“You rolling?” I say. I’m not taking my eyes off what’s happening.
“You need to ask?” From behind the camera.
A car drives up, headlights glaring. The car pauses outside the hotel, blasting light through our windshield.
Flinching, I hold up a hand to shield my eyes. “Ow.”
“Damn,” J.T. hisses. “Lens can’t handle that. Can’t see a thing.”
“It’s okay,” I reassure him, still squinting. “They’re leaving now. And nothing’s happening with the Explorer.”
The three of us haven’t really discussed it, but my “steal-the-car-for-a-brief-time-swipe-the-VIN-and-theair-bag-and-return-the-car-before-the-owner-knows-it” hypothesis is only a theory. An assumption based on guesses and conjecture and a few juicy facts. It may be proven false. If it is, we won’t have a story and my speculation will thereby doom three perfectly hardworking journalists to ratings-book hell. Investigative reporting isn’t easy. That’s what makes it fun.
I stare out the windshield, flexing my fingers on the steering wheel. Trying to remember that this is fun.
The driver’s-side door of the Explorer opens.
“J.T.,” I whisper.
“Yup. I see it.”
The first valet, who I’ve been calling “Hat Guy,” gets out. The other valet, “No-Hat,” gets in. As Hat Guy heads back toward the hotel, he taps the back window of the Explorer with the flat of one palm. Tap-tap-tap.
He doesn’t look back as he pushes through the Longmore’s revolving doors.
“Charlie.” J.T.’s tone is sharp.
I yank my eyes back to the Explorer. Damn. Never should have looked away. At least J.T.’s on it.
A blast of gray now puffs from the Explorer’s exhaust. I sneak a glance in my rearview, checking to see if any cars are behind me, in case I have to pull out. One slushes by slowly, then another one. Not many people are out this late. The good news and the bad news. No one will be in our way as we pull out. And the first moments are critical.
But it may make it tougher to follow this guy without being noticed. I’ve done this many times, carefully keeping at least two car lengths away. Making sure there’s at least one other car between me and my quarry. Sometimes, I even pull ahead. So far, I’ve never gotten caught. Nighttime makes it easier in some ways. Harder in others.
“We’ll have the hidden-camera stuff, at least, if we lose him on the road,” I say, reassuring myself as much as J.T.
“If he actually goes anywhere,” J.T. mutters.
“Ye of little faith,” I say, keeping my eyes on the Explorer. Although I was thinking the same thing. And I have no plan B.
The Explorer’s brake lights flicker on, then go off. And then the car starts to move.
“Check it out,” I breathe.
The car eases forward and into the street. No-Hat’s arm comes out of the window. With a quick gesture, a gloved hand adjusts the side mirror. And then almost before I realize it, No-Hat hits the gas.
The Explorer powers up Water Street, taillights disappearing into the Boston night.
“Go!” J.T. yells.
But I’ve already hit the accelerator.
“He’s getting onto the Pike,” I say, eyes glued on the Explorer.
We turn left down the ramp to the westbound side of the eight-lane highway. No-Hat is driving like a sixteen-year-old taking the Registry of Motor Vehicles’s licensing exam. He stopped at every red light between the Longmore Hotel and the entrance to the Massachusetts Turnpike, stayed within the speed limit, and used his turn signals.
“Probably doesn’t want to get pulled over by the cops,” I say to J.T. “Smart for him. But he sure is making it a breeze for us.”
“That’s not what the guy did for Declan Ross, though,” J.T. reminds me. “The guy in the blue Mustang? Was driving like a maniac.”
I pull to the right and follow No-Hat, close but not too close, along the Pike and through the first set of automated tollbooths. J.T.’s rolling video on the whole trip, making sure we can document exactly what happens. It’s a challenging shoot. All of our tiny hidden cameras are mounted in the decoy car, so J.T. has to use his full-size Sony. Including the bricklike battery pack; it weighs more than twenty pounds. J.T.’s steadying it with one elbow braced against the passenger door. And he still has to wear a seat belt.
“True,” I say, remembering. I let a brown sedan get ahead of us. Luckily, the Explorer has such a high wheel-base, it’s easy to see even in the dark and with a few cars between us. “But remember, he probably got a call ordering him to bring the car the hell back. Remember? Michael Borum was waiting for it.”
We’re silent, briefly. I, for one, am thinking about what happened to Michael Borum.
As we move west through the alternating headlights and darkness on the Pike, it becomes easier and easier for me to blend us into the traffic. The Highway Department’s erratically flashing lighted arrows help, too, by briefly forcing everyone into the left lane to avoid construction. When drivers are forced to change lanes and follow signs, there’s less time for them to notice there’s someone on their tail.
I hope.
I keep my attention balanced between monitoring the position of the Explorer and driving safely. But the night is clear, and the road is clear, and my view of the Explorer is clear. So far so good.
Plus, No-Hat has got to be focused on getting to wherever he’s going, doing whatever they do there, and returning to the Longmore before Franklin asks for the car back. He’s not worrying whether there’s a reporter in a unmarked news car trying to track his every turn.
I hope.
“You know what,” I say. “No matter what’s on the other end here, no matter where he’s going. This guy’s stolen our car. I mean, it’s supposed to be in valet parking. You know? And instead, it’s headed up the Mass Pike.”
“And we’re getting video of the whole thing,” J.T. says. “Who knows how big this is. How far it goes. But you’re right. We’ve got this guy nailed.”
My mind briefly wanders to Franklin, missing everything, probably sipping club soda in Fizz and certainly wondering whether he’ll still have a story in the morning. Maybe he called his adorable Stephen, inviting him to keep him company on his boring-but-important role in the stakeout. I should have suggested that. I will when I call him.
“Yo, McNally. I need to change tapes.” J.T. interrupts my pangs of conscience. “We’ve only got half hours. And I have maybe five minutes left on this one. Change it now? Or later?”
“Do it now, no question,” I say, pointing at him. “And make it fast.” No tape means no pictures. And he who hesitates runs out.
J.T. lays the bulky camera flat on his lap, the first time it’s been away from his eye for twenty-five minutes. I press my lips together, anxiously counting the seconds, as I hear the motorized buzzes and clicks that mean he’s opened the side of the camera. I hear the whir as the yellow cassette pops out like a piece of toast.
“Got it? Put the tape in my bag,” I say. I see J.T. holding the cassette. He looks like he’s searching for something. “Don’t bother with a case. And I’ll label it later. Just bang in a new-”
“He’s getting off the Pike!” J.T. yells. He’s holding the camera with one hand, waving the other at the highway. “He’s moving into the right lane. I bet he’s taking 17, the Newton exit.”
I turn to look at J.T. The camera is still in his lap. No cassette is inside it. Not good.
“Just put in a-”
“Watch it!” J.T.’s voice suddenly rises to a yelp.
With a blare of an air horn that almost blasts my heart from my chest, a massive big rig careens in front of us, swerving across two lanes. It’s a double-wide silver-and-black cab, pulling an empty but lethal flatbed that threatens to jackknife right through us. The pavement between me and the eighteen-wheeler disappears. This truck is at least ten tons of trouble, pointed toward Exit 17, and the driver doesn’t care who’s in the way.