“In fact, Miss McNally…” His words come out slowly. “In fact, thinking back, there was a ‘delay,’ like you say. I guess you could call it a delay. We were supposed to be there for drinks and dinner, but one of my friends wasn’t feeling too hot, and had to leave. Before the apps arrived, if I remember right.”
Oh. Bingo. I knock on the polished wood of the Longmore’s carved end table. Don’t want to jinx it.
“So,” I say, fingers crossed. “Then what?”
“Then, nothing. It took a wicked long time for the valet to bring back our car. We had to send Jeff home in a cab. We were pissed as hell.”
My fingers are crossed so tightly they hurt. “Was it Beacon Valet? How did they explain why it took so long?”
“Who the hell remembers what they told me,” Borum says. “And who the hell cares. It would have been a lie, anyway. It’s a Mustang. They were probably out joyr-”
He stops.
“Ah,” he says.
Silence. We’re both letting this sink in. At this point, I’m not going to mention the possibility that someone swiped his car’s VIN. Or the air bags. I’m just nailing down the timing.
“Would you be able to identify the valet? The one who took your car?” I try to get Franklin’s attention, bring him into this conversation, but he doesn’t look up from his phone. Probably texting again. Maybe love notes to Stephen. “Do you think you could point him out?”
“Listen, Charlie…”
Borum’s suddenly calling me Charlie now, I note. The Borum versus McNally lawsuit is probably in our rearview.
“…this is bull. You say you have a photo of my car blowing through the Fast Lane tollbooth? I couldn’t have been driving it. I didn’t even have the damn keys at the time. And I’m gonna get nailed for some hit-and-run? I don’t think so. I’m going to head for Zelda myself. Talk to the valet-parking manager.”
Oh. No. This is the worst thing that could possibly happen: the victim decides to take matters into his own hands. When victim turns vigilante, the story slips out of the reporter’s control. It’s a touchy situation because what I’m really asking him to do is put aside what could help him, personally, for what could help me, professionally. Plus, he doesn’t even know about the possible cloning. If he rats us out to Zelda, our story is blown. The bad guys might stop cloning cars and ripping out air bags, which of course would not be a bad thing in real life. But this is television. The bad guys are only supposed to be thwarted after we expose them on the air. I can’t allow us to be scooped by our own witness.
I have to stop him.
I have just one card to play, a card Mr. Borum has played himself at one point. And I’ll use the patented McNally reverse psychology. Which also gives me deniability. Stuff they don’t teach you in journalism school.
“Mr. Borum? Absolutely. Do that. If that’s what you feel is proper.” I pause. “But you know, we only have suspicions. It might be, you know, just a bit premature, and perhaps even legally risky, for you to go accusing a corporation of criminal wrongdoing, based on what a reporter told you. You know? Lawsuit?”
I pause again. Letting the L word sink in.
“And, of course, I can’t give you the photograph of your car,” I say. Especially because we don’t actually have it. That I don’t say.
Silence. I go in for the clincher.
“We’ll continue to investigate and keep you updated at every turn. Remember, we don’t want people to start shredding documents and fabricating stories.”
I hear Borum puff out a breath.
“Fine. You win,” he says. “But listen, you let me know what you find.”
“Of course.” Now. Here’s where I should just let well enough alone. Say goodbye, tear Franklin away from his messaging, retrieve the car, get some lunch, go back to the station, check on Maysie and Maddee, then see how we can clinch our story. But my conscience is bugging me. I grit my teeth.
“Mr. Borum, one more thing. If you have a chance, could you take your car to a mechanic and have them check to make sure all your air bags are still there?”
I hold the phone away from my ear. Borum’s response is an indecipherable bellow of sentence fragments.
“Are you honestly saying-and you don’t want me to-and I could be-”
Reluctantly, I explain our suspicions. They’re only suspicions, but how can I leave him in such potential jeopardy?
“Check with a mechanic and then let me know, okay?” I fire the last salvo of a desperate reporter. “Remember, it may be for the greater good.”
“Miss McNally, you amaze me. You have two days. Before I go to the valet people myself. T-W-O.”
“Oh, that’s-”
“But here’s what you’d better know by then. Who the hell was driving my car on the Mass Pike? And why?”
“We should check police reports. See if a blue Mustang is reported stolen,” Franklin says. I’ve just finished replaying my conversation with Michael Borum. We’re back in the car, which the smiling valets instantly provided, and on the way to Channel 3. “If they’ve copied his VIN number, they’re going to slap it on a stolen car that’s just like his. That’s a possible lead,” Franklin adds.
I look at him. My expression must show I’m distracted.
“What?” he says. “Your tooth hurting again?”
“My-? Oh, no. I just had a thought.”
I pull my cell phone out of my new maroon tote bag.
“Hang on,” I say. I punch a few buttons and get connected to the number I need. When someone picks up, I put on a cheery voice. “Hello, we’re coming for dinner tonight? You have valet parking, right? Which company is that, again?” I pause. “Beacon Valet? Oh, that’s right. Thank you!”
“And voila,” I say. “Beacon Valet. At Zelda and the Longmore. The game’s afoot, kiddo.”
We’re almost back at the station. “Stop,” I say.
“Huh?” Franklin looks confused. “Stop what?”
“Stop the car. Or, better, turn. I had another thought.”
Franklin rolls his eyes. “Lunch?”
“Great idea. But no, listen. I know where I saw a blue sports car. And it might have been a blue Mustang. The light was horrible and I could be wrong because the car was high on a lift with the hood and trunk up. But it was in the garage at Rental Car King. Let’s pay another visit there. See what we can see. Maybe get the scoop on what Randall Kindell is really doing.”
Franklin checks his mirror, then turns on the right blinker, carefully turning away from the station. “If it was a blue Mustang, that could have been a stolen car. And someone at RCK may have been attaching Michael Borum’s VIN to it.”
I stare, unseeing, at the toes of my black leather boots. “But if Randall Kindell is in on the scam, why would he give us those rental agreements? I mean they led right to the same valet service Michael Borum used. Though he couldn’t have predicted we’d put those pieces together.”
“True. If they are pieces.”
The afternoon traffic swirls around us, drivers honking and jockeying for position. Why is there rush hour on a Wednesday midafternoon? It’s Boston. It’s always rush hour. The snowplowed piles of crusting snow encroaching on both sides of the street don’t help.
What puzzle pieces are we certain we have?
If we hadn’t checked Annie’s car for recalls and then confronted Kindell with his car’s duplicateVIN, we could never have connected the dots in this potential valet scheme. Poor Annie may have a stolen car. And because of Michael Borum’s visit to valet parking, someone’s blue Mustang may be in the bad guys’ sights. Kindell’s in the middle of it, that’s for sure. But as victim? Or mastermind?
“What were you two doing in the RCK garage anyway?” Franklin asks. “You never told me. What did he want?”
I hesitate. That’s a piece of information I can’t reveal. Time for a diversion.
“Here’s another thought, Franklin. Can you find out who owns Beacon Valet? See where else they handle the parking?”