Josh puts down his mug.
I can’t stand it. I hafta know. I take a chance, relying on my unlikely outfit for cover. “Officer? Could you tell me-”
Josh frowns. “I’m sorry, Officer. My fiancée.”
“Yes,” I continue, hurrying to pick up my sentence. “Professor Gelston’s fiancée. I just came to keep him company. But I just wondered, is there any news on Miss Espinosa’s condition? Did she say anything? About what happened to her? And were there any other footprints on the steps?”
“We’re still working this case, ma’am.” Officer Petrucelly flips his notebook closed and tucks it inside his jacket pocket. Then he looks at me, assessing. “Miss Espinosa is in critical condition. However, Miss McNally, any further information will have to come from our public-affairs officer.”
“Nothing. I’m just tired. And my tooth hurts.” I wince, not in pain, of course, but at my awkward attempts to reinforce my escalating deception. Problem is, if I tell Franklin what I was doing last night, I’ll unquestionably have to tell him everything about what’s happening at Bexter. I do trust Franklin to keep secrets. But these I promised not to tell.
“Sorry to hear that.” Franklin raises an eyebrow, not sounding that sorry. He turns back to his computer, leaning toward the screen, telegraphing his focus. I see my lists of VIN numbers on half the split screen and the NHTSA Web site on the other.
“Did I tell you Annie Vilardi got a new car?” I turn my desk chair toward him, trying to fill the uncomfortable silence, plowing through the tension. Hoping to lure Franklin back to normal. Maybe it’s only guilty me who’s uncomfortable. Maybe Franklin is just working. “Well, it’s new to her, at least. I guess her parents bought it from-”
“What’s the VIN? I assume you got it.”
“Yes indeedy. You bet I did. Girl reporter, always on the job. Do I get a big gold star?” I cross my legs, movie star, pretending to pat my hair into place. This is throwing Franklin an irresistible softball. When he teases me back, all will be well.
“Tell me the number. I’ll search the databases. You haven’t done that, I assume.”
Thud.
Franklin doesn’t even look up. Guilt washes over me again. I should have searched it myself. I forgot.
“I wrote it down here,” I say, putting my notebook on Franklin’s desk and pointing to the string of letters and numbers. He taps them into the computer, no comment.
Fine. I can be professional, too. I’m not required to share everything with my producer. I’m allowed to have a personal life. A private life. And if Franklin’s going to be so huffy and unpleasant, maybe I don’t feel so guilty about not warning him of Kevin’s New York offer. Maybe I’ll just go down to Kevin’s office now. Tell him yes, I’ll go to New York. Then Franklin can be dismissive to the new reporter.
“You got the number wrong.” Franklin swivels. He looks at me, his voice almost accusing. He points to the screen.
That’s weird. And unlikely.
“No, I didn’t,” I finally reply.
At least, I hope I didn’t. That’s just what I don’t need this morning. There’s no “wrong” in TV. I scoot my chair toward Franklin’s desk, squinting for a closer look at the monitor and get an uncomfortable thought. Because I was in a hurry, on the way to the Head’s party, I didn’t actually see the VIN. “I mean, I suppose Annie could have read it to me wrong.”
“Yes, well, whatever. This can’t be the VIN of Annie’s white Ombra.”
“Okay, fine, it’s not the VIN of Annie’s white Ombra.” If I’m wrong, which I suppose I could be, I might as well take the hit. Who cares, anyway? I can always go back and get the number again. But I’m curious. “How do you know it isn’t?”
Franklin begins to sort through the brown cardboard box of tape cassettes parked next to our television monitor. “Do you have the logs from the Rental Car King? Let me show you something on the video.”
“Can’t you just tell me, without making a big drama of the whole thing?”
Franklin ignores me. “The logs?”
I hand him the stapled sheets of paper, lists of numbers and descriptions typed by our current college-student intern. Ashley’s watched our undercover video, keeping track of what pictures correspond to the time codes electronically burned into the tape. Unlike counter numbers, which can be reset to zero-zero-zero with the push of a button, a tape’s time codes are always the same. That makes things easy to find.
Franklin slides the cassette into the viewer, then consults the log. “Zero one, fifteen, zero eight,” he mutters, twisting the fast-forward dial to find one hour, fifteen minutes and eight seconds.
The pictures speed by until Franklin whaps the yellow Pause button. The counter shows 01:15:00. He twists the machine’s fat black dial to click the seconds forward. At 01:15:06, the camera lens flares with a hit of sunshine, then auto-irises down. The hood of a white car wobbles into view. The camera lurches as Franklin walks closer to the vehicle. At 01:15:07, the lurching stops and the video settles into focus. At:08, it shows a white Ombra.
Franklin looks at me, gesturing dramatically at the picture. “Here’s the proof you’re wrong. This car, in the RCK rental lot, has the same VIN number you gave me. So you must have written down Annie’s VIN incorrectly.”
He pushes the red eject button. The tape pops from the machine. Franklin leaves it, half in, half out, as if it’s sticking out its tongue at me.
“Unless Annie’s new old car can be two places at once. Which it obviously can’t be.” He crosses his arms across his starched yellow oxford shirt. Waiting for my answer.
With one quick motion, I lean over and push the tape back into place. The motor whirs as the tape threads into position. I push Play, then Pause. Stare at the screen. A white Ombra. With the same VIN as Annie’s. Impossible. Impossible for a car to be two places at one time.
But actually, I know it is possible. And I know exactly how.
“Franko, listen. I mean, look.” I twist my chair around, and scoot back to my own computer. I punch up Google, and type in three words.
As soon as we find Annie’s car, we’ll know.
“There it is, on the end. By the yellow lines. See it?” Annie’s parked her Ombra in Bexter’s tree-lined student lot. Seniors go back a week earlier than the other kids. Which, today, is lucky for me and Franklin.
“I see it,” Franklin replies. He steers his Passat past a row of cars, each labeled with the elaborate gothic B of the Bexter parking stickers.
Garrison Hall is in the distance, which makes me wonder about Alethia. No word from Josh yet this morning about her. Last night’s police interview had been short, the cops divulging nothing. Afterward, we’d dumped the sweater and scarf mélange from my bed and collapsed together, exhausted, without even getting under the covers. We’re both going on about four hours’ sleep. But my Google search has given me quite an energy boost. I can be tired later.
Franklin pulls up beside Annie’s Ombra. He leaves the engine running, and we hop out into the cold afternoon, our words puffing white in the January chill.
“There’s no dealer sticker that I can see. And no dealer name tag around the license plate,” Franklin says, going around to the rear of the car. “Do you know where Annie’s parents purchased this?”
I tug lightly on the driver’s-side door. Locked. That means I can’t check the VIN on the metal plate attached inside. “Nope, no reason to ask. But let’s just see what Annie’s parents really got here. I’ll read you the dashboard VIN, okay? I can read that through the windshield. Ready?
“One. Y, B, one…” I begin. Seventeen digits. A one-of-a-kind combination. Supposedly unique. Like a car’s DNA.