies. “An accident. Maybe she did have too much brandy. Made it home safely, then fell asleep with that old car of hers still running and the radio on. Maybe she was listening to something. Who knows.”

  Part of me, the wife-to-be, wants to take Josh home and comfort him. Explain to Penny, somehow, that sometimes life brings sorrow and sad surprises. And these are times that remind us to cherish those we love.

  The other part of me, the reporter, wants to whip out my press card, get past that yellow tape and see if I can wrangle some answers.

  The reporter part emerges, carefully. All the local cops here are in uniform. Certainly, in a death like this, state police homicide detectives must be on the way. And we know something the police don’t know.

  “Sweetheart? Did anyone ever report those ‘do you know where your children are?’ calls to the police?”

  “I know where you’re going,” Josh says, shaking his head. “No.”

  One more step. Carefully.

  “Maybe the caller wasn’t targeting the school. Maybe whoever it was—was targeting Dorothy. Personally.”

  Silence from Josh.

  “The Head said police think it was an accident,” he finally answers.

  “We’ll see, I guess.” I close my eyes, resting my forehead against Josh’s back. “We’ll see.”

  It’s a good thing my cell phone is on Vibrate. Through Dorothy Wirt’s entire memorial service, it buzzes my thigh through the side of my purse. During the minister’s somber introduction; through the Bexter choir’s Ode to St. Cecilia, sweet and sorrowfully sung by mournful teenagers; during the heartbreakingly tender eulogies from Millie, her old friend the bursar, and confidante Alethia; during the stiff-upper-lip benediction from the Headmaster. I know it’s Franklin who’s covering for me back at the station this morning. But I don’t understand why he keeps calling. At least no one can hear it.

  The tolling bells in the historic Bexter Carillon signal the end of the ceremony. A muted organ begins an un-adorned version of “Danny Boy.” Millie, clutching the Headmaster’s arm, steps from the maroon-carpeted dais, past masses of pink-and-white lilies, down the carpeted aisle past carv
ed wooden pews of mourners. Parents, teachers, administrators, some local semicelebrity faces familiar from newspapers and television. A few, mostly students, reach out a hand to touch her arm.

  “You okay, sweetheart?” I whisper to Josh. We’re edging out of our pew, waiting as students and parents, teachers and administrators silently take their leave, row by row. Some of the mourners I recognize from the Head’s party. The last time Dorothy was alive.

  Josh just smiles, a sorrow-tinged expression I’ve grown used to over the past twenty-four hours. We told Penny what happened. Our first experience, Dad and almost-Mom, explaining the unexplainable. Penny didn’t know Dorothy, of course. But she’s uncomfortable when people—as she puts it—“go away.” Divorce is never easy. Leaves a mark.

  My phone is vibrating again. I let it go to voice mail again as we file outside toward the receiving line forming in the entryway. It’ll be Millie. Alethia. Bursar Pratt. Minister Ashworth. The Head.

  “Josh?” A voice behind us. “A moment, please?”

  The Head, acknowledging me with a nod, draws Josh aside, across the nave and into a tapestried corner. Josh turns, briefly waving me outside. “One minute,” he mouths, holding up a finger.

  Now I’ll be able to check my voice mail.

  One hand is already in my tote bag, searching blindly for my cell as I follow the congregation out the massive oak-and-stained-glass double doors and onto the steep stone steps of Bexter Chapel. Got it.

  “Charlotte McNally?”

  My hand comes out of my purse as I turn, facing back now toward the chapel doors. On the step above me stands an elegant gentleman in a charcoal coat, one gloved hand on the railing. Perfectly tailored alpaca sets off his snow-white temples and clipped beard. A paisley silk-and-wool muffler is knotted around his neck. I recognize him from pictures in the newspaper.

  “Mr. Fielder?” I’m surprised. Loudon Fielder, the owner of WWXI radio, has children at Bexter? More likely to be grandchildren.