Prime Time

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  She’s wearing sunglasses and clutching her coat around her. Her face is so hidden in a black wool scarf I almost don’t recognize her.

  “Melanie?” I say. “What’s…?”

  She leaps up, looking spooked and on edge, and clutches my arm.

  “Charlie,” she whispers. “I’ve been waiting and waiting for you. Franklin’s not here and no one seemed to know where you were. They told me to come back later, but I figured you would have to be back at some point, and then the guard at the desk said it was all right for me to sit here, and…”

  Even through her darkened lenses, I can see her eyes dart around as if she’s looking for someone.

  “I need to talk to you about a phone call I got this morning.” She takes off the sunglasses, and I see her face is red and puffy. “I really do.”

  I put my arm across her shoulders and glance around the room. What is she looking for? Or whom?

  “Let’s go upstairs to my office,” I say, trying to sound soothing. “It’s private, and you can tell me all about it.” I look outside at the alleyway in front of the station. It’s a tow-truck trap—they’ll nab you if you’re parked there too long. “Did you park in the alley?”

  At this Melanie bursts into tears. “No, I don’t have a car. Not anymore.”

  Of course. Her car was destroyed when her husband was killed. In it. Charlie the idiot.

  She looks up at me, her elegant face contorted in sorrow. “Can we just go upstairs?”

  Melanie finishes her cup of tea, still tense as she describes the phone call she received this morning.

  “And so then,” she says, touching her lips with a Dunkin’ Donuts napkin I had stashed away, “the lawyer person says he knows I have the documents Brad took from Aztratech. He told me they had some type of surveillance video of him carrying the boxes out and putting them in his car.

  “I told them again and again, I had no idea where any such documents were—which I figured is true since I don’t really know what you did with them, do I?” She manages a fleeting smile. “But he insisted it was a federal offense to have those files, and if I didn’t hand them over, he was going to send the police.”

  “Well, he couldn’t really do that,” I muse. “I think there would have to be some sort of criminal charges for that, and…” I shake my head. “Anyway, you don’t have them.”

  “I know. That’s what I said. I don’t have any documents.” Melanie slumps in her chair. “But he just hung up on me.”

  “I can understand why you’re upset,” I say cautiously. “But I think it was probably a fishing expedition.” I’m warming up to my own theory. “See, he’s just testing to see if you’ll crack. And since you didn’t, no problem. He decides you’re telling the truth, and he’s out of the picture.”

  Melanie sits quietly, looking at me with those big eyes. I figure she’s better now, calmed by my reassuring manner and infinite logic. But she shakes her head.

  “There’s more,” she continues. “After the phone call I went for a long walk with the dog, and when I got home…” She’s crying again. She sniffs and dabs at her eyes with the soggy napkin. “Well, Banjo streaked away, headed for the basement, yapping and yipping. I guess I thought a squirrel might have gotten in the house. That’s happened before.”

  I nod at her; I understand.

  “So I followed her downstairs, and, and…” Her voice catches, but she continues. “The basement window is smashed—glass everywhere. All the drawers open, the file cabinets. Papers all over the floor, books from the bookcase, just—chaos.”

  She closes her eyes briefly, apparently picturing the scene. “Banjo was under the window, teeth bared, growling and growling.”

  “Did you call the police? 911?”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “I started thinking, it’s the Aztratech people, of course. And then I remembered they said they had video of Brad taking documents, and it was a federal crime. I thought if I called the police, Aztratech would just say they were trying to recover what I—Brad—we—whoever—had stolen from them, and then I would be charged with something.”

  “Oh, Melanie, no. You’ve got to call the police,” I insist. “It was breaking and entering. Burglary. Call right now.” I pick up the phone and hold out the receiver to her.

  She shakes her head. “Nothing was taken,” she says. “Not from anywhere.”

  “Really?” Slowly, I put back the phone. “So that pretty much proves,” I continue, “it was someone connected with Aztratech, looking for the files. Those papers you gave us must really be important.”

  Melanie puts her face in her hands, her tiny body a portrait of fear and misery.

