Suddenly the screen gets darker and darker. We see shadows moving, nothing we can recognize. The screen finally goes dead black.
“The garage door,” I say. “This is when they closed it. This is when the cops arrived. There’s not enough light for the camera now.”
“It’s rolling, though,” J.T. says. “The counter’s moving, so it’s not broken or out of tape. But we won’t be able to see any more till the lights come on again. So let’s look at a cassette from my camera, okay? Check what we got from inside our car.”
J.T. pops a tape into the player. He pushes Rewind. And when the tape clicks to a stop, he pushes Play. The tape whirs to a start. The video is grainy from the darkness. But perfect. This cassette, which Franklin has already labeled DT5, includes the trip back to the Longmore. We’d followed No-Hat and the Explorer out the garage door and down the highway, chronicling the entire return trip. Far as we can tell, he never had a clue.
“Check and mate,” J.T. says. “The car’s back at the hotel. Like nothing ever happened. And we got the whole thing on camera.”
“And there’s you, Franko,” I say. “Coming to get the car. Who’s that with you? Must be waiting for his car, too. Bet he was annoyed. Still, you both look very hip for two in the morning.”
“Two-twenty in the morning,” he corrects me, holding up his watch and pointing to it. “I had to pretend I was angry that they took so long to return the car. The guy you’ve so cleverly named No-Hat told me they were ‘busy’ and that I should have asked for the car sooner. Like it was my fault.” He’s now lining up the cassettes in a corrugated-cardboard box which, in blocky and symmetrical black Magic Marker letters, he’s labeled “Drive Time.”
He holds it up. “See? All our tapes. Organized and ready to log. We can come in early tomorrow and do it, okay?”
“Drive Time?” I say. I don’t even try to stifle my yawn. It’s pushing four o’clock. The need for sleep is slowly and surely suffusing all my brain cells. And tomorrow is going to be an extremely gratifying day. Our story is a go. Kevin will be thrilled. Next step, we have to track down out who’s running the scam. “T and T may not appreciate you ripping off their-”
“Charlotte. I told you to remind me,” Franklin interrupts. “And I was using that as a working title. It’s supposed to be funny. Irony, you know? What I wanted to tell you, the replay of tonight’s Drive Time was on the radio when I was driving back here.”
I blink at him, then again, my weary brain trying to battle its way toward understanding.
“So?” Is the best I can do. Then the fog clears. “Oh. Is it the blue Mustang? Or are they already selling the clone of our Explorer?”
“Good call,” Franklin says. “And we’ll have to listen for the Explorer if we’re right about this. But no, it was the Mustang.”
“And?” J.T. says.
“And?” I say. I grab my coat and muffler from the rack. I’ve got to go home-to Josh, who’s safely in bed and not in custody for murder-and get some sleep. Was that just this morning? No wonder I’m bleary. “Did you get the right number?”
“Well, apparently you remembered it correctly,” Franklin replies. He pulls a scrap of paper from his jacket pocket and holds it up. “See? Isn’t this it?”
“Five-five-five,” I begin to sing. “Zero-one-”
Franklin holds up a hand, wincing. “Yes. But please don’t sing. It’s late.”
“But that’s…” I pause, trying to fathom exactly what it is. “That’s ridiculous. Whoever’s trying to sell a car isn’t going to be terribly successful if there’s no way for a potential buyer to reach them.”
“Like I said, it’s not a phone number.” Franklin shrugs.
“Sure it’s a phone number.” J.T. waves him off. He zips up his jacket and pats the pockets for his gloves. “It’s just the wrong phone number. A typo or something.”
“Idiots,” I say. My brain is about to give out. And I don’t want to fall asleep on the drive home. “So much for that lead.”
“Mmmff?”
“Fine, sweets,” I whisper, translating. Hanging my terry robe over the closet door, I slide carefully between the striped yellow sheets, trying not to disturb a sleeping Josh. He has school tomorrow.
His eyes flicker, a valiant attempt to wake up and welcome me home, and he turns over, draping one bare arm around me, pulling me close. His body is sleep-warm, and melts, spooning, fitting comfortably into mine. “Missed you,” he murmurs into my ear. “How did it…?”
His voice, drowsy and pillow muffled, trails off into silence.
“Tell you in the morning,” I say. “Go back to sleep, honey.”
He already has. But I can’t. Botox pads onto my stomach, then turns around twice, swiping her tail across my face each time. She finally nestles into place, purring.
“Comfy?” I whisper to her. I’m not. Everyone’s asleep. But me.
I have crossed the line into exhaustion insomnia. My brain will not turn off. I squint at the glowing green numbers on the nightstand clock. Doomed.
In two hours, Penny will start her second day of school. I smile, a little sleep-deprivation humor. She has no idea of the panic and chaos her father and soon-to-be-stepmother endured on her first day. Penny had lunch with pals, didn’t even notice her dad wasn’t there. Annie had brought her home, Josh had made their dinner-or, purchased it, if the flat white boxes on the kitchen table are any indication-and all is now well at 6 Bexter Academy Drive.
But tomorrow, Penny has to go back to Bexter. Josh, too. Will the cops still be there? Why? What do they know? Who else will be brought in for questioning? Have there been any more phone calls?
The damn phone calls.
Dorothy got one. She’s dead. And Alethia. And now she’s dead. Randall Kindell got one. And Wen and Fiona Dulles.
I close my eyes, trying to think.
Kindell and Dulles. I picture all of the names circled on the donations list in Dorothy’s pamphlet. Why did she circle them? Did she know them? She certainly knew their kids.
I rearrange my pillow, trying not to disturb Josh or the deadweight of calico cat on my chest. Maybe someone else circled them? Maybe Harrison Ebling because they were prime candidates to give even more money to Bexter? He and the bursar were certainly on the money hunt at the Head’s party. I struggle to keep my eyes closed, hoping I can trick my mind into agreeing I need to get some sleep.
But if it was someone else’s book, why was it on Dorothy’s desk?
I’m wide-awake. I can’t keep my eyes closed one more second. When I open them, Botox is staring at me.
“Why are the names circled? And who did it, Toxie?” I mouth the words as I stare back at her.
And then I realize. The cat’s not the one I should be asking.
“Have you ever seen this?” I take the fundraising report out of my battered canvas briefcase and hold it up, showing the cover to Fiona Dulles. She’s sitting beside me on a maple-leaf red damask love seat in her Wellesley living room. Two silk plaid throw pillows are tucked behind her, her posture ballerina perfect, her ankles properly crossed. Her charcoal trousers and muted gray cashmere twin-set cost at least twice as much as my own workaday sweater and skirt. And her pearls are real. Fee’s balancing a white ceramic cup of tea on a flowered saucer. The expression on her composed face does not change as I hold up the pamphlet. She does not reach out to examine it.
“Why, no,” Fee says. She takes a careful sip of tea, looking at me from under her lashes as she tilts her cup. A gold disk on her intricately linked charm bracelet clinks against the china. “Is that the new Bexter fundraising report? When you called, Miss McNally, I thought you wanted to talk about Tal and Lexie. I had hoped you might have some news.”