Franklin looks back at me, scratches the stubble on his cheek. “You’re saying, then, when Melanie did the interview with you, and when you and I went back to look at the files, it was all part of a cover-up?”
I nod enthusiastically. “Pretty good, too, huh? We’d never have suspected her, right? She’s the ‘grieving widow.’ Baffled by all those files. We thought we were so clever to get her to let us take them. She was actually luring us to sneak them out of her house, so the Aztratech lawyers couldn’t subpoena them or something.”
Josh raises his hand, like a kid who wants to be called on. “But here’s what I’m wondering,” he puts in. “Caro Crofts said Brad helped her with the whistle-blowing investigation. Why would he do that?”
“That’s easy,” Franklin puts in. “Distraction. Misdirection. The more the focus was on the price fixing at Aztratech, the more the focus was off the stock trading. And remember, when you’re playing the insider-trading game, the market doesn’t matter. Stocks go up, stocks go down, you can make money either way.”
Josh nods. “So maybe that’s why Brad sent you the e-mail, Charlie. He was going to tell you about Caro and the lawsuit. Misdirection again.”
“Now we just have to prove it,” I say. “Imagine the impact on the whole market,” I continue enthusiastically. “It’ll be much bigger than Martha. Even bigger than Enron. And we’ll have it first—and just in time for the November ratings.”
Franklin chews his thumb, his thinking pose.
“Just a second, Charlotte,” he says. “There’s still one thing I have to ask.”
I drop my hands into my lap, rolling my eyes in impatience. “Okay, killjoy. What’s the big question?”
Franklin ignores my annoyance, looks at Josh, then back at me. “Question is,” he says deliberately, “if what you think happened is true, who killed Brad Foreman? And why?”
I deflate more quickly than yesterday’s birthday balloon. My mind squeals into reverse, returning, in defeat, all the way back to square one.
“Yeah, yeah.” I shake my head, unhappily comprehending my mistake. “And who came after you in the parking lot? And me on the highway? I’m wrong.”
“So who is the big cheese, then?” Franklin asks.
I dig into my purse and get out the sheaf of spam e-mails. They’re now ratty and crumpled from being in my bag.
“Okay, listen,” I say, smoothing them out. “The files are still in the Volvo’s trunk, but we wrote the corresponding company names on each of these e-mails. Let’s just go through these and see if anything pops out. Reminds us of someone we forgot.”
Franklin opens his nightstand drawer and takes out a notepad and pencil. That guy is always ready to work. “Here’s some paper,” he says, handing it over. “Give me the e-mails, and I’ll read you what’s on each page. It’s still a little difficult for me to write.”
Josh stands up, stretches and holds up his empty coffee cup. “While you journos do your stuff, I’ll run down to the caf for more of this delicious hospital coffee—anyone else interested?” He pauses. “No? Okay, back in a flash.”
As Josh leaves, Franklin begins to read the company names.
“First, Aztratech.” He looks up at me. “Got it? Okay, second, Rogers Chalmers. Realm of the delightful Andrea Brown.”
“Okay,” I say, writing. “Go on.”
“Third, Electrometrics. Then, Fisher Industries.” He pauses, waiting for me to catch up. “Islington Partners. Gyro Engineering. HGP, Inc.”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupt. “Hang on.”
“Sorry,” he says. “Going too fast?”
I stare at the notebook, holding the pencil between my teeth. I take out the pencil, absently wipe it on my coat, and look at Franklin, who’s ready with the next e-mail.
“Franko,” I say deliberately. “Does the next company name begin with D?”
“Begin with…?”
“Go with me here,” I say, tapping the pencil on the pad. “Does the next company name begin with a D?”
He looks down at the next page. “Well, yeah,” he answers. “It does. Dioneutraceutics. How did you know that?”
“And the next one—begins with E?”
He turns the page again. “Exotel,” he answers. “What’s—how do you know what letter comes next?”
I lean against the back of the chair, holding the notebook to my chest. “You’ve got to give them credit, whoever it is,” I tell Franklin. “This is one clever operation.”
“What, what, what?” he says. “What?”