  “Brad would never, never, have put me in danger.” she says plaintively. “Why would he bring home something so valuable that people would break in to get it back? And even endanger his family?”

  I sigh with frustration. How am I supposed to answer that?

  “Maybe he didn’t know what he had,” I offer. “Maybe that’s why he e-mailed me, and e-mailed Mack Briggs and Josh Gelston. Or maybe, when he found out what the documents proved, he told someone about it. And turned out, he told the wrong person.”

  We’re both quiet for a moment.

  “And then—” I break the silence “—it was too late to protect you.”

  Melanie’s eyes tear up again. Poor thing. First her husband killed in a car accident, and now she’s being threatened by corporate enforcers who send ransacking thugs to her house.

  “Still,” I continue, “I think you should call the police. Are you sure nothing was taken? Even computer disks?”

  While she’s thinking, I allow myself a brief flash of selfish regret that Melanie came here. If whoever it was that trashed her house is smart enough to follow her, she’s led them right to where the documents actually are. Here in my little office.

  “Nothing was…” Melanie glances up toward my office door. She draws her cashmere shawl more closely around her shoulders, as if she’s felt a sudden chill.

  I look at my doorway. Angela.

  “Excuse me,” she says, bestowing Melanie with what I suppose could pass for a smile. “I apologize for interrupting your…chat.”

  She gives a tap to her obviously fake Movado. “I’ve been wondering when you and Franklin would return,” she says. “We’ve beeped you both all morning, and we’re—” she raises an eyebrow “—disappointed neither of you has responded.”

  We haven’t responded to the beepers because we despise them, I want to tell her. We rip out their evil little batteries and hide the pernicious machines in our desk drawers.

  “I’m so sorry Angela,” I say, wide-eyed. “My beeper never went off. Or maybe I was out of range.”

  Angela is not buying this for a moment, but even she isn’t boorish enough to confront me when there’s a crying person sitting in my office.

  “And Franklin?” she asks with one raised eyebrow. “Is he also suffering from out-of-range disease?”

  “You’ll have to ask Franklin.” I smile, making it clear that management by sarcasm is totally ineffective. “When he gets back.”

  “Gets back from where?” Angela replies. “Apparently he hasn’t been here all day. No one’s seen him and he hasn’t answered his phone, here or home.”

  She gives another look at her dime-store watch. “When you’re finished,” she says, acknowledging Melanie with a glance, “come see me in my office.” In a swirl of rayon and acrylic, she turns and pudges down the hall.

  “My boss, sort of,” I attempt to explain to Melanie, as soon as Angela’s out of earshot. “Sorry. She’s socially inept.”

  “So it seems,” Melanie agrees. “But she asked a good question—where is Franklin?”

  Our office becomes very, very quiet. I look at Franklin’s empty chair. The empty coatrack. There’s no briefcase. No umbrella.

  I look at my desk phone. Maybe he’s left me a message. But the red message light isn’t on. “You know, Melanie,” I answe
r slowly, “I have no idea.”

  Rewinding through the day, I try to retrieve the last time I heard from him. And then, I do. Times like this I realize my quickly developing short-term memory loss can be beneficial. I’d completely forgotten about that funeral call. I rummage in my purse for my phone, relieved.

  “I completely spaced,” I say to Melanie without looking up. “He called me this morning, but I was at—anyway, I couldn’t answer the phone.” No reason to tell her about the funeral.

  I find the phone and I’m already feeling better. There’s a staticy silence as whatever makes it work starts to happen, then the message.

  “Ricky, it’s Weezer. I’m going to be late. Tell Ma. See ya.”

  My brain grinds to a halt, and I angrily push the replay button to hear it again. It remains the same astonishingly disappointing wrong number. I seem to have lost Franklin. And now, in a complete role reversal, Melanie is trying to console me.

  “Could he have a doctor’s appointment, something like that?” she asks.

  “I suppose,” I say, unconvinced.

  “He could be out on an interview, or getting his car fixed….”

  I know she’s trying to help, and that’s admirable, of course, but she doesn’t know Franklin and she doesn’t know me.

  “I’ll get you some water,” she says. “Where..?”

