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.
B
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.”
Franklin, however, seems a little fidgety. “You and Caro matched Aztratech as company number one. Which does make sense. However,” he continues, “even though my possession of the files was all too short-lived, I—” He pauses, an odd look on his face. “I know which company was number two.”
“You do?” I say, my voice rising in delight. “You’re the best.” I scrape my chair around so I can sit down and still see over Franklin’s shoulder. “Now all we have to do is see if the e-mail with the citation ‘Numbers, Chapter Two, Verse whatever’ matches its stock price. Which, of course, it will. Let’s do it.”
Franklin still has the funny look on his face. “Well, there’s a problem,” he says slowly. “A biggie. The name of
the first company in the file box was 4 Corners. I remember because it starts with a number. And Aztratech was number two, not number one.”
“What? You’re wrong,” I howl. “What are the chances Caro and I could look up the stock prices like that, and they would match? Aztratech has to be Company One, Chapter One. Has to be.”
Franklin’s chewing his thumb, which he never does unless he’s really concerned. He stares at the ceiling, lost in thought.
I crunch the last of my apple and sip some of the vile hospital coffee. Then a knock on Franklin’s door jolts both of us out of our reverie. I turn to see the world’s most pregnant nurse, watermelon-size belly straining the snaps on her white uniform jacket. She’s carrying a dozen or so metal-covered patient file charts, a pile so ungainly it threatens to topple at the slightest wrong move.
“Geller?” she says, moving the charts from one arm to the other. “Roger Geller?”
This means nothing to me, but Franklin says, “He’s moved—gone over to E. This is D.”
The nurse seems to understand. “Oh, sorry,” she says, shifting her files again. “I’m new. I thought this was corridor E.” She turns to leave, but with that one motion, her charts clatter to the floor.
The nurse puts her hands to her face in frustration, and stamps a white-shoed foot. “I just organized those,” she mutters. “Now I have to do it all again.”
She bends down to retrieve the files, and I get up to help her recover the silver folders now scattered across the floor of Franklin’s room.
“I can help you do it,” I offer. “Were they by room number?”
“No,” she says, stacking them back onto my chair. “Alphabetical.”
I stop in midmotion, one hand inches away from picking up a chart. I leave it on the floor, and turn to Franklin with a wide-eyed question.
“Brad’s files,” I begin. “They were in alphabetical order. But you put them like that, didn’t you?” I continue. “They didn’t arrive that way, did they?” I’m remembering now. “That’s where we went wrong. The company names really do match the chapter numbers somehow, but not alphabetically.”
Franklin runs a hand across his face, looking frustrated and despondent. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “My fault. If I hadn’t messed with the files, and Mack Briggs’s, too, we’d have them now. Back the way they were. Before I had the genius idea to take them home.”
That’s so Franklin. So hyperresponsible, he’s putting the blame on himself for being mugged.
“Look, Franklin,” I say earnestly. “You were assaulted and robbed, your car torched. That’s hardly the result of being overorganized.”
“Yeah,” he says, giving me a baleful look, “but—”
“As you so often say, no buts,” I say, pointing a semistern finger to stop him. “I agree the files are just in some other order, and if we knew what order, we’d know which e-mail corresponds with each company. We just have to figure that out. I wish we had—” I stop as something nags at me.
“Had what?” he says.
“I just remembered,” I answer, looking more at the wall than at Franklin, “how we can find out what order the files were in.”
“Really?” he says. “How?”
“And what I also comprehend, more than ever,” I continue, turning to look him straight in the eye, “is we both may still be in danger.” I don’t think I actually have goose bumps, but I know I’m feeling an unsettling chill.
“Well, yeah,” Franklin agrees, tucking the e-mails into the Bible’s pages. “Somebody thinks we know something.”
“Right. And now, I have to say, it seems like the same kind of thing that happened to you, and to Brad, and to Mack Briggs, they might be planning for me.” I pause a moment, give a deep sigh. “On the other hand, it seems so—”
Franklin nods. “I know. Melodramatic. But one thing more.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” I say, shaking my head. “Josh Gelston.”
Franklin solemnly agrees. “Josh. If we’re in trouble, he’s in trouble.”
“But, listen, I think he’s the key to the whole thing.” I lean forward in my chair, eager to explain. “That’s what just hit me. Remember when I interviewed Josh? And he told me about the e-mail from Brad? He told me, back then, Brad had sent him a box of files.”
Franklin, wide-eyed, repeats my sentence. “Brad had sent him a box of files.” He nods. “I completely forgot.”
“Yup.” I lean back in my chair, again replaying my first meeting with Josh. I’m not wrong.
Box of files
just hadn’t meant anything at the time.
I sit up straight, energized. “And isn’t that a good thing?” I ask. “Josh told me Brad had sent the files to his house in Vermont. Where, as we know, he’s spending this weekend.” I’m talking faster now, excited by my idea. “He told me where the house is,” I continue. “At the end of
Jordan Beach Road. I can find it. So I’ll just drive up there and take a look. Josh wouldn’t have rearranged anything.”
I get up and start putting on my coat. “I’ll call you as soon as I know what order they’re in.” I toss the apple core and candy bag into the wastebasket, and hoist my tote bag onto my shoulder.
“But, Charlotte,” Franklin holds up a hand, stopping me. “What if Josh—”
“—is involved with multiple murders? And insider trading?” I interrupt, realizing I’ll be saying this out loud for the first time. “You know, Franko, I’ve gotten this far by trusting myself. Josh is on our side, I’m sure of it.”
