Prime Time

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “Charlotte?” Franklin’s voice buzzes into my ear.

  “Yeah,” I answer both of them at the same time. I know my voice must sound flat, as if all the wind’s been knocked out of me. And that’s exactly how I feel. But I have to tell them. “Listen to this.”

  We’re halfway home. Josh pilots the Volvo, a grim expression on his face, as I watch the dashboard’s digital readout count down the miles. I wonder if we’re heading away from trouble or right into it.

  I sneak a look at Josh. He’s got one elbow resting on the car’s window ledge, his other wrist draped over the steering wheel, and he’s wearing a chunky black turtleneck and a black down vest. He’s the perfect picture of “cool guy headed out for a ski weekend.” Problem is he’s actually an innocent schoolteacher dragged by a pushy TV reporter into a murder-and-insider-trading conspiracy.

  Josh flicks his eyes to the rearview mirror, then turns as he sees me watching. He looks guilty, as if I’m the one who’s caught him.

  “You got me.” He gives the mirror a little tilting adjustment. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice me scouting for your highway buddies.”

  “I’m doing a little highway scouting myself,” I admit. “I’m so sorry,” I say, briefly touching Josh’s shoulder. “I know it’s my fault and…”

  Josh switches hands on the steering wheel, puts one of his over mine before I can take it off of his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Charlie,” he says, giving my hand a squeeze. “Remember, it was Brad who first asked me to look into those e-mails, and Brad who sent me that box of files that are now locked in the trunk.”

  “I never thought about it that way,” I say. He’s right.

  At that moment, a shiny black Lincoln sweeps down the entrance ramp at top speed and slides in front of us. I involuntarily grab my armrest, my heart racing, and I can see Josh’s knuckles turn white on the steering wheel.

  Josh never takes his eyes off the road. “Well, now,” he says softly. “Let’s just put him to the test here, see if our Mr. Lincoln has any friends.”

  The highway signs flash by as Josh moves into the right lane. The Lincoln stays where he is, just ahead of us. We speed up, he speeds up. We slow down, he slows down. I’m trying to see the driver, but I can’t even tell how many people are in the car.

  My eyes are widening with fear, and I can see the muscles in Josh’s jaw clenching.

  “That’s not one of the…” Josh begins.

  “No,” I reply. “I’ve never seen this car before.”

  We drive in ominous silence for a few moments, hearing only the hum from the car’s heater and the drum of our tires on the highway.

  Josh hits the accelerator again. This time the Lincoln stays behind us. He’s on our tail, falling back a few car lengths, staying in a parallel lane. Or maybe he’s not on our tail at all. Maybe he’s just some well-heeled owner of a sleek gas-guzzler, heading home to the city, completely unaware of the freaked-out couple in the Volvo in front of him.

  I turn in my seat to look back. Still there. Not getting any closer, not getting any farther away.

  “He could just be a bad driver,” I offer, trying out my hypothesis. “Just because someone pulls out in front of you doesn’t make ’em a homicidal maniac.” I go for a little humor. “It just makes ’em a Boston driver, you know?”

  “He still back there?” Josh asks, ignoring my theory. “He’s exactly in my blind spot now.”

  “Yeah,” I answer dully. “He’s there.”

  Road signs are whizzing by now, offering burgers and ice cream, chicken and pizza. Billboards for Canobie Lake, Mohegan Sun, Walden Pond. Mileage to Concord, then Lexington. And that gives me an idea.

  “Josh,” I say, calculating. “The next exit coming up will take us to Lexington. To Melanie’s. Let’s get off, see if the guy follows us. If he does, we’ll head straight for the police station. If he doesn’t…”

  “If he doesn’t, we’re just two middle-aged paranoids who have seen too many spy movies,” Josh replies. His jaw is set, and he’s not smiling.

  Thirty seconds go by, the exit to Lexington looming ahead. At the last possible moment, Josh yanks the wheel to the right and peels off the highway. I hear the horn from some car behind us blare in outrage, and our tires squeal their complaints as Josh, ignoring the speed limit, expertly steers us though the curve of the exit. I grab the passenger strap to keep my balance. There’s a Stop sign at the upcoming intersection. As we slow down, I take one last prayerful glance in our rearview.

