Prime Time

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Chapter Fifteen

  W

  hen I get to the hospital, Franklin is not alone. A uniformed police officer sits in an institutional folding chair next to the single hospital bed in room 4-1066. She’s holding a clipboard, leaning intently forward. Pausing a moment in the doorway, I take in the whole frightening picture: Franklin’s gauze-wrapped head, the angry bruise under one eye, his ashen face and exhausted demeanor. I’ve never seen Franklin any way but spotless, polished, self-confident and healthy. Now he looks scared and vulnerable, the pale green hospital blanket pulled up under his chin, his head propped on a pile of several thin, flat pillows, only his arms and face showing.

  The officer looks up and turns in her chair, acknowledging my arrival. She snaps the leather flap over her clipboard, concealing what she’s written. “Are you family?”

  Franklin gingerly raises the arm that’s not attached to an IV tube. “She’s okay,” he whispers in a scratchy, very un-Franklin-like voice. “It’s Char—Charlie. The one I told you about.” He attempts a smile. Even battered and in a hospital bed, he remembers his manners. “Charlotte, this is Officer McCarron, Boston PD.”

  Officer McCarron pushes back her chair and gets to her feet. She seems coltish and awkward in her heavily starched blue shirt, unflatteringly belted trousers and BPD-issue oxfords. “Of course,” she says. “Charlie McNally.”

  I force a polite smile, but my heart is aching. “Oh, sweetheart, what happened to you?” I wail. “Who did this? When?” The questions come flooding out. “Are you going to be okay? How do you feel? How did you get to the hospital? Why did…”

  Franklin smiles and glances at the cop. “That’s what Officer McCarron was asking me,” he whispers. “I was telling her—”

  “Yeah,” McCarron interrupts, gesturing with her notes. “And I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to wait outside until I’m finished, ma’am.”

  Two hours, one Snickers and four hideous acid-based cups of coffee later, I’m back in with Franklin. Officer What’s-her-name is out of the picture. Hovering nurses have finished their pill dispensing, and a bandage-checking doctor seems satisfied with the patient’s progress.

  I scoot the tan metal chair closer to Franklin’s bedside. I’m not leaving until I hear the whole story.

  “Water?” I ask, holding out the plastic cup containing one of those bendy straws. “I could hold this for you. Or can I get you…”

  Franklin shakes his head and closes his eyes. “I’m fine,” he says. “Really. Just a little tired.”

  “So what did she…” I begin.

  But Franklin’s asleep. My shoulders sag in disappointment. I’m eager for some answers, of course, but no way I’ll wake him up.

  I attempt to get comfortable in the unyieldingly institutional chair, unable to stop staring at Franklin’s green and yellowing bruises, a clear bandage covering the precise row of tiny stitches over one eyebrow. How could anyone have done this to another person? And why?

  I think back to Brad’s car accident, wondering for the millionth time just how accidental that really was. The break-in at Melanie’s sure wasn’t an accident, and Franklin’s brutal beating wasn’t an accident and our files are definitely missing. No accident there, either.

  Melanie. At least by now she’s safe, I figure, with her mother, awaiting word from the police. And Franklin is certainly safe here.

  I stretch my legs out in front of me, trying to sort out the buzz of my thoughts. Another thing that’s not an accident. Why do all the e-mail subject lines have that stupid misspelling: “A new re-figh deal 4-U”?

  Then I hear a soft cough, and look up to see Franklin’s eyes flutter open. He’s awake.

  He blinks a few times, stretches his eyes wide open, yawns and gives me a weary smile.

  “Hey, Charlotte,” he says, his voice still raspy. “You still here?”

  “Of course,” I reply. “For the duration. What can I get you? Water? A nurse? More pillows?” I stand up and try to fluff Franklin’s pillows like the nurses do in the movies, but my patient waves me away.

  “I’m okay, really,” he says. “Just a huge headache.” He sighs and touches his forehead. “Stitches?” he asks.

  “Yup.” I smile. “About a dozen, I’d say. Very hip, very Fight Club.”

