“Kevin can find another reporter in NewYork. It’s you and me, sweetheart.” I pause, suddenly shy, plucking at the twisty fringe on my muffler. “If that’s still okay with you.”
After a few moments my mouth actually hurts from our kisses. And luckily Cardinal Medeiros Park stayed deserted as we almost venture into private personal areas that are not really for public view. And activities the good cardinal almost certainly would not have approved of. Probably a good thing it’s so cold.
“So we’re picking a date? And you’re staying home?” Josh whispers into my hair as we walk the last hundred yards toward the station. “Is that what you really want?”
Our arms are tangled together so tightly, we must look like one person. And that’s exactly how I feel.
“I do,” I reply. Franklin and I are a team at work, but Josh and I are a team for life. And I won’t allow anything to change that.
Chapter Eighteen
“This is what they don’t teach you in journalism school, Franko,” I say. Channel 3’s basement garage is deserted this time of night. All the news cars are out on assignment for the eleven o’clock show. Franklin will be driving the camera-wired Explorer and dropping it into the Longmore’s valet parking. His job is to stay in the hotel bar until he gets a call from J.T. and me that the game’s afoot. “You’re getting paid to hang out at Fizz, with drinks, TV and a bathroom. Of course, we’ll be in the lookout car, cramped, freezing and bored.”
“Well, if they decide to swipe our car, they may check to see where I am,” Franklin says, ignoring the dig. “They’ll want to make sure I’m not getting ready to leave. And let’s hope you’re not bored. Kevin’s possibly going to pull the plug if tonight’s stakeout goes down the tubes.”
“Cross that bridge when we come to it,” J.T. says. His head is deep into the rear of the Explorer, tweaking the hidden-camera setup. He ducks out from under the hatchback and slams it shut. “Each video chip has a four-hour run time. You should stop a block from the Longmore and push the record button on each tape deck. Then we’ve gotta hope it all happens fast enough so the video time doesn’t run out.”
“Given that that something does happen,” Franklin says.
Franklin looks as if he’s ready for a night on the town in a black leather sport coat, a black turtleneck with a polo pony on the front and black corduroy jeans. J.T. and I dressed for comfort in jeans and turtlenecks (without ponies) and black coats. We look like some pretend SWAT team. Which we kind of are. But instead of tear gas, we’re using cameras to smoke out the bad guys. We hope.
“It’ll happen,” I say. I look around for some wood to touch, but have to settle for the fake stuff on the dashboard.
I put a plastic bag of stakeout provisions on the floor of the front seat. We’ve got J.T.’s camera in the backseat. Full batteries and extra tapes.
“Bar’s got to close at two,” I say. “If it’s going to happen, it’ll happen before then.”
We caravan out the rackety mechanical garage door and out into the narrow alley behind the station. Still following Franklin in the Explorer, J.T. and I wind through the twisty downtown streets toward the Longmore Hotel. The festive blue-and-yellow lights of the Custom House Tower say 10:30. Twenty-six stories up, on top of the old Hancock Building, the four weather lights are showing “steady blue,” meaning forecasters predict the night will be clear. I stare out the car window, wondering what the night will hold. Josh is home with Penny. She knows nothing about what happened. She had a great first day of school. She’s the only one in our family who did.
“And welcome back tonight to Maysie Green, the sports machine!”
I jump in surprise as a hearty announcer voice booms from the speakers. J.T.’s turned on the radio while I was in Josh world. “Coming up next, Drive Time! But now, heeeere’s Maysie!”
“Good evening and hey to all of you out in Celtics land.” Maysie’s familiar lilt buzzes through the car. I can’t help but smile. I know she’s doing the show via phone from her living room couch. I can picture her, cuddling baby Maddee in one arm, and holding the receiver between her shoulder and chin. She’s talking sports to ten thousand listeners and taking care of one tiny newborn at the same time. Talk about having it all.
“And a big shout-out to investigative reporter Charlie McNally, who took over my slot while I was otherwise occupied. And now to your favorite green team, the number-one-ranked Boston Celtics,” she says.
“How’d you like doing radio?” J.T. asks. He turns down the volume, happily agreeing we don’t need to hear about basketball.
“It’s a paycheck,” I say, shrugging. “Though not a big one. Apparently Wixie is doing some budget-driven belt tightening. Doesn’t matter, I did it for Mays, not for money. And on radio, you don’t have to worry about getting hidden-camera video, of course. But I’m more interested in what’s happening at Beacon Valet, you know?”
I just thought of something.
“Hang on,” I say. I paw into my purse for my cell phone and punch Franklin’s speed dial. He has hands free, of course.
“Franko. Did you ever find out who owns Beacon Valet? I mean, who’s behind the trust?”
“Yes and no,” he replies. As if the question didn’t come out of nowhere. Actually, it didn’t. “I’ve got a pal in the Secretary of State’s office trying to untangle it. Some smart lawyer did a good job creating the trust, Marjorie tells me. She says it’s one of the best she’s seen.”
“Best for hiding something,” I reply. I realize where we are and point a finger. “Hey, J.T. The gods of journalism are smiling. There’s a perfect parking place. Right where we were before. Franko, you set?”
“Yes, indeed,” Franklin says. “You pulling up and parking now? I’m a block away. Cameras are all in place. And I’m pushing the record buttons.”
Arriving at the Longmore, we quickly switch places, so I’m driving and J.T.’s in the passenger seat. He pulls out his camera and pushes the blue standby button, ready to shoot whatever happens. We turn the car radio off so we don’t get extraneous audio. The car is idling so we don’t have to turn the ignition when the time comes. Plus, we need the heat to stay warm. We crack the window so our breath doesn’t steam up the glass.
In the light from the street lamps and the glaringly bright marquee of the hotel, J.T. rolls tape on Franklin dropping off the car. Handing over the keys. We get shots of him talking to a BeaconValet-jacketed man, one I hadn’t seen before. He’s wearing a baseball cap, but I can’t read what’s printed on it. Even though we’re not recording audio, I know Franklin is feeding him our story, explaining that he’s meeting someone in the bar, and would definitely be there for a few hours, until closing. Franklin gives the valet some folded dollar bills, then goes inside. We cross our fingers that the hidden cameras installed in the Explorer are recording. And that tonight is the night. We have four hours.
The valet pulls the Explorer just two parking spaces up, then double-parks with the headlights still on. But this time, instead of getting out of the car, he stays inside.
I reach down for the bag of almonds I’ve brought, ready to settle in for a night of waiting.
“Yo. Charlie. Check it out,” J.T. says. He’s got his camera up on his shoulder, eye to the viewfinder.
One hand still in the plastic bag, I peer up through the windshield. And then I forget the almonds.
Another man, also in a BeaconValet jacket but without a hat, trots out of the hotel, and leans into the driver’s window of the Explorer. Thin gray plumes of exhaust puff sporadically from the car. That means the engine is still running.
I sit up and click my gearshift into drive, though I keep my foot on the brake. Have to be instantly ready to follow the Explorer when it pulls away. If it pulls away.