  I point her to the fridge down the hall, and then try to shake off my growing panic. He overslept. He’s at the dentist. The tailor. With Stephen for a stolen day of passion. To reassure myself, I decide to count up all the times I don’t know where Franklin is.

  And that’s the clincher. I always know where Franklin is.

  Melanie comes back into the room, carrying two bottles of water. In the brief time she’s been away, I’ve figured out what’s happened.

  I take a sip from my water bottle, then twist the cap back on. “Melanie,” I say carefully, “does anyone know where you are?”

  Her eyes widen as she considers. “I called a cab,” she says slowly. “So the cab company knows.”

  Not good. It’s not Melanie’s fault of course, but…

  “Oh, Charlie,” she wails. “I see what you mean. The documents are here in your office, aren’t they? And since now they know I ran right to you, they’ll make trouble for you…and Franklin.”

  No reason to be coy about this. “If they haven’t already,” I say.

  Melanie collapses into sobs, elbows on her knees, face in her hands. She looks up, red-eyed. “I can’t do anything right. I can’t understand why Brad put me in this situation. And then I did it to you and Franklin. What’s going on, Charlie?”

  “He didn’t mean to put you in any situation.” My turn to console her now. “Things just got out of control.”

  “Maybe. But now,” Melanie says, “won’t they come here looking for the files?”

  “Yes,” I admit. “Definitely possible. But now at least, they’re still here.” I point under my desk, showing Melanie where I stashed the files she gave us. Franklin and I camouflaged the box with my backup cosmetics basket, a couple of containers of Wet Ones, a package of RyKrisp and a tote bag full of plastic silverware.

  “So now we have to figure out, right away, what to do,” I say. “And the copies Mack Briggs sent us. We have to hide those somewhere else, too.”

  We put the files Briggs overnighted to us under Franklin’s desk. They’re still in their cardboard carton, too, but those we camouflaged with a pile of old Wall Street Journals and empty videotape boxes. I give a quick glance just to reassure myself they’re still where they belong.

  They’re not.

  I close my eyes. I’m imagining things. I leap out of my chair, then get on all fours to peer more closely under Franklin’s desk. It’s ridiculous of course, a box of files is either there or it isn’t. And this one—isn’t.

  “Charlie?” Melanie says. “What are you doing under the desk?”

  I turn around and collapse with my back against the wall. From this vantage point, I can see under my desk, too. And I can also see those files—are also missing.

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” I say, wrapping my arms around my knees. “Franklin’s gone. The Mack Briggs files are gone. Brad’s files are gone. And you and I may be in trouble.”

  My heart rushes with happiness and tears spring to my eyes. The phone on my desk is ringing, and it’s got to be Franklin. Questions answered, life back to normal. He’s going to be out of control over the missing files, but we’ll handle that together. I jump to my feet to grab the receiver.

  “McNally,” I answer, plopping into my desk chair. I’m so relieved.

  “Charlie,” I hear. “Can you come down to my office? Now? Your guest will have to wait.”

  It’s Angela. Not Franklin. Damn. And “come to my office”? How does “never” sound?

  I explain the situation to Melanie, then remember that crime report.

  “I’ll be right back,” I assure her. “But it’s essential for you to call the police.” I point. “Use Franklin’s phone.”

  Melanie crosses her arms in front of her and chews her lower lip. “Well,” she finally replies, “I suppose it can’t do any harm.” She picks up the receiver and starts punching in numbers.

  So that’s at least in the works. As for Miss News Medusa downstairs, I decide she can just cool her ratty, too-high heels. Even Anne Boleyn got to fix herself up before she faced her executioner. I grab my faithful mirror from the wall and prop it against my computer, then pull my cosmetics bag from my top desk drawer.

  I stop for a moment, mideyeliner, and sigh in resignation. I should just quit. Angela’s called me down to her office, a very unsubtle power move to get me onto her territory, making me walk through the newsroom and past all the gawking reporters at their desks.

  I hear Melanie getting through to the police.

  “Detective? This is Melanie Foreman, of Riverside Lane? I’d like to report a break-in….”