  Franklin stretches out one arm, testing. “Ow.” He winces. “My whole body hurts, actually, now that I can feel it again. I had a few hours of serious drugs—so I was completely out of it. Now they’ve worn off, I suppose.” He tries to move his shoulders, and I see the pain register in his face.

  “I’m calling the nurse,” I say, concerned. “You need more pills.” I push the green button attached to a cord on his headboard.

  “Thanks,” Franklin says. “I guess that would be good.”

  “Franklin, I—” I begin.

  “Charlotte, I—” he says simultaneously.

  We both laugh softly, relieved that some things never change.

  His laptop, open on the nightstand, pings insistently. “Stephen’s IM’ing me nonstop from his meeting in D.C.,” Franklin explains. “We’re going to talk later. Anyway, I guess you want to know what happened,” he continues. “And why.” He pauses. “Me, too.”

  “So—what do you remember?” I ask, pulling my chair closer to the bed.

  “Well, let’s see. I was behind my condo, in the parking area, getting ready to come to work.” Franklin tries to furrow his forehead, and grimaces as his stitches get in the way. He touches them gingerly as he continues. “I had just popped open the trunk with my remote when I heard crunching on the gravel behind me. That wasn’t remarkable, you know. Several tenants use the lot. But it was pretty early in the morning, and something didn’t feel quite right.”

  I lean forward, elbows on my knees, chin in my hands. I know what happens in the end, so it’s even scarier to hear the story unfold.

  “So I think I started to look around,” Franklin says, remembering, “but then I heard some kind of noise, like a grunt or a martial-arts yell, you know?”

  I nod silently, transfixed.

  “So I turned back to slam the trunk closed, and just then, while I was still facing the car, I felt something hit me on the head. I saw the reflection of a person in the trunk, I think, and so I kind of dodged out of the way, didn’t get the full force of the blow. I tried to run, but didn’t get very far. Another person came out from behind the SUV parked next to my Passat, a little wiry guy, and he punched me in the face. I fell to my knees in the gravel, which hurt like hell, shredded my pants and started both knees bleeding.” Franklin pauses. “Then the first guy started kicking me. I tried to fight back, but it wasn’t working.” He briefly closes his eyes. “I’m not really the fighting type, you know?”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. This kind of thing doesn’t happen in broad daylight behind classy neighborhood condos. “How did you get away?”

  “That’s the amazing part,” Franklin replies. “I must tell you I didn’t think I would get away. It crossed my mind they were going to kill me. They seemed to know what they were doing and didn’t say anything to me, or to each other.”

  “And so?”

  “So,” he continues, “I’m lying on the driveway behind my place, gravel stabbing me in the back, and the big guy comes over to me. I gritted my teeth and put my fists up, waiting for the worst. I knew my face was bleeding and my head was throbbing. So anyway, he comes toward me, leans down—and here’s the strangest part. I’m tensed up and terrified, waiting to get nailed, but instead he simply picks up my car keys from the ground.”

  “Your car keys?” I say, incredulous. “They wanted your car?”

  “I rolled over as best I could,” Franklin goes on, “got up, and ran. I’m not sure where I was headed, just away. Next thing I heard, my car’s driving out of the parking lot, and both guys are gone.”

  “Your car?” I repeat, still unbelieving. “That’s crazy. You don’t beat someone up to get a Passat.”

&nb
sp; Franklin shrugs and winces again. “Damn,” he says. “Still hurts. I’ve got to remember not to do that.” He shifts in his bed. “So I got to the street, called 911 on a pay phone, and just sort of propped myself up with the phone-booth kiosk until an ambulance arrived. I don’t even remember the trip to the hospital. And I woke up in this bed, police by my side. Stitches and all.”

  This reminds me that the nurse with the pain pills has not yet appeared, so I punch the call button again. I’m convinced this thing is attached to nothing. It’s some kind of perverse placebo experiment, to see if people feel better because they think the nurse is coming.

  “So I guess the police called Channel 3,” I go on. “Probably saw your press pass. So you think those guys just wanted your car?” I scratch my head, considering. “That really doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Yeah, I agree,” Franklin replies. “But why else?”

