“We’re having a ‘Friday-night couch date,’ as you always put it,” Josh says into my hair. “Penny’s upstairs. How about you try to relax. Instead of watching the eleven o’clock news, we’ll put in a movie. And then you can fall asleep in the middle of it, as usual, and forget about the-”
“Give me the clicker.” I wrest myself away from him and hold out my hand, eyes glued to the screen. “Really. I missed what they said. I have to play it again.”
“No, you don’t,” Josh says, holding the remote above my head and out of reach. “I promise, whatever you missed will be in the paper tomorrow morning.”
“Josh.” I can hear the tension in my voice. Josh apparently can hear it, too. He hands me the remote.
I push Rewind-thank goodness for TiVo-and our otherwise reasonably dressed anchor starts from the beginning again. Tia’s on camera, reading the prompter. I’d only heard part of what she said, but even that was enough to rev my fear level into high. Even though the video is going backward, I can read the garish black-and-red animated graphic behind her: Carjacking: Cause for Alarm.
I push Play.
“Police are asking for witnesses in an apparent carjacking and murder in the South End this afternoon,” Tia intones. The graphic changes to a live shot of a sleekly serious African-American woman, bundled against the cold in a red hooded parka with our 3-in-a-circle logo embroidered on the front. I can’t tell where she is-it’s pitch-dark outside, and the one blasting spotlight illuminates only her. She could be anywhere. “Our reporter Elizabeth Whittemore is live now at Boston police headquarters with the latest. Liz?”
Liz nods, all business, as her image comes full screen. “Well, I can tell you, Tia, right now police are working two shocking crime scenes. And sources tell me they suspect those two events will turn out to be one deadly crime. Let me show you now, this is video you saw breaking first on Channel 3…”
The screen switches to the same aerial pictures Franklin and I saw come into ENG Receive.
“…a car fire burns out of control in an East Boston parking lot. Police this afternoon are baffled because they find no victim in the fiery conflagration.”
“What’s this about, honey?” Josh asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I push Pause, freezing the flames into place and stopping Liz in midsentence. I turn to Josh. “I haven’t told you about this yet, I was going to, but anyway, this video is from this afternoon. That’s a blue Mustang on fire. And Michael Borum didn’t answer the phone this afternoon, and-” I shake my head. “I’ll tell you the rest in a minute. I need to see this.”
I push Play. The camera is back on Liz.
“Now, some hours later, we’re told, police get a call from a worried South End resident. They report a body in the bushes behind a South End brownstone. Now, I can tell you, this area is known to police for its high crime stats. Two shootings in the same block within the past two weeks. Those, sources tell me, were drug related. Let’s show you the video we shot moments ago of the scene where police say the victim was found.”
Nighttime. Streetlights illuminate some narrow apartment-lined street, the camera swaying as the photographer walks toward a barrier of cops and crime-scene tape. The front of the brownstone flashes into view as the camera light blasts on. And I’ve been there before.
“Damn,” I whisper.
“What?” Josh says.
“One more sec,” I say, never taking my eyes from the screen.
“Police are not allowing us into the parking lot behind this building, that’s where they suspect person or persons still unknown apparently shot and, what we understand, killed the victim. Crime-scene techs are still examining the area. The victim’s name is being withheld pending notification of next of kin, but I can tell you, residents here are saying he is the owner of that fiery blue Mustang we showed you earlier. Bottom line, this investigation is still a wide-open-”
The camera comes back to Liz, who suddenly looks distracted, then triumphant. “Stand by, Tia. I see Deputy Police Superintendent Frances Rivera arriving here at headquarters. If you’ll bear with me for one moment. Deputy? Liz Whittemore from Channel 3? We’re on live now and…”
“Fran Rivera’s coming in, this time of night?” I say. “This must be huge.”
“Why?”
“One more second.”
Liz walks out of the light. A fraction of a second later, she’s back in the frame. Next to her is a Valkyrie in a Boston cop’s uniform. Behind her back, cops call Frances Rivera “the Goddess.” To her face, if they know what’s good for them, they call her “ma’am.” Deputy Rivera towers over Liz. She adjusts her patent-billed hat, which on her somehow looks chic, then looks at her watch. She murmurs something into the radio Velcroed to her shoulder.
Liz is unclipping the tiny microphone from her Channel 3 parka.
“Go Liz,” I say. I stop, remembering why I’m watching. Michael Borum may be dead. Someone who owned a blue Mustang certainly is.
“Deputy Rivera, thanks for joining us. What can you tell us about this situation?” Liz moves the mic toward the officer, waiting for her reply.
“At approximately 1830 hours, Area B officers responded to an anonymous call of a body found in the vicinity of Welkin and Ott Streets. Upon arriving at that address, a Boston police officer discovered one apparent victim. Male. That’s the extent of what we can release at this time.”
“We know the medical examiner was on the scene at the brownstone. Can you confirm the victim is dead?” Liz persists. “Do you have a cause of death?”
“We are not releasing any more information at this time, Liz.” Rivera, her posture rigid and her voice tough and final, obviously thinks this interview is over. She takes one step, putting her face half in darkness.
But Liz, well trained in the tactics of local news and unwilling to let an exclusive interview end so soon, holds on to Rivera’s arm and draws her back into the light. “Can you confirm, though, that the incident in the South End is connected with this afternoon’s car fire in that East Boston parking lot? Did the victim own that car? Is this a carjacking gone wrong?”
“No comment,” Rivera says. Her tone is chillier than the January night.
Liz lets go. Rivera disappears into the darkness.
“And there you have it.” Liz is wrapping up her live shot with a final recap. But I don’t wait to hear the rest. I click off the television and stare at the blank screen.
Liz had a good news night. She scored a big exclusive. She can go home happy.
Me, on the other hand? Not such good news. Has our search for a big story somehow resulted in Michael Borum’s death?
I instantly call Franklin. Even over the phone, I can tell he’s concerned. We’re both trying to stay calm.
I’m failing. Josh heads upstairs, officially ending our couch date.
“Are you kidding me?” I say, my voice rising. “One blue Mustang, demolished. One blue Mustang owner, dead. One plus one equals murder. Even I can do that math.”
Franklin sighs. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I even tried calling him again. Still no answer. But let’s say it is Michael Borum, his car. What we don’t have-”
“I know,” I interrupt. “We don’t have a connection between what happened today and the valet parking thing.”
“I can hear the cops now,” Franklin says. “They’ll say, ‘It’s a Mustang.’ They’ll remind everyone Borum lived near the projects. That’s their ‘one plus one.’ Shiny car plus urban gang thugs equals carjacking. They’ll figure when the jackers heard Borum was dead, they ditched the car and torched it so they couldn’t be connected. Actually, the cops might have a point.”
I stare across the living room, seeing nothing, trying to sort out the whys and what-ifs. Franklin must be doing the same thing at his place. For a few moments, there’s only the hum of our phone connection. Music from upstairs. Running water. Everyone’s getting ready for bed. Except me.