  We’re alone.

  I can see the blur of an eye come close to the peephole. There’s a pause, and then a click as Melanie unlocks and opens the door.

  The reactions race across her face—surprise, calculation, even what looks like fear. She brushes a strand of hair back from her forehead, and it looks as though she’s struggling for composure.

  “Cha—?” she begins. She’s looking at Josh, then back at me.

  I interrupt her, embarrassed we’ve intruded on what must certainly still be her time of deep grief.

  “Oh, Melanie, I’m so sorry. We should have called in advance.”

  Melanie backs into the entryway, gesturing us through the door. “Forgive me,” she says, seeming to shake off whatever confusion our arrival had engendered. “I was just a little shocked to see you.” She looks at Josh. “And you. But of course—” she’s smiling now “—come in.”

  We follow her down a hall to what must be the library, a room I’ve never seen before. She turns, offering us a seat, and I notice she doesn’t have the weary, worn-out demeanor I’d expect in a new widow. And no flowers. No cards.

  Give her a break, I say to myself. We all handle sorrow in different ways. Maybe she went to a spa. Maybe she doesn’t want reminders of grief. More power to her.

  Josh and I perch on the edge of what looks like a brand-new suede couch, luggage-tan with brass studded trim. Melanie sits down opposite us in a curvy chintz club chair, hands in her lap, waiting for us to make a first move.

  I slide my tote bag under the coffee table in front of us. Inside are the e-mails, Wes Rasmussen’s Bible and the chart we made of the stock symbols and Bible verses.

  “I don’t know exactly where to begin,” I say, “but I think we may have some clues about what happened to your husband. Would you want to hear about it?”

  Melanie tilts her head a little, an inquisitive expression on her face. She says nothing, holds out a hand to indicate I should continue.

  I bend down to my bag and zip open a side pocket to retrieve the Bible. Pulling it out, I hold it up for Melanie to see. “This may be the key to a conspiracy.” I hold it between us for a moment, but she makes no move to take it. She looks guarded, nervous, one foot softly tapping.

  I guess I’d be a little apprehensive, too, if someone was about to tell me why my husband died.

  I put the Bible on the coffee table, then tell her the whole story. Caro Crofts, Wes Rasmussen’s office, the Bible, Josh’s copy of the files, our discovery of the chapter-and-verse code, what Brad must have also discovered.

  “And so,” I finish, “that’s how we think whoever is in this insider-trading scheme passes information. If we get the SEC filings of the stock trades these guys made, we’ll be able to prove who’s sold what, and when, and connect it to the spams.”

  I wonder whether Melanie understands what I’ve described. I have no idea of the extent of her financial knowledge, whether she’s stock market savvy or clueless. Maybe this whole thing is too complicated, way over her head.

  Should I start at the beginning, make it easier? I wait, watching her process what I’ve just told her. She’s staring over my shoulder, hands still clasped in her lap, silent.

  Am I imagining she’s gone a little pale beneath that flawless makeup? And now I can see she’s breathing harder, her chest rising and falling. This was a terrible idea.

  Melanie puts one manicured hand over her mouth and stands up, eyes reddening and glistening with tears
. “Can you give me a few moments?” she says through her fingers. “I’ll be right back.” Melanie turns and almost runs out of the room.

  “Wonderful,” I whisper to Josh. “Now we’ve upset her.” I screw up my face in regret. “I should have thought this through. Poor thing, she’s—”

  “And you didn’t even tell her about the guys who tried to run you off the road,” Josh whispers back. “And the photo you have of them. And how you know they’re Andrea Grimes Brown’s sidemen. How come?”

  “Well, that’s a relief, at least.” I’m still whispering, worrying Melanie will come back and hear us. “Can you imagine if I’d had time to spring that whole thing on her? Um, excuse me, Melanie? Thought you might want to know we also figured out who killed your husband, and here’s their picture. What do you say after that? Have a nice day?”

  Josh shakes his head. “We have to tell her,” he says quietly. “But let’s just see what happens when she comes back.”