“I always wondered,” I begin, “how the people in on this insider-trading group figured out which so-called Bible verses went with which companies. Not to mention, with all the spams on everyone’s e-mail, how they knew which spams they were supposed to answer. You know?”
“Yeah,” he says. He looks perplexed. “But didn’t we decide it was the ones that said ‘a good time to buy’ or ‘a good time to sell’?”
“Yes,” I answer, nodding. “And that did make sense. But how about knowing which companies you’re supposed to buy or sell? This is so blazingly illegal—I kept thinking it would be dangerous to keep a list of the company names anywhere. So I wondered, did the traders just memorize all of them in the proper order?”
“They could have, I guess.”
I sit up and wave the notebook at him. “They could have indeed,” I say. “But they didn’t.”
The door clicks open and Josh arrives, balancing a tray with steaming foam cups of coffee and granola bars. “Room service,” he announces brightly. “May I offer either of you a…What?” He stops, looks back and forth at us, apparently picking up on the tension in the air. “What’s going on?”
“Hang on,” Franklin says. “Charlotte has some theory.”
Josh puts the tray on a side table and leans against the wall, listening.
“What I was saying,” I begin again, “is that the traders needed some way to keep track of the order of the companies, to know which one coincided with which Bible verse. Did they memorize a list in order? I say, nope, they didn’t have to.”
I pause. “They didn’t have to memorize the names in order because the order was right there in every e-mail.”
“Huh? No, it wasn’t,” Franklin interrupts, holding up the e-mails. “Look again. There are no company names here. What are you talking about?”
“You lost me, too,” Josh adds.
I pick up the notepad, turn it to face them. “Look at the order of names, you guys,” I say, pointing to what I’ve written. “Aztratech is first. Then Rogers Chalmers,” I continue.
Then I read the first letters of each company. Out loud. Pointing to each one. “A. R. E. F. I. G. H. D. E….”
“Holy shit,” Franklin says.
Josh takes the notebook from me, looks at it again. “Pretty damn ingenious.”
Franklin scrambles through the final pages of e-mails he’s holding. “Put the rest together,” he mutters, “and—it spells out the whole thing.”
I look at Josh and Franklin, and say it out loud. “‘A refigh deal 4-U.’ Just like it said on the subject line of every e-mail. The last companies are 4Corners Real Estate and United Optical.”
“That’s why they used that spelling we could never understand,” Franklin says. “They had to include every company’s name in the anagram.”
I peer at the list. “And Aztratech is alphabetically before the other A, Azzores Partnership. And Electrometrics comes before Exotel.”
“It would be easy to just remember the names, once you knew which companies were in on it,” Josh says. “Using an anagram means no lists, no files, no proof.”
“You’ve got to hand it to them,” Franklin puts in. “We only figured it out because you wrote down the names from the e-mails. Without that, without the files, we never could have figured it out. Nor could the cops or securities investigators.”
“But someone knew someone figured out something,” I remind them.
&
nbsp; “English, Charlotte,” Franklin demands. “Proper nouns.”
“That’s what’s driving me crazy,” I reply. “I don’t know. But that ‘someone’ killed Brad, and maybe Mack Briggs, and tried to run me off the road, too. And most likely that same ‘someone’ ordered those two goons to snag the files from you in the parking lot before we could discover their secret.”
Josh picks up his coffee, goes over to look out the window. “Speaking of which. Have the police come back to check on you? Show you mug shots, or whatever?” He turns to ask Franklin, “Do they say they have any leads?”
“No and no,” Franklin says. “They haven’t been here at all.”
“That stinks,” I put in. “You’d think they’d be all over it—big-time TV producer mugged, car torched, files stolen. Wonder what’s up with that?”
No answer from Josh or Franklin, so I just keep going.
“But remember, they were pushing the theory that it was part of a string of muggings, so maybe it turned out that was true.” I pause, considering. “You think?”
“No way,” Josh replies. “They probably don’t have lead one.”
“And I’ll be home in a day or two,” Franklin says morosely. “So I’ll feel nice and safe. Knowing those guys are still out there.”