  I hear the door open behind me. Still upset and jittery from Franklin’s attack, I stand up and whip around to see who’s coming in.

  But when Betty Crocker comes through the door, I relax a little. I know this is actually her name; it says so on her name tag. Wearing a frilly white cap, pin-curled white hair and thick-soled white oxfords, Nurse Crocker is carrying a pleated paper cup of pills, and fusses over Franklin as if he’s a wounded toddler and she’s his doting granny.

  “Here, honey,” she coos protectively. “Take these and you’ll feel better.” She pats his pillows and turns to me. “Oh, hello, dear,” she says, smiling. “Are you his…?” She stops in mid-sentence, her eyes widening and her mouth making a little o.

  “Well, bless me if it isn’t Charlie McNally,” she says, pointing at me. “The one on TV? I watch you every day!”

  “How nice,” I say, shaking her hand. “Thank you for taking such good care of Franklin. He’s a good pal, and we really appreciate it.”

  Her fluttering intensifies as she adjusts Franklin’s blanket and offers him water. “Well, don’t you worry about a thing,” she says. Then she looks up, a perplexed look on her face. “Oh, dear me,” she says, “I completely forgot. All the excitement, I suppose.”

  “Completely forgot what?” I ask.

  “The police, dear,” she says.

  We all turn as there’s a knock on the doorjamb. Officer McCarron is back, accompanied by what must be a plain-clothes detective. Even out of uniform, his rumpled fisherman’s sweater and brown leather jacket scream cop. Actually, sort of sexy cop, now that I look more closely.

  The nurse bustles out, but I decide I’m not budging.

  “How ya doing, Mr. Parrish?” the man says. “I’m Detective Cipriani. Joe Cipriani.”

  Franklin raises a hand. “Hey,” he responds, his voice weak but friendly. “Anything new?”

  Both officers glance at me, then at each other. Franklin interrupts their apparent decision-making.

  “You know Charlie McNally, of course,” he says. “Whatever you have to say to me, you can say to her.” He gives a colossal yawn, then shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says. “I guess the pills are starting to kick in.”

  Officer McCarron stays in the doorway, as the increasingly attractive Detective Cipriani pulls up a chair beside mine. I sit down next to him, ignoring the scent of what I think is Hugo Boss and the gold band on his left hand, figuring I’ve gotten the all clear to stay. I wonder if Detective C. is happily or unhappily married. I mentally kick myself. How can I think about stuff like that in a situation like this?

  The detective’s voice brings me back to reality. “So, Mr. Parrish,” he’s saying. “We found your car.”

  “Great.” Franklin’s face lights up a little, though his voice is increasingly thick, his words halting. “Where? How? My belongings?”

  The detective shifts in his chair, crosses one leg over a knee. “Well, that’s the thing,” he answers. “We found it miles out on the turnpike, in a vacant lot in Framingham,” he says. “Tires and air bags, engine, stereo, all stripped. Trunk empty.”

  Franklin sags in his bed as the cop continues.

  “And, well, torched.”

  “Torched?” I interrupt, surprised. “Why would they do that?”

  Detective Cipriani looks at me, up and down. I don’t think I’m imagining this. He’s still watching me as I cross my legs and yank my black pencil skirt down farther over my knees. He pulls a notebook from his jacket pocket and gives me a crooked smile.

  “Is it McNally with M-a-c or just M-c?” he asks, clicking his pen with a flourish. “And can I get a phone number where I can reach you?”

  Officer McCarron leaves her post at the doorway and comes into the room.

  “That’s what we don’t know,” she says, stepping between me and Dirty Harry. “Why they’d torch the car. Any reason you can think of?”

  We all look at Franklin. He’s asleep again, off in Percocet paradise.

  “Ms. McNally?” Officer McCarron, whispering now, turns to me. “Anything you can think of?”

  I get up and walk to the window, looking out over the hospital parking lot. It’s dark outside, extra-bright spotlights illuminating the lined parking spaces, an ambulance waiting outside the emergency room door. This has been a long day. And now, I quickly have to make a big decision.

