“Did you see the car go through the toll booth on the highway? You know the toll booths?”
“Yes. I saw it going. It went fast. Then our car went bang.” His lower lip begins to pooch out, his long eyelashes cobwebbing with tears. “And Sophie was really crying. And Daddy wasn’t talking.”
Forget the camera. In one motion, I’m off my chair and crouched in front of him, eye to eye.
“Gabe? Can you go get your Matchbox car for me?”
The uniformed factotum at the guards’ desk is barricaded behind a chin-level Formica fortress strewn with black vinyl ring binders I know are sign-in sheets. His back is to an array of tiny TV monitors, some flickering grainy black-and-white video of unrecognizably blurry figures waiting at elevators and walking down the institutional hallways of the Park Plaza state office building. As the three of us approach, the guard reluctantly puts down the greasy-looking paperback he’s reading. He’s curled the cover around to the back to hide the title.
“We’re going to the Mass Pike offices, room 1504,” I say, filling my voice with confidence. I don’t tell him we have an appointment with Massachusetts Turnpike mogul David Chernin. Because that’s not true. We have no appointment at all. We’re just attempting to insinuate ourselves upstairs. If we fail, we’ll be escorted to the down escalator and out into the overpriced food court.
An hour ago, Gabe showed us a tiny blue Mustang. Here’s where we might track down the real one. We’ve got to at least try.
“Synneer,” the guard says. His plastic name tag says Bill Bevan. With a stubby finger, Bevan spins one of the notebooks in our general direction. “Idees.”
“Sure, of course.” I give the guys a surreptitious thumbs-up, and flash my driver’s license instead of my station ID. If this guy is the slacker he seems, we may be able to keep people from confirming we were here. I sign on the next available line, although I write Tina Marie Turner instead of my real name. Franklin, nodding his understanding, signs Don Ameche. J.T. signs an illegible scrawl, keeping his camera low and out of sight.
Bevan “analyzes” our signatures without a blink. So much for security.
Just as I’m certain we’re in the clear, the guard, whose pinkish scalp is attempting to burst through his invisible hair and whose neck flab is encroaching on the collar of his blue uniform, narrows his eyes at me. Unfortunately, I then get to see his teeth.
“You that TV girl,” Bevan says. The smile evaporates and he begins to reach for an enormous phone console covered with push buttons. “Maybe I should call.”
“Hey, man, cool setup,” J.T. interrupts. He unzips his black parka, hoists his camera onto the desk, then points toward the monitors. “You got surveillance video there? You got tape, or digital? How many eyes? Is it a VTR-54B? How do you recon the scenes?”
Apparently, the security guard isn’t much of a multitasker. He abandons the phone and focuses on J.T. My photographer, I’m willing to bet, is talking complete nonsense.
But J.T.’s suddenly a team player.
“Show me your setup, dude,” J.T. says. As the guard turns back to his monitors, J.T. cocks his head at us. In the direction of the elevators. “Go,” he mouths.
David Chernin owes me big and he knows it. When he and his wife got some horrible stomach bug on their tenth-anniversary cruise a few years ago, he called me to do a refund battle with their uncooperative travel agency. Companies get very nervous when they hear “This is Charlie McNally from Channel 3.” I managed to get all their money back. Although I never expect a quid pro quo for just doing my job, that fact places Franklin and me in a very nice negotiating position.
When he’s not on a cruise, Chernin is the computer guru of the Mass Turnpike’s toll enforcement division. After we promised not to tell where we got the info, he agreed to show us photos he probably shouldn’t.
“Nope,” Chernin says, pointing. “Nope. Nope.”
We’re watching black-and-white images flicker by on Chernin’s flat-screen monitor. We’re hoping to see a Mustang, just like the Matchbox car Gabriel Ross showed us, though of course we won’t be able to tell if it’s blue. Each photo, snapped automatically by the surveillance cameras mounted at all three tollbooths, displays the license plate of a car that blew through the tolls without paying around the time of the accident. If the driver we’re looking for paid the toll, in cash or with an electronic transponder, there won’t be a picture. But I’m predicting he was too freaked out and driving too fast to pay cash.
“Nope. Nope. Nope.”
Each car is on-screen a fraction of a second, just long enough for the three of us to assess whether it’s a Mustang or not. Dozens have gone by. So far, no Mustangs. But to me, each no means a yes is even closer. And I keep wondering. Why aren’t the police using this technology to enforce the law? How many bad guys are out there, caught on camera but not caught by the cops?
“I understand you’re not going to throw me under the bus here,” Chernin says. His eyes never leave the screen as his right hand clicks the mouse on the Next button. One after another, the photos continue to appear, and his voice goes quiet. “You know as well as I do-this meeting never happened. So how are you going to explain how you found this car? Without implicating me?”
“If we find the car,” Franklin says. He’s also staring at the screen.
“When we find the car,” I say. “And when we do, I’m sure we can figure out a way to protect you.”
Chernin turns away from the screen, stashing his wire-rimmed glasses on the top of his head. He runs triathlons and has that gaunt malnourished look some runners cultivate. Cheekbones. Shortest possible hair. He tightens his tie, shoots the cuffs of his shirt. His face is hardening.
“Charlie,” he begins.
We may be in trouble.
“There’s one.” Franklin had picked up the mouse and continued clicking through the photos himself. He points to the screen. “Look. Clearly a Mustang.”
Chernin whirls back and we all lean in closer, focused on the fuzzy but recognizable image. Franklin’s right. And the time stamp says 4:26. Perfect.
“We done now?” Chernin asks.
“You can print a copy for us, right?” I say. My fists clench and I feel my got-a-good-story shivers beginning. I always know. I also know it’s a risk to get too excited too soon. I turn to Chernin, aware we’re on thin ice. My fists become crossed fingers.
“And can we keep looking, please, just briefly? There could have been more than one Mustang.”
Chernin tilts his head, considering. He’s increasingly unhappy with this. And it is probably a job-threatening breach of something. He looks at the chunky black watch strapped to his emaciated wrist. “Ten minutes. At the most.”
“Thank you so much,” I say. We know the accident was over by then anyway. “We’ll never ask for anything again.”
“You got that right,” Chernin mutters. He goes back to the mouse, clicking faster and faster as the image parade continues. Whatever is going to happen better happen fast.
By the time the time stamp says 4:36 p.m. we’ve seen no more Mustangs. Chernin clicks the screen to black. “Time,” he says.
Franklin and I exchange glances. No question the whole thing is iffy. If little Gabe is right. If this car is blue. And even if so, if this is the right Mustang.
Still. It’s more than we had when we came in. And we may have found the driver who caused the accident. And caused so much expense and fear in the Ross household.
“Again, you’re the best. This could really help us,” I say. “Can you hit Print? And we’ll be out of your life.”
Mission accomplished. I hope. I put on my black overcoat, wrap and tie the belt, and scramble through my cordovan tote bag for my gloves. We hear the photo of the Mustang whir out of the printer. Chernin pulls it from the tray. I hold out my hand, smiling. J.T. is probably waiting for us in the food court. He’ll be psyched that his tactic worked.