I click the gearshift into D.
The Explorer pulls out, slowly, onto Water Street.
I check my rearview. Coast is clear behind me. I turn the wheel, just enough, ready to hit the accelerator and follow wherever the Explorer takes us.
The Explorer stops. It backs into a parking space. The headlights go dark. The valet gets out, slams the door and walks away.
I let out a puff of air. “Bummer,” I whisper.
So much for the stakeout. The car is clearly staying put. I leave my gearshift in Drive. We’re done. And we’re out of here.
“Tomorrow night?” I say. Like I’m asking for a date. Stakeouts don’t always work. You’ve got to expect that and embrace it. You have to hear no before you hear yes. And tomorrow we’ll be more experienced. I know all the rationalizations, chant them like some journalism mantra. “Same time, same place?”
“You’re on,” J.T. replies. He gets it. “Take two.”
“Are you already awake? How late did you get in? How’d it go? Did you get any sleep at all?” Josh, bleary-eyed and half-groggy, turns over to face me. “You’re reading?”
I’ve got my back against the headboard, one leg crossed over my knee, wearing Josh’s socks and a toobig Bexter sleep-shirt. I close the Bexter fundraising report, holding my place with one finger, and lean over to give Josh a good-morning kiss. It’s almost eight, but my brain is too buzzy to sleep any more. Too much to think about.
“Yeah, I’m looking at the-Tell you later. Too complicated,” I say. “Stakeout was a bust. We’re trying again tonight. I have to go in late, again, sweets. I’m sorry.”
“Hmm.” Josh plucks the pamphlet from my hand and tosses it onto the floor beside the bed. He slides one hand, slowly, slowly, underneath my Bexter shirt. “What can you do to make it up to me, I wonder?”
Finally. A question that’s not difficult to answer.
A tiny terracotta pot of white chrysanthemums, tied with a thin white ribbon, is in the middle of my desk. And next to the flowers, a steaming latte.
“My bad,” Franklin says. He’s standing by his desk. Looking sheepish. “I heard about the stakeout last night. I’m sorry it was a no-go. And, Charlotte…”
He blinks a few times, watching me hang my coat and staticky muffler on the hook. It’s late afternoon, and since we’re working overnight again, I’m just arriving. I had a very lovely morning.
I decide to let Franklin say what he wants to say.
“Charlotte, I’m truly sorry about standing y’all up last night. It was, well, it won’t happen again.” Franklin’s southern accent only slips out when he’s upset or nervous.
“These are from you?” I hold up the pot of flowers, sweetly pristine, a peace offering I instantly accept. “Is everything okay, Franko?”
Franklin nods.
We’ve worked together for almost three years and I really can’t remember another time when there’s been any animosity. Sure, we’ve disagreed over story ideas, and planning, and strategy. But that’s typical reporter-producer. If you didn’t disagree and discuss and debate, no good ideas would ever emerge. But what happened last night? He didn’t show up. That’s a new one. And I wonder what’s going on.
“Is it Stephen?” I venture a guess. “Your family? You know, you can tell me anything. Work isn’t the most important thing, Franko. If there’s something going on in your life, you can tell me. Or, you know, don’t, if you feel more comfortable that way. We managed last night.”
I take two steps and give Franklin a one-armed hug, still holding my flowers. “But it wasn’t the same without you. You’ll be there tonight, right?”
“I’ve already rewound the tapes so we can use them again,” he replies. “No need to keep three hours of nothing. At least we know the setup works. Sorry you had to be alone with Mr. Network.”
I swivel into my chair and make a spot for the flowers on top of my little TV monitor. Franklin’s avoiding my questions. So I’ll let him off the hook. Talk about our story. “You know. Franko, J.T.’s not half-bad, once you get to-What?”
Franklin’s leaning into his monitor. He’s clicking his mouse. He’s typing. And he’s completely not listening to me.
“What?” I repeat.
“Come with me downstairs,” he says. “To ENG Receive.”
ENG is television shorthand for electronic news gathering. “Receive” is the control room where satellite, microwave and KU-band transmissions from around the country and the world are fed into Channel 3. The walls in Receive are covered with monitors, each one showing nonstop pictures. It all has to come through ENG receive before it gets on the air.
ENG Joe, a lumbering old-timer in plaid flannel and jeans, has watched over ENG since before I can remember. He’s still got a cigarette tucked behind one ear, and it’s probably the same one he parked there years ago when the suits made the whole station nonsmoking.
These days, when TV is all breaking news, all the time, Joe juggles hundreds of feeds a day, each one flickering on a different monitor. Each monitor has a number taped above it. Each monitor is attached to a tape machine so Joe can record the ones the producer requests.
“We are receiving Sat 6 on L-4.” Joe pushes a button, and talks to a producer through a microphone snaking metallically out of the wall. Shaky pictures of what looks like a small plane crash sputter into view, then settle down. “We have audio. The window’s open till 4:00 p.m.”
“And I have Van Alpha on 2. I’m loading tape. Ready to record. Standby, Van 2.” ENG Joanna, whose real name no one knows, was assigned to Receive a couple of years ago, ostensibly to learn the ropes. Everyone predicted they were moving Joe out, replacing him, like they do everyone else, with someone younger and sexier.
But Joe stayed and so did Joanna. Now they’re a team. Yogi Bear and Betty Boop. As long as the feeds come in as planned and the video is solid, ENG Receive is their domain. The room has no windows. The only view of the outside world is through the dozens of 19-inch screens.
“Franklin?” I can’t figure out why he brought me down here.
“One second…” Franklin holds up a hand at me, and turns to Joanna. “Joanna. Hey. I read the ‘incoming’ bulletin on the producer e-mail. Where’s the video?”
“Bravo’s putting up their mast now. They should be radiating in two from Eastie. It’s a bounce from Chopper 3. Taking it in on monitor 14.”
In two minutes, Microwave van B will be transmitting video via our helicopter from someplace in East Boston. Got it. But video of what?
I stage-whisper, “Pssst. Franklin. What?”
Franklin, wordless, points to monitor 14.
It’s a high-and-wide aerial view, our helicopter banking over what looks like a parking lot. The aerial camera zooms down closer. Smoky flames. Flashing blue lights. Flashing red lights. The chopper hovers. The camera zooms to a close-up. Out of focus. The photographer is struggling to get the shot.
I step closer to the monitor, squinting as if I can get it into focus myself. Then the video snaps into perfect clarity.
A blue Mustang is melting down into a pile of twisted rubble.
I only get the frustrating beep from the voice-mail system. I’d called Michael Borum immediately. And immediately got nothing.
“Borum never answers the phone, we know that,” Franklin mutters, pacing. Three steps across our office, three steps back. “Charlotte, there are more than three hundred blue Mustangs in Massachusetts.”
“Remind me to tell you what I found out about another one,” I say, hitting Redial again. I still haven’t told Franklin about Taylor and Tyler, and my theories about their blue Mustang. I can’t focus until we get an answer from Michael Borum. One toe of my boot is tapping on the mottled gray carpet. I stop it. It starts again.
Voice mail again.
“I’m leaving a message this time.” I lean over to get closer to the speaker. Maybe Borum will pick up. He did before.