  She puts a hand over the receiver. “I’m on hold,” she says. “You know what? After this, I’ll just call a cab and go to my mother’s. Thank you so much, Charlie. I’m sorry for being so needy. I’ll be fine.”

  Good. At least she’s doing the right thing, and she’ll be safe. It can only help that she’s telling the police what happened. They’ll be able to keep an eye on her house. I wish there were someone who could keep me safe.

  I put the mirror back on its pushpin holder, and give it a conspiratorial wink. “Wish me luck, magic mirror on the wall,” I implore. It falls and crashes to the floor, scattering jagged shards of glass all over the rug.

  Ha-ha. Breaking news. The universe now has instant messaging.

  Angela looks up from her no-doubt extremely important papers, gives me a weird look and closes the flap on her manila folder.

  “You wanted to see me?” I say, hovering in the doorway.

  “Come in and close the door, could you, Charlie?”

  As I turn to shut the door, every eye in the newsroom is straining to see what comes next. I stare right back at them, defiant, but no one will meet my gaze. Cowards. Turning back to Angela, I know the bad part is over. There’s really nothing more she can say to me that can make this situation worse.

  “Sit down, won’t you?” Angela says with one of her inevitable fake smiles, gesturing to her couch. Even she must find it a little unpleasant to fire someone. That’s why she looks so uncomfortable. “Kevin wants to join us. He’ll be here in just a moment.”

  Wrong again. That’s worse. The news director is on his way? I yearn, absurdly, for a mirror.

  As I perch on a corner of Angela’s couch, my stomach churns and I’m faintingly hot. A real hot flash? Or a flash of reality? I realize I’d been hoarding a tiny reserve of hope that I was wrong about this summons to the board-room. It gurgles down the drain as I come to grips with a shattering certainty: there’s no reason for the big guy to be here unless…

  The door opens and I imagine the seismic act
ivity on the newsroom e-mail network as word spreads: Kevin’s 2 Angela’s office with Charlie. This is going 2 B big.

  I watch with trepidation as Kevin unbuttons and rebuttons his tailored double-breasted jacket, looking like an agitated greyhound. He sits on the edge of Angela’s desk, facing me.

  “So, Charlie,” he says, unbuttoning again. His entire body is telegraphing here comes the bad news, and I realize I’ve got to hold it together. I can’t walk out of here crying. This could be the first day of the rest of my life. Maybe.

  “Hi, Kevin,” I manage to say, hoping my voice isn’t shaking. I’m supposed to be the tough one, after all. I am the tough one. My brain is making the hurry-up signal. Get on with it. Maybe it’s even the kick in the butt I need to get a new life. Maybe.

  “So, Charlie,” Kevin repeats. “There’s no easy way to put this. Franklin’s in the hospital.” He hands me a piece of paper. “Here’s his room number at the General. The doctors think he’ll be fine when he wakes up, but…”

  Suddenly he’s not speaking English. It’s just a buzzing hum of incomprehensible babble as I try to understand what’s going on.

  I’m not fired. That’s good.

  But Franklin. That’s bad.

  He must be—sick? Hurt? At Massachusetts General Hospital? That’s really, really bad.

  “Apparently,” Kevin continues, “it all happened this morning, behind his condo. Police aren’t sure of the circumstances yet, but they have a detective there to talk to him when he wakes up.”

  I find my voice. “Wakes? Police?”

  “He’s just sedated, not unconscious,” Kevin explains. “Apparently he was hit in the head several times, but luckily the injuries aren’t long-term. He’s a very fortunate guy.”

  “Hit? Who?” I stand up, frowning, and look back and forth between Kevin and Angela. I fight crying because I don’t have time for that. One word at a time is all I can manage. “Why?” I plead for answers. “When?” Another thought. “Stephen?”

  Kevin shrugs, shaking his head. “Police are working on it. His…roommate…is apparently out of town, we don’t know where.” He gives me a fleeting smile. “Always the reporter, always asking questions. That’s why we count on you,” he says as he comes over and actually pats me on the back. “You all right? You can go over to the hospital now, if you like.” He glances at Angela. “Why don’t you call Charlie a cab?”