  Do I tell the cops about Melanie? About Brad? About Mack Briggs? About the missing files? Then I remember, I’m the reporter here. I should be asking them for information. I turn back from the window, smiling innocently. “Golly, no,” I say. “What are you all thinking, though? Any leads?”

  Detective Cipriani looks uncertain. But it’s McCarron who answers.

  “Well,” she says slowly, as if calculating how much to tell me. “There’s been a rash of car thefts in that neighborhood. And we find the cars soon after, stripped. Just like Mr. Parrish’s Passat. So this could be another—”

  “But the incidents are not always the same,” Cipriani interrupts. “That’s why we need to know if there’s something you could tell us. Otherwise, we’ve got to figure it’s connected.”

  “So?” McCarron again. She narrows her eyes at me. “Think one more time.”

  It’s completely against my reporter nature to tell the police what I’m investigating. If they’re such hotshots, I figure they should be able to find the bad guys on their own. And if they start asking questions, everyone involved will clam up and start shredding documents and I’ll never get any answers. Or any story. But what if it could help find who hurt Franklin?

  “Ms. McNally?” Cipriani asks. “We’re waiting.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  T

  he glowing green numbers on my bedside clock read 2:23; the ones on my VCR say 2:29; the ones on my backup alarm clock say 2:30. Since I always set my clocks fast so I won’t be late, I figure that means it’s something like 2:15 in the morning. I’ve been sitting in bed for an hour now, sipping a mug of chamomile, staring at the walls. Wide-awake. I’m unsettled from the funeral, distressed by my head-on discussion with Josh, paranoid about the boxes of files missing from our office, and worried as hell about Franklin. And frightened by whoever beat him up.

  How am I supposed to sleep? I didn’t tell Franklin about the missing files, and he is going to be beyond upset. I didn’t tell the police about Brad Foreman and Mack Briggs’s accidents or Melanie’s break-in because I decided those things weren’t necessarily connected and the cops would just interfere. What if that was the wrong decision? Have I sacrificed Franklin’s safety—and possibly put others in danger—for a story?

  My gaze travels wearily around the room, as if somewhere, answers are hiding. And then I see another glowing number, a flashing “three” on my answering machine.

  I turn over on my side and push the button.

  “Message number one,” the mechanical voice says. “Received today at 8:37 p.m.”

  The machine beeps as I take another sip of tea. I almost choke as I recognize the voice.

  “Hello, Charlie, it’s Josh.”

&nb
sp; I put down my tea and hug my knees. What is he going to say?

  “You know I’m up in Vermont for the week,” his voice continues. “I drove out to where there’s phone service, because I can’t stop thinking about our conversation at Carno’s yesterday. I’ve been trying to come up with a way to prove to you that I have nothing to do with whatever is going on.”

  I stare at the answering machine as if it were human, and Josh’s solemn voice fills the room.

  “If you don’t care, you don’t care,” the message goes on. “If it doesn’t matter to you, then I’ll accept that. But do me one favor. Ask Melanie who gave the dinner party where Brad and I met. Ask her if it was Wes Rasmussen.”

  Josh pauses, then goes on. “Charlie, trust me, okay?”

  And then he’s gone.

  Time is suspended as I sit, wrapped in my comforter. Could I trust him? The Bexter kids certainly adore him. He’s obviously a devoted teacher. And he seemed so open about his life, his divorce. But that could be just to soften me up, get me to tell him what I know. Still, in the car, he was so tender. And interested. And romantic. And…

  So much for the calming tea—my now-racing brain feels as if it’s been hit with megadose caffeine. How long has it been since I kissed someone—since someone kissed me? How often have I imagined that shooting star, embracing the memory, yearning for his arms? That time of “together” only magnifies how often I’m just like this: alone. Even Stephen knew it. I’m alone.

  But maybe things can change. Maybe I haven’t demolished yet another potential relationship. Because there’s no reason for Josh to call me unless he really cares about me. And the dinner-party thing must be true, because it would be so easy for me to check with Melanie and confirm it with her.