  I look around the room, uncomfortable in the silence. This despondent woman, trying to keep herself together in a time of unimaginable sadness, and here comes the crusading reporter with her cute new boyfriend, reminding her of everything she must feel is gone from her life forever. I bow my head in personal despair, wondering if I’ll ever learn to keep my nose out of other people’s business.

  Apparently not. On the coffee table, I see a thick black photo album, leather bound and brass cornered. On the front, embossed in gold, it says Our Wedding. I hafta look.

  I reach out a hand to open the album. Josh instantly grabs my wrist, stopping me.

  “Do not look at that,” he orders. “Come on, Charlie, give her some privacy.” He holds on to my wrist, and breaks into a bemused smile. “You are too much, Murphy Brown,” he says, letting go. “You can’t paw through people’s photo albums without permission.”

  “It’s out on the coffee table, in plain view. That’s permission,” I say, wheedling. I lean forward again, about to open the cover, but then, out of the corner of my eye, I see Melanie in the doorway.

  I quickly rearrange myself. “Are you all right?” I ask. “Do you want us to come back? Talk about this later?”

  Melanie doesn’t answer. She stands in the arched doorway, framed by its elaborate white woodwork, hands behind her back. Slowly, she brings her arms in front of her, and in one hand, she’s carrying a book.

  She takes a few steps toward us, holding the book out as she walks. “I got this from Brad’s nightstand drawer,” she says, gesturing at it with her head. Her face turns grim. “Here,” she says defiantly, tossing the book toward me. “Look familiar?”

  Surprised, I almost don’t make the catch, but the leather volume lands in my hands with a soft smack.

  I look down, and do a double take. I look at the book, and then at its exact double in front of me. Two brown leather-bound Bibles. The code book for the spam conspiracy. One I swiped from Wes Rasmussen. And the other apparently belonged to Brad Foreman.

  “This is—” I begin. “How did—? When did—?” There’s almost nothing Melanie could have done that would have surprised me more.

  I examine the Bible cautiously. It looks exactly like Rasmussen’s Bible, the one we’re so familiar with by now. The print, the paper, the binding, all the same.

  “Melanie?” I begin again. “You said this was Brad’s? Do you know where he got it? When?”

  “It looks exactly like Rasmussen’s Bible,” Josh adds. “Question is, did Rasmussen give him this copy? Or did he give one to Rasmussen?”

  “Or did someone else hand out Bibles to both of them?” I wonder, thinking out loud. “And if so, who else has them?”

  Melanie begins to pace, almost as if Josh and I were not in the room. She goes toward the built-in bookshelves lining one side of the room, then turns, heading to the chintz-draped bay windows. And then back again, ignoring us.

  Josh and I look at each other. He asks a silent question. What now? I briefly hold up a hand. Wait.

  “So,” Melanie says suddenly, her voice cutting through the silence. “It just gets worse and worse, doesn’t it? What am I supposed to do now? Call the police and tell them my husband was actually the mastermind of some illegal Internet stock market scam?” She begins her pacing again, talking to the floor. “That’ll be enchanting,” she mutters. “Police investigations, federal inquiries, search warrants or whatever they do.” She stops, looks directly at Josh and me.

  “Because here’s the rest of the story.” Melanie leans against the bookcase. “That spam scheme? Sending coded trading tips via Internet junk mail? I’d already heard about it.”

  “Already—?” I can’t seem to finish a sentence around here.

  Melanie continues, almost talking to herself, remembering. “That was Brad’s big money-making idea. Brad’s! He was always coming up with far-fetched plans to strike it rich.” She brushes her hair back again, looking almost angry. “Guess he thought it was easier than earning real money.”

  “But, Melanie—?” Why she didn’t tell me this back when I first interviewed her? Hadn’t we talked about whether Brad was into the stock market?

  “And now of course,” she ignores me and continues, her face clouding with raw emotion, “that could mean Brad wasn’t actually murdered. Maybe it was an accident. Or—” Melanie is having a difficult time getting the words out “—maybe he did kill himself, like the police think.”

  A million questions crowd into my brain, but I can’t figure out what to say and how to say it. What’s the proper way to interrupt a widow who’s imagining the reasons for her husband’s death?

