I type the VIN into our database, then grab my binoculars as Franklin moves to the next car. If we find a car that has an open recall, we’ll come back tomorrow and rent it. Rental Car King is mostly a car lot, with a squat yellow faux-brick office building planted in the middle. I focus my binocs through its plate-glass front windows, trying for a glimpse of J.T. and his quarry.
Frowning, I focus again. I can see J.T. pretty well, the back of his leather bomber jacket. And a fuzzy-faced but clearly female figure behind a long counter. But I can also see…? I squint, trying to read the blocky words on the poster. It says Rental Car King. But even squinting, I can’t make out the face beside them.
Franklin’s Bluetooth voice squawks through my phone. “Here’s another one. Ready?”
I put down the binoculars and type in the next VIN. We manage to get at least a dozen more before J.T. and a big-haired clerk in an unfortunate polyester tunic, complete with a king’s crown on the back, come strolling out the door.
“It’s all fine and we’re coming back here tomorrow,” J.T. says to Franklin. “Kelsey says we can choose any car we want.”
I love technology. I can hear everything. J.T. turns to the clerk, gesturing toward Franklin. “Told you he’s fussy about cars. But tomorrow, when we pick up our rental? I’m bringing my older sister.”
By the time the boys get back to the car, I’ve moved the front seat up so far it’s impossible for them to squeeze in. At such short notice, it’s the only way I could think of to pay J.T. back for the older-sister crack.
“Funny girl,” J.T. says. He scoots the driver’s seat back into place. “And after I risked my life doing all that dangerous reconnaissance.”
“Some danger,” I say. “Maybe from hair-spray inhalation. Young Kelsey starting a fan club?”
“She’s the owner’s niece, I’ll have you know. And Miss Kelsey Kindell knows her cars. When your uncle is RandallC. Kindell, the Rental Car King, you’ve got to-”
The picture on the poster. Now I recognize it. And that’s a problem. “Randall Kindell?”
“He’s the owner, Charlotte,” Franklin chimes in. “Owns a string of RCK franchises. Didn’t you read the e-mails I sent you this morning? It’s all in there.”
Franklin twists around and glares at me over the back of the seat. Frowning. “Can’t know it if you don’t read it.”
It was much easier when my job was my whole life. I was lonely sometimes. But I never missed an e-mail.
“The memorial service,” I explain. Lame excuse. But thinking again, maybe it was lucky I was there. Kind of. I mentally review the faces of the mourners. “Thing is, I’m sure I saw him this morning. Randall Kindell. He was at the service, too.”
We pull out of our parking place, J.T. heading us back to Channel 3. I was hoping we’d be able to prove rental cars from RCK were unrepaired, and potentially dangerous. But now, it seems, if we wind up going on the air with that, we may face an unexpected roadblock.
“Really? Does Kindell have a kid at Bexter?” Franklin asks.
“Wouldn’t that be something?” I say.
“Well, you can’t let that stand in your way,” Franklin replies. “And clearly, if we think a Bexter bigwig is renting dangerous cars, you certainly can’t warn anyone there about what we discovered. And by anyone, I mean Josh. We have to follow the story, no matter where it goes.”
He’s lecturing me about journalism ethics? I’m instantly seething.
I’ve never yelled at Franklin. Not even close. And wouldn’t consider it, much less with J.T. in the car. As I do a calming mental count to ten, I sinkingly realize that part of my anger is directed at myself. Feeling guilty for missing the Borum reconnaissance. Guilty for not reading my e-mail. Guilty because it crossed my mind that maybe-if Randall Kindell is a Bexter bigwig-we could leave him out of our story. And that is unacceptable. There are no divided loyalties in TV.
“Lighten up, Franko,” I say, making my voice cheery. “Think I’d let anything get between me and our next Emmy? No way.”
I hope I’m telling the truth.
Chapter Seven
“You’re on the air in three, two…” Saskia Kaye, her beaded mass of braids swinging with the motion, points a showtime finger at me from behind the Plexiglas that divides the producer’s booth at WWXI radio from the onthe-air talent in the studio.
Tonight, I’m the talent.
“This is Charlie McNally from Channel 3 News, sitting in this Friday night for Maysie Green, thank you so much for inviting me! And tonight-a change in the conversation.” I’m acting like someone else is in the glass-walled WWXI studio with me, but really I’m just talking to the thousands of listeners who tuned in for Maysie’s weekly half-hour sports talk show. They’re gonna be disappointed if they want me to talk about sports, unless it’s Ralph Lauren’s spring sportswear line. But I figure anyone who likes sports likes cars.
“New mother-to-be Maysie’s off tonight, and if she’s listening, we wish her well. Can’t wait to see the baby, Mays,” I say. I’m going for breezy radio voice and channeling the seventies, when I had a part-time job in a Chicago suburb as a radio reporter. Until the news director found someone who had already graduated from college. I did farm news, mostly. But experience is experience.
I check through the Plexiglas as I continue my opening patter, raising a “how am I doing?” eyebrow. Saskia smiles back, her dark eyes twinkling, and gives me a thumbs-up. Okay, then. I’m back on the radio. And I’ve decided to use this gig to troll for some info for our TV story.
“Tonight, I’ll be taking calls about your cars. Anyone get a recall notice? Did you do the repairs? Love to hear about it.”
In an instant, the lighted buttons on the phone console of front of me begin to flash red. One, then another, and another.
“Good girl. You’ve got callers.” Saskia flips a toggle switch so I can hear her voice through my headphones. She punches a button on her phone console. “Transferring caller number one. Here comes Edward from Saugus.”
“Hey, Edward,” I say. I know Saskia writes down the names and e-mail addresses of all the callers for the station’s mailing list before she switches their calls to me. I hear their voices and mine in my headphones, and lean closer to the silver mesh of the football-size microphone. “Tell me about your recall.”
Two flashing bright green readouts on the digital clocks in front of me tick off the seconds, one showing how much time I have left, the other showing the actual time of day. The calls never stop. As the back-timer approaches zero-zero-zero, my radio re-debut winds down without a hitch. And, bonus, in my thirty minutes of airtime I may have found several possible victims for our story. People who bought used cars, not knowing they had unrepaired recalls. I’ll get their e-mail from Saskia. Suddenly she’s giving me the one-finger “wrap it up” signal.
“And that’s all the time we have for tonight,” I say. Saskia holds up a piece of poster board with big block-printed letters. I get it. Radio’s version of a prompter. No problem. “Keep your dial on Wixie for all the news, sports and weather. Stay tuned for Taylor and Tyler’s Drive Time, coming up in just three minutes. Got a car for sale? Tell ’em all about it. And we’ll see you back here real soon.”
“And you’re clear.” Saskia slashes a finger across her neck. She punches a couple of buttons and the red On the Air light above my console fades to black. I take off my headphones, hoping my hair isn’t hopelessly dented. Josh is waiting for me. If Maysie was right, we might be heading to the hospital.
Two lanky, identical-looking men, twenty-somethings in tucked-out plaid shirts and jeans are now lounging in Saskia’s booth. They’re poking at each other with the pointed metal plugs dangling from the curly cords of the padded-ear headphones they’re wearing.