“Is that Josh?” he asks. He puts his hand over the mouthpiece.
“No,” I reply. “It is not Josh. I’m still waiting for you to tell me exactly where Josh is, since you clearly know. And you are clearly refusing to tell me.”
“Yes, she is,” Ebling says. Into the phone.
He nods at me, pointing to the receiver and holding up an index finger, attempting a charade I’m apparently supposed to translate as “I’m hearing something encouraging.”
“Immediately,” he says. “Yes, my office.”
My phone warbles again, the perky theme music yanking me back to my parallel reality.
Franklin. I look at the tall grandfather clock beside the stolid redbrick fireplace, its pendulum relentlessly ticking away my options. It’s almost noon. I’m supposed to be at the station. We’re supposed to be meeting with Kevin about tonight’s stakeout. A conversation with myself, a blur of words, volleys through my head in a fraction of an instant.
I have to take care of Josh. Franklin and J.T. will have to go on the stakeout alone.
What if they hit pay dirt, catch the valet parkers in the act, find where they’re taking the cars, and I’m not there?
What if Josh is in trouble?
What if I miss the story? J.T. and Franklin can’t confront the bad guys. I’m the reporter. I have to be there. It’s my job.
Josh is my life. Penny is my life.
I can’t be two places at one time.
I flip open my phone to tell Franklin I might be late.
“Miss McNally?”
Bursar Aaron Pratt appears at the door. I know from the BEX he’s a Bexter graduate. I’ve seen his fifth-grade photo, a pudgy Humpty perched on the front row, and a few pages later, his charismatic image in the graduating class, suddenly with shoulders, class-president hair and tall enough to be in the back with the other hunks. That was almost thirty years ago. He’s still got the shoulders and most of the hair. And the charisma.
“Procedure, procedure, procedure,” he says, shaking his head in what I’m apparently supposed to recognize as sympathy. His outstretched hand precedes him into the room.
Now I’ll get some answers. I clack my phone closed and stand. I’ll have to call Franklin back.
“What procedure?” I ask. I shake his hand so he’ll get the show on the road. “Mr. Ebling told me that the district attorney-”
“Please sit,” he says, settling himself in the wing chair opposite mine.
I’ll do anything to get these people to stop stalling. I plop into the chair, once again, and look between the two. I can’t decide which of them is acting more uncomfortable, the ferret or the movie star.
The movie star seems to be in charge. “Miss McNally, I’m so sorry you were concerned, there’s simply no need,” Pratt begins, leaning forward and putting his elbows on his knees. “It all happened so quickly there simply wasn’t time.”
“There’s time now,” I say, getting to my feet. “Right now.”
Pratt waves me back to the chair, acknowledging my impatience. “District Attorney Soroff’s office called us, just as the students were beginning class this morning. He explained he was sending several plainclothes detectives here to Bexter as the school opened, and that they would wait in Main until the classes began. To prevent anyone from being alarmed. After classes begin, he said he would need to ask several of our employees to come in for questioning. All voluntary, he said.”
I open my mouth, but Pratt continues. “Be assured, we checked with our attorneys. They called Soroff. It’s all quite legal.”
Pratt runs a hand through that hair, then leans even closer to me. “Apparently our two-unfortunate incidents, with Dorothy and Alethia, have piqued the curiosity of someone in authority. Now they’re looking for additional information. According to our attorneys, the D.A.’s office is rechecking the blood tests performed on poor Dorothy after her death.”
“The tox screen,” I say. Interesting. We had been told it showed nothing unusual. High level of carbon monoxide, exactly what would be expected. My mind goes back to those pills in Dorothy and Millie’s medicine cabinet. And to the fingerprints I left on the container.
“The tox screen. Exactly. In conjunction with this renewed investigation, if that’s what it is, they’ve called in several people to discuss their whereabouts the nights of the accidents. The Head. The dean of boys. And…” Pratt pauses, then narrows his eyes at Ebling. “You?”
“No,” Ebling says. He gives his phone an edgy glance, as if his summons might be imminent.
“And Josh,” Pratt continues. “I’m sure it’s nothing. But I’m sure you’re upset.”
Duh.
“Let me drive you to the district attorney’s office,” he offers. “Let me drive her,” Ebling pipes up. He stands, leaning forward, and places both palms on his desk. “The Head left you in charge here. Perhaps it’s best if you don’t leave. It would be no trouble, Miss McNally. My car is right outside.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Pratt’s voice, curt, doesn’t match his smile. “And Ebling, you check on Penny. I’m sure her father will return before the end of today’s classes. If not, please keep her in your office. I’ll drive Miss McNally downtown.”
“Thank you, both, but I’m driving myself.” I stand, hoisting my tote bag to my shoulder. Holding up my cell phone, I look between the two of them as I back toward the door. “Do I need to call a lawyer for Josh? Is your firm handling this? Who is at the D.A.’s office advising him?”
Pratt and Ebling, now side by side in front of the desk, wear matching frowns. And then, one after the other, they switch on nervous smiles.
“I’m sure everything will be fine,” Ebling says.
“I’ll take care of Penny, don’t worry,” Pratt adds. “We don’t want to disrupt her first day at Bexter.”
Chapter Seventeen
“I’m not press. I’m family.” I’m facing an expanse of government-issue wood and metal, the front desk in the foyer of the district attorney’s office. And I’ve suddenly hit the wall.
The wall in this case is the flame-haired, lip-liner-addicted, fashion-challenged receptionist of the D.A.’s office. Her green plastic nameplate says Monica Beales. Her demeanor says go away.
Monica flips the tiny microphone on her Time-Life operator contraption up over her head. Looks at me through disdaining eyes.
“You’re Charlie McNally, Channel 3. Correct? I remember you from before.” The Gorgon taps an acrylic nail on the laminated press pass I’ve placed in front of her. “Unless you quit your job since your last story about our office? And you’re somehow hanging on to your credentials?”
“No, I still work at Channel 3, of course. But you can understand this is a different situation. It’s personal,” I say, making my eyes plead, which isn’t that difficult since I’m verging on frantic. Attempting to elicit some sisterly empathy, I hold up my engagement ring, fluttering my fingers in the time-honored notice-my-diamond gesture. “Like I said, my fiancé, Professor Joshua Gelston, hasn’t answered his cell phone. I’ve been calling and calling. And I know he’s here. And I need to know if he’s okay. What’s happening. If he needs a lawyer.”
“You’re a reporter. You’re press. Press is press,” Monica says. Reciting the gospel according to bureaucrats. “Family is family. But you’re not family. You’re press.”
“I understand, I really do. And I know you’re doing your job.” Gag. “But in this case-”
She’s not going to let me finish my sentence. One imperious finger points me to the yellowing arrangement of earth-toned seventies-era chairs and pockmarked coffee table in to one side of the foyer. The wall is covered with a time-travel array of former district attorneys. Their photographs evolve from sepia-toned scions with pince-nez glasses and high white collars to power-suited pinstripes and designer ties. All men, I can’t help but notice. The recently imprisoned Oscar Ortega’s photo has been replaced, as if the disgraced ex-DA never existed, by a stern-faced Jeremiah Soroff.