  Melanie continues her narrative, picking up steam. “He killed himself, knowing the feds were on to his system. Had somehow learned of it.” She shakes her head again, looking bitter. “Killed himself. And left me to deal with the whole thing. Of course.”

  I can’t stand it. “Mack Briggs?” I say tentatively. “Also died the same way? So maybe it—?”

  Melanie whirls toward me, laser-eyed. “Mack Briggs?” she says, her voice rising. “Mack Briggs? Maybe it was Mr. Former SEC Commissioner Mack Briggs who alerted law enforcement to what Brad was doing. That’s what I think. His death? Just an accident. And now, because of your little discovery, I’m going to have to keep Brad’s secret, or lose everything.” She pauses, then lifts her chin imperiously. “And don’t even think of putting this on TV. I’ll deny every syllable.”

  Melanie turns her back on us—I can see her shoulders shaking as if she’s deeply upset, maybe even crying. I sneak a quick look at Josh. He’s staring at Melanie, looking confused and concerned. I probably look exactly the same. Melanie’s reaction is beyond bizarre.

  I shove Rasmussen’s Bible back into my purse, and then, while Melanie’s still not looking, I sneak in Brad’s twin copy, too. I figure she actually gave it to me, didn’t she? And however this turns out, it’s clear having these two Bibles will prove there’s some kind of conspiracy underway. I shift on the couch to get Josh’s attention, gesturing with my head. Let’s get out of here.

  Josh and I both stand up, edging toward the door. “Um,” I begin, floundering for words again.

  Melanie turns to us, eyes flashing and wet with tears. “Just go,” she says. And she runs out of the room.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “M

  an,” Franklin says. A gauze bandage now covers his forehead, but he’s looking significantly healthier. “She had a Bible, too? Brad’s? I’m missing everything.” Josh and I sit in the hospital’s folding metal visitor’s chairs, drawn up close to Franklin’s bedside, sipping rancid hospital coffee and sharing Milk Duds. Josh has one arm thrown casually across the back of my chair, the international man-signal for taken. Not that Franklin would care, but I sure do.

  “I’m trapped here in Marcus Welby-land, and you’re…” Franklin shifts in his bed, continuing to complain. He struggles to find the words, waving his good arm back and forth in front of us. “You’re Nick and Nora frickin’ Ch
arles.”

  Josh laughs. “Well, from what Charlie’s told me, she’s used to working as a team. So I’m only subbing while you’re out of commission.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I interrupt the male bonding experience, eager to get back to business. “Listen you two, I’m having a brainstorm. After Melanie’s performance today, I’m seeing a whole new picture.” I hold up my hands like a film director bracketing his shots. “Andrea Grimes Brown—not a murderer, just doing some insider trading. Wes Rasmussen—not a mastermind, just a player. Mack Briggs—not killed in a mysterious car crash, just a coincidental casualty. Melanie—not the poor widow, but queen of the cover-up. And as for Bradley Foreman—he’s not the victim, he’s the bad guy.”

  Franklin and Josh are staring at me, listening.

  I tick off the points on my fingers. “Spam scheme. Brad’s idea. He tells Melanie. She loves money—look at all her expensive clothing and jewelry. Plus, she thinks he’ll never get caught. So Brad sets it all up for his boss Wes Rasmussen and the other CEOs of the companies he’s documented in the files. He knows he and Melanie can cash in, too, because he’s the only one who knows the system.

  “So. Brad concocts the Bible code,” I continue, “and gives everyone a Bible just like his. He sends the spam from his own computer. Then, he gets cocky. He decides to send the spam to Josh and Mack Briggs, to see if either of you will crack the code. You, Josh, ever-trusting nice guy, just do as you’re asked, look up the quotes. No problems from your end. Mack Briggs dies before his suspicions are confirmed.”

  Silence from my boys. This just proves how right I am.

  “So,” I continue, “all we have to do is get the records of those CEOs’ trades, compare them to the spam, trace the spam to one of Brad’s computers…and oh, I just thought of something else.” I point to Franklin. “That’s probably why the Aztratech lawyers were telephoning Melanie that first day. They were probably on to Brad’s scam, and were already investigating.”