“The files were in the trunk,” Franklin finishes. “So. Either the bad guys wanted my Passat for parts and then got an extra big bonfire afterward, or…”
“Or they really wanted the files,” I finish.
“Yup,” Franklin agrees. “Or they really wanted the files.”
I picture the two bad guys, whoever they are, following Franklin out of the station and into his car, watching him lug the two file boxes. I picture them following him home, staking him out. I picture them coming back early the next morning, waiting for him to bring the boxes out. If he hadn’t, they could just break into his condo and get them then.
Which reminds me. Melanie. And whomever ransacked her study. The “gang of teenagers” theory is becoming highly unlikely.
“Listen, Charlotte,” Franklin interrupts my thoughts. “I don’t like this. It’s pretty clear whoever it was came after me, specifically. And someone sent them to do it. And now—”
I hear the honk of a car horn, then turn to see a Channel 3 news van pulling up beside me. “Sorry, Franko, gotta go,” I say. “Talk to you later.”
Head high, I approach the Waltmobile and look inquiringly at the stranger getting out of the passenger seat. She’s sleek and smooth as a baby seal. Her red beret is fashionably tilted on ultra-flat blond hair that’s right out of a cream-rinse commercial, and I swear I recognize the tawny designer boots I coveted at Saks. Daddy’s charge must have gone platinum for those, I calculate. A thousand bucks a boot.
“I’m Charlie McNally,” I begin.
“Hi,” she says.
Okay, then. “Are you here with Walt?” I ask deliberately. Maybe she doesn’t understand English.
“Totally.” She wobbles on her stilettos as she hikes Walt’s equipment bag onto her shoulder. “Oooh.” She giggles.
“Hey,” Walt says. “That bag is too heavy for you.”
Hell is apparently freezing over—Walt takes the bag from her and slings it over his own shoulder.
“Hel-lo?” I persist. “Wa-lt?” I make his name two syllables.
“Yeah, Charlie,” the photog finally growls. “This is Alissia Nevins.” He cocks his head at the girl, raising a conspiratorial eyebrow. “Intern. Angela Nevins’s daughter.”
I don’t know whether it’s more interesting that the Queen of Darkness has offspring, or that she’s sent her camera-ready daughter out on a story. With me. Of course now every move I make will be reported to the inner sanctum, probably to be inscribed on some permanent record of my flaws.
That’s serious tactics, I’ve got to give Angela credit. But I wonder, where’d this girl get the financing for that outfit? Angela doesn’t make that much money.
Walt and the dauphine are already heading toward Aztratech’s front door, me tagging along behind. This is a roiling disaster, I realize. No, it’s a buffet. Beef jerky, cheesecake—and me, toast.
When we get to the briefing, I recognize the woman adjusting the microphones at the front of the dark-paneled conference room deep inside the Aztratech building. It’s Gwen Matherton, Wes Rasmussen’s fashion-plate assistant. She looks behind her, as if confirming there are enough chairs lined up for Aztratech staff, then steps to the podium.
“Mr. Rasmussen will be here in just a few minutes.” Megawattage lights click on, photographers aiming them right at her. Gwen blinks a little in the sudden glare. “He’ll have a brief statement, and then take questions.”
She surveys the room, then, getting no reaction from the half-listening group of reporters, walks out a side door.
Alissia, who entered in a swirl of perfume and a coquettish rearranging of her scarf, doesn’t need a podium to take center stage. Photographers, the men at least, ignore their video equipment and unabashedly check her out. The female TV reporters, with a nose for a new kid, look at me questioningly, concerned for their territory. I shake my head. Don’t worry, I signal. She’s no threat.
But to me—she might be useful.
“So, Alissia,” I begin, “this your first news conference?” I guide her to the back of the room, the buzz of the media pack resuming enough to give us a little privacy.
She looks at me as if I’m her befuddled grandmother and begins a brief history of her apparently already brilliant career. It’s a self-satisfied teen-queen bio punctuated by head tosses and hair flipping.
“…and so, like, when my mom got the job at Channel 3, she told me she’d be able to get me in there, anytime. I was the anchor for my high school newscast. It’s awesome.”