Franklin scratches his jaw. “One more thought, then,” he says. “How about giving old Josh a call? Maybe let him know you’re coming?”
“No can do,” I say, trying to sound confident. “He told me there’s no phone service.” I pat Franklin carefully on the shoulder. “My cell phone may not work up there, but I’ll call you as soon as I can.” I turn and head for the door.
“Charlotte,” Franklin calls after me.
I turn back one last time. He’s frowning, and briefly touches his stitches. “Be careful,” he says.
I flutter a not-a-problem wave, but all the way down the hall, I’m wondering how this turned so darkly sinister. It’s J-school gospel that reporters are not supposed to be part of the story. But maybe Franklin and I have changed from observer to observed. And what if I’ve been changed from reporter—into target?
My supersize coffee barely fits into my window-mounted cup holder, and I quickly learn The Beverage You Are About to Drink Is Hot warning printed on the side is
more than accurate. This stuff is the temperature of the sun. I’ll just wait a while before I take a sip from my logofied thermal mug.
Somebody’s getting into the SUV next to me in the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot, so I turn on the engine and wait for the driver to back out. I notice he just goes a few feet to the pay phone in the parking lot, so I pull out ahead of him and I’m on the road again.
Franklin seemed genuinely nervous about this foray north, but how could anyone know where I’m headed? Plus my excitement at seeing Josh again, and having a perfectly good excuse for doing it, has dulled some of my residual hesitation. Franklin always worries too much.
I wonder what Josh will say when I knock on the door. It’s probably colder up there than it is here, so I envision him in a bulky sweater, with a fire going and music in the background. Jazz, maybe. And did he say he had a dog?
The dog barks as I pull into the driveway, and Josh sees me through the window. Josh runs out to clasp me in his arms. The rough wool of his fisherman’s sweater tickles my cheek, and his aroma of wood smoke and citrusy soap makes me wobbly in the knees. Josh pushes me back to arm’s length and brushes my hair away from my face.
“I knew you’d come,” he says, eyes soft. “Pick a lane, lady.”
Pick a? A NASCAR-wannabe in a Dodge Charger has rolled down his passenger-side window and is yelling at me at sixty-five miles an hour. I give him an adorable smile and wave as if grateful. “Thanks so much,” I call out. That always drives them crazy.
The Charger guy shakes his fist and pulls away. I’m still smiling. No one can stop me, I’m going to Josh World.
“I knew you’d come,” Josh murmurs, picking up right where we left off. “Silly face,” he says, pulling my wool hat down over my forehead. “I’ve been waiting all night for you.”
Inside my head the romantic scene continues to unfold, and outside, the night grows darker as I head farther up Route 93 North through Vermont.
I hate driving at night. Every time a car heads in my direction, I’m blinded by the damn headlights.
I try to read the map to Jordan Beach Road without taking my eyes off the highway. Right in two exits. I look at the dashboard clock and add another layer of worry. This is taking a lot longer than I predicted. If Josh is sleeping when I arrive, our reunion scene is not going to be as
Affair to Remember
as I’d hoped.
Headlights behind me now. And they’re too close. I squint in the rearview and give a start of recognition. Looks like the same SUV that was parked beside me at the Dunkin’ Donuts. The one that pulled up to the pay phone as I was leaving. Could that be?
I shake my head, ashamed at my own paranoia. It’s just another random lead foot having a testosterone attack. Why do I keep attracting these guys? I think about my coffee, but it’s still too hot.
“Slow down or pass me, buddy!” I yell, though I know no one can hear me.
The car pulls up beside my window. I think I see the shadows of two men inside, hard to tell. Industrial-strength lights on each the side of the highway glare on the car’s rolled-up windows, blocking any good view. Plus, I have to try to keep my eyes on the road. Still, in my peripheral vision I can tell their SUV is staying exactly parallel to mine.
“Asshole!” I can’t even believe I’m yelling words like this. But these drivers are scaring me. What is with this car? I accelerate to get away from them. But they stay with me.
A new set of headlights glares in my rearview, blasting a vicious halogen swath though the dark. Two cars bugging me now, and no one else on the highway. Is this just my welcome to the New England highway system? Or—
I glance out my window. In the car beside me, the guy in the passenger seat holds up an index finger—then points it at me.
And then, suddenly, I know real fear. It’s instantly, shockingly, brutally, terrifyingly clear what certainly must have happened to Brad Foreman. And probably Mack Briggs. Anonymous cars, working together, manipulating their poor victim into crashing. After a couple of fast moves they speed into the night, leaving behind crumpled metal and a lone casualty. I have a nauseating flashback to that video of Brad’s ugly crash. No witnesses, no evidence. And when the police arrive, it seems just like a one-car accident.
I bite my lip and vow not to fall into their disgusting trap. Brad and Mack had no idea what was coming, but I do. I can beat this. Problem is I have no idea how long I have to plan my moves. These guys could accelerate into get-Charlie mode at any second.
I long for my cell phone, but it’s zipped, of course, in its damned leather pouch and buried in my tote bag a million miles away in the backseat. No way I can get it. No way I can call the police. Or anyone.
Another car pulls up beside me, this one on the passenger side.
I can feel my hands clenching on the steering wheel, so hard my shoulders hurt with the tension. The driver doesn’t
even glance in my direction, but now he also stays parallel with my little Jeep. “Jerk!” Saying it out loud makes me feel a little better.