Franklin’s got a point. And I realize that could put Stephen in danger, too. I decide not to mention that.
“But—hey,” I say, brightening. I’ve just remembered we haven’t told Franklin our biggest news. “I can’t believe we forgot. But when Josh mentioned mug shots—”
“Hell, yes,” Franklin interrupts. “The picture of the slimes who tried to run our Charlotte off the road.” Franklin holds out his hands, gesturing for me to hurry. “Bring ’em out, Miss Nikon.”
“There’s just one you need to see,” I say, digging in my tote bag. “Here.”
Franklin stares at the photograph I’ve just handed him. The look of disbelief I read on his face is enough to keep me quiet. Josh comes around behind my chair, resting both his hands on my shoulders. Together, we wait for Franklin to speak.
He drops the picture into his lap and lowers his head to look at it again. When he looks up, expressions cross his face more quickly than I can interpret them.
I can’t stand it any longer.
“What? Who?” I realize I’m whispering, though I can’t remember consciously deciding to do that. “Come on, Franko. Who’s in the picture?”
A sheen of perspiration appears on Franklin’s forehead, and he turns the photo around so Josh and I can see it.
“Those police officers who were here about the mugging, McCarron and Cipriani?” Franklin begins.
“That’s not who’s in the picture,” I interrupt. “They—”
He continues, resolute. “We need to call them. Right now.”
There’s silence again for a moment, as what he’s suggesting sinks in. “You’re—kidding me,” I say hesitantly.
Franklin slowly shakes his head, looking at the picture again. “Not kidding at all. Your two highway goons are the same two I encountered so unceremoniously in the parking lot behind my condo. The same two who arranged for my little stay here at Mass General Hospital.”
“Okay, team,” I say. “Time to bring in the police. Franko, I’ve already put you in enough danger. Josh, you’re clearly next on the hit list. I know it’s a hell of a story. But…” I look down at the floor. When was the last time I gave up a story? Never. But now, I don’t feel like I’m giving up. I’m feel like I’m…getting. “But I can’t risk…losing you. Either of you.”
I get up and head for the phone. Then I stop, turning back to Josh and Franklin. “You know, though,” I say slowly, “I just thought of another mystery the photo might solve.” I pick up the snapshot from the nightstand and point to the two men. “I’ll bet these are the same creeps who broke into Melanie’s house. She said nothing was taken,” I continue. “And she was afraid they were looking for the files, remember?”
“She called the police from your office to report it.” Franklin says, considering. “Man. I’ll bet you’re right.”
A sharp knock on Franklin’s door turns our attention to the hallway, where a frowning white-coat is giving us the evil eye. “It’s far beyond visiting hours,” she says sternly. She flips up a silver watch hanging from her belt loop. “One minute,” she intones. “And then I’m calling security.” She turns on her heel and strides away.
“Okay, look,” Franklin says. “What if I call Melanie and give her the scoop on the photo? She knows what happened yesterday—I told her—and I’ll see if she wants you guys to stop by with the picture. Maybe she’ll be less upset by now.”
“So we hold off on the police until then,” I say. “Till we see if Melanie recognizes anyone. If they’re from Aztratech or something. We can also see if the Lexington police know who they are.”
“Right. It’s a plan,” Franklin says.
I lean over and give him a quick kiss on his bandaged forehead. “We’ve got this nailed now, but you be careful,” I say as I stand up. “And this time tomorrow—”
A gravely voice from the hallway interrupts. “Ten seconds.”
Josh puts one hand on my shoulder and salutes Franklin with the other. “Come on, Brenda Starr,” he says, turning me toward the door. “Let’s get you somewhere safe.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
I
t’s late, I’m frazzled and I’m yearning to go upstairs to my own little bed. Question is: with Josh? Or without him? I give him a surreptitious glance across the Volvo’s front seat. Good thing he can’t read my mind. Or Maysie’s latest postcard admonition from Disney World that “every Beauty needs a Beast.” “So here we are,” I say. I hear myself sound awkward. Nervous. Maybe it’s just fatigue. “Thanks so much for chauffeuring me. And—for everything else.”