“How nice,” I reply, oh-so-sincerely. “In fact, I’m wondering if you’d like to ask the questions here today.”
Anyone with any sense, of course, would never step into a news conference without having some idea of what’s going on. I’m counting on her inner prima donna to lure her into the spotlight.
She pauses, then nods. “Sweet,” she says. “Can’t be that tough. Just tell me what to ask and that’ll be so cool.”
I scrawl out a list of questions, trying to keep my handwriting legible and a grin off my face.
“Here you go,” I say. “Just have Walt roll on everything, that way if someone else asks a good question, we’ll get that answer on tape, too. I’ll stay with you until it starts, then I’ll meet you back at the car.”
“Sweet,” she says again. “Mom is going to think you are so brilliant.”
Probably not, I don’t say. Alissia turns to take her place by Walt, but I stop her.
“Look. I have my own car. Your mom knows I’m headed back to the hospital, so you just take the tape to the station, and they’ll tell you what to do.”
“Faboo,” Alissia replies incomprehensibly. “I’m so amped.” With a final toss of her flat-ironed hair, she takes my list of questions and heads to the bank of cameras. I hang by the door, near the back of the room.
I have an idea. Risky, most certainly. Rewarding, very possibly. But with Franklin in the hospital, and with what Caro and I think we’ve figured out—it’s definitely now or never.
Wes Rasmussen enters through the side door, barely glancing at the waiting media army. No golf shirt today. He’s straight out of Forbes magazine in a TV-perfect dark suit, pale blue shirt and yellow tie. He sits in one of the folding chairs behind the podium and whispers to some aide beside him.
I stand motionless in the back, waiting for the perfect time to make my move.
Gwen Matherton steps back to the podium and gives a brief history of Aztratech—founded eight years ago, pharmaceutical research and development, new gastrointestinal drug recently approved by the FDA.
Then Rasmussen comes to the podium, adjusting his tie and then looking down at some notes. When he looks up, every eye in the room is watching him, and every light in the room is turned to shine right on his face.
In that instant, I’m out the door. I’ve been in this building before and I know right where I’m going.
Plastering a confident expression on my face, I walk purposefully down the corridor and away from the conference room. I’ve got the trusty have-to-use-the-ladies’-room-and-oh-golly-I’m-lost excuse ready, just in case. I glance at my watch—the news conference can’t be any shorter than fifteen minutes. If I can get in and get out in that time, I’m golden.
It takes just two minutes to get to Rasmussen’s office. His receptionist is not at her desk, and his door is open. I can’t hesitate. I close the door partway after I step into the deep pile of his extra-plush executive-suite carpeting, and once again see the glow of the Miranda in the showcase.
It seems like such a long time ago I first saw that.
Back to my plan. I go behind Rasmussen’s desk, scanning the stacks of paperwork and books on top of it. I don’t want to move anything if I don’t have to.
Bingo.
Without a second thought, I reach out and grab the prize from between the lion bookends. Just as Caro Crofts described, it’s a battered leather-covered Bible, about a dozen yellow stickies marking what, I don’t know. But I do know
this book is key evidence to what I’m convinced is an insider-trading scheme, and now I’ve got it.
I imagine a darkened theater, and annoyed viewers of the Charlie-movie analyzing my every step. No way she would go into that office, someone whispers. She’s definitely going to get caught. Yeah, someone snaps back. She’s an idiot.
I close my ears to my persistent fears and zip the Bible into my purse. Now I just have to get out of the office and into the elevator. I take a step toward the door. That’s when I hear the voices.
I gasp and my heart clenches. I am an idiot. I look wildly around the room, as if there’s some magic that’s going to save me from certain discovery. But I’m trapped.
The voices are coming closer to the office. How could Rasmussen be out of the news conference so quickly? I check my watch—it’s been just five minutes. The news conference can’t be over. I struggle to find an explanation, but I can’t come up with a thing.
Maybe they’ll just walk on by. Anyone could be in the hall, I’ve just proved that. My heart begins to slow a little. In fact, I decide, it’s pretty unlikely that anyone’s on the way to Rasmussen’s office.
