I turn over, facing Josh. It’s all I can do not to reach out one hand and postpone the conversation. Maybe give a little tug at that drawstring. Resolute, I yank the pale blue blanket up to my chin. He yanks it down. I yank it back up.
“Don’t try to distract me,” I instruct. Although it’s too late. I’m already wavering. “First, Wen and Fiona Dulles. And now Randall Kindell. You still promise not to tell, right? I said I’d keep their calls secret. And now I’m feeling guilty even telling you. But demanding money? That’s new, isn’t it? Did Dorothy say anything about a blackmail demand?”
Josh rolls his eyes, then reaches to yank down the blanket again. I pull it up. Determined to stay on track. “The police are investigating. Let’s let them investigate.”
“Or Alethia?” I’m ignoring him. I just had a thought. “Did her caller say anything about money? It could be the police don’t even know about the extortion. Hey. Speaking of Alethia. Is there news? Has Alethia been able to tell the police anything about her fall?”
“Nope. She’s sedated. Sleeping. I hear they think she’ll come out of it. But, honey? Nothing is going to happen between now and tomorrow. So, I say we…”
He creeps his hand toward the blanket. I smack it to a halt.
“So do you know Lexie and Tal Dulles? And Nancy Kindell? Do you think there’s a drug thing going on? Have you heard anything? Would you?”
“Honey, as I said. Drugs in school? I wouldn’t be shocked. Still, Nancy Kindell? The Dulles kids? I wouldn’t have thought so. Tal’s a top senior, plays football. Would I know if kids were smoking dope behind the athletics shed? Probably not. Are kids falling asleep in class? Strung out like crystal-meth users? Not that I know of, at least.”
With a sigh, I flop down on my back. “I wish they’d all just tell the police, you know? I’m tired of keeping secrets. I can barely remember who knows what.”
“I know something secret,” Josh says. He reaches out for the blanket again, and begins to pull it, inch by inch, away from me. “I know how to be two places at once.”
The phone rings. Jangling. Botox leaps from her spot on the bed. Josh pulls the entire blanket off the bed and tosses it over the phone. It rings again, muffled.
“Hey!” I yelp, grabbing the blue-striped sheet. I scramble after the blanket, naked, laughing, pawing for the phone. “It might be Penny, you know? Hello?”
Listening to the voice on the other end, I slowly wrap the sheet around me, tucking in a corner to keep the fabric in place.
“I’ll let you tell Josh,” I say. I hand him the phone. “It’s the Head. About Alethia.”
The room stills as Josh puts the receiver to his ear. I know he’s hearing what Byron Forrestal just told me. Alethia’s in a coma. She’s not coming out of it. She’s dying. Her family is bringing in her priest. It’s over.
I watch Josh’s face go solemn. He’s murmuring into the phone.
Sitting on the side of the bed, I tuck the sheet more tightly around me. Maybe the cops are buying the accident theory. But I’m not. Not about Alethia. And not about Dorothy.
Chapter Eleven
This may be a huge wild-goose chase. We’re headed for the Longmore Hotel. More specifically, the parking lot of the Longmore Hotel. This could be dynamite. Or it could be a big fat goose egg. Nothing.
Franklin and I spent the morning plowing through RCK rental agreements. We’re following up with every person who rented the car with Annie’s VIN and every person who rented the same car I did, the black Vallero, the one without air bags. There are dozens of agreements, each printed onto a pink piece of paper with the hint of blur that comes with a toner-challenged copy. First we put them in chronological order, then, using the tried-and-true phone survey routine, we called each person who rented the car. We’re looking for clues, patterns, anything that will give us some idea of where and when the bad guys might have the opportunity to clone VINs and swipe air bags. We’re thinking: parking lots.
Phone surveys often result in a big time-sucking nothing. But I love digging for journalism gold. About an hour into the car-renter pursuit, after some dead ends and hang-ups, I’d hit possible pay dirt.
“Check it out, Franklin,” I said, holding up a rental agreement. “I just talked to this guy in Maine. He rented a car for the holidays. The same car I rented. Stayed at his parents’in Boston, he ever so willingly told me. Guess where they had a celebration dinner?”
“Just tell me, Charlotte.”
“Spoilsport. Okay, they had dinner at Bistro Zelda. And, ta dah, they used valet parking there. Just like-”
“Michael Borum.”
“Exactamundo.”
“Wait a second.” Franklin shuffled through his paperwork. “I had a valet parker, too. In the RCK car that has the same VIN as Annie’s. Not at Bistro Zelda, though.”
He held out the rental agreement. His notes, in Franklin’s precise, square handwriting, were attached on top with a red plastic paper clip.
“Longmore Hotel,” I read out loud. I shrugged. “Maybe they’re doing it there, too?”
“Easy enough to check,” Franklin said.
“You’re reading my mind. As usual.” I had stacked up the documents into a neat pile, no creases, no folds, to keep them pristine for the camera, and slid them into a protective folder. “Longmore Hotel, here we come. Time to see if we’re on the right track.”
Now we’re turning the corner onto Milk Street, winding through the impossible one-way streets and prohibited left turns.
When we pull to a stop in the semicircular driveway of the Longmore, a skinny kid in a too-big black nylon jacket positions himself at Franklin’s window. “Valet parking? How long will you be?”
The words give me goose bumps. We are so on the right track. I’m just not sure where the track goes from here.
Franklin hands over the keys, a gesture I’ve seen a million times. Suddenly it seems like such a stupid thing to do. The kid takes them, a gesture I’ve seen a million times. Suddenly it seems sinister.
I hop out of the passenger side, getting myself a good view before the valet gets in the driver’s seat. I have just enough time to see the name on the back of his jacket. Beacon Valet.
Once we enter the lobby, I leave another voice-mail message for the elusive Michael Borum. Franklin’s across the room, texting again. We told the valet we’re picking up the car in twenty minutes. Not long enough for any dirty tricks. If there are any. Today we’re just scoping out the system.
Borum’s parting words to me were to threaten a lawsuit. I’m not sure whether that makes a callback more or less likely.
“Anyway,” I continue my message, “we’ve got a bit more information about what might have happened the night of the accident. I’d like to share it with you. You had said you used valet parking? At Bistro Zelda? And I wanted to confirm…”
“Hello? Hello? This is Michael Borum.”
“Oh, thanks for picking up, Mr.-”
“Do I take it you’ve been doing your homework?”
I can’t gauge his hostility level, so I go for a cease-fire. Put a smile in my voice. “Well, in a manner of speaking. You said you used valet parking at Zelda that night?”
“Yes, I did use valet parking at Zelda that night. I didn’t just ‘say’ I did.”
“I understand. Now, I know this sounds off the wall. But was there any trouble with the valet service? Maybe…” I pause. I don’t want to lead a witness, but this ain’t court. And my suspicions are not yet fully formed. “Maybe it took longer than it should have? A delay of some kind?”
Silence. I let him think.