Josh swivels toward me, propping one arm across the back of the front seat, making no move to leave. The engine’s still humming, but he’s put the car in Park. How do we always wind up like this?
I gesture toward my apartment building. “I…should go inside.”
“I suppose,” he says softly. He stops, midsentence, and gives a quick gesture of disbelief. “You sure? You don’t think I should take you to—say—a hotel or something?” He puts a gentle hand on my knee. “You’re certain you feel safe enough?”
“I suppose,” I reply, although I’m not a hundred percent. “I won’t let anyone in, of course. And…” I frown, and give another anxious look around tiny Mt. Vernon Square, the peeling white bark of the river birches eerie in the dim streetlights. Most windows are dark. “I mean, I guess they are still out there, you know?” And it feels as if they have me in their sights. Josh, too. But I’m not going to let them frighten me out of my own home. Plus, the voice mail from the vet says Botox is home now, and she can’t be left alone. “No,” I say. “This is fine.”
I curl my hand over his and we sit in silence, staring through the windshield. Not another car on the streets, not another soul walking by. I’m emotionally exhausted—the fear, the tension, the uncertainty—but sharing this tiny midnight moment with Josh makes me want so many more.
“Would you like, uh, coffee?” I ask. Then I’m suddenly—shy. It’s pretty obvious my invitation is not really for coffee, and I’m surprised at myself for being so bold. Too late now.
Josh squeezes my hand. “I’d love, ‘uh, coffee,’” he says, smiling. “Anytime. But you know—how about I call you first thing in the morning? Get some sleep, get your own clothes. Lock your doors. Then tomorrow I’ll come get you, and we’ll see what happens with Melanie.”
The old Charlie would have felt rejected. But I feel…relieved. I need a shower, my hair is somehow lank and frizzy at the same time, my face is probably breaking out and I really need some sleep. But somehow I’m certain there’ll be more moments like this. Josh and me. Together.
“Deal,” I say, gathering up my stuff. I turn back to Josh one last ti
me, concerned. “You’ll be safe at Bexter, right? You’ll watch out, too? Don’t talk to strangers, all that?”
Josh leans over and kisses my forehead. A tender, soft kiss. Lingering. I can feel his longing—or is it my own? Then he pulls me to him, this time kissing me hungrily, again and again. “I don’t want any more goodbyes,” he whispers. He sits back, his eyes locking onto mine. “You be careful, Ms. McNally. I’ll watch until you’re inside, and tomorrow I’ll call you, first thing.”
The entranceway door snaps close behind me with a solid comforting click as I begin the three-flight trudge to my apartment. I’m happily weak in the knees as I round the landing to the second floor, clinging to our moments in the car, forgetting my fear. The last of my energy disappears as I drag myself up the steps by the banister.
And then something streaks by me, flattening me against the wall. I drop my purse and tote bag, terrified, and try to figure out if it’s a person, or a rat or God knows what.
Meow.
My little calico pal pads up the stairs and curls her tail around my legs. I scoop Botox up onto my shoulder, and she burrows her head into my neck.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I coo. She revs up her highest-level purr. “How are you, little one?” She nuzzles deeper, then touches my face with a paw. “I’m glad you’re okay, baby cat,” I tell her.
I stop in midpat. What the hell is Botox doing in the hall? I always leave a secret key under the cactus plant by my front door, and the vet’s assistant knew to look for it there. But she’d never leave without making sure Botox is inside with food and water. The cat moves like quicksilver, but something seems very wrong here.
Still carrying Toxie, I softly make my way up the final steps to my door. It’s closed. I stand outside, ear to the walnut wood, listening intently. Nothing. I slowly try the old-fashioned brass knob. It’s locked.
“Do not move,” I whisper to the cat as I put her on the floor. I tilt the cactus pot to see if the key is still there. It is.
I frown, confused. The door’s locked. The key is in its proper place. But the cat is out. Someone was inside, no question. The vet’s assistant? Well, yes, but…what if someone else is inside right now? Waiting for me to come home? And what if the cat got out when they got in? I feel a clammy wave of apprehension.
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