Unless it’s Rasmussen himself. My heart starts up again. But he has to be in the news conference. Doesn’t he?
And then I hear a louder voice. A man. “Here’s the office,” it says, “just ahead. Go on in. Phone’s on the desk.”
Everything is black. My eyes are wide open, and still everything is black. And that is such a good thing.
I clutch my purse to my chest, contraband Bible still inside, and huddle as far back against the wall as I can. I close my eyes for a moment, reeling at my own wild misjudgment. How did I get myself into this?
By pushing the right button, I answer myself. Back at that first interview, Rasmussen touched something underneath his desk that opened a hidden closet in the wall behind him. That’s where he got the sport coat he put on for the camera. So, I figured, I had one chance to avoid whomever was heading for the office.
Of course if Rasmussen comes in and decides to hang up his suit jacket, there’s pretty much no explanation that’s going to fly. I struggle through my fear to try and get my bearings. The closet feels like it’s full of scratchy jackets, and it smells like golf shoes and aftershave. Terrific. If I throw up, they’re certain to find me.
What’s more, at least three people are now in the office. I strain to hear them, and can pick out two men and one woman. I think. Unless of course, there’s someone else in the room who’s not talking. Someone who’s now moving closer to Rasmussen’s desk to push the magic button and reveal the uninvited guest behind door number one. A guest who would—soon after—reside for eight to ten at the Framingham Women’s Correctional Institution.
But the voices don’t get closer, and some words become intermittently intelligible. Taking the quietest deep breath in history, I gingerly put my goody bag on the floor and flatten my ear to the door.
“…something something push nine,” I think I hear. It’s the woman’s voice.
“…something something number?” Man’s voice, and I don’t think it’s authoritative enough to be Rasmussen’s. So. Woman and unidentified guy.
Then I hear another man. “…something something just relax.”
That’s not Rasmussen, either. Woman and two unidentified guys. In Rasmussen’s office. Why?
I bite my lower lip in frustration, trying to turn my hearing up to parabolic and figure out what they’re saying. Not that it matters, probably.
“It’s us.” The woman now. Maybe she’s turned toward me because for some reason I can now hear her quite clearly. It sounds as if she’s on the phone. “We got your beep. What’s so urgent?”
Even though my brain is stuffed with panic, a bit of room opens up, just enough to admit a tiny hint of recognition. I know that voice. I close my eyes, not that it matters in my murky hidey-hole, but somehow I think it’ll make my hearing more acute. Who the hell is in the room?
I’m listening so hard I almost forget I’m trespassing in a corporate executive’s hidden closet and carrying one of his possessions in my purse. When I remember that, I also remember something else. I squint and angle my wrist in every direction, but it’s no use. I can’t see my watch. Which means I have no idea how long I have until the news conference is over and no idea how long it’ll be before Rasmussen himself is back.
And the moment he comes into the room, he’ll inevitably see his Bible is gone. I hold my breath in case someone can hear me breathing. Then I decide it would be better to breathe, but softly, in case I would cough or something when I have to catch my breath.
How the heck do they hide in closets in movies, anyway? I scoot my feet farther away from the door, remembering how they always catch the closet-hider by their feet showing under the crack. Whose idea was this? the sane part of me demands.
I can hear the woman talking again.
“Listen,” she says, and it sounds as if she’s coming closer to the closet. “It’ll all be fine. Stop worrying. We’ll call you when it’s over. Hold on one moment.”
Hold on? Why is she saying hold on? Maybe she’s seen my feet showing. I clench my entire body, waiting for the blast of fluorescent light that will signal my demise.
Instead, the voice seems to be addressing the others in the room. “I told you, it’s fine,” the voice says. “You can both meet me at the car.”
Pause pause, muffle mufffle.
“Fine, just go,” the woman says again. Then she continues, apparently now speaking into the phone. “Martin says, ‘Chill.’ Whatever he means by that.”
The woman’s tone goes a bit softer. “We’ll see each other soon, darling, I promise. Goodbye, dear.”
That voice is so damn familiar. I’ve heard this person before. I’ve talked with her. She was unpleasant then, too. My eyes fly open again, not that it would matter here in the dark. But I remember. It’s Andrea Grimes Brown, the wicked witch of Corporate City who threatened me at Mack Briggs’s funeral. And I bet the two other guys are her funeral-goon sidekicks. What are they all doing in Wes Rasmussen’s office?
It may be wishful thinking, but it sounds as if the receiver’s been put back on the hook. Leave, leave, leave, I silently chant. Leave, leave, leave. Maybe whatever higher power seemed to save Nancy Drew’s ass in places like this will come through for me, too.
I count to sixty. I count to sixty again. Not a sound from the room. One more time. Sixty. Not a sound.
Okay, Charlie, question of the day. Do you open the door? Or not?
I don’t care who sees me now. I’m walking as fast as I’ve ever walked, out the door, down the hall, steering a course for the elevator. Me, my purse and the purloined Bible. I try not to look guilty of trespassing and larceny, although clearly I am. What if, as soon as I get to the door, there’s a massive clamor, like for shoplifters? What if the Aztratech rent-a-cops stationed at the security desk grab my arms and insist on looking in my purse?
I know my rights. I remember them. I don’t have to let them look. They need a warrant. I’m supposed to ask for a lawyer. Then I don’t say a word.
“Charlie?” A male voice comes up behind me. “What the hell are you doing?”
I feel the blood drain from my face as I slowly turn to meet my captor. “I’m—” I begin. And then I almost faint. With happiness.
Walt Petrucelli, camera in one hand, is holding out his tripod for me to carry. It’s instant camouflage. As long as he and his equipment are with me, I’m transformed from “suspicious intruder lurking in the hall” to “reporter leaving a press briefing.” And we’re almost to the front door.
“You missed the whole damn news conference,” Walt says, scowling. “That Alissia asked a load of bullshit questions. I just rolled on everything.”
Walt cuts in front of me and shoulders his way out through the revolving door. As its protective glass twirls me to freedom behind him, I can still hear Walt complaining. “Bunch of bullshit,” he says.
>
And I head into the sunlight.
Chapter Nineteen
B
y the time I get back from the hospital cafeteria with two cups of coffee, an apple and a bag of peanut M&M’s, Franklin has laid out the Bible verse e-mails across his lap. There’s a Boston Globe folded open to the stock tables on his nightstand, the Bible’s on his lap and he seems deeply engrossed in comparing them. I’ve already filled him in on what Caro and I think we’ve uncovered. I start on the M&M’s, ripping open the corner of the package and squeezing out a red and a brown.
“So? Fake spam. Amazing, huh?” I say, popping the candies into my mouth. I didn’t have lunch so they don’t count. Plus, the peanuts have protein. “You’ve got to give them credit—it’s a pretty diabolical way to deliver stock-trading tips. Instant and anonymous.”
Franklin nods. “And it would certainly explain where all the money came from for the Miranda, as well as those shopping malls and racehorses. Whoever’s in on this spam operation can cash in every time they get an e-mail. And they wouldn’t be caught if they were careful. If they didn’t do it too often, and didn’t get greedy.”
I scrounge with a finger for a last piece of candy, thinking one might still be hiding. It’s not. I crumple the empty bag and eye the apple. “How about that Bible, though? You think it’s like—a reference book?”
“Well, yeah,” Franklin says slowly. He holds up the leather volume, turning it back and forth in his hand. “I’m thinking this Bible is the way Rasmussen, or whoever, figures out which chapter and verse matches the company in play. The verse has to match the stock price of whatever company is supposed to be bought or sold.”
I nod, understanding. “The Bible as decoder ring,” I add. “There’s a concept.”
“Yeah,” Franklin replies. “Might as well put the good book to good use. Plus, no one would bat an eye if someone had a Bible on their desk.”
“So,” I say slowly, “the companies that were in Brad’s files, the same files he sent Mack Briggs, clearly those are the companies involved in the insider trading.” I start on my apple, crunching happily, trying to chew and talk at the same time. “End of mystery. It’s